The White Cottage Mystery (7 page)

‘I begin to understand,' he said. ‘Latte Cellini was at one time in the employ of this society?'

Le Gris bowed. ‘Monsieur is right,' he said. ‘Latte Cellini is a jeweller – probably the most expert setter of precious stones in the world. He has been of great use to the society in the past…' He paused and smiled faintly, as if he were remembering something. ‘There is today,' he said at last, ‘amongst the Crown Jewels of a great Royal House a single false stone. The original lies in the collection of a famous American beside its only peer – a stone of the same colour, quality and weight. No one in the Royal household dreams of the exchange, since no one but an expert with a glass could tell the difference between the false stone and the real one. But twelve years ago all the jewellery was cleaned, and one night an old jeweller from Prague sat up late at the work – or so it was thought. The following morning the change had been effected. That was the work of Latte Cellini. But we could never prove it against him.'

‘A worthy successor of his great namesake,' remarked W.T., who seemed to have relished the story.

Jerry frowned. ‘Did he impersonate the jeweller from Prague, then?' he said.

Le Gris nodded.

‘Gustav Buder of Prague did not receive his summons from the Royal Treasury,' he said. ‘To this day he does not know that it was despatched.'

There was silence for a moment or so after the Frenchman's voice had died away. Then W.T. spoke.

‘I understand the powers of this society, monsieur,' he said, ‘but surely even it cannot protect a man wanted for murder.'

‘But no, certainly not, monsieur.' Le Gris spoke emphatically. ‘Besides, the society does not defend its servants. That is part of the agreement under which they are employed. They are paid
enormous salaries on the condition that they take the full responsibility of their own actions. Besides, the society has its own methods of dealing with unsatisfactory servants.'

W.T. looked up sharply, for the first time a flicker of surprise passing over his face.

‘How do you mean?' he said.

Le Gris shrugged his shoulders eloquently. ‘They disappear, monsieur,' he said simply. ‘For seven years we thought that some such fate had overtaken Latte Cellini, but two days ago he reappeared in Paris with the English police on his heels. Can you offer us any explanation?'

‘Very little,' W.T. admitted. ‘All we know for certain about Cellini is that for the last seven years he has been living with an Englishman in a Kentish village in the capacity of private secretary or confidential servant.'

‘Impossible!'

W.T. smiled dourly. ‘It doesn't sound true, I admit,' he said, ‘especially after your most valuable information concerning his past, but these, as far as we know them, are the facts. The Englishman – Crowther – was murdered two days ago, and the evidence, although not absolutely conclusive, points very strongly to the Italian. You know where he is?'

Le Gris nodded.

‘Yes, monsieur, I do,' he said. ‘That is the trouble of it. I know where he is, but I cannot take you to him.'

W.T. frowned. ‘I am afraid I misunderstand you,' he said a little stiffly.

Le Gris leant back in his chair, and his pale finely chiselled face looked like an ivory carving in the dusk.

‘When Cellini returned to France, monsieur, I feel sure that he had no idea that he would be followed,' he said slowly, ‘for his first move was to go straight to the house of the head of the society – a man whose name I beg you will not ask me to divulge. But believe me, an arrest in that house is an impossibility. For political as well as social reasons, monsieur, it would be unwise in the extreme. We have made our plans. To disturb anything now would be to impede the course of justice in the future. As
long as Cellini remains actually under the protection of this society – under its roof – we can do nothing.'

W.T. hesitated.

‘But surely, monsieur, if I might venture to suggest it, a word to the – ah – distinguished member of the society would result in the expulsion of Cellini from the household, and we could then proceed in the ordinary way.'

Le Gris sighed.

‘That could be done,' he said, ‘but we prefer not. The police like to assume, even in private, a complete ignorance of the society. When a man is in this particular house of which I speak he is to all intents and purposes out of the world altogether; monsieur must understand the situation.'

‘I do,' said the old man. ‘I do indeed, and I thank you, Monsieur le Gris, for your very valuable assistance; but what am I to do?'

‘I was coming to that, monsieur.' Le Gris sat forward in his chair. ‘There is in the Rue d'Aramis a little jeweller's shop kept by an old relative of Cellini's. The man is sure to return there. We will have the place watched, and as soon as he enters the doorway you shall be informed.'

W.T. bowed, but his eyes had by no means a satisfied expression in their depths.

‘Meanwhile, I wait in Paris,' he said at last.

Le Gris smiled.

‘Yes, monsieur,' he said. ‘That is all I can suggest. But you will not have long to wait,' he went on, ‘and at the earliest opportunity you can rely on us to assist you to our utmost ability.'

The two men shook hands.

‘Monsieur, I am so much in your debt already,' said W.T. gravely, ‘that I cannot fully express my deep appreciation of your courtesy. You can rely upon our respect for your confidence.'

Le Gris bowed. ‘As soon as the necessary information comes through, monsieur, you shall be informed,' he said.

‘How extraordinary!' said W.T., as he and Jerry walked down the leafy avenue together.

‘What?' said Jerry.

Old W.T. sighed.

‘The society,' he said. ‘It's known to every police force in Europe, of course, though professional etiquette forbids one to admit it. Nothing can be done to end it. The police of the world are powerless against it. We can only get proof against the servants of the society – not the members themselves. Even the French Intelligence Department can do nothing. We shall have to wait for our man, my boy.'

After ten days in Paris Jerry had not forgotten Norah Bayliss. On the contrary, he thought about her more often every succeeding day that he was away from her – wondered what was happening to her, if she had stayed by her sister, if he would ever see her again.

