“Damn!”
Marta looked at Prospero, then at Madame Firmino. “What’s going on here?”
Dolores leant against the rosewood desk. “What’s going on? Oh, just that—” she twirled her celluloid glasses by the arm “—it’s just that there’s a body on Signora Cristiana’s bed. And the signora is lying on the floor in a dead faint.”
Prospero uttered a sort of roar and emerged from behind the desk. He walked over to Dolores.
“You’re mad!”
As for Marta, she contented herself with gently shaking her head. She’d been convinced of Madame Firmino’s craziness for some time.
“Would you repeat that?” Prospero shouted. “Say something!”
“You are aware, Madame Firmino, that today is the day of the collection, and jokes are not always welcome,” Marta sighed. “You must know that I’m too busy to waste time with your eccentricities.”
Dolores was still perched on a corner of the rosewood desk, her dressing gown open to reveal her bare legs, so tanned they looked like brass. Marta looked at those legs and then at Signor Prospero, who was blinking rapidly.
“Go back to your sunbathing, Madame Firmino, and don’t disturb those of us who are working.”
“Do you think I wouldn’t like to, Marta? Do you think it’s actually advisable for me to have my treatment so rudely interrupted? The body is there; I didn’t invent it. As for Signora O’Brian, I’m sure it’s time to go and resuscitate her. I was on my own up there, and I won’t try to hide it from you: the sight of that body upset me so much I couldn’t do it. Even if it hadn’t, I’m no good as a nurse and I wouldn’t have known how to begin to revive her.”
“A body? Good God, whose? We’re all in here, and we’re all alive.”
Prospero stopped blinking.
“We’re all here? Many people work here at Casa O’Brian. If you go upstairs, you’ll find that one of us has been killed.”
Marta blanched.
“Killed, you say? So it’s actually true?”
Madame Firmino patted her dressing gown, searching for pockets it didn’t have. She looked over at the desk, spotted a sandalwood box and reached out to take a cigarette from it.
“Give me a light, Mr O’Lary. I’m sure I’ll faint too if I don’t have a cigarette. It’s not the least bit pleasant to see the body of someone who’s been strangled.”
“Oremus” extracted a lighter from the folds of his extremely snug frock coat. He watched the young woman as he held the flame before her face.
“How do you know he was strangled?” he asked suspiciously.
Dolores drew the smoke in hungrily. “He had two marks on his neck. Two ugly, obvious marks.”
Marta made for the telephone on a small bookcase near Cristiana’s armchair.
“What are you doing, Signorina?” Prospero squawked.
“I’m calling the doctor. What else would I be doing?”
“Don’t you realize that if there’s really a body we must call the police first?”
Marta stopped in her tracks.
“The police? With the showrooms packed with ladies?” The catastrophe had suddenly struck her. “But it would ruin us!”
“I have reason to believe that it would be rather serious if we didn’t call police headquarters right away—in case it really is a body. And I’m asking you to follow me upstairs so we can check it. We can give Cristiana first aid while we wait for the authorities to arrive.”
“Oremus” boldly headed for the door, with Marta trailing after him, groaning. As for Madame Firmino, she slid gracefully off the desk and went to collapse in an armchair.
“I really must get this oil off my face,” she said to herself. And she started smoking again.
4
Cristiana came round unaided. The return of consciousness was accompanied by a dull ache in her left side just above the hip. She must have fallen on that side with the carpet, however soft and deep, failing to cushion her fall. It seemed she was returning from far away… her brain was foggy, without a ray of light. Only when she tried raising herself up on an elbow to ease the pain did she notice that she was lying on the ground, and at first she was merely surprised. But when she saw the bed and the dead man on it, her memory returned like a flash.
She jumped to her feet. Everything that had happened came back to her, clearly and in minute detail. It was all so unexpected, so troubling, right up to the discovery of the body on her bed, something that had been truly terrifying for her. But through some strange twist of fate—as if by collapsing in a faint she’d reached rock bottom, both physically and mentally—she was regenerated, regaining her sangfroid and her customary energy.
