The tapping of the typewriter continued. Another anonymous letter? What did Stefano Bardi know?
He made up his mind. He quickly walked the last part of the corridor and went to knock on the door of the watch-seller. The machine stopped immediately. He heard a chair move. The sound of steps. The door opened: an enormous spider with endless, skinny legs. He, too, was completely dressed. Waiting. He was terribly white in the face, terribly, and a tuft of mousy hair was falling over his forehead. His glaucous eyes were filled with terror and looked watery, with hundreds of tiny specks. He asked nothing, simply stepped back. It seemed to De Vincenzi that Bardi was relieved to recognize him. Perhaps he had been expecting someone he was afraid of…
“It’s me again, Signor Bardi.”
The room was small and full of boxes and small cases, all piled up against the walls, between the four legs of the table, maybe even under the bed… On the table, the typewriter, a sheaf of documents gathered together in colourful folders. De Vincenzi sat down near the table in the only chair. Pretending to look around the room, he immediately began trying to read the paper in the typewriter.
“I was writing a business letter.”
Slowly De Vincenzi took the anonymous letter out of his pocket, unfolded it and compared the characters to those on the sheet in the typewriter. Veuillez bien m’envoyer une Longines en or serie A.B.F. 22270… There’s a place in Milan where people gamble furiously all night… Identical! The same “i” missing its dot, the same one-sided “n”, the same wonky character alignment.
The hunchback watched him without moving. The only thing he did was to go and lean on the headboard of the bed, threading his hands through the iron decorations as if to support himself.
“Signor Bardi, why did you write this letter and send it to police headquarters?”
De Vincenzi spoke in a gentle voice, placing the letter on the table nonchalantly, as if to suggest that he attached no importance to it.
“Are you actually certain that I wrote it?” Bardi replied for the sake of saying something, and to gain time.
“Oh don’t worry about it! Your intentions were good and events have borne them out. You wanted to warn someone, to prevent everything that’s happened and is about to happen.”
“I don’t know anything. I don’t.”
“This is another matter, don’t you think? If you wanted to alert the authorities and let them know about the danger looming over the people in this hotel, why are you refusing to speak now? If you speak now, you can save a human life—maybe more than one.”
“What do you mean?”
“That the killer has not yet finished his work. The murder of Douglas Layng was but the first, and I’m of the opinion that Giorgio Novarreno’s was entirely random. Look, I’m being completely open with you.”
Bardi sat up straight. “What are you saying? Have they killed Novarreno too?”
“Didn’t you know?” the inspector asked frankly. “Oh! Then perhaps—but what’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?”
He had to run to support Bardi. He took his arm and laid him out on the bed. How strangely light he was! A boy would have weighed more. He was panting and his cheeks were aflame, two scarlet dots on that wan, spiteful and emaciated face. He got him to drink, and the water ran down his chin onto his neck. He blinked. Little by little he recovered himself and sat upright, his feet on the floor. De Vincenzi tried to stop him, convinced that he was about to run off.
“Novarreno,” he uttered. “Him too! Oh! And I thought—” He stopped mid-sentence and bit his lip.
De Vincenzi looked severe. “Bardi, it’s time to break your silence! This game can’t go on, and I’ll stop it at any cost. Do you understand? At any cost. What do you know? What have you seen? Who is terrorizing you to such an extent that you refuse to speak?” He looked at Bardi in desperation.
