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The Innocence of Father Brown

The Queer Feet
If you meet a member of that select club, "The Twelve True Fishermen," entering the
Vernon Hotel for the annual club dinner, you will observe, as he takes off his overcoat,
that his evening coat is green and not black. If (supposing that you have the star-defying
audacity to address such a being) you ask him why, he will probably answer that he does
it to avoid being mistaken for a waiter. You will then retire crushed. But you will leave
behind you a mystery as yet unsolved and a tale worth telling.
If (to pursue the same vein of improbable conjecture) you were to meet a mild, hard-
working little priest, named Father Brown, and were to ask him what he thought was the
most singular luck of his life, he would probably reply that upon the whole his best stroke
was at the Vernon Hotel, where he had averted a crime and, perhaps, saved a soul, merely
by listening to a few footsteps in a passage. He is perhaps a little proud of this wild and
wonderful guess of his, and it is possible that he might refer to it. But since it is
immeasurably unlikely that you will ever rise high enough in the social world to find
"The Twelve True Fishermen," or that you will ever sink low enough among slums and
criminals to find Father Brown, I fear you will never hear the story at all unless you hear
it from me.
The Vernon Hotel at which The Twelve True Fishermen held their annual dinners was an
institution such as can only exist in an oligarchical society which has almost gone mad on
good manners. It was that topsy-turvy product--an "exclusive" commercial enterprise.
That is, it was a thing which paid not by attracting people, but actually by turning people
away. In the heart of a plutocracy tradesmen become cunning enough to be more
fastidious than their customers. They positively create difficulties so that their wealthy
and weary clients may spend money and diplomacy in overcoming them. If there were a
fashionable hotel in London which no man could enter who was under six foot, society
would meekly make up parties of six-foot men to dine in it. If there were an expensive
restaurant which by a mere caprice of its proprietor was only open on Thursday
afternoon, it would be crowded on Thursday afternoon. The Vernon Hotel stood, as if by
accident, in the corner of a square in Belgravia. It was a small hotel; and a very
inconvenient one. But its very inconveniences were considered as walls protecting a
particular class. One inconvenience, in particular, was held to be of vital importance: the
fact that practically only twenty-four people could dine in the place at once. The only big
dinner table was the celebrated terrace table, which stood open to the air on a sort of
veranda overlooking one of the most exquisite old gardens in London. Thus it happened
that even the twenty-four seats at this table could only be enjoyed in warm weather; and
this making the enjoyment yet more difficult made it yet more desired. The existing
owner of the hotel was a Jew named Lever; and he made nearly a million out of it, by
making it difficult to get into. Of course he combined with this limitation in the scope of
his enterprise the most careful polish in its performance. The wines and cooking were
really as good as any in Europe, and the demeanour of the attendants exactly mirrored the
fixed mood of the English upper class. The proprietor knew all his waiters like the fingers
on his hand; there were only fifteen of them all told. It was much easier to become a