The White Cottage Mystery by Margery Allingham Page A

nodded.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Go on,’ he said.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What an unpleasant type!’
    The Italian turned.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 mysigned 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.
    â€˜I see – I see,’ he said. ‘And he would threaten you with exposure from time to time?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You took your confession,’ he repeated. ‘Naturally, naturally.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜My God!’ he said. ‘I almost believe you.’
    Cellini sat up stiffly in his chair.
    â€˜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 himlike 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Monsieur, I assure you,’ he said. ‘I remain here.