Free The White Cottage Mystery by Margery Allingham

– ’
    â€˜W.T. stared at him.
    â€˜The car?’ he ejaculated, ‘it’s much more serious than that – you’re wanted on the charge of murdering Eric Crowther.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I kill him?
I
?’ he murmured, and a thin trickle of laughter escaped him. ‘For seven years – seven years I long to kill him. Ithink 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.
    â€˜Go on,’ he said softly.
    The man hesitated.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Cellini,’ he said, ‘why did you bolt like that – suddenly?’
    The Italian looked at him blankly.
    â€˜Because he was dead,’ he said. ‘Because at last I was free.’
    â€˜How did you know Crowther was dead?’
    Cellini’s reply was disarming.
    â€˜Because I saw him,’ he said