Clara appeared in the doorway and glanced at the card in her hands. “Hurry up, girls! There’s a crowd. Anna, put on 2412; Irma, 2437. And Gioia, you get into 75 from the evening gowns with capes,” she ordered. She turned and yelled into the corridor, “Papina, come and help the models!” She repeated the three numbers after checking them on her card and then disappeared. Irma threw the towel and her nail file in the air.
“I told you so. Eleven-thirty, and it’s starting already. This whole day is going to be a laugh, just wait and see! And after yesterday’s crimes, the clients will be coming in droves to see the designs, just to snoop. It stinks of corpses in here!” She opened the wardrobe and slid through the numbers. “I knew it. Number 2437 is the one I hate!”
She took the hanger and removed the garment, throwing it on the carpet. Quickly wriggling out of her skirt, she tugged at her jacket zipper and she too appeared in her white silk chemise, tall and imposing as a young willow.
“Quick, Papina. Get the trousers ready for me. It’s just the right day for beachwear!”
Papina had grey hair and a purple face. She was like a trained mouse, one of those small white ones that sit up on their tails and then fall flat, their stomachs slapping the ground. She got up on her tail and stayed there through some miracle of balance, to the confusion of all who saw her walking around on her little bow legs and funny round feet. Yet her hands were so quick and lively that one couldn’t even feel her buttoning up a dress, lacing a belt or pulling a skirt round the hips to adjust it.
As she took the blue trousers and yellow sash from the wardrobe for Irma, she walked behind Gioia and shook the girl’s shoulders.
“Quickly, my lovely! If you sit there under a spell, the prince can’t carry you off to the wedding…”
She’d read all the fairy stories and took delight in being irresistibly droll, so instead of wedding she’d said werewolf; she was imitating Macario, whom she’d seen at the cinema.
Gioia stood up, shook herself and started taking off the black dress she was wearing. Anna went over to her.
“Be brave, darling! You’ve had a tooth pulled, and in a short while you won’t feel any more pain. What can you do? It’s probably better this way.”
Gioia looked at her like a frustrated dog and sighed.
“You say that because you didn’t know him like I did. We were going to be married.”
“Him?!” Irma burst into laughter as she put on her trousers. But Anna gave her such a hard shove that she had to lean against the wardrobe in order not to fall over.
“Can’t you see she’s really suffering?”
“She’s a fool to suffer. Valerio wasn’t worth it.”
“Well shut up, then!”
Gioia’s eyes were full of tears.
“Come on, lovely! Now you’ll need your make-up artist. Sit here while I tell you a yoke…” And Papina, armed with a handkerchief, wiped her tears dry with one hand while helping her to take off her dress with the other.
Just then, De Vincenzi appeared in the corridor, coming from the direction of the lift. He’d arrived at Corso del Littorio a few minutes before and no one had seen him yet apart from Cruni and the doorman. He stopped by the open door of the models’ room and looked in. Anna saw him and said, “Yeeees…” The other girls turned round and fell silent.
He smiled. “Good morning, ladies. I’m here to speak to you as well.”
Marta’s voice came from behind him.
“Good morning, Inspector. They’re waiting for the girls in the showroom. Couldn’t you question them later?”
“But of course! What are you doing? Is it another catwalk show?”
“Oh, no. But the clients are here. They’ve asked to see a few dresses and we always show them on the girls.”
“I see.”
He started for the door of the office, stealing a glance at Marta beside him.
“You’re busy too?”
“No, Clara will take care of it. And anyway, I doubt it will come to anything. Those ladies are here because of the scandal. Have you read the papers?”
De Vincenzi smiled. “It was inevitable. What about Signora O’Brian?”
“She’s in her room. I haven’t seen her yet this morning. I think she’s suffering.”
“That’s also inevitable. May I go in?” He put a hand to the door—the one through which Evelina must have passed so many times.
“Go ahead. Signor O’Lary is in the office.”
They found Madame Firmino in Evelina’s room. She was no longer in her dressing gown, but wearing a masculine outfit in iron-grey, with wide trousers falling over cork-soled shoes. She came up to De Vincenzi.
“All night I thought about what the police do when they come across two bodies and no definite clues that permit them to proceed with an arrest. You may be able to throw some light on this for me, Inspector, because on my own I couldn’t think of an answer to the question.”
She spoke ironically but looked feverish. Her apparent indifference masked a very serious worry, and her nerves couldn’t have been the firmest or soundest, despite her sun cures.
“Madame Firmino, the police can do nothing but watch and wait. But who told you there weren’t any clues in this building?”
“A clear, small fingerprint? Cigarette ash? So did the murderer sign their work?” She gave a fake laugh and turned on her heel so that she was facing Evelina’s desk. “In the meantime, Evelina is no more! And don’t tell me she didn’t take up much space!”
There was real emotion in her voice, but De Vincenzi felt the young woman was moved more on her own account than that of the poor spinster. It was easy to guess that Madame Firmino was afraid, and she’d probably barricaded the door to her own room the previous night. But of whom was she afraid? She leant against the desk, staring at De Vincenzi.
