‘He had a mania,’ he said, ‘a passion for inflicting pain. Pain interested him. He loved to cause it, to watch his victim writhing, realizing and enjoying to the full with a sensuous pleasure each little twinge and stab.’
W.T. bowed his head.
‘I am familiar with that type of obsession,’ he said.
The Italian glanced at him sharply. ‘You will understand, then,’ he said, ‘that was Crowther’s madness, but he had it with a difference – the only pain that interested him was mental pain.’
Jerry caught his breath and leant forward.
‘Mental pain,’ the Italian repeated. ‘He had studied medicine in Germany and was a great student of the brain – any kind of mental suffering thrilled him. At first it was just a secret trait in his character, I think, but it grew into a mania. At the time of which I speak his whole life was dominated by it as a man is dominated by a fiend.’
Both W.T. and Jerry were alert now, watching him eagerly. This revelation explained much that had been hitherto incomprehensible.
‘It was difficult for him to gratify this mania,’ the Italian continued. ‘One must inspire love first before one can hurt with a word or a look; or else one must know something about someone – something they are anxious not to reveal to the world. Then one can play upon the feelings of the victim as a child plays upon a guitar …’
‘My God – blackmail!’ Jerry spoke without knowing it.
Cellini looked at him and nodded.
‘That is the word,’ he said. ‘Blackmail – blackmail with the payments in pain.’
Jerry looked at his father questioningly. The old man was looking intently at the Italian, his forehead puckered and his face animated with new interest.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Crowther used to find out about people,’ Cellini continued, lowering his voice. ‘He used to look for people who had secrets, get them into his power and then keep them under his eye, torturing them and holding over their heads continuously the threat of exposure.’
‘What an unpleasant type!’
The Italian turned.
‘You don’t believe me!’ he said quickly. ‘But it’s true – his household was composed of his victims – he used to go and live near people who were afraid of him.’
W.T. opened his mouth to ask a question, but thought better of it.
Cellini continued.
‘He had a hold over me, anyway,’ he said. ‘Else why did I live with him all those years – a virtual slave – subjected to every indignity – forced to follow him about, to obey his every injunction unquestioningly? Monsieur, I dared not leave him – he had my signed confession – a paper which, if it had got into the hands of the society, would put me in danger of my life or worse.’
W.T. expelled a breath hissingly through his teeth.
‘I see – I see,’ he said. ‘And he would threaten you with exposure from time to time?’
‘Always. I was never for one moment at peace. I used to think of killing him – but I was afraid. I dared not.’
W.T. returned to his seat at the table.
‘Look here, Cellini,’ he said. ‘I am indebted to you for this information about the dead man, but nothing you have said as yet has done anything to convince me that you did not kill him – in fact, all your story so far has simply added to my belief in your guilt … If you turned and fled as soon as you saw that Crowther was lying dead on the ground, how did your hands come to have blood on them?’
‘Ah, but, monsieur, don’t you understand?’ The Italian’s tone was eager, and his brown eyes wide and pathetic. ‘I turned him over – I took my confession.’
The old detective passed his hand through his white hair.
‘You took your confession,’ he repeated. ‘Naturally, naturally.’
‘But yes, monsieur.’ Cellini’s sincerity was unmistakable. ‘When I heard the shot, and came rushing into the room to find him lying on his face dead, my first thought was of my confession – he always carried it about with him, I knew – I could not let it be found on him. I turned him over – psha! He was not good to look at – I had just time to wrench open his shirt, take out the leather case and fly. It was because of this that I was not quick enough to get out of the house before the maid came into the hall.’
W.T. bowed his head over his hands.
‘My God!’ he said. ‘I almost believe you.’
Cellini sat up stiffly in his chair.
