W.T. grunted.
‘What I want to know is what Crowther had on him that Cellini waited seven years to kill him for.’
At twenty minutes to ten the affable M. Barthés returned with an agent de police called Marbeuf. Neither was in uniform, and after some few moments of conversation the four climbed into the car and the chauffeur drove off at speed. After one of the most thrilling journeys Jerry had ever experienced, they arrived at the corner of an ill-lit and by no means odourless street in one of the poorer quarters of the town.
‘I think, monsieur, it would be best to alight here,’ said M. Barthés in his quiet voice. ‘The shop is some eight doors down on the left-hand side – Number twenty-eight.’
‘Very well,’ said W.T., whose spirits had been steadily reviving during the last fifteen minutes or so. ‘Are you coming, Jerry?’
Together the father and son and the two Frenchmen walked down the pavement to where a single rod of yellow light fell from a chink in a wooden shutter outside a shop window.
‘Here we are,’ murmured M. Barthés. ‘Our men are posted on all sides. Monsieur has but to summon them.’
‘Good,’ said W.T. and, striding up to the door, knocked on it.
There was a moment of waiting, while Jerry felt himself sympathizing with the man somewhere in the shop – caught like a hare in a circle of dogs.
Then footsteps sounded inside the house and there was the noise of a bolt being drawn back. The next moment the door opened, cautiously, and a shaft of light shone out upon the four men on the pavement. A woman stood on the threshold, tall and sallow-skinned, with black, dull dry hair knotted loosely at her neck. Her frock was long and made of some light cotton material printed with a bright pattern. She looked at them doubtfully, and when she spoke her French had a southern accent.
W.T. took his hat off and bowed to her with as much ceremony as if she had been an old-time marquise and he an emissary from the English Court.
‘Madame,’ he began in his best French, which was as English as his clothes, ‘we have called to see Signor Latte Cellini – ’
The woman looked at him sharply, a sudden hint of fear appearing in her dark eyes.
‘Ze Inglis?’ she said. ‘What name, monsieur?’
W.T. presented his card.
‘Wait,’ said the woman, and turning, left them standing in the doorway while she hurried out of the room into the back of the house.
The four men stepped into the shop, and Jerry looked round him curiously. It was a jeweller’s, with a glass-case counter in which were displayed cheap rings and watches, together with a collection of initial brooches – silver-gilt monstrosities with girls’ names emblazoned on the fronts. Nothing extraordinary here, thought Jerry.
His reflections were cut short by the reappearance of the woman. To his surprise, all trace of alarm had vanished entirely from her expressive face. She smiled at W.T. pleasantly.
‘You go up?’ she enquired in her imperfect English, which she seemed to consider at any rate was better than the old detective’s French. ‘’E wait for you.’
The two Frenchmen exchanged glances, and Jerry saw W.T.’s hand slip round to his hip pocket.
W.T. spoke first.
‘We will follow you, madame.’
‘Ver’ well.’ The woman was still smiling, and turned at once into the passage leading out of the shop.
They followed her cautiously. The house was old and full of corners. W.T. had taken the lead as a right. Jerry followed him closely, the others pressing behind.
To their astonishment, and to Jerry’s disgust, nothing untoward happened. The woman led them up a narrow staircase to a back bedroom which had been furnished as a sitting-room. It was depressingly lit and the furniture, although in good taste, was decidedly shabby.
Latte Cellini stood by the square table in the centre of the room looking at them with more curiosity than anything else.
Jerry recognized him at once. He was the man he had seen pass down the road on the day that he had stood by his car talking to the constable. There could be no mistaking the tall attenuated figure and the lank grey chin.
W.T. glanced behind him; the woman had gone out and the door was closed.
The detective came forward and cleared his throat:
‘You are Latte Cellini?’
‘Yes – that is my name.’
‘On the fourteenth of this month you left the “Dene”, Brandesdon, Kent, England, suddenly, and came to France?’
‘Yes.’ The Italian spoke easily, almost carelessly.
