“That’s all for the moment. Ladies, you’ll stay here. Follow me, Signor O’Lary.”
He walked over to the door, opened it and let O’Lary go out first. He then closed the door behind them. The little man took several steps towards the desk and stopped. He looked at the body. His ruddy, apoplectic colour had disappeared. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, took another step. And, as if finally sure that he was seeing things correctly, he suddenly looked desolate and shook his head slowly and incessantly. It stood out a bit from his collar, and at the sight of that shiny, bare head bobbing away rhythmically, De Vincenzi formed a clear image of a black tortoise ill with meningitis.
“Do you have anything to say, Signor O’Lary?”
“I’d say we need to find the murderer immediately. We’re all in danger of being strangled!”
Prospero O’Lary’s fear might have seemed comical, not to say hilarious, if De Vincenzi hadn’t been standing in front of Evelina’s dead body.
“Oh, I don’t think we all are.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you see that these are the crimes of a crazy maniac? Such crimes occur only in Europe!” Prospero began shaking his head as if overcome by an epileptic fit.
“Is that what you think? It’s one theory. But perhaps you’d tell me how you knew that Evelina had been strangled?”
The head instantly stopped its bobbing. Prospero’s eyelids fluttered.
“What?”
“Is it clear, looking at that body, that she was strangled to death?”
“Of course it’s clear!”
And “Oremus” pointed to Evelina’s neck. Her head was lying with one ear on the ledger and indeed, one could see the other side of her face and neck and the blackish marks left by her necklace. There was no opportunity for De Vincenzi to gain a point, but he had regained his lucidity and his capacity for detachment, which allowed him to observe others as well as himself as if the action and the tragedy were taking place on another plane or an imaginary stage.
“We’ll speak shortly, Signor O’Lary. I need to give some orders first.”
He went out to the corridor and called his two officers. He put one of them on guard in the corridor; the other he ordered to phone San Fedele to inform them about the new crime and to have the deputy inspector, Sani, come to Corso del Littorio with more officers from the flying squad.
“Phone for a doctor as well, then come back here at once. And tell Sani to bring a photographer.”
After he’d given his orders he was struck by the feeling he always had in these cases: it was his absolute duty to set the official machine of justice in motion—with all its rules and procedures, red tape and useful scientific techniques. Yet he couldn’t help but think how powerless that machine was to unveil the perpetrator of the crimes, given that the killer had to be present, visible and recognizable, and only someone who knew how to read the murderer’s soul could unmask them. The person who’d murdered Valerio and Evelina was not a maniac as Prospero O’Lary believed and wanted everyone else to believe. Of that De Vincenzi was sure.
“Signor O’Lary, find a sheet, some fabric, a cover. We can’t leave her poor, lifeless body as a spectacle.”
O’Lary hurried into the corridor and De Vincenzi locked the door after him. Now he needed a few minutes to look round without any bystanders. He made sure that the door into the office was locked before quickly walking back to the desk. He looked at the body and the surface of the table. Evelina had been making her entries when she’d been killed. Given the position of the body and the expression on the dead woman’s face—which seemed normal, calm, even if naturally a bit flushed—it was clear and indisputable that she must have known her killer well enough for them not to have aroused her suspicion. Someone had been able to speak to her, approach her, slip behind her and then suddenly grab her necklace, squeezing it against her throat until she was dead. De Vincenzi noticed the position of the chair Evelina had been sitting on. It leant back against the wall, as the desk was parallel to the line of the windows and actually sat in the space between two of them. How had the killer got behind the chair without Evelina’s having expressly given them permission, and why in the world would she have allowed it? It was a question without an answer—until the sight of the telephone cleared up the mystery.
Here, as in Cristiana’s office, the telephone was placed on a small table beside the chair and slightly behind it, next to the wall. The explanation was obvious: the killer had pretended to make a call—or had actually telephoned. Then, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in Evelina’s attention, perhaps while she was focused on her accounts, they had acted quickly and expertly. This theory—the only plausible one—confirmed the other: it had been someone familiar enough to have the right to telephone without alarming Evelina or making her want to prevent them. Yes, it was all clear, but at the same time troubling.
If the number of suspects was beginning to shrink, it was becoming more difficult to distinguish the killer amongst them, or at least to find the motive for the crime. Why had Evelina been murdered? De Vincenzi couldn’t see anything on the desk that would constitute an interesting clue. Nothing besides the usual things. Without touching the body, he quickly opened the side drawers: paper, bills, accounts. Some chequebooks and paying-in books from two city banks—in Cristiana O’Brian’s name, of course. In the bottom right drawer he found a black leather purse that must have belonged to Evelina. He opened it. A handkerchief, a mirror, a wallet, a small bunch of keys, a phial of smelling salts, a comb, a tram pass in the name of Evelina Rossi and two opened letters addressed to her. He just had time to notice that they were both from Milan when someone began knocking insistently at the door after trying the handle. He put the two letters in his pocket, shut the purse and the drawer and went over to open the door.
“Come in, Signor O’Lary. I must have been distracted and turned the key in the lock automatically.”