“What would you say, Inspector, if I packed my bags and returned to France? Would you try to stop me?”
“I believe so, Signorina—for the next few days anyway.” He shook his head disconsolately. “I don’t believe I can let you go.”
“I thought as much!” She turned to look at Marta. “Cheer up, Marta! I’m thinking about a charming little design we could launch, a graceful cape in black silk, dotted all over with tiny silver skulls. It’d make a splash, and we could call it Number 13!”
“Dolores!” Marta exclaimed reprovingly. She must have been very upset to have used Dolores’s real name. “Why not go and take the sun rather than standing here spouting foolishness?”
Madame Firmino shrugged and threw her cigarette on the floor. Just then, O’Lary appeared at the office door. He looked at the two women first, then at De Vincenzi.
“A good thing you’re here, Inspector.” His voice was shaky and his forehead pearled with sweat. “Cristiana phoned me just now from her room. She’d like me to go up there. She says she’s found another orchid in her bathroom. Another orchid—and there wasn’t one before.”
“Oremus” was pale.
“I’ll go up to Signora O’Brian. But I’m asking you, O’Lary: don’t phone to let her know I’m coming. I forbid you.”
He spoke so harshly that Prospero and the two women stiffened as if he’d lashed them.
4
On that rainy day the corridor was particularly dark and gloomy. The sphynx-like profiles of the white herms stood out against the frame of the single window near the service stairs, and the gleaming black-and-white floor added to the feeling of being in a hospital or museum, equally desolate places. De Vincenzi felt chilled to the bone. It wasn’t just that the nightmare was starting up again, he quickly told himself, but that it was doing so at such a horrific pace.
He knocked once at Cristiana’s door, and without waiting for a reply turned the handle and opened it. Cristiana stood in the middle of the room, her hands clasping crossed arms. Her head was lowered. Maybe she, too, was shivering, perhaps about to spring into action, whether to attack or defend herself. Her eyes were clear, her face wan
. This time De Vincenzi immediately spotted that she really was deeply troubled. He hadn’t seen her like this before, though he had noted her reaction when he’d shown her Evelina’s body suddenly and without warning.
Cristiana started when she spotted De Vincenzi.
“It’s you!”
“Pardon me, Signora. O’Lary told me you were troubled by the discovery of another orchid, and I thought it better for me to come to your assistance than for him to do so. If, that is, you need help.”
Cristiana’s nerves slowly unravelled, her tense muscles relaxed and a faint smile appeared on her face.
“As it happens, I don’t think there will be any need for help. After those deaths yesterday, it’s perfectly understandable that my nerves should be humming. That orchid gave me a fright at first—but it’s only childish fear, with no justification. It’s I who must ask your pardon, Inspector.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t call your fear childish or unwarranted.”
“Would you like to see it? It’s an orchid, just like the others.”
She opened the bathroom door and stood aside so he could go in first. There were two orchids on the dressing table, one in the glass vase De Vincenzi had seen it in the day before and the other on a pink cloth, as if it had fallen or was waiting for someone to reclaim it. The door to the “museum of horrors” was closed, and the latch still hanging askew.
“When did you notice that there were two flowers?”
“A few minutes ago when I came in here to take a bath and get dressed. I only just got out of bed. I had a frightful night, hardly slept a wink.”
It had to be true. Cristiana was still in pyjamas and a pink bathrobe, with deep dark circles under her eyes that were surely the result of insomnia. Anyone coming in from the “museum of horrors” could have calmly put the second orchid on the dressing table, and Cristiana would never have heard it. The communicating door no longer presented any problems—such as the possibility of making noise. But why would someone do it, unless they were trying to warn and frighten Cristiana? For De Vincenzi, one thing was sure: none of his theories seemed to stand up in the light of this new and baffling event. He slowly returned to the bedroom with Cristiana behind him.
He was so perplexed he didn’t know where to start with his questioning, though it had been his reason for coming to Corso del Littorio after his visit to via Catalani and Piazza della Scala, and his chat with Russell Sage.
Cristiana slumped into an armchair, the same one he’d found her in the day before. He looked at the bed. Of course the body wasn’t there any more. The bed was unmade.
“Can you tell me something about orchids, Inspector?”
Her question was neither facetious nor bizarre. She really was longing for an answer.
“My dear Signora, I can tell you, based on my school memories and the encyclopedia I studied last night at home, that they are monocotyledons, extremely polymorphous due to a series of adaptations to environmental conditions and their means of pollination.”
“Polymorphous?” Cristiana wrinkled her brow.
“Having many forms,” said De Vincenzi with a smile. Then, after a silence, “Does all that help you to understand why someone would place an orchid by the two bodies, and a third in your bathroom?”
“No, it does not!” She sat pondering the situation with fear growing in her eyes.
“Did you know that Signorina Evelina was so worried for the past two months that she couldn’t even spend time reading, which was her favourite activity?”
“Evelina? Why would she have been so worried? And why should I know anything about it?”
“Did you know that your husband has decided to settle in Milan?”
“Russell Sage is no longer my husband. I was granted a divorce before I left America. He must have heard about it on Alcatraz.” Up to that point she had appeared depressed, lost. But due to her miraculous willpower, she remained wary and alert. “What else did you learn, Inspector?”