‘If it is the car – I tink I can explain,’ he said. ‘I – ’
‘W.T. stared at him.
‘The car?’ he ejaculated, ‘it’s much more serious than that – you’re wanted on the charge of murdering Eric Crowther.’
‘Murder? I?’
The effect upon the man was instantaneous. His calm vanished and he stared at the detective in surprise. ‘I?’ he repeated. ‘I, monsieur? It is impossible! There is some mistake … some terrible mistake! Murder! My God! – let me explain, monsieur – for the love of heaven let me explain.’
The old detective was shaken by Cellini’s surprise.
‘Murder!’ the Italian repeated, and added, a blaze lighting up his dull eyes: ‘But no, monsieur. Had I been capable of murdering that man I should not have waited seven years to do it.’
This remark, coming as it did so naturally, swayed the old detective in spite of himself. He turned to M. Barthés.
‘Monsieur,’ he said in an undertone, ‘the evidence against this man is very strong, but it is not yet absolutely conclusive. Do you think we might diverge from the ordinary official course in this case? Entirely unofficial, of course: no notes will be taken.’
M. Barthés bowed his sleek yellow head.
‘Whatever monsieur thinks advisable,’ he murmured, and added softly, ‘So that it may be entirely unofficial, Monsieur Marbeuf and I will await you in the shop downstairs – should you need us you have but to call.’
W.T. smiled.
‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ he said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, that’s just what I should like.’
M. Barthés bowed, smiled faintly, and wafted himself and the sturdy and somewhat disappointed Marbeuf out of the room and down the stairs.
The Italian, who had not caught the drift of the conversation, looked after them wildly.
‘Are they going?’ he demanded hysterically. ‘Going before they have heard me. Shall I be dragged off to prison without being heard? What is to become of me? Why am I not allowed to explain?’ His voice rose almost to a scream on the last word, and Jerry noticed his long, tapering fingers as they clutched nervously at the tablecloth … delicate, sensitive fingers.
Old W.T. sat down. He was at his most fatherly, and his expression was innocent and benign.
‘Now, calm yourself,’ he said, and his voice was soothing. ‘Those gentlemen are waiting for me downstairs. If you would care to reserve your story for the Court to hear, I am quite ready, but if you wish to tell me anything now – here I am.’
The terrified Italian became visibly calmer under the influence of the unemotional voice, and suddenly he dropped into a chair by the table. For some moments he sat silent, his long ivory white hands clasped in front of him and his eyes dull and impenetrable.
At last his lips moved.
‘I kill him? I?’ he murmured, and a thin trickle of laughter escaped him. ‘For seven years – seven years I long to kill him. I think and plan and dream of killing him, but always I am afraid. He know that; that is why he not fear me.’
Jerry glanced at his father – his eyes wide with astonishment. The old man signalled him to be silent, and looked across at the Italian.
‘Go on,’ he said softly.
The man hesitated.
‘I – I didn’t kill him,’ he burst out. ‘Whoever it was it was not I – I would never dare. I lived with him for seven years as a prisoner.’
Old W.T. was frowning: the mystery was not becoming clearer. He leant across the table and regarded the Italian steadily.
‘Cellini,’ he said, ‘why did you bolt like that – suddenly?’
The Italian looked at him blankly.
‘Because he was dead,’ he said. ‘Because at last I was free.’
‘How did you know Crowther was dead?’
Cellini’s reply was disarming.
‘Because I saw him,’ he said simply. ‘I followed him into the house of the Christensens, as he bade me – as I entered the front door I heard the report. I rushed into the room …’ He paused and lowered his eyes.
‘Yes?’ said W.T.
‘Then,’ said Cellini, ‘I saw he was dead, and I knew I was free. Something sang in my brain – my one desire was to get away. I hurried out of the room the way I had come. As I reached the hall I heard someone coming. I did not wish to be seen lest I should be delayed. There was not time to get out of the door, so I hid behind the coat-stand – I was there for some time while the police came. Then as soon as the hall was clear I ran out into the garden and returned to my room, where I packed a bag. Then I took the car and went.’ He paused and returned the detective’s stare.