She sensed danger and traps all around her, and the awareness reawakened her fighting instinct, the impulse to protect herself. The sight of Anna Sage in the showroom had initially frightened her, but then convinced her to flee the showroom and take refuge in her own room. It had been childish, that escape, since to all appearances Anna had come solely to see and be seen. But Cristiana had then discovered the body of Valerio—in her room, on her bed.
He meant nothing to her. Just a loyal servant she’d met in Naples on her return from America. She’d taken him with her to Milan when he was barely more than a boy, and the young man was now twenty. He’d always been, for her, a loyal drudge, the slave she used for everything she had to do in secret. Her secrets… Just as when she’d first seen the body and fainted, her lips twisted in disgust, and a bitter taste rose to her throat. Her secrets… One needed them in order to live, no? And they’d poisoned her very life when she was starting out.
She looked at the dead man. Loyal drudge? She pursed her mouth in a tragic, cruel smile. How and why had he been brought to her bed? She recalled the sight of Anna Sage’s face. Next to her there’d been another face, but behind an evanescent cloud of fog, its features confused and blurry. A man’s face, the face of a man she’d loved and whom to all intents and purposes she still loved, even though he’d poisoned the very roots of her life. Had he come back to get her, to keep her, never to leave her again until death parted them? She shivered. Death had already entered her house; it was there beside her. Why in her bed? She knew that the police would be asking the same question before long. The judge, the inquest… and she’d left America because she didn’t want to face the police! Yes, before long someone else would be asking: Why is the body in that bed? They’d question, rummage around, search. Above all, search. She’d have to be quick.
She walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. It was built in, and reasonably deep. She turned to glance at the door, which was still open. What if someone came in? Well, she’d have to risk it. No use wasting time closing the door. Besides, there was that body in her room. She couldn’t shut herself up with that corpse lying there.
She pushed the clothes aside and climbed into the wardrobe. Reaching up, she felt around for a red lacquer box, a precious box with a rounded cover that sat on a beam jutting out from the wall. It was generally a good hiding place, but she knew from experience that the police always look inside wardrobes. In Cleveland they’d done just that, but they hadn’t found anything, because Russell was too crafty to hide deeds or money in the house. She pushed her clothes back and closed the wardrobe door.
Cristiana held the box against her breast—the red lacquer was darker and shinier than her silk dress—and walked resolutely towards the other wall. She knelt by the hearth. A small electric stove stood between andirons surrounded by wood to give the impression of a real fire that had died out; there were radiators in that room as well in as the rest of the house. She pulled it towards her. There was a recess in the wall that stretched under floor level by about twenty centimetres: Cristiana put the box in the recess, covered it with a few pieces of wood and replaced the electric stove. She stood up. She had to act now, but how?
She had no time to think; the sound of the lift stopping at that floor made her jump. Someone was coming. She sat in a chair next to t
he door, far from the body, and collapsed. Quick steps echoed over the black and white tiles.
Prospero and Marta appeared at the door. Cristiana looked at them, her eyes blank, and let out a short sigh which sounded more like a sob. She held out her arm in the direction of the body.
“Valerio, Valerio… Someone’s killed him.”
Prospero, a black skittle with an ivory head, ran over to the bed, blinking rapidly. Marta hesitated momentarily. What did one do with someone who’s fainted? Cold water? Smelling salts? Someone had told her you have to bend the patient’s head down to make the blood run to it. She went to Cristiana and took her pulse; she certainly couldn’t turn her over and let her head hang down.
“How do you feel, Signora?”
Cristiana looked at her dreamily.
“Why did someone kill that young man?”
“Be brave, Signora! It may have been an accident.”
Prospero O’Lary’s voice sounded agitated.