“Oh, not much more than that, Signora. Only that Valerio used to go to the dog races.”
“Valerio? Not on your life! Last year I had to order him to go in order to get him to take one of my greyhounds to the San Siro Dog Track, and he still went only the one time. Fatima came last that evening, though she usually won.”
“I suppose Fatima is your greyhound?”
“Was, Inspector. I had to get rid of her.”
“Did she win many prizes?”
“A few.”
So things were looking even more unsettling. The medallion he’d found in the “museum of horrors” might not have belonged to Valerio, while… But De Vincenzi didn’t want to dig any deeper. He needed to gather a few more facts before beginning his offensive, which might even end in defeat. He stood up.
“Polymorphous… having many forms, right?” She was still thinking about the orchid. No matter who had killed Valerio and Evelina, one thing was certain: Cristiana was afraid of that third orchid. “Are you going?”
“Oh, I won’t be able to leave this building so soon, Signora. But I ask your permission to visit the rooms I still haven’t seen. Valerio’s room, for example.”
“I don’t think it will reveal great or interesting things to you. Valerio was a bird of passage… He never settled down or built a nest. You’ll find only a few articles of clothing and a huge mess.”
But De Vincenzi found something else there.
5
The layout of the second floor was completely different from the first and third floors. When he reached the bottom of the service stairs, De Vincenzi found a short hallway with one door at the end and two on the sides. The door at the end was open and he could see a vast room with several tables, a rough wooden counter and a number of chairs. Although it was empty, it was obvious to De Vincenzi that it was the atelier. The dressmakers had left their work on the chairs or tables, and the usual large tailors’ scissors could be seen on the counter along with irons, both coal and electric. Fabric pieces and offcuts were scattered more or less everywhere. On the right wall, two openings without doors led to two square rooms: one contained sewing machines, and the other a large table with cutting machines. And from behind a further closed door at the other end of the room came the muted sound of chattering and the intermittent clatter of plates and glasses. The dressmakers were eating. Once again De Vincenzi pictured poor Evelina, who’d told him she took her midday meal with the employees. Slowly he retraced his steps and tried the handle of one of the two doors in the corridor. It opened…
The room was empty. A bed with the familiar bedspread of grey damask, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a table and a few chairs. On the walls, several rotogravure pictures of cinema actresses and ballerinas snipped from Italian and foreign periodicals. On the table, a cheaply framed photo of a young girl whom De Vincenzi easily recognized as one of the models. This was Valerio’s room.
He opened the wardrobe and saw quite a collection of suits. The young man must have spent all his money on clothes. Even the dresser drawers were full of fine underclothes, silk shirts, colourful pyjamas. He went back to the table. From a small bottle of perfume beside the photograph came the sharp and irritating scent of heliotrope. He hurried to put the cap on the bottle, but the scent lingered. He sat down and began slowly going through the papers lying around everywhere and inside the two drawers of the table. It was a slow process, since Valerio had saved letters from many women and bits of paper torn from illustrated newspapers and publicity flyers of all kinds; the drawers were full. De Vincenzi was rewarded for his patient sifting through all these papers with a precise idea of Valerio’s character and intelligence. Even more enticing, however, was a cutting from an American paper which he now held in his hands. It had instantly aroused his keen interest.
He read the half-column from the news section carefully. It told of the disappearance of a gangster, Lester Gillis, who was renowned as one of Edward Moran’s regular goons. The last time the man had been seen was in a bar on 18t
h Street. His disappearance wouldn’t have aroused anyone’s interest in the normal course of events, but some clothes and a few cards that pointed to his identity had been discovered on a deserted East River dock in Manhattan. The jacket had had a hole in it around the right shoulder, to all appearances produced by a bullet from a revolver. The shot must have come from close range, since the fabric appeared to have been burnt by the gunpowder. The paper’s theory was inspired guesswork, but it seemed no one doubted that this had been a case of gangsters settling accounts. De Vincenzi pored over the cutting and on the reverse he found news from another city in the United States. That is, provincial news, as one of our journalists would say, and it provided him with the date of the paper: 12th January 1935.
How had Valerio come by the cutting? Clearly, he wouldn’t have been able to snip it himself: in 1935 Valerio was hardly more than fifteen and living on the street in Naples, as Madame Firmino had told him, and he couldn’t even have dreamt at that point that he would meet Cristiana O’Brian or Prospero O’Lary. No, this time it was a really miraculous coincidence. De Vincenzi folded the cutting and put it in his pocket before closing the drawers. He stood up, and as he turned he saw Verna Campbell stationed in the doorway. The woman was staring at him, a sarcastic smile flitting across her lips.
“There you are!”
“I saw the door open as I was coming out of my room…” and, turning slightly, she nodded towards the door opposite Valerio’s.
“You lived very near the dead man, Signorina. How can you tell me you saw him only rarely?”
“I said he avoided being seen by me.”
“Come in. Since you’re here, we’ll take up our discussion of yesterday.”
The Mystery of the Three Orchids Page 9
