“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
He didn’t, in fact, understand. He was lost in thought, in intense reflection. The dead man clearly didn’t come into it.
“That’s fine, Mr Flemington. I’ll come back in a bit. Meanwhile, give some thought to the benefit—to you as well as me—of deciding to tell me everything you know.”
So Novarreno had nothing to do with the inheritance business, the dolls or with the lawyer, Flemington, of the firm Copthall and Flemington, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Unless he was Julius Lessinger… De Vincenzi shrugged his shoulders dramatically. Impossible! Not at his age; Novarreno couldn’t be more than forty. So why had someone killed him? And now that he had to dismiss the possibility that Flemington had killed him, who was left? The killer had come in through the window, no doubt about it. So: someone had to have come from the kitchen or another room with windows looking out on the garden.
He walked without stopping past the open door of Room 6, where Sani and the two officers were with the body, and made his way slowly down the corridor, looking at the doors on the left. He consulted the guest list and the hotel plan provided by the owner. Nicola Al Righetti was in Room 7; in Room 8, Vittoria Jumeta Zogheb; in 9, Carin Nolan; in 10, Donato Desatta. Room 11 was empty.
But then how could the person who’d delivered the fatal blow have got down to the garden and gone up to the chiromancer’s room when the ladder was now lying on the ground? Or was he dealing with an acrobat agile enough to get down to the garden and then back up without the help of the ladder? However it had happened, whom should he suspect amongst all those whose rooms were on that part of the corridor? Two men: Nicola Al Righetti and Donato Desatta. He’d already questioned Al Righetti and Donato Desatta was the owner of the Orfeo, a bar in the centre with drinking and dancing until four in the morning.
He slowly retraced his steps. He stopped for a moment in front of Room 10 before proceeding. He was going to eliminate Desatta from the investigation, because he still believed the crime could not have been committed by an Italian. The same hand, perhaps the same knife had killed both young Layng and Giorgio Novarreno; and Douglas Layng had been hung from a rope in a macabre manner, on the top-floor landing, many hours after he’d been killed. Besides, De Vincenzi knew Desatta. He’d seen him moving between rooms at the Orfeo. He was a man of over fifty who tried desperately to avoid going bald by using dyes and cosmetics on his sparse, mousy-blond hair, and also to maintain a trim physique. A fun-loving, jovial man. De Vincenzi couldn’t imagine him plotting all that or carrying out such a diabolical scheme. Nicola Al Righetti was the only one left: the man with the alibis who didn’t want to be woken from a deep sleep…
He looked at the two doors in the corner: that of Room 7 on the first side and 9 on the longer side. In the first one was the American; in the second, Carin Nolan, a Norwegian about nineteen years old—“the threatened innocent”, as Sani had ironically put it. In any event, she had to be the daughter or a relative of Officer Nolan who’d been in South Africa with Major Alton. What the devil had they done in the Transvaal, those three: Alton, Engel and Nolan? And why was Carin Norwegian? Perhaps her father was something of a soldier of fortune, like William Engel, who was originally from Germany? The Transvaal… diamond mines… Julius Lessinger, who’d turned up after twenty years in order to revenge himself or take control of the rich spoils. Someone everyone was afraid of, starting with the sarcastic, hiccuping Flemington, who drank whisky like water.
Lost in thought, De Vincenzi stared at the doors of the rooms, the corridor, the lobby. The officers stood stationary at the door of Novarreno’s room, where the body lay stretched out on the floor. And Cruni was on the third-floor landing, guarding the other dead man whose heart had been stabbed many hours ago… Mary Alton Vendramini was playing with her doll… Stella Essington would be stupefied with heroin or cocaine… And she wanted to hear the cello played, to soothe the feverish agitation of her nerves… He shook himself and went towards Room 6. Sani came up to him.
“There was no struggle. To the naked eye it seems he didn’t even leave prints.”
What prints could he have left? De Vincenzi studied the body. Novarreno was still dressed as he had been when he’d left him a few hours earlier. “Go to bed,” he’d told him, “if you want.” But the Levantine hadn’t done so. Tall, thin, with that sharp profile of his—no flesh on his face, just skin and bones—he seemed like a great bird of prey shot down in flight, eyes wide open, glassy and full of terrified astonishment. No, there’d been no struggle. The very fact that Novarreno had let his eventual killer enter his room through the window meant he must have known him. A man was killed in this room, at precisely 12.30 yesterday. There is still a lot of blood in here… How had he known? It was surely true, what he’d said, and for that knowledge he’d paid with his life. A shady character, in any case. He knew everything, or nearly everything, but he hadn’t talked. After his first sentence, uttered more as a stunt, to make an impression, in order to act the necromancer, Novarreno had retreated behind a wall of reticence, his alibis well prepared, determined to say only what could serve him. What had he been turning around in that tortured brain of his, so clever at preparing tricks? But he was also uncomplicated. He was plotting blackmail. In possession of a terrible secret, he must have known its worth in gold. And he’d been killed so that someone did not have to pay him—to shut him up.
“Cover his face with a hand towel,” he ordered Sani brusquely.