“It was no accident! He’s really been strangled!” The little man bounced back from the bedside to the middle of the room.
“We must tell the police!”
Marta trembled. Cristiana closed her eyes.
“Do it now, Mr O’Lary,” she murmured, opening her eyes. Only then did she see, sharply and clearly, an orchid on the chest of drawers. She hadn’t noticed it before. And she certainly wasn’t the one who’d put it in the small crystal vase.
5
At four-thirty a strange man arrived at the door of the building at Corso del Littorio 14, and stepped onto the red carpet. He definitely didn’t look like one of the fashion house clients. Federico, splendid in bottle-green uniform with silver braid (one of Madame, the artistic director’s designs), barred his entry.
“May I help you?” He looked as if he wanted to say, “You must have the wrong address.”
The other man—tall, sturdy, smiling—regarded him benevolently. He looked like a rich peasant, with a red birthmark on his forehead, ruddy blond hair, a solid chest and the sweet and innocent expression of a man used to living in the open air.
“Isn’t this the O’Brian Fashion House?” he asked in a tortured foreign accent.
“Indeed. But this isn’t Tuesday!”
“Tuesday?” the gentleman asked in bewilderment.
“It’s only on Tuesday that we receive suppliers, and in any case the service entrance is in via San Pietro all’Orto.”
“I know,” and he smiled indulgently, “but I’m not a supplier.”
He took a blue envelope from the pocket of his chestnut-coloured overcoat, a great, bell-shaped garment with over-elaborate fastenings and stitching. He opened it to show the little card with its pierced white dove.
Federico couldn’t believe his eyes. This man was a client, invited to the fashion show. But, he said to himself, he was definitely a foreigner, heaven only knew how rich. For Federico, rich foreigners at a fashion show could be as odd as they liked.
“Pardon me, sir. The catwalk show started an hour ago. Please!”
He walked the other man to the lift. When they got into the little compartment, the gentleman put a ten-lire note in his hand, smiling paternally. In his anxiety to close the lift door and gate, Federico tripped over the doormat and nearly dived headfirst into a window.
The man in the lift was still smiling. He pulled a case from his waistcoat pocket and took out a pair of large gold-rimmed spectacles, fitting the arms behind his ears. His appearance was more kindly and respectable than ever.
The lift door was opened for him on the first floor by Rosetta, who was wearing a white apron over a black dress. Wound around her head like a mouse’s tail was a blonde plait. Her hands and feet were too large and her legs massive, the calf muscles showing through artificial silk stockings that shone as if a snail had left a layer of slime across them. She gave the new arrival the once-over and held out her hand to take his hat.
Clara, the senior employee, appeared at the door; she always assisted Marta during the first few days of a show, and she came in, cards and pencils in hand. She too was dressed in black silk and walked in wearing shiny silver leather sandals with cork soles and heels over ten centimetres high. She said nothing, but her look, lips pursed, rendered her face a picture of perplexity.
The gentleman slowly removed his overcoat, patting his jacket and waistcoat with a gesture of confident satisfaction. He then took the blue envelope from his overcoat and handed it to the young woman.
“Oh, don’t think, Miss, that your designs could possibly interest me! But they do my sister, and I’ve come to pick her up.”
Clara looked at the envelope.
“Mr Bolton?”
“Indeed, my dear girl, that is my name, John Bolton, and my sister is Miss Anna Bolton.” He held out his hand for the invitation and the blue envelope and put them back in his pocket.
Clara watched him, nodded a welcome and led the way.
“Are you foreigners just passing through Milan?” And she said to herself that Evelina’s idea of getting foreigners’ names and addresses from the doormen at the grand hotels was beginning to bear fruit. Marta would have to take care of these two: who knew how much money they had!
“From Topeka,” admitted Mr Bolton.
“Where?”
