The White Cottage Mystery by Margery Allingham

took it down.’ The Italian spoke so simply that for a moment Jerry did not grasp the full significance of the words.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What exactly had you confessed?’
    â€˜Everything,’ said the Italian.
    W.T. frowned. ‘Names?’ he inquired.
    â€˜Everything,’ repeated Cellini, and his tone told more than the most elaborate explanation could have done.
    W.T. whistled softly.
    â€˜I see,’ he said gravely. ‘I see. And then – you didn’t die.’
    The Italian nodded.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜
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 inhis 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.
    â€˜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 …’
    â€˜My God – blackmail!’ Jerry spoke without knowing it.
    Cellini looked at him and