The Wisdom of Father Brown HTML version

The Head of Caesar
THERE is somewhere in Brompton or Kensington an interminable avenue of tall houses,
rich but largely empty, that looks like a terrace of tombs. The very steps up to the dark
front doors seem as steep as the side of pyramids; one would hesitate to knock at the
door, lest it should be opened by a mummy. But a yet more depressing feature in the grey
facade is its telescopic length and changeless continuity. The pilgrim walking down it
begins to think he will never come to a break or a corner; but there is one exception--a
very small one, but hailed by the pilgrim almost with a shout. There is a sort of mews
between two of the tall mansions, a mere slit like the crack of a door by comparison with
the street, but just large enough to permit a pigmy ale-house or eating-house, still allowed
by the rich to their stable-servants, to stand in the angle. There is something cheery in its
very dinginess, and something free and elfin in its very insignificance. At the feet of
those grey stone giants it looks like a lighted house of dwarfs.
Anyone passing the place during a certain autumn evening, itself almost fairylike, might
have seen a hand pull aside the red half-blind which (along with some large white
lettering) half hid the interior from the street, and a face peer out not unlike a rather
innocent goblin's. It was, in fact, the face of one with the harmless human name of
Brown, formerly priest of Cobhole in Essex, and now working in London. His friend,
Flambeau, a semi-official investigator, was sitting opposite him, making his last notes of
a case he had cleared up in the neighbourhood. They were sitting at a small table, close
up to the window, when the priest pulled the curtain back and looked out. He waited till a
stranger in the street had passed the window, to let the curtain fall into its place again.
Then his round eyes rolled to the large white lettering on the window above his head, and
then strayed to the next table, at which sat only a navvy with beer and cheese, and a
young girl with red hair and a glass of milk. Then (seeing his friend put away the pocket-
book), he said softly:
"If you've got ten minutes, I wish you'd follow that man with the false nose."
Flambeau looked up in surprise; but the girl with the red hair also looked up, and with
something that was stronger than astonishment. She was simply and even loosely dressed
in light brown sacking stuff; but she was a lady, and even, on a second glance, a rather
needlessly haughty one. "The man with the false nose!" repeated Flambeau. "Who's he?"
"I haven't a notion," answered Father Brown. "I want you to find out; I ask it as a favour.
He went down there"--and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in one of his
undistinguished gestures-- "and can't have passed three lamp-posts yet. I only want to
know the direction."
Flambeau gazed at his friend for some time, with an expression between perplexity and
amusement; and then, rising from the table; squeezed his huge form out of the little door
of the dwarf tavern, and melted into the twilight.
Father Brown took a small book out of his pocket and began to read steadily; he betrayed
no consciousness of the fact that the red-haired lady had left her own table and sat down