“I don’t know anything. I don’t know any of these people. Why did I write that letter? It was wrong of me. I shouldn’t have got mixed up in it. But I felt sorry for that creature. I saw that she was about to make a mistake. Such a good person, so beautiful! It tore at my heartstrings. I even tried to speak to her, but I didn’t manage it. What would she have thought of me if I had told her she shouldn’t trust that man’s attentions? In the end, I didn’t even know who he was. Cocaine… yes, I saw that. But she refused to take it. She started laughing! He immediately put it back in his pocket, trying to pretend it was all a joke. Was it enough for me to tell her that I’d seen his glances, that I was petrified of them? It wasn’t a joke, but how could I prove it to her? And then—me. The person she never thought worthy of a second look! So I wrote. I did the wrong thing. But the man who was hung up… Novarreno… all the rest of it. No. No! I don’t know anything. And I’d never have imagined that here in this hotel, after all the years I’ve lived here… What do you want? I’m alone in this world. I’d begun to think of this place as my home and the people living here as my family! No. If anyone had told me I was going to have such a nightmarish time here, I’d never have believed it.”
Even in his agitated state, pouring out that pitiful story, he used the sort of melodramatic phrases you’d find in romantic novels read by seamstresses. He was a sentimentalist of a rather morbid sensitivity who got upset or crushed or overexcited with all his fretting. How often had he lain on that small bed with its pillow, his hump shaking with lovelorn sobs over some woman who was avoiding him and who’d got close to him perhaps only to touch his deformity for good luck? De Vincenzi felt boundless pity for this poor human being, all alone in the world. However, what really mattered to him was that this wreck of a man actually knew a lot.
“OK, fine, Signor Bardi. You have nothing to do with any of this. And after all, the nightmare will pass. What’s done is done, unfortunately. The dead don’t come back. But human justice does exist, and it must act to defend society. So apart from all else, I must do everything I can to prevent there being further victims, and you need to help me. So, the threatened innocent is—”
The other man listened to him, trying to calm down and stop his panting. But he was gripping the white bedcover, and every now and again threw a terrified look at the half-open door. De Vincenzi went over to close it, turned the key in the lock, and returned to Bardi.
“There are policemen in the corridor. You have nothing to fear. Tell me—the woman you mentioned is… Carin Nolan?”
His face was lit up and his eyes gleamed desperately. “Protect her!” he burst out loftily, the words betraying his secret.
“From whom? Who is threatening her? Who is courting her and offering her cocaine?”
He fell into a frenzy. He began kicking the air and thrashing about. He slid to the ground and started rolling around, battering the corners of the furniture with his head and feet, his mouth foaming. Ten minutes went by while De Vincenzi struggled with someone possessed, pitying him and wanting more than anything to avoid harming him. He finally managed to get him back on the bed—and if Bardi was shattered, exhausted, De Vincenzi was too. He stood up and smoothed out his suit and tie, which had got mussed up during the struggle. There was a mirror above the sink, and De Vincenzi caught in it the signs of total exhaustion on his face: he had deep, dark circles under his eyes and the lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened. He sighed and then smiled resignedly. This was his job.
He looked at his watch: a quarter to seven. It would be day before long. What else was about to happen? What else had happened which he didn’t yet know about? He was overwhelmed by panic for several moments; he felt there was no escape. He’d have to get a firm grip, and since he had nerves of steel he managed to control himself. But a dark, elusive and vague foreboding stayed with him. He had to act, whatever the cost.
He walked over to the door and as he reached for the knob, he noticed that Bardi’s eyes were open, staring at him. He heard a whisper as he spoke without moving his lips.
“It’s my illness. This time it went off by itself. Will you give me my se
dative, please?” He held out his hand and pointed to the chest of drawers.
What a hand! De Vincenzi looked at it, fascinated: long and simian, with large white bumps for knuckles. He had to force himself to look away. On the dresser he spotted a bottle with a yellow label, along with a spoon. He gave Bardi the potion. While his back was turned so he could replace the bottle and spoon on the dresser, the other man spoke.
“Go ahead and question me. I’ll tell you what I know.”
De Vincenzi turned round and saw that Bardi was pale enough to cause concern, his eyes closed. He realized he’d have to take advantage of this moment of debilitating depression. He would have to be quick about it.
“The man’s name?”
“The American—Al Righetti.”
“Did they arrive at the hotel at the same time, he and Carin Nolan?”
