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CRISTIANA O’BRIAN REQUESTS
THE HONOUR OF YOUR COMPANY AT
THE PRESENTATION OF HER NEW SPRING COLLECTION
ON 9 MARCH FROM 15.30 ONWARDS.
BY INVITATION ONLY.
A blue envelope, long and rectangular. A blue card. In the top left corner, a white dove pierced by a long, sharp golden pin: the logo of Cristiana O’Brian: Dresses, Capes, Furs, Corso del Littorio 14.
Fifty of these small cards had been sent out, all of them strictly personal. But fifty-two of them arrived, and even the two that both Signora O’Brian and Marta, who prided herself on knowing everything that happened in the fashion house on Corso del Littorio, knew nothing about bore the words: By invitation only.
Who would have imagined that a dead body lay in the “museum of horrors” at the O’Brian Fashion House? Between the wooden-and-horsehair mannequins and, like them, immobile. Yet on its face, a terrifying sneer. The only one of them to have a head and a face…
If the Kansas City Penitentiary hadn’t ruled that prisoners doing forced labour in the coal mines could obtain a reduced penalty for extra productivity, the body would not have ended up on Cristiana O’Brian’s bed.
And a glass necklace would have remained just that—instead of serving a purpose as tragic as it was final.
Contents
Title Page
DAY ONE: THURSDAY
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
DAY TWO: FRIDAY
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Copyright
DAY ONE:
THURSDAY
1
Her throat was tightening. She wanted to scream. One scream, just one, would free her of this awful feeling of suffocation, but it was the very thing she couldn’t do. If anyone realized how terrified she was, things would be worse, and she’d do something she couldn’t undo.
The mirror before her, high on the wall, reflected an image of her tall, gracious form in a dress of clinging red silk. A magnificent body, like that of a crouching panther. But her face—her extremely odd, asymmetrical face, with a high forehead under a helmet of black hair, thin, arched eyebrows and small, twitchy snub nose above a heart-shaped mouth—looked exhausted. Her face, whose impassive mask she knew, had betrayed her this time, and had twisted in a spasm of terror that made it hateful to her.
She would gain control of herself whatever the cost.
She looked around at the ladies seated on sofas and armchairs along the walls and tried to smile. By this time, all three showrooms were full. Milan’s very best clients, the richest—truly the ideal clients for a great fashion house—had accepted her invitation, and now she was about to faint in that very spot, in front of everyone…
She found the strength to shake off the fear that was paralysing her and move towards the nearest door, which led to the corridor.
At that moment the loudspeaker announced the return of one of the three models.
“Number 2449… 2-4-4-9… dressed for evening in black leather embroidered with black pearls in the form of a horse-chestnut leaf…”
The model walked through the door Cristiana been heading for and paraded in front of the assembled ladies, accentuating the artificial rhythm of her steps until she was practically dancing. On her painted face she wore a vacant smile, and her hands were extended in an absurdly showy gesture of offering.
Cristiana heard murmured comments. Everything was coming to her in a sort of feverish dream. The blood in her neck was pumping so rapidly that in her ears she heard the sound of the sea: thick, deep and persistent. She managed to get to the door and into the corridor.
Marta, in a formal gown of black silk short enough to reveal her knees, drew back to let Cristiana go by. She looked at her, curious, but the malice in her sharp gaze quickly changed to concern.
“Signora…” and she approached Cristiana, ready to support her.
“It’s nothing! Watch the models, and above all, check every invitation.”
“But Signora, you—”
“It’s nothing, I tell you! It’s too hot in here.”
The director flinched as she watched Cristiana go. She ended up faintly shrugging her shoulders.
Cristiana marvelled that she’d been able to speak. As soon as she was in the lift, she sat down. Once again, a mirror appeared to confront her with her own image. She could think now. What a shock she’d had! But was it possible? Was she fooling herself? A resemblance, yes, however extraordinary. It had to be a lookalike. Her mouth twisted in disgust. Disgust at herself. She had never, when confronted with danger, attempted to play tricks on her mind or delude herself. Even when she’d discovered the terrible truth about her husband, she’d borne the blow bravely, with calm and knowing courage. And she’d coolly prepared her escape. She’d resorted to hundreds of ploys in order not to betray her project, using them subtly and shrewdly. Her life had been at stake and she’d defended it. But now? She told herself she’d exhausted all her energies in that struggle, which was why she was now defenceless.
She was so lost in thought, so troubled, that she didn’t notice the lift stopping, and she became aware of her sudden immobility only after several moments. When she saw the long white corridor stretched out before her, elongated by the tiled floor striped with black and the stylized herms facing each other on either side of the doors, she opened the lift gate, wondering why she’d fled up here. If the woman she’d seen in the showroom really was her, the one she feared—and she was—how could she hope to escape her? Anna Sage hadn’t come to Italy alone, and she certainly wouldn’t have attended this fashion show without knowing who Cristiana was. Russell would have sent her. Russell, who must also be in Italy. He’d evidently looked for her and found her.