De Vincenzi turned his back on the body. It had to be like that. Novarreno had wanted to join this atrocious game and he’d been fleeced. The circle was closing in. All in the span of twenty-four hours. Would he be able to put a stop to the series of murders, given that the dead man here was not part of it but an unforeseen accident? He’d have to hurry and couldn’t afford to take one false step. His adversary was the sort who never misses a chance, and never loses.
“When will the doctor be here? Have him give me the knife.”
“Did you look at it? It’s a switchblade, but it must have an extremely thin blade.”
“I’ll look at it later.”
There was time. If the killer had left it in the wound, De Vincenzi couldn’t hope that it would furnish any clues, and as for fingerprints, one no longer finds them, not even in detective stories.
The hotel doorbell rang, as long, loud and insistent as a blowtorch. The inspector went down a few steps and leant over the balustrade. An officer had leapt out of the wicker chair he’d been sleeping in and was proceeding towards the door. Virgilio appeared, sleepy, and staggered towards the door of the dining room.
A rather ostentatious man entered the hotel, with a blond beard, a fur coat with a mink collar and a brand-new grey hat on his head. He was smiling, showing off a set of bright white teeth. He twirled a stick with a gold knob.
“Good evening, Signor Besesti.”
“You might wish me a good morning instead, my dear Virgilio.” He was wary. “Have you put on a night guard?” and he pointed behind him to the officer, who was walking around.
He started going upstairs. On the landing he came face to face with De Vincenzi.
“Signor Pompeo Besesti?”
He was so surprised his monocle fell out of his eye.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m from the police.”
The other man laughed. “Very pleased to meet you.” But he wavered for a moment before regaining his composure. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t believe there’s anything that directly concerns you, but I’d ask you to agree to a short interview.”
“At this hour?” He raised his shoulders, faintly condescending. “Would you like to come to my room?” and he went on without waiting for De Vincenzi’s consent.
De Vincenzi quickly moved in front of him and closed the door to Room 6 so he wouldn’t see the body. Then he turned and waited for Besesti to enter his room first, a room that more or less faced Novarre
no’s. When Besesti put out his hand to turn the doorknob, a slight tremor made him lose his grip. The door wouldn’t open.
“I forgot my key.”
“Here it is.”
As he took it, the director of the Bank of Pure Metals furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.
13
They remained standing, one on each side of the table with the yellow, white and green gold ingots on it. De Vincenzi saw the huge diamond sparkling on the other man’s chest, and his crystal-clear blue eyes also sent out dark flashes. He felt Besesti was ready for a fight. What was he afraid of?
“How long have you been in Milan, Signor Besesti?”
“About two months.”
“Where are you from?”
“South America.”
“Are you Italian?”
“Originally, as my name would imply. I was born in Argentina.”
“Have you ever been to South Africa?”
“No, never.”
It seemed to De Vincenzi that his reply came a bit too quickly.
“Or the United States?”
“No.”
“England?”
“Are you planning to say a rosary of the world, asking me if I’ve been in every country?”
“Not all of them, but I would like to hear your reply to my question about England.”
“Do you intend to tell me why you’re asking me these questions?”
De Vincenzi smiled. However exhausted he was from lack of sleep and nervous tension, this interview amused him. He couldn’t have said why even to himself. What could he have against this rich man who was, one would suppose, used to giving orders and respected by everyone? His very wealth excluded him from suspicion of having committed such a crime. But was it a crime for gain, this one? The inspector reached out and toyed with one of the precious gold bars.
“You seem not to be worried about leaving these gold bars around.”
The blue eyes looked at the gold ingots.
“Those are samples. I was hoping to deliver them to someone who lives in this hotel, to give him some work.”
“Carlo Da Como?”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“Have you known Signor Da Como for long?”
The reply came after a short pause.
“I met him in Milan.”
“Or in London?”
“Why London?”
“Have you been to London, yes or no?”
“Of course I’ve been there. But what possible interest can you have in knowing that?”
“Did you ever meet Major Harry Alton?”
This time Pompeo Besesti paled visibly.
“I met him by chance. Not in London, however.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening, and last night until four this morning?”
“Well, honestly, will you explain to me first what reason and what right you have to ask me all these questions?”
“A crime was committed in this hotel yesterday.”
“What do you think I have to do with this crime of yours?”
“Douglas Layng was stabbed in the back.”
“No!” It was a cry of anguish. But he recovered himself. “Did someone kill that young man?” His eyes were brimming with sadness—and also with terror. “But why? Why him of all people?”
“Well, he wasn’t the only one to be killed,” the icy voice of the inspector continued.
It was a rapid transformation: Pompeo Besesti lost all his triumphant self-assurance. His eyes shone dully, as if the light in them had been extinguished. His cheeks sagged, and the slight tremor that had barely been noticeable before was now almost a convulsion. It was startling.
“Do you wish to sit down?” De Vincenzi asked kindly.
Besesti practically brushed him away.