W.T. hesitated, then he spoke.
‘There was blood on the wall behind the coat-stand, Cellini,’ he said slowly.
The man’s face paled visibly until his round eyes seemed to glow against the livid flesh.
‘What did you take from the dead man?’ W.T. continued. ‘What did you turn him over on his back and wrench his shirt open to find?’
‘You know?’ The words were uttered in a stifled scream, and the Italian started up from the table, his expression a masterpiece of fear and amazement.
W.T. nodded wearily.
‘Of course I know,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’
Cellini obeyed him; he was trembling.
‘What was it?’
The Italian folded his arms on the table and hid his face on them.
‘I can’t,’ he said piteously. ‘I can’t … I … daren’t.’
There was no question that his anguish was sincere. The man had literally gone to pieces before their eyes.
For a minute W.T. let him remain there quiet, his face hidden. Then he spoke deliberately.
‘Cellini,’ he said, ‘have you ever heard of the Society of the Undenied?’ He spoke very softly, but the effect upon the Italian was electrical. He sat up at the table, his long, thin body rigid, his nostrils dilated like those of a frightened animal.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, and his voice was breathy and out of control.
W.T. smiled at him, his eyes narrow beneath his thick white brows.
‘I don’t think there’s any need to go into that,’ he said gently. ‘Let it be enough that I know.’
There was silence for a moment in the room while the Italian still stared at the detective.
Finally W.T. leant back in his chair.
‘Now that we understand each other, let us go into the matter afresh,’ he said easily. ‘You see, my only desire is to find the murderer of Eric Crowther. I have in my pocket a warrant for your arrest on that charge, but if you tell me the truth I will listen to it. I give you one word of advice … If you are innocent, do not be afraid to tell the whole truth. I am not likely to bring any charges against you save this one that I have mentioned.’
The Italian raised his heavy eyes and spoke wearily.
‘I will tell you,’ he said.
8 The Torturer
Once having made up his mind to speak, the Italian’s whole attitude changed as completely as it had done before. His weariness left him – he became voluble, excited. As he talked he gesticulated, his sensitive hands emphasizing his points – driving them home.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘seven years ago, in the service of the society by which I was employed, it became necessary for me to spend some months in a tenement building in the worst quarter of this city …’ He paused and looked at the old detective keenly. ‘I had to wipe out my own personality and become for a time a beggar in the streets of Paris – a real beggar. I lived on what I earned. I spoke to no one whom I knew in my own life – not even my wife … not even she would have recognized me.’
‘Your wife? Is that the lady who showed us in?’ Jerry spoke involuntarily.
The Italian nodded.
‘Yesterday I saw her for the first time for seven years,’ he said simply. ‘But monsieur shall hear … However one can disguise the body and force the mind into a new shape and quality, one cannot control one’s powers of resisting disease. The beggars of Paris live hard lives. From children they are inured to cold but I was not – I became ill.’ He stopped for a moment and regarded W.T. solemnly.
The detective nodded comprehendingly, and the Italian went on. ‘I caught some cold which laid me open to an attack of fever brought by another beggar from the East. It overcame me completely. I dare not return to my home, however, for I knew I was being watched, and bring suspicion upon the society I dare not … as you will understand, monsieur?’
‘Yes,’ said W.T., ‘I understand.’
The Italian looked at him gratefully. ‘So I crawled back to my tenement attic,’ he continued, ‘and lay upon my bed. Then began the tortures of long fits of delirium, from which I used to awake gasping with fear, icy cold and convinced in my mind that I was about to die. This misery continued for some time – how long I never knew – it may have been days or merely hours. But as I awakened from one of the worst fits of delirium, my mind frozen with the fear of death and the purgatory to come, I saw a man bending over me. A big man, wide-shouldered and heavy-faced, with small bright eyes round and cruel and a little mad …’
He paused, and W.T. spoke. ‘That was Eric Crowther?’