“Topeka. It’s a city in Kansas, and Kansas is one of the forty-eight states of the Union in America. Topeka has the worst droughts, short, hard winters and long, torrid summers. We’re foreigners, but we’re not just passing through.” When he laughed, his gold teeth shone as brightly as his glasses in the light from the lamps lining the long white hallway.
The young woman stopped at the door to the first of the three showrooms and waited for him to enter. The showrooms were connected by three wide arches, giving them the appearance of one enormous single room. Mr Bolton looked around curiously. He started for the door of the administrative offices, which was opposite the one to the showrooms, and was about to open it when Clara called him back.
“Mr Bolton! Mr Bolton! Where are you going?”
Smiling, he excused himself, but not before he’d had time to open the door and take a look inside. He closed it and headed for the showrooms.
At that moment the loudspeaker squawked: “May is the month for clothes in brightly coloured fabrics and prints with floral allegories, feathers and underwater landscapes… such is the ravishing design that we now present, Number 2479… 2-4-7-9…”
The American man stopped to listen. He shook his head indulgently.
“Fashion!” he murmured. “Today’s women live to get dressed up. And they couldn’t do anything more useful or pleasing as far as we men are concerned.”
“Will you point out your sister, Mr Bolton?” Clara asked him. “I’ll take you to her.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, and he began scanning the long row of armchairs and sofas full of women, all of them busy watching the model as she slowly advanced. One or two leant forward with their lorgnettes while others affected weary indifference, glancing through drooped eyelids. A black figure rose from the corner formed where the outer wall of the first showroom met the building’s façade, and walked quickly to the door.
“Here’s my sister,” said Mr Bolton. “You needn’t trouble yourself about us any more, Signorina.”
Miss Bolton was undoubtedly striking, and had a pretty little tabby cat’s face framed by a small black hat with a thick crêpe widow’s veil. Her eyes, tilted upwards at the outer corners, had the clean lines of almonds, with glowing green irises. Her skin was milky-white, and her face pallid against her black outfit.
Tall and thin, Miss Bolton advanced with the ethereal weightlessness of a ghost, and Clara, who was struck by her appearance, noticed the quality and cut of her dress. It had to be from one of the great fashion houses. Bolton stepped back into the corridor followed by his sister. They exchanged several sentences and slowly made for the exit.
Just then the bell rang with the dull chirp of a tree frog. R
osetta ran to open the door. On the threshold was a man of pleasing and distinguished appearance, dressed with sober elegance. As soon as he stepped in he took off his hat and began to remove his gloves. He was followed by four other men considerably less elegant and pleasing than he, who did not remove their hats initially. Faced with the invasion, Clara began telling herself that this was truly a day of surprises. What’s more, Cristiana and Marta had found a way of disappearing at exactly the right moment.
She approached the pleasant man while keeping an eye on the other four, who’d stopped to form a menacing barrier in front of the door.
“Didn’t anyone tell you that you could have used the service stairs?”
“Indeed.” The pleasing man, apparently in charge of the little troupe, turned and signed to one of the others, who strode forward and stood at attention. He was short and stocky, with legs too short for his sturdy body.
“Sir?” he said, removing his stiff hat, a fine example of old-fashioned headgear.
“Cruni, have the doorman show you the service entrance. No one must leave by it.”
Sergeant Cruni disappeared downstairs.
“Sir, I said—” Clara exclaimed. She was beginning to feel strangely bewildered. But she didn’t have time to finish protesting before Prospero O’Lary pranced in. He started for the sudden arrivals, pushing Clara aside with one hand.
“Police?”
“Inspector De Vincenzi.”
“I am Prospero O’Lary, the administrative secretary of the business.”
“I took your call, Mr O’Lary.”
“Of course. But could I ask you to exercise the utmost discretion? Today is the first day of our show, and the showrooms are full. A scandal would ruin us. You do understand?”
De Vincenzi smiled at him affably. He understood. How many times in his career as an inspector had he had to understand!
The Mystery of the Three Orchids Page 2
