The Mystery of the Three Orchids

by Augusto De Angelis

  “Of course, and I’m asking you to not to tell anyone—anyone—that we found them. No exceptions!”

  Marta’s eyes widened. Madame Firmino started.

  “Inspector, you can’t make me stay in this place!”

  “Stay calm, Madame Firmino. Calm! Nothing has happened and nothing will happen… maybe. Let’s take a look in these rooms.”

  But Rosetta came running from the direction of the service stairway. The young girl was pale and wringing her hands.

  “There—there—on the stairs—”

  She couldn’t say anything else. She burst into sobs, covering her face with her hands.

  8

  Marta and Madame Firmino stood motionless, as if paralysed. De Vincenzi hesitated briefly, and had started dashing for the stairs when he heard the lift coming up at the other end of the corridor.

  The doors opened suddenly to reveal Cristiana. As soon as she saw the huddle of people she started in their direction. De Vincenzi approached her.

  “Where have you just come from?”

  Cristiana had on a beaver fur with a matching beret. Her strange, pallid face was thrown into stark relief in the dimly lit corridor. She stared dumbfounded at De Vincenzi, the thin black lines of her eyebrows forming two question marks.

  “From the street. I went out… You didn’t tell me not to.”

  “You’re right. But you should have told me.”

  Rosetta’s sobs interrupted him. He turned round.

  “Wait. Don’t any of you move from here!” And he ran to the stairs. He only had to go down to the landing on the second floor before he found something, and that something was the body of John Bolton, alias Russell Sage, alias Edward Moran. The man had fallen dead just as he got to the landing, and half his body lay over its marble paving, half over the stairs themselves. The door to the second floor—the one that must have led to the kitchen and the workers’ dining room—was closed.

  De Vincenzi leant over the body. The man was lying face down. It could hardly have been otherwise, since just above his collar a black hole opened up his ruddy neck: a rivulet of blood streaked his right cheek and puddled on the floor. He’d been shot from behind and below. De Vincenzi felt his hand: still warm. As far as he could tell, he’d been shot recently, probably only a few minutes before.

  He got up and went to open the only door on the landing. As he had suspected, it led to a narrow hallway one had to cross to get to the kitchen. Off the kitchen was a smallish room with long tables and benches neatly aligned along the walls. The tables were covered with white oilcloth. All the other doors were closed. De Vincenzi crossed the dining room to open the door on the other side. He saw the large atelier filled with busy dressmakers. One or two turned at the sound of the door opening and looked at him in surprise. Everything in order there. It actually seemed pointless to ask if they’d heard the sound of the shot.

  He now knew exactly what he had to do, and each of his movements was swift and considered.

  The door to Valerio’s room was closed. Verna Campbell’s was open, however, and he saw her inside tying a white apron over a black dress.

  “Did you go out with Signora O’Brian?”

  Verna glanced at her hat and coat still lying on the bed.

  “I’ve just come back, in fact,” she said.

  “But were you with the signora?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I will ask her. But answer me. How did you get here?”

  She acted surprised and answered, “We came up in the lift. Cristiana went ahead of me.”

  “Was it only the two of you?”

  “Who else would it have been?”

  “Prospero O’Lary.”

  “No. We didn’t see him.”

  “Don’t leave your room. I’ll need to speak to you again.”

  He turned on his heel and quickly re-entered the atelier. He spotted a dressmaker standing next to the table, measuring a piece of silk—its colours, flowers and arabesques gave it a sense of voluptuous heaviness—and addressed her.

  “Has anyone come through here?”

  The woman had a pasty face and her eyes were too pale. She was thin and miserable, but her blue-green eyes were alert. All the dressmakers were watching De Vincenzi with curiosity.

  “Come through here? What do you mean?”

  “Yes. Has someone come into this room with you? Have you seen anyone pass through the atelier?”

  “No, no one.”

  Clara ran in from the cutting room. “What’s wrong, Inspector? Who are you looking for?”