‘I swear to you that I speak the truth,’ he said slowly, and added, with a sudden burst of eagerness, ‘Consider, monsieur – why should I kill him in another man’s house, and with a gun – my natural weapon is the knife – I can throw a knife so as to hit a mark on the wall twenty feet away – I should have killed him like that had I dared. Besides – ask yourself – should I have waited seven years to do it?’
W.T. rose to his feet and walked slowly down the room, his hands clasped behind him, his head bowed.
‘Cellini,’ he said, turning suddenly, ‘stay in Paris at this house. What you have said tonight has shaken my theory of your guilt but I am not yet satisfied.’
The Italian stood up.
‘Monsieur, I assure you,’ he said. ‘I remain here. When you want me, this address will find me.’
‘Splendid.’ W.T. picked up his hat and turned towards the door. On the threshold he looked back.
‘By the way, Cellini,’ he said, ‘you came into the room almost directly after the shot was fired, didn’t you?’
‘Within three seconds, monsieur.’
‘Then did you – did you by any chance catch a glimpse of the firer of the shot – as he or she disappeared out of the french windows?’
Cellini hesitated.
‘No, monsieur,’ he said at last.
W.T. turned back into the room.
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw–nothing.’
W.T. shook his head.
‘You make it very difficult for me,’ he said. ‘You see, it is my duty to find out all I can about this case – the sooner the guilty person is discovered the sooner will the innocent be out of danger of suspicion. What did you see?’
Again the Italian hesitated.
‘I am not sure,’ he said finally. ‘It was not so much a glimpse as an impression – a thing that was gone so quickly that I could not swear that it had ever been.’
‘I understand,’ said the detective. ‘What was your impression?’
The Italian raised his eyes and looked at the old man steadily.
‘A flicker of white round the window-post,’ he said slowly. ‘A corner of white material.’
‘Such as an apron edge?’ suggested W.T. ‘Or a woman’s white petticoat?’
‘Or a woman’s white petticoat,’ agreed the Italian. ‘That was my impression, monsieur.’
As he closed the door of the room behind the two of them, Jerry murmured to his father:
‘What are we going to say to Barthés and Marbeuf?’
9 Two Extravagant Ladies
At a little past eleven o’clock the following morning Jerry and his father walked down the sunlit Boulevard des Italiens discussing the affairs of the preceding night. When they had finally parted with the imperturbably polite M. Barthés and the covertly amused Marbeuf, W.T. had been in no mood for conversation. Now, however, he was more reconciled to the situation.
‘I shall have Cellini watched, of course,’ he was saying. ‘Keep in touch with him – but somehow I’m inclined to believe in his story. That particular form of madness is not so rare and, besides, it is the only thing which explains to my mind the extraordinary case of Clarry Gale.’
‘Clarry Gale – why shouldn’t he have suddenly turned straight?’
W.T. shook his head. ‘My boy,’ he said solemnly, ‘there are men who commit crime from weakness – from sudden temptation – from fear or from sheer necessity. All these may suddenly reform and go straight: but there is another type that is born with a twist �
� a criminal by nature – fundamentally crooked. Such a man is Clarry Gale. His record starts at the age of seven. He has spent twenty-five years of his sixty-three in prison. This ten years of blameless life doesn’t seem natural somehow.’
Jerry nodded. ‘He wouldn’t talk, would he?’ he said.
‘No.’ W.T. frowned. ‘I had a long chat with him on the morning of the inquest, but he wouldn’t say a word. He knew his alibi was all right, and traded on that. I couldn’t get anything out of him.
‘No, Clarry Gale was kept honest by a fear of his life. Crowther had some hold over him – that’s why I’m inclined to believe Cellini’s story of the “mental torture and blackmail” business. It fits in so well.’
Jerry shrugged his shoulders expressively.
‘Not good,’ he said. ‘I suppose our next move is to go back to … Good lord! ‘Jerry stopped dead in his sentence and in his stride.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Norah!’ said Jerry, and set off down the pavement at full speed.
W.T. looked after him; the next moment he too was staring down the road, genuine surprise in his face.
