The White Cottage Mystery by Margery Allingham Page B

When you want me, this address will find me.’
    â€˜Splendid.’ W.T. picked up his hat and turned towards the door. On the threshold he looked back.
    â€˜By the way, Cellini,’ he said, ‘you came into the room almost directly after the shot was fired, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Within three seconds, monsieur.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜No, monsieur,’ he said at last.
    W.T. turned back into the room.
    â€˜What did you see?’
    â€˜I saw–nothing.’
    W.T. shook his head.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I understand,’ said the detective. ‘What was your impression?’
    The Italian raised his eyes and looked at the old man steadily.
    â€˜A flicker of white round the window-post,’ he said slowly. ‘A corner of white material.’
    â€˜Such as an apron edge?’ suggested W.T. ‘Or a woman’s white petticoat?’
    â€˜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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 believeCellini’s story of the “mental torture and blackmail” business. It fits in so well.’
    Jerry shrugged his shoulders expressively.
    â€˜
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.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’
    â€˜Norah!’ said Jerry, and set off down the pavement at full speed.
    W.T. looked