“No—the American was here a month before her.”
“And he was courting her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
Bardi’s lips tensed in a painful smile.
“She… I think she liked him.”
“Did you write the letter just because the American was wooing Carin?”
“No. There’s gambling here. It’s a corrupt place. Lots of women are taking cocaine. Well, one day I was behind the glass wall that separates the dining room from the lobby. I saw the American open a little silver box and offer some white powder to Carin to sniff. I realized that he wanted to corrupt her, ruin her. That’s when I wrote the message.”
“When was that?”
“Two or three days ago. I wrote the letter the same night that all this happened.”
“What does Al Righetti do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he does anything. He’s got money.”
“Do you know Engel?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Da Como?”
“Yes, I know him. They must have met in London. They talked a few times in front of the others about some shared experiences in London.”
“Who is the American especially friendly with?”
“No one. He hardly spoke to anyone at first.”
“But to women?”
“He must have had—a certain intimacy with Stella Essington. But from the moment Douglas Layng arrived, she attached herself to him, and Al Righetti moved off right away.”
“What do you know about Besesti?”
“What does he have to do with anything? He’s rich. He rarely frequented the downstairs room. I never saw him gambling.”
“Does Besesti know someone here—in some special way? I mean, is he friendly with anyone?”
“Engel. Sometimes he even goes up to his room, right up to the top.” And he trembled at the memory of what he’d seen up there.
“What interests do you think they have in common?”
“Besesti must have given money to the Englishman, but not as a loan… I don’t know. Maybe he owed him something. It seemed to me that they had known each other for some time.”
“What about Novarreno?”
“The Levantine didn’t know Besesti. I mean, he knew him like everyone else did. That charlatan always found some way to speak to people if he wanted to. No one escaped him. But as for intimacy…”
“Bardi”—after a brief pause, De Vincenzi’s voice grew serious—“where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“I had to go out right after breakfast to see some clients. But I was back in the hotel at four.”
“Where?”
“Here.” A smile, and he went on. “They’ll have told you that I’m constantly roaming around the hotel, that I stick my nose in other people’s business. You want to know about that, don’t you? Yesterday I stayed in my room. I didn’t feel well.”
“Carin Nolan?”
Struggling, he replied, “She went out with Al Righetti. She came back at six.”
“Are you sure she went out with the American?”
“I believe so. I heard them talking in the corridor around six. But it could be that she went out on her own and they just met up in the corridor.”
“What time did you go down to the dining room yesterday evening?”
“A little after seven.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in the corridor?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did you go up to the third floor yesterday evening? Tell me the truth!”
“I thought a man had gone through the door on the first landing downstairs, the one with the other staircase leading up to the third floor. I was at the bottom of the main staircase, almost in the lobby. I heard someone coming down, but the steps halted at the first landing and no one appeared. I thought it was the porter going to find the maid. I realize that my curiosity was a bit obsessive! I waited about ten minutes before going up myself. That’s when I saw the body.”
Had the killer carried the body upstairs at just that moment? Were those ten minutes enough for him to have put the rope over the bar and hung up the body? Or was he going back upstairs after having carried out the procedure to give it the finishing touch, to take care of some detail? Had he heard Bardi coming up and hidden in that built-in wardrobe… the cufflink… then, taking advantage of the momentary panic caused by the hunchback’s scream, hurried downstairs? Yes, it all stood up. But once downstairs, how could he have entered the dining room without being noticed?
In any case, if he had to accept this scenario—for now, completely bizarre—then no one who was in the dining room when Bardi sounded the alarm could be guilty. He recalled the faces of each person he’d seen locked up in there. Hadn’t he said to Inspector Bianchi that there was no one in the first-floor rooms? And no one had gone in later… He began to wrack his brains over the seemingly insoluble problem, and hurriedly continued his questioning. There was one more point he wanted to clear up—an important one.
“How many years have you lived at the Three Roses, Bardi?”