An open taxi-cab was drawn up outside a perfumer’s some ten yards farther down the pavement. One woman was seated inside it, while another stood talking to Jerry.
They were Mrs Christensen and Norah.
The two young people were chatting together eagerly when W.T. came up, while Mrs Christensen was smiling on them happily.
To the old man’s surprise, and somewhat to his embarrassment, she welcomed the two of them as old friends.
‘We don’t know a soul in this city – how jolly running into you! Are you doing anything at the moment? We’re just going back to the hotel to eat. Won’t you come with us?’ Mrs Christensen spoke eagerly. She seemed really pleased to see them, and her smile was as ingenuous as her words.
W.T. looked at her, his face betraying no hint of the surprise he felt. She was a different woman from the haggard and terrified creature with the hunted look in her eyes that they had left in England only a few days before. She looked years younger, and there was colour in her cheeks and a new vivacity in her face. The detective’s curiosity was aroused, and within minutes he had accepted her invitation and the four of them were rattling away down the rue de la Paix to the Place Vendôme.
Jerry and Norah were getting on well together, and W.T. turned his entire attention to Mrs Christensen. There was no need to question her, he found: she chattered on about herself without any encouragement.
‘I felt I just must get away,’ she said, ‘if only for a week or so – so we’re going down south to Mentone for a rest.’
‘You – er – left your address, of course?’ In spite of himself, the detective could not refrain from the question.
The woman stared at him as if she fancied he had taken leave of his senses.
‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘You see, my husband isn’t with us.’
‘No?’
‘He was afraid of the journey,’ she said. ‘It was awkward for him, poor dear, in that chair.’
‘Quite.’ W.T. smiled at her. ‘And so you came away without him?’
The woman nodded.
‘I just packed Estah and the baby off to Bournemouth, sent Roger to his sister’s house in Yorkshire, and Norah and I came over here. We only arrived yesterday. We shall spend the afternoon buying, and then tomorrow we start for Mentone.’ She clapped her hands and laughed as she finished speaking, and W.T., looking at her, had the impression that she was set free – a linnet out of a cage. The whole affair puzzled him, though; he did not understand this new spirit, and there was the money too. The White Cottage was an unpretentious house – the Christensens were unpretentious people, living frugally on invested capital, no doubt. But Mrs Christensen now exuded an atmosphere of extravagance. Both she and Norah were very expensively dressed. W.T. had a pretty shrewd knowledge of the cost of clothes – it was part of his business – and he realized at once that the lady had been shopping already, and extravagantly at that.
The hotel, too, he found when they arrived, was one of the most exclusive and expensive in the city. The two sisters had a private suite and had brought their English maid with them, the bashful Kathreen, now considerably more perky and sure of herself.
Food was served in the suite, and the sisters chatted throughout the meal. It was their first visit to Paris, and they were full of their experiences. As far as W.T. could hear, they had made the best of their time. The general impression they gave him was one of feminine extravagance in its most reckless mood. The more he thought of it the more mystified he became.
He glanced at Jerry, but if he expected any confirmation of his impression from him he was disappointed. The boy was engrossed in conversation with Norah. He had eyes for no one else. As for the murder, the thought of it probably never entered his head.
By and by the party broke up, the ladies to dress for their raid on the rue de la Paix, and W.T. and Jerry to return to their hotel.
They parted on excellent terms, W.T. persuading the sisters to dine with him and Jerry the same evening.
The smiling Kathreen escorted the father and son down the passage to the main door of the suite.
‘Glad to see you again, sir,’ she said, anxious for them to notice her.
The detective beamed at her.
‘Thank you, Kathreen. How do you like Paris? Enjoying yourself?’
Kathreen cast her round eyes heaven-ward. ‘I am!’ she said. ‘Since the missus heard about her money we’ve been going it, I can tell you.’
‘Money?’ W.T.’s tone was mildly surprised.