“Why do you want me to sit down!” Even his voice was no longer his own; its full, round sonority was broken and it became weak and shrill. He went on. “All right, tell me everything. It’s necessary for me—and for you. And I’ll tell you what sort of ties linked me—” But he stopped himself and looked the other man in the face with severity. “In any case, it could be that what I know has nothing to do with the boy’s death, and what I know may be of no interest to the Italian police. Who killed him?”
A moment earlier, De Vincenzi had been feeling some pity for Besesti and would have saved him, tried to conduct the interview with some delicacy. But with the sudden return of fire in this insolent, vulgar man, he delivered a direct blow.
“We’re looking for a certain Julius Lessinger.”
Besesti paled and was speechless for some moments, yet his eyes expressed a cruel anguish. He grabbed the table, which teetered.
De Vincenzi went over to him, put a hand on his shoulder and physically forced him to sit down. “Try to pull yourself together, and tell me everything you know. Only then will I be able to protect you effectively.”
There was a long pause. The interrogation that followed was one of the most difficult De Vincenzi would have to conduct in the whole of his long career. It was clear that Besesti was afraid of some unknown danger—or known only to himself—which hung over him. All the same, he was disinclined to reveal the secrets of his murky past, one that might constitute just as serious a danger if laid bare. He was subject to moods of pitiful self-abandonment alternating with stubborn, irritable rebellion. De Vincenzi felt things heating up around him. Events were moving forward, and he’d have to hurry. This man was resisting: he was keeping him shut up in a room while a scream might come from outside at any moment, the scream of another victim, a shot from a revolver, the mad wailing of those women… He could have slapped him, and was kept from doing so only by the thought that not even violence would wrench a frank and complete confession from this man.
“Where did you meet Major Alton?”
“In Australia.”
“How long ago?”
“Four years, five… I don’t know any more. It was when the war broke out.”
Those answers came easily, but then he dug his heels in. “Australia, given that it was under the English Crown, was at war. Argentina, no. There was nothing to keep me in Buenos Aires. My company had come through a difficult year, and we weren’t doing business any more. We dealt in furs. I had been robbed by my cashier and I left. I had a few projects in mind. I disembarked at Sydney, and it was there that I met Alton and we became business partners.” He lost his train of thought again. “We equipped some steamships and were doing some coastal trading around the islands.”
De Vincenzi looked him in the face. Did coastal trading mean furnishing German submarines?
“Was Major Alton in the British army?”
“No! What do you mean? What does the British army have to do with anything? Alton was a free man. Oh, yes, you mean his rank. But it was years and years since he’d been in the army. In 1901, after the Boer War, he resigned his commission. In any event, nothing that happened during that time concerns me. I didn’t even know him then! I have nothing to do with this. Do you understand? Nothing to do with it!” He was worked up, practically shouting.
De Vincenzi smiled. “I understand. Rest assured. You’re not involved. You had no connections with Julius Lessinger.”
Besesti threw him a look that might have been either pleading or angry. The look of a cornered beast, pushed to the limit, which doesn’t ask for mercy because it knows it’s pointless and which lacks the energy for the final pounce.
“Did you and Major Alton act alone in this coastal trading between the islands? Was it a good business?”
“I rebuilt my wealth on the back of it.”
“I can believe it. Did you also meet the major’s wife during that time?”
Besesti looked at De Vincenzi with surprise. “No. Alton went to Europe. But I knew at the time, in fact, that he’d taken a wife. He was married here in Italy.”
A flash of intuition coursed through the inspector.
“The couple stayed i
n this hotel, am I right?”
“What are you saying? But of course! You’re making me think… I swear I don’t remember… Yes, definitely. The major must have been here that year because I wrote to him at this address from Sydney. When I got to Milan a few months ago, I came to this hotel precisely because I remembered its name.”
“What did Alton do after that?”
“He went back to Australia.”
“With his wife?”
“No. He came to Europe to join her for a month or two every year—until 1917. We dissolved our business then, sold the steamships. I stayed a bit longer in Australia, went back to Argentina for a while. Until a few months ago, when I decided to establish myself in Milan.”
“In order to set up the Bank of Pure Metals?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I certainly couldn’t have stayed there doing nothing. The bank is a healthy business: ten million in capital, all in deposits.”
“It’s all yours?”
“Yes.”
“By Jove! The earnings from your coastal trading must have been really remarkable!”
“You’re free to disbelieve it. But no one can dispute the money I have.”
“Did Flemington also let you know about the death of Major Alton and the opening of the will, which is to take place here in this hotel, today in fact?”
“Yes, but the information was of no interest to me. I never had and I don’t have any reason to believe that Alton’s will concerns me.”
“Then how do you explain the lawyer’s having asked you to come as well?”
“I don’t have an explanation.”
“What about the death of Douglas Layng?”
“Ah!”
“And the death of Giorgio Novarreno?”
“Has he been killed as well?”
“He was stabbed.”
Besesti didn’t speak for several minutes. The silence in the room was interrupted only by the sound of water dripping from a tap in the sink, left on or perhaps broken. De Vincenzi noticed it only that moment, and from then on the relentless, penetrating, monotonous noise obsessed him. It was as if the drops were falling soft and muffled on his head.
The Hotel of the Three Roses Page 10