He was absorbed with this last question when he turned into the foyer of the hotel and walked through into the lounge. W.T. was seated in the far corner of the room looking offensively English, with a litter of tea-things on the table before him.

He looked up as Jerry came in and began to grumble before the boy had reached his side.

‘I thought you were never coming,' he said peevishly. ‘Have a cigarette.'

Jerry took the rebuke and the peace-offering.

‘Any luck?'

‘At last. ‘Pon my soul, Jerry, I was thinking of sending home for my winter vests and digging in here for the rest of the year. But young Barthés was down here half an hour ago – Cellini is abroad again and they expect him to sleep at the jeweller's in the Rue d'Aramis tonight. At ten o'clock, therefore, you, I, and an
agent de police
will go and get him. I thought I'd have you with us. Heaven knows, you're better with your fists than your head.'

Jerry grinned.

‘Why,' he said, ‘d'you expect a rough-house?'

W.T. shrugged his shoulders.

‘Probably,' he said. ‘No one likes being hanged, you know most of 'em make a fight for it. Le Gris seems to expect trouble, anyway. It may be only his politeness, of course, but as far as I
can hear, half the police force is going to surround that shop tonight – gendarmes in every doorway – gendarmes on each window-sill – gendarmes sticking out of every chimney-pot.'

Jerry laughed.

‘Oh, well,' said the boy, ‘it's a blessing we're getting a move on at last. What I want to know is why Cellini killed Crowther in Christensen's house?'

W.T. grunted.

‘What I want to know is what Crowther had on him that Cellini waited seven years to kill him for.'

At twenty minutes to ten the affable M. Barthés returned with an
agent de police
called Marbeuf. Neither was in uniform, and after some few moments of conversation the four climbed into the car and the chauffeur drove off at speed. After one of the most thrilling journeys Jerry had ever experienced, they arrived at the corner of an ill-lit and by no means odourless street in one of the poorer quarters of the town.

‘I think, monsieur, it would be best to alight here,' said M. Barthés in his quiet voice. ‘The shop is some eight doors down on the left-hand side – Number twenty-eight.'

‘Very well,' said W.T., whose spirits had been steadily reviving during the last fifteen minutes or so. ‘Are you coming, Jerry?'

Together the father and son and the two Frenchmen walked down the pavement to where a single rod of yellow light fell from a chink in a wooden shutter outside a shop window.

‘Here we are,' murmured M. Barthés. ‘Our men are posted on all sides. Monsieur has but to summon them.'

‘Good,' said W.T. and, striding up to the door, knocked on it.

There was a moment of waiting, while Jerry felt himself sympathizing with the man somewhere in the shop – caught like a hare in a circle of dogs.

Then footsteps sounded inside the house and there was the noise of a bolt being drawn back. The next moment the door opened, cautiously, and a shaft of light shone out upon the four men on the pavement. A woman stood on the threshold, tall and sallow-skinned, with black, dull dry hair knotted loosely at her neck. Her frock was long and made of some light cotton material
printed with a bright pattern. She looked at them doubtfully, and when she spoke her French had a southern accent.

W.T. took his hat off and bowed to her with as much ceremony as if she had been an old-time marquise and he an emissary from the English Court.

‘Madame,' he began in his best French, which was as English as his clothes, ‘we have called to see Signor Latte Cellini – '

The woman looked at him sharply, a sudden hint of fear appearing in her dark eyes.

‘Ze Inglis?' she said. ‘What name, monsieur?'

W.T. presented his card.

‘Wait,' said the woman, and turning, left them standing in the doorway while she hurried out of the room into the back of the house.

The four men stepped into the shop, and Jerry looked round him curiously. It was a jeweller's, with a glass-case counter in which were displayed cheap rings and watches, together with a collection of initial brooches – silver-gilt monstrosities with girls' names emblazoned on the fronts. Nothing extraordinary here, thought Jerry.

His reflections were cut short by the reappearance of the woman. To his surprise, all trace of alarm had vanished entirely from her expressive face. She smiled at W.T. pleasantly.

‘You go up?' she enquired in her imperfect English, which she seemed to consider at any rate was better than the old detective's French. ‘'E wait for you.'

The two Frenchmen exchanged glances, and Jerry saw W.T.'s hand slip round to his hip pocket.

W.T. spoke first.

‘We will follow you, madame.'

‘Ver' well.' The woman was still smiling, and turned at once into the passage leading out of the shop.

They followed her cautiously. The house was old and full of corners. W.T. had taken the lead as a right. Jerry followed him closely, the others pressing behind.

To their astonishment, and to Jerry's disgust, nothing untoward happened. The woman led them up a narrow staircase to
a back bedroom which had been furnished as a sitting-room. It was depressingly lit and the furniture, although in good taste, was decidedly shabby.

Latte Cellini stood by the square table in the centre of the room looking at them with more curiosity than anything else.

Jerry recognized him at once. He was the man he had seen pass down the road on the day that he had stood by his car talking to the constable. There could be no mistaking the tall attenuated figure and the lank grey chin.

W.T. glanced behind him; the woman had gone out and the door was closed.

The detective came forward and cleared his throat:

‘You are Latte Cellini?'

‘Yes – that is my name.'

‘On the fourteenth of this month you left the “Dene”, Brandesdon, Kent, England, suddenly, and came to France?'

‘Yes.' The Italian spoke easily, almost carelessly.

‘If it is the car – I tink I can explain,' he said. ‘I – '

‘W.T. stared at him.

‘The car?' he ejaculated, ‘it's much more serious than that – you're wanted on the charge of murdering Eric Crowther.'

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.'