  “How long have you been here, Signorina Clara?”

  “For some time. This is my place, you realize—with the workers.”

  “Well, I’ll repeat my question: have you seen anyone come into the atelier? I mean someone other than the workers. Signora O’Brian’s maid, for example.”

  “No, Inspector. No one has been in here for at least an hour.”

  De Vincenzi glanced round. Astonished faces, spiteful faces, curious faces. Blonde hair, black, chestnut, red, in disarray. He nodded a goodbye to Clara.

  “Don’t let anyone leave this workroom. No one who’s in here must leave for any reason.” He went back through the kitchen to the landing. He passed the body and hurriedly descended the stairs. When he got to the foyer at the bottom, the service doorway was ajar. Anyone could have come and gone through it.

  He went back upstairs to the first floor. He ran towards the offices, threw open the doors and flew through to administration. Prospero O’Lary was sitting at his desk consulting some papers. De Vincenzi gave no sign of surprise.

  “Already back?”

  The little man leapt to his feet.

  “You’re here, Inspector? What else has happened?”

  “Nothing. Aren’t the two bodies from yesterday enough for you, Signor O’Lary?” De Vincenzi’s tone was facetious. He shot Prospero a friendly look.

  “Oremus” put a hand to his head, then let it fall to smooth the lapels of his frock coat.

  “For me? Oh! For me…”

  “Where have you been, Signor O’Lary?”

  “Why? Why are you asking where I’ve been?” He was trying—and failing—to maintain his composure.

  “You must tell me. Signora Cristiana O’Brian went out too and everyone is worried about her absence.”

  Prospero’s face lit up, and he immediately seemed more sure of himself. “In fact, I went out to look for Cristiana. Ask Marta and Madame Firmino. They’ll tell you that…”

  De Vincenzi slowly nodded.

  “Leave Marta and Madame Firmino out of this. They’ve already told me. I don’t doubt what you’re telling me, Signor O’Lary. I just want you to explain why Cristiana’s sudden absence worried you so much that you ran out to find her.”

  “After everything that’s happened her absence could only be strange, no?”

  “Where did you go to look for her?”

  He hesitated, then stated vigorously, “I’m asking you not to press this point, Inspector. The lady’s private life does not concern you.”

  “Oh, you think not? Well, did you find her?”

  “No. My guess was completely mistaken. Cristiana hadn’t gone where I went to look for her.”

  “To the Albergo Palazzo? To her husband?”

  The man was startled. “So how would I have known that Moran was at the Albergo Palazzo?”

  “You didn’t know, of course. The only one who knew was he—or she—who sent him the invitation and the plan of this building.”

  “The plan?”

  De Vincenzi moved away from the desk. “It’s an old story.” He made for the door, and turned round.

  “Where can Signora O’Brian have gone? You’ll need to help us if we are to look for her.”

  “But has she really not returned?” He was genuinely surprised.

  “You see, O’Lary, I actually think you need to start telling me at least some of the many things you’re hiding! Valerio wasn’t
killed in Cristiana’s bedroom. He was strangled in the ‘museum of horrors’, amongst the mannequins, and in the spot where he was killed I found a medallion from the San Siro Dog Track, which most likely belonged to Cristiana O’Brian.”

  “Oh!” “Oremus” raised his hands in a gesture of comic deprecation. “You can’t imagine now that—”

  “If you only knew the vast number of things I imagine, Signor O’Lary, you’d be surprised at how they can all remain calmly in my brain.”

  The little man went quiet and studied De Vincenzi more closely than ever. He seemed to be trying to decide something.

  “You’re right. We need to look for her. She may have got mixed up in something without meaning to. Cristiana has changed a lot recently. She’s been doing things she’s never done before. She started—yes, well, she’s been using Valerio… The idea probably wasn’t hers. I’m telling you, she’s really changed, Inspector.”

  De Vincenzi smiled.

  “I know all this by now, Signor O’Lary, and Evelina knew it too. She was strangled because she knew it.”