“Ten years. Before that I worked in Lausanne. I came to Milan in 1909 and happened upon this place right away.”
“So you were here in 1914?”
“Yes, why?”
“Did you notice the woman in mourning who arrived yesterday?”
“Signora Alton Vendramini?” Bardi had propped himself up on his elbows and was looking at the inspector.
“That’s the one. Did you know her?”
“Ah, yes! I was sure I’d seen her some other time. I actually said so to Signora Maria. That’s it! 1914, did you say? Yes. I was living in this hotel then, but she didn’t go by the name of Alton Vendramini. No, I don’t think that was her name.”
“Was she alone?”
He almost shouted. “But she got married here, that lady, I’m sure of it! She married Major Alton, an Englishman quite a bit older. Everyone was laughing about it. The wedding caused an uproar in the hotel, not least because it was held in the Protestant church in Piazza Missori, and she—the lady—was Catholic.”
“Do you remember any other details?”
“No. They left the day after they were married.”
“And before that?”
“The lady was here for a few weeks before the major arrived. They knew each other, and she was waiting for him. They got married immediately.”
“You don’t remember anything else? The people with whom she socialized before the major arrived, what sort of things she was doing? Anything else?”
“How do you think I can remember? Five years have passed. I’ve seen so many people in here!” He fell back down on the pillow and closed his eyes.
De Vincenzi watched him for a few moments before opening the door and leaving the room. Had Bardi told him everything he knew? The most pressing problem at the moment was keeping Carin Nolan safe. He’d made up his mind while questioning the hunchback. And he’d concocted a plan. He didn’t know anything yet—not a thing. But whether or not it was because of the dawn light, a hypothesis was forming in his mind. The theory
was worthless, however, without any evidence. But it was clear that Carin Nolan was in grave danger, and the closer it got to Mr Flemington’s reading of the will to the heirs of Harry Alton, the more serious things became. So De Vincenzi decided to get her out of the hotel. He would persuade her to accept his hospitality for a few hours and accompany her to his house, entrusting her to the care of the good Antonietta, his old housekeeper. It was completely illegal as a precaution, and absolutely unprecedented. But for as long as he could he would disregard rules, regulations and legality. He was a good man, and determined to adapt the means to the circumstances.
He knocked at the door of Room 9. No response. He was so agitated and his premonition of evil so strong that he waited no more than a few seconds before turning the handle and opening the door.
The room was dark, but the tomblike silence that reigned over it immediately gave him a sensation of doom. He turned on the light switch and looked at the bed, then ran back to the corridor and called Sani and the officers, shouting their names in a harsh voice.
The body of a woman lay on the bed, and in the middle of a large, red stain on her chest was something shiny. Under a mass of black hair, her face was waxen.
16
De Vincenzi was rigid with tension. The Green Cross stretcher had just that moment taken Carin Nolan away; the assassin’s blow had not killed her. This time he hadn’t used the switch-blade and the blow, dealt by long scissors, had failed to reach her heart. The young woman was unconscious, but she wasn’t dead and there was hope that she might be saved. De Vincenzi wished for it with all his being. He felt rather guilty about the most recent attempt. Why hadn’t he gone to the young Norwegian’s room earlier?
The killer was incredibly bold. He’d run the highest level of risk each time he’d committed a crime, right from the first, absurdly complicated murder up to this attempt on Carin Nolan’s life in her own room—under the eyes, so to speak, of those who should have been protecting her. If the murderer had climbed in through Novarreno’s window, he’d have had to come through the door this time. He could not, therefore, have come from anywhere but the corridor. And the corridor was guarded by an officer, at certain points two or three—not to mention Sani and De Vincenzi, who’d walked down it and stopped in it at least twice during the night. It was not possible for the man to have come from below or from the third floor. Cruni was upstairs, and the lobby downstairs was being guarded by too many eyes for anyone to have gone past unobserved.
The Hotel of the Three Roses Page 13