Free The White Cottage Mystery by Margery Allingham Page A

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.
    â€˜Yes?’ said W.T.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Of course I know,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’
    Cellini obeyed him; he was trembling.
    â€˜What was it?’
    The Italian folded his arms on the table and hid his face on them.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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, donot 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Your