“Oremus” held out a large sheet. De Vincenzi covered the body with it. “That’s done then, Signor O’Lary.”
The white shroud gave the desk and Evelina’s enormous body the appearance of a strange monument about to be unveiled. The orchid remained on the corner outside the sheet, adding to the scene’s grotesque effect.
“What a nightmare, Inspector!”
“It certainly is. But you can sit down, O’Lary. Didn’t I say we’d have to have a chat?” He put the glass down. At last he said quietly, “Signor O’Lary, why don’t you talk to me a bit about Sage—or, if you prefer, Edward Moran? Since you’re from America, you surely must know something about him.”
This time the little man’s glasses fell off. He didn’t catch them in time, and the lenses splintered on the floor.
15
“So you say your husband was here today?”
“Yes.”
For the twenty minutes Cristiana O’Brian had been with De Vincenzi she had uttered nothing but monosyllables. He felt as if he were interrogating a three-legged table at a séance: one knock for “yes”, two for “no”, and he knew full well that ninety-nine per cent of her answers were made up, as if for the table.
Getting O’Lary to speak had been easier. As soon as the little man was attacked head on, he deflated. He tried several times to deny it, but ultimately he confirmed the information given by Verna Campbell, albeit reluctantly. Russell Sage, better known as Edward Moran, was to all intents and purposes the head of a criminal gang. He’d committed so many crimes that no one could ever put an exact number to them when he was finally arrested. Russell had actually had a double life. Under the name of Sage, he appeared to be an honest businessman, and so he was: a perfectly normal rep for a manufacturing firm. He stayed in large hotels, visited famous seaside resorts and after he married lived in sumptuous apartments, taking his young wife to all the society gatherings.
Of course, under the name of Edward Moran the man was quite something else. Even Dillinger had admired him, recognizing his genius in planning and executing bank
robberies. It was rare for a hold-up he’d organized to fail—if ever. He never worked twice with the same gang: within the group he was the star, signed up for one job and that was it. But he got a king’s ransom every time. That said, no one had ever heard of Moran’s having used his weapons for any purpose other than intimidation. He had no bodies on his conscience, or at least none that could be personally ascribed to him. Of course he had his men, the ones he’d order to get rid of traitors, spies, anyone who lacked the common sense to understand how dangerous he was, how much they ought to fear him, how reckless, how foolish it could be to blackmail him. But he had no blood on his hands, and was proud of his girlish squeamishness around the wounded. So when the Feds finally succeeded in apprehending him, the court of Rutland could do nothing apart from condemn him to a maximum of seven years in Alcatraz, where his companions—from Al Capone to Harvey Bailey—were already waiting for him.
“When?” De Vincenzi had asked.
“In 1936,” O’Lary replied.
“But it hasn’t been seven years yet?”
“He’ll have been pardoned. He knew how to be the perfect gentleman—that is, when he wasn’t robbing banks!”
When they got to the subject of Cristiana, Prospero O’Lary’s loquacity came to a sudden halt. Yes, Cristiana had married Russell Sage; yes, she was perhaps ignorant of his true identity; yes, the woman had fled from him, abandoning him in Portland when the G-men were closing in on him. But the little man knew nothing else for certain—or he didn’t want to say any more. How had he met Cristiana? He’d met her in Miami and had agreed to leave with her. The woman had confided in him on the high seas, when their ship the Rex was already headed for Europe. These were the fruits of the interview with Prospero O’Lary.
The doctor and magistrate had then shown up, and the photographer, along with Sani and the other officers from the flying squad. De Vincenzi had put someone on guard on all three floors of the fashion house and had all the rooms searched apart from the office, where Cristiana O’Brian and Madame Firmino had remained undisturbed. He’d attended the questioning of the dressmakers and the models. The two bodies were taken to the mortuary. And so evening had arrived, followed by night.
It was ten o’clock now and Madame Firmino had left, saying she was going to bed. De Vincenzi had sat across from Cristiana in her office and begun the interview which had taken on such a laconic form on her side. He’d gleaned from O’Lary the fact that Russell Sage had made an appearance in the fashion house that very day, though O’Lary had hurried to state that it had to be pure coincidence, since he didn’t believe that Cristiana’s husband would have committed those two crimes. What’s more, O’Lary said that Cristiana had told him of Russell’s presence, and that she’d spoken to her husband in her own room while De Vincenzi was questioning Madame Firmino on the first floor. Having established this, it had been easy for De Vincenzi to learn during his questioning with Marta, Clara, Federico and Rosetta that John Bolton and his sister had attended the catwalk show and to identify in the ruddy, good-natured American the legendary and fearsome outlaw.
“So you have no idea how John Bolton discovered where your room was and how to get to it?”
“No.”
“Not even who might have sent him the invitation?”
“No.”
Cristiana exhibited no sign of abnormality apart from her persistent monosyllabic answers.
“Listen to me, Signora. What has happened in this house over the last ten hours isn’t only tragic, it’s frightening, grotesque and absurd.”
Cristiana bowed her head in agreement.
“Of course, these two crimes will be explained sooner or later, and then even their absurdity will seem logical. But at the moment I’d like to draw your attention to something, and I’d ask you not to make things more difficult for me by remaining mute.”