Halfway along the corridor she stopped to enter her bedroom. This was why she’d fled—to take refuge in solitude, and because she absolutely had to lie down, to throw herself on her bed.
Yet she couldn’t, because the bed was occupied—by a dead body.
This time Cristiana O’Brian really did faint, and the thump of her body on the rug echoed dully down the corridor—without, however, toppling a single one of the eight fake marble herms.
2
Madame Firmino deci
ded to spend the afternoon sunbathing. Sunlamp therapy is not the preserve of medical science; it’s also one of the essential prescriptions for feminine beauty. Besides, it can be a pleasant distraction, and on that day, the 9th of March, Madame Firmino found herself with no better or more pleasing way to pass the time.
Of course, she could have gone down to the salons to help out with the show of the new spring designs from Casa O’Brian. But she was the one who’d dreamt up those designs, the one who’d created them. They had been born before her eyes and she loved them. All the same, she was not fond of the women who came to see them, desire them and buy them. No, she honestly couldn’t bear to think that one of her designs, conceived and created for the fluid, graceful limbs of their house model, might end up cockeyed over the fat and flabby, dumpy or even lopsided body of a woman who’d buy it just because she could afford to. Madame Firmino had been the artistic director at Casa O’Brian for a year now, and she’d made her name there, but she had never attended any of the fashion shows, where the new collections were flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood.
At three, after giving the final words of advice to the models and dressers, she went back to her rooms on the top floor of the building on Corso del Littorio, where the fashion house was located and she lived with Cristiana O’Brian. She began her sun cure at three-thirty. There wasn’t any sun, at least not in her room, nor was there any sand or water. There was a soft, wide white rug, a huge, shiny, ultraviolet heliotherapy machine with a splendid round reflective dish, and to top it off, there was Dolores Delanay—known to all as Madame Firmino—in a yellow bathing costume with black stripes. She stretched out on the rug wearing white celluloid glasses with blue lenses and bronzed her shoulders and back under the machine’s beneficial rays. Her striped costume made her look like some sort of strange animal, perhaps a cross between a chimp and a zebra. The zebra bit was for her costume, and as for the rest—platinum blonde hair, a small triangular nose, long chin and prominent cheeks, full lips and tiny eyes lost in the hollows under plucked eyebrows—she’d always had noticeably simian features.
After the forty-five prescribed minutes on her back, Madame Firmino was about to lie on the carpet so she could expose her chest and face to the regenerative rays. But a strange noise interrupted her just as she was turning over, a dull thud that actually shook the floor.
The woman leapt agilely to her feet and removed her protective glasses. Her cheeks and neck were slick with oil. Without thinking it through (since they could only remain firmly attached to their square columns), she thought one of the herms had fallen over. She went to open the door: all of them stood upright, unmoving, with fixed, faun-like profiles. A perfectly unruffled, pristine silence reigned. But she had clearly heard a thud.
In her rope sandals, Dolores stepped over the black and white tiles, shiny as mirrors. She carried on, her senses on the alert. When she got to Cristiana’s room she saw that the door was open. In the middle of the floor was a large crimson stain: she instantly recognized Cristiana, lying there motionless. She began hurrying over to her when her gaze fell on the bed: a man lay there, his arms spread and legs splayed. His body was on a diagonal, as if he’d been thrown by a wave during a shipwreck. His wide-open eyes were glassy.
As a young girl, Dolores had been involved in a tragic fire in a large bazaar, and she’d seen many bodies asphyxiated by smoke or by the throng. They’d all worn that glassy-eyed stare and had looked like disjointed puppets. It therefore took her no time at all to see that this man was dead. But the disturbing question was: why had he been killed? There were so many questions…
Slowly and cautiously, she approached the bed. This was certainly a big mess, and on the day of a show, too. Why, though, had Cristiana O’Brian fainted in her room with a man’s body on her bed when she should have been down in the showrooms watching the models and studying her clients’ reactions?
Madame Firmino could now see, below those wide-open eyes, the rest of the dead man’s face. A handsome youth, almost a boy, with fine, perfectly regular features. Long black hair thrown back and naturally a bit messy now. Dolores lowered her gaze to his clothing, all cut from turquoise fabric: a blue silk shirt, even a turquoise tie, heavy and opaque. The dead man’s chubby hands seemed small and expressionless against the grey damask bedspread. Madame Firmino went back to studying his face. But of course. How had she failed to recognize him immediately? Probably because of that staring look. No one knew better than she, an artist, how the face and eyes can change one’s appearance. She broke away from this unhealthy contemplation, which had kept her stunned and fascinated.