The Italian nodded, and there came into his face the same indescribable expression of mingled fear and loathing that Jerry had noticed on the faces of Christensen and Gale and old Estah when they had spoken of the dead man.
‘It was he,’ he said. ‘The devil in man’s guise. But I will tell you – you shall judge. When I saw him I cried out to him that I was dying, and he nodded. I was terrified – I am a member of the true Church, monsieur – a good Catholic, and in the hour of death I was afraid to die unabsolved. I begged him therefore to fetch a priest to me, and in my madness I said there was much I had to confess. I can see his face now as he looked at me. I was very ill, monsieur; mad with fever and the awful fear of dying with my sins unconfessed.’
The man was speaking passionately, his dull eyes glowing, and the two men who listened had a sudden insight into his superstitious soul. They saw a little of his belief – his faith that absolution would protect him from the fire and everlasting torment of the damned.
‘He laughed at me,’ the Italian continued, his voice sinking into a monotone. ‘I saw him grinning down at me. “There is not time,” he said. “You will die before he comes.” This was the one thing needed to drive the last sane thought out of my mind. I became raving – hysterical – and he – as though to quiet me – suddenly offered to hear my confession. “I will be secret,” he said, “and I will pray for you.” ‘Cellini paused to draw breath for a moment, but went on again immediately, his words gathering speed. ‘I was mad,’ he said; ‘the fever had heated my brain until I could think of nothing clearly; my whole being was frozen with the terror of death. I confessed,’ he added slowly, while W.T. stared at him, a glimmer of understanding in his face. ‘I confessed everything.’
W.T. stirred, and his voice sounded dry and quiet after the Italian’s emotional outburst.
‘About the society?’
Cellini bowed his head.
‘I thought they were my last words on earth,’ he said after a pause. ‘I looked upon him as a confessor. I was too ill to …’ W.T. nodded.
‘And then?’ he said.
‘He took it down.’ The Italian spoke so simply that for a moment Jerry did not grasp the full signifi
cance of the words.
‘He took it down,’ Cellini repeated, a gathering hatred in his tone. ‘I spoke haltingly, naturally, for I was very weak – there was plenty of time for him to write, and when he had done he made me sign.’
W.T. stared at the man before him, his eyes narrowed with incredulous amazement.
‘He made you sign?’ he repeated.
The Italian nodded. ‘I was ill,’ he said gently. ‘Dying – and I was afraid.’
The old detective leant back in his chair and folded his arms. He was beginning to see things more clearly.
‘What exactly had you confessed?’
‘Everything,’ said the Italian.
W.T. frowned. ‘Names?’ he inquired.
‘Everything,’ repeated Cellini, and his tone told more than the most elaborate explanation could have done.
W.T. whistled softly.
‘I see,’ he said gravely. ‘I see. And then – you didn’t die.’
The Italian nodded.
‘He saved my life,’ he said. ‘I never forgave him for that. He was a monster, monsieur – a fiend unleashed.’
W.T. rose to his feet, and crossing over to the hearth-rug stood there, his hands in his pockets.
‘You must go on,’ he said at last. ‘All this you have told me only compromises you more.’
The Italian nodded eagerly. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know. There is still more to explain. But yet – monsieur did not know the dead man – perhaps he could not understand.’
‘Suppose you try to tell me,’ said W.T. ‘If it’s true I shall understand.’
The Italian leant his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands. His unnatural pallor and dry, longish black hair gave him a weird, almost ghost-like appearance in the yellow light.
‘Monsieur,’ he began, ‘Eric Crowther, though in all other respects an ordinary, self-centred, middle-aged man of rather fine intellect, was, on one point, mad – insane.’ He looked across at the detective doubtfully, as if he feared he would not be believed, but W.T. regarded him solemnly, nothing but a deep interest betrayed in his expression. The Italian went on, still speaking more slowly than his wont, and with a meticulousness of diction that betrayed his anxiety to be understood.
The White Cottage Mystery Page 6