The girl raised her eyebrows.
‘Haven’t you heard? I should have thought you’d be the first to know. The missus has come into all Mr Crowther’s money – ’im as was shot.’
10 The Next Move
‘Look here, Dad, what are you going to do?’ Jerry put the question aggressively.
The two men were seated together in a deserted corner in the lounge of their hotel, having just returned from escorting Mrs Christensen and Norah home after dinner at the Café de Paris.
‘What are you going to do?’ the boy repeated.
W.T. put his brandy-and-soda down on the glass-topped cane table, and blinked at his son in mild astonishment.
‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘that Château Yquem has gone to your head – I should go to bed, my boy.’
Jerry flushed angrily.
‘I’m in no mood for that sort of chaff just now,’ he said, without troubling to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘I want to know what you’re doing. Why aren’t we going back to England tomorrow?’
‘Because,’ said W.T. cheerfully, ‘I think we shall do more good if we stay here.’
‘Good?’ The boy’s voice rose contemptuously. ‘I suppose by that you mean we shall worm out some more disgusting facts about that murder.’
‘Well,’ said the detective mildly, ‘we did come here for that, you know.’
Jerry paused for a moment or so before he spoke.
‘Anyway,’ he said sullenly, ‘we didn’t come here to take out girls to dinner and question them. It makes me sick!’
W.T. regarded him solemnly.
‘Jerry,’ he said at last, ‘do you think Norah Bayliss shot Eric Crowther?’
‘Good God, no!’
‘Do you think her sister did?’
‘N – no, no, of course not.’
‘Well, then,’ said the old man, leaning back in his chair, ‘isn’t it the best thing we can do for them to make sure – so that they can never fall under suspicion?’
Jerry frowned and moved uneasily.
‘Why, yes – I – I suppose so,’ he said at last. ‘It’s foul about that wretched money.’
W.T. nodded.
‘Most extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Deadwood must be off his head. I ought to have heard of that at once – the girls coming to Paris, too – and not a word from him – I don�
��t know what he’s doing over there.’
‘Maybe he was relying on your arresting Cellini,’ said Jerry.
W.T. frowned. ‘Very likely,’ he said gloomily. ‘Still, he ought to have let me know – especially about the money. I wired for a copy of the will as soon as I got in this afternoon, of course. We shall get it in the morning.’
Jerry sat forward in his chair, clasping his knee.
‘She – she couldn’t have done it,’ he said at last.
‘Who – Mrs Christensen?’
‘Of course.’
W.T. was silent for some moments. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘When a woman is goaded beyond all endurance, there’s nothing she couldn’t do.’
‘She couldn’t,’ the boy repeated. ‘She couldn’t!’
‘What makes you think that?’
The old man put the question casually, and the boy answered it with his thought.
‘Well – I mean to say – a woman with a sister like that – ‘He broke off short before the expression on the old detective’s face.
‘My dear boy’ – W.T. spoke inoffensively – ‘that is an argument that may convince you in your present state of blissful lunacy, but you can’t expect it to have the same effect on me.’
‘Why, d’you think she did it?’
W.T. rumpled his hair, making himself look somehow like a festive owl.
‘’Pon my soul, Jerry, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There are times when I could believe anything – I’m going to bed now, anyway.’
He prepared to rise from his chair, but the boy, leaning across the table towards him, kept him seated.
‘Dad,’ said Jerry, clipping his words in his earnestness; ‘that chap Crowther – he deserved to be killed. What does it matter who killed him?’
‘What does it matter?’ repeated W.T. blankly.
Jerry nodded; his young face became suddenly hard.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘whoever killed that man did it in self-defence – mental if not physical. Why don’t you leave him alone?’
W.T.’s eyes narrowed.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
‘Chuck up the case,’ said Jerry. ‘Leave it. Don’t try to find out any more.’
The White Cottage Mystery Page 7