A faint smile crossed her face. “But I am answering your questions, Inspector! It’s not my fault if they only require a yes or a no.”
“Fine. That something is this. Why was there an orchid in your room, and why was there another on Evelina’s table? Does the flower have some special meaning for you?”
“My husband loves flowers. He often brought me an orchid when he came back home.”
“It’s quite a stretch to suppose that your husband could have committed the first crime, since I don’t see how he could have killed Valerio, carried his body to your bed and left the building, only to re-enter it at around four-thirty, that is, when the body was discovered. Even allowing for all those exceptional talents that made him famous in America, I refuse to believe he performs miracles, and I refuse absolutely to believe that he masterminded Evelina’s murder, which was committed while the showrooms were empty and after he and his sister had left. Coming in unseen would have been completely impossible at that time because all the entrances were being guarded by my men. Therefore, Signora, if the orchids weren’t brought into your house by Russell Sage—and I don’t see why he’d have done so, since he wanted to talk to you and he wouldn’t have had any need to resort to flowers to revive your memory of him—who did bring them here, and why?”
“If I could solve puzzles like that so quickly, Inspector, do you think I’d be stuck here with you, worrying over those two bodies? My exceptional gifts of divination would have allowed me to foresee and prevent the murders. You’re the one who’ll have to answer the Who? and Why?”
“You’re right, Signora. The duty falls to me, unfortunately.” And De Vincenzi stood up.
“I won’t solve them tonight, though, even if the absurdity of the situation, which the murderer purposely devised, might help me. I do however advise you, Signora, to take refuge in your room, or any other room you like. The house is under surveillance inside and out. I don’t think there will be any other unfortunate events—at least until tomorrow.”
“And you’ll be back tomorrow?”
“I’ll be back, Signora.”
“And you’ll explain the mystery?”
“I’ll try to explain it.”
“Goodnight, Inspector.”
“Good luck, Signora O’Brian. But you haven’t told me where you mean to spend the night.”
“Where? Oh God—even though I fainted today, which must make me seem over-sensitive, I don’t believe I have to give up my bed just because a cadaver was lying on it earlier. Nor do I see where else I’d sleep. There aren’t any guest rooms in this building, not even enough comfortable sofas.”
She too got to her feet and headed for the door. De Vincenzi followed and watched her as she went through Evelina’s room and down the corridor as far as the lift. She turned round.
“Goodnight, Inspector.”
A few seconds later she’d disappeared. For once, he did what he said he would do and left Cristiana O’Brian’s building. Outside, no doubt, the mystery wouldn’t seem so baffling.
DAY TWO:
FRIDAY
1
The first day of March was rainy, windy and, where the dust had turned to slush in the outlying streets, muddy too.
In the apartment he’d rented on via Massena near Sempione Park, De Vincenzi got up from his bed at seven, perfectly rested if not completely calm. The crimes at the O’Brian Fashion House had been tormenting him when he’d got home at midnight, but he’d immersed himself in a book by Anatole France in an effort to forget them. He adored those now-forgotten books, and fell asleep quickly. Once awake, however, the two dead bodies immediately reappeared, and that grim memory, the sight of the leaden sky and the drizzle splattering the window put paid to any calm he’d felt. On principle he hadn’t wanted to analyse the two crimes during the night or to revisit the various troubling points they presented. Since he believed in the value of psychological clues alone, he would trust his intuition. His colleagues wryly called him a poet, and when it came down to it they weren’t mistaken, even though they didn’t consider it praise.
As he soaked in the bathtub, he thought about his con
founded need to dig deep into people’s souls, and since his own spirits were low he sneered at himself. Nothing but a poor old fool. All that psychology, and someone had killed poor Evelina practically under his nose. She certainly didn’t deserve such a miserable end. She undoubtedly held at least one of the keys to the mystery, keys he’d now have to find in goodness knows what dark hole.
He was getting dressed and at the same time sipping the coffee brought to him by the maternal Antonietta when he remembered the two letters he’d found in the dead woman’s purse. He’d put them in his pocket and forgotten they were there. One of them was from a mobile library to which Evelina belonged, asking her to return a book she’d borrowed two months before. The letter was polite but expressed surprise that a reader as quick and passionate as Signorina Rossi could have kept a book for so long. The volume in question was a romance novel by Mura. De Vincenzi put the letter back in the envelope. Not a ray of light—but perhaps just a flicker: in the last two months Evelina had had such a lot of work or so many worries that she couldn’t concentrate on reading, which must have been the dreamy old spinster’s favourite diversion.
The second letter at first seemed more promising, even if he wasn’t aware at the time of its real importance. It was typewritten on paper without any letterhead, and following the address and the date were these words:
Our brief telephone conversation, Signorina, was not sufficient. I believe you may be helpful to me if, as you stated, you really wish to be. I’ll expect you, therefore, tomorrow evening at 21.00 in my private office on via Catalani 75, near Loreto. You will be handsomely rewarded for the trouble you’ve taken and which you have yet to undertake for me.
The Mystery of the Three Orchids Page 7