How had the young man died? And who could have wanted him dead? Cristiana? She rapidly turned and bent over the woman lying on the floor. She touched her cheeks, felt her wrists. Nothing but a swoon; Cristiana was undoubtedly still alive. Madame Firmino stood up. She felt a strange sense of pressure on her sternum, almost an urge to vomit. When it came down to it, her strength was limited, and she couldn’t forget that her sun cure had been interrupted. It would be ridiculous if she fainted as well, like tin soldiers all lined up and falling, one after the other, when someone touches the first.
She stood, placed her hands on her hips and tried to breathe deeply. She had to act now. But what should she do? Go to the internal telephone? Call Marta, let the dressers know, have the secretary come up? That comical secretary in his ever-present black frock coat? Yes, she should at least do that, but it meant raising the alarm, throwing the whole place into a panic, admitting the scandal in the showrooms… In any case she had to take care of Cristiana first, revive her, hear her speak.
Cristiana wasn’t moving. She was definitely breathing, but fairly weakly, intermittently and with the occasional gurgle. Madame Firmino’s gaze returned irresistibly to the body. This time she saw… she saw the dead man’s slender neck. How had she missed it the first time? Strangled. She tried to stifle it, but a suffocated scream came from her throat and she bolted into the corridor. There, the herms closed in around her, and she ran towards the lift. Incredibly, she suddenly remembered that she was in her black-and-yellow bathing costume, the one that made her look like a zebra. How she managed, miraculously, to go back to her room, grab a dressing gown and put it on, tie the cord round her waist and then jump back into the corridor, Madame Firmino never knew.
3
“Number 2472… 2-4-7-2… dressed for evening in white organdie with black lace insets…”
Irma left the models’ room and crossed the corridor, her crinoline skirt opened umbrella-style around her legs. She took a step, watching the crisp rippling of the skirt. Yes, it was eighteenth-century. And now it would ripple gracefully before all those parakeets: black, yellow and green. It was the fourteenth dress she’d put on in less than two hours, and there were still at least two hours left. She was used to it, but what torture!
“Smile!” commanded Marta, who was watching her.
Irma smiled, opened her arms and lifted her palms outwards in that prickly gesture that said, “Don’t touch—but do!”, before walking into the showroom. Head down, Marta sighed and turned to go back into the models’ room, but the door to the lift at the end of the corridor opened, and she saw the most unexpected vision: platinum hair in a mess, shiny red face, voluminous black dressing gown draped over her and tightened round her waist with a golden cord.
Madame Firmino! What the devil was the artistic director doing showing up in that costume in these showrooms packed with spectators? Obviously another of her oddities—but too dangerous this time for Marta not to try and stop it. She hurried towards her.
“Madame! Madame Firm—” She stopped. The expression on Madame Firmino’s face and in her eyes was enough to cut off Marta’s words at her lips. In any case, Madame Firmino spoke at once.
“Marta, something terrible has happened. Who’s in there?” She pointed at the door to the administrative offices.
“Mr Prospero, Signorina Evelina, the girls…”
�
�Come with me!”
She grabbed Marta’s arm and dragged her into the offices. They went through the first room, which was divided by a shiny wooden partition in which there were two windows: CASH and SUPPLIERS. A large matronly woman in a black dress—a hundred kilos of fresh flesh packed to bursting in silk and fine satin and squeezed into a whalebone corset—lifted her astonished round face from a large ledger and with small eyes sunken into her fat, watched them go into the director’s office.
The room was huge and luxuriously furnished with a large rosewood desk, clear as a mirror, between two heavily curtained windows. There was another desk, quite a bit smaller, in the far corner, and a large number of armchairs. Next to each of these, a microscopic table with a silver ashtray and a crystal vase containing a yellow rose. A frail gentleman, all in black apart from a head of polished ivory, popped up like a jack-in-the-box from his desk in the corner. At first sight he resembled a porcelain knick-knack, one of those little men from Capodimonte or Copenhagen: so smooth, lustrous and glossy that even their dark clothes appear oddly dazzling.
“Ladies, oh, ladies! You frightened me! If you’re looking for Cristiana, she’s not here.”
He noticed Dolores’s black dressing gown and started, then dropped his gaze, only to be confronted by her bare feet in rope sandals. A profound and haughty disapproval could be read on his face.
“Madame Firmino, it is inconceivable that you should dare to—”
“Shut up, ‘Oremus’!” Dolores shouted. “We have other things to do than listen to your tirades!”
She felt her energy suddenly completely restored. This silly little man had a talent for both exhilarating and irritating her whenever she saw him, but this time he had annoyed her so profoundly that the amusing nickname used by the dressmakers and models escaped her lips. “Oremus” went scarlet, and the veins in his forehead bulged. Fortunately for Madame Firmino, the incident had caused his glasses to slide off his nose, and he couldn’t possibly explode at the foolhardy woman while he flailed around for them on the table.
The Mystery of the Three Orchids Page 1