  O’Lary opened his hands in despair.

  “How awful!” He seemed disinclined to defend Cristiana. “What now, Inspector?”

  “Nothing for now, Signor O’Lary. It’s essential that I attend to the third body.”

  “What did you say?” He turned scarlet before suddenly blanching. “A third body?”

  “Exactly! You didn’t know there were three orchids? Just as there are three bodies…”

  9

  De Vincenzi turned his back on Prospero and headed for the telephone. “Oremus” fell into his seat, staring at De Vincenzi as if paralysed.

  The orders given by De Vincenzi were brief. He asked Sani to hurry over with a few officers and the doctor. Cruni was to go immediately to the Albergo Palazzo and station himself in Bolton’s suite. After a few rapid words, he hung up the receiver.

  “So… it was Moran’s turn this time?”

  “Well who did you think it was, O’Lary? It couldn’t be anyone else, since he was the only one they wanted to kill.”

  Prospero’s eyes gleamed oddly. Seated on a low armchair, he gripped his arms, as if preparing to spring up.

  “And you think it was Cristiana who killed him? That’s crazy, Inspector!”

  “Who said that’s what I thought?”

  “Don’t try to trick me! That’s what you think, just as you think she’s the one who killed Valerio. A single murderer committed these crimes. And if you doubted Cristiana after finding the medallion from the dog track beside the mannequins…”

  De Vincenzi watched him attentively. Prospero stopped.

  “Your theory is most interesting, O’Lary.”

  Prospero got to his feet.

  “We’ve got to find Cristiana, Inspector. She’s the only one who can prove her innocence.”

  “Where shall we look for her, O’Lary? At least you might tell me where you went.”

  “Cristiana sometimes arranges to meet her friends at a pastry shop on via Santa Margherita. That’s where I went, and I stayed for over an hour but I didn’t see her.”

  “Her friends, Signor O’Lary?”

  Prospero avoided De Vincenzi’s gaze. “If you can call them that.”

  “The friends in her address book, you mean?”

  “Oremus” put a finger to his collar as if he were choking. “You know about that?”

  “Oh, God! I’m bound to know something.” He turned his back. “We don’t need to look for Cristiana O’Brian. She may have returned.” He started for the door but stopped when he got to it. “Why don’t you come with me to see the body, Signor O’Lary? I prefer not to leave you alone.”

  O’Lary joined him. When they got to the door to the corridor, De Vincenzi drew back to let O’Lary go before him. The little man walked quickly, but he stopped after a few steps.

  “Where—where was he killed?”

  “That’s right, you don’t know. Come with me.”

  Prospero was silent for several moments in front of the body. Then, lowering his head, he whispered, “He survived all kinds of things in America only to get it over here.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Me? I hardly knew him at all. I’ve talked to you about him because everyone in America talked about him and because Cristiana confided in me on the Rex. But it’s the first time I’ve seen him.”

  “Of course.” De Vincenzi bent over to rummage in the dead man’s pockets, and stood up again almost immediately. “Wasted effort. I don’t believe we’ll find anything interesting on him.” The sound of steps came from the other end of the corridor. De Vincenzi went downstairs with O’Lary following behind. Sani was there with the other men.

  “The body’s on the stairs. Have it removed as soon as the doctor has examined it. The dressmakers will be leaving in a little bit and we can’t humanly expect them to see this. The magistrate will understand. In any case, Sani, do let him know straight away. If he can come promptly, all the better.” He put two officers on guard in the corridor and got into the lift. “Stay here,” he said to O’Lary.

  The women were in Cristiana’s room. Rosetta was leaning against the wall near the door, no longer sobbing, though her eyes were still full of tears. The young woman had obviously let it be known that she’d seen the body because Cristiana, still in her hat and fur, looked terrified. Marta and Madame Firmino ran anxiously towards the inspector.

  “Is it really Mr Bolton?” Marta asked. “Rosetta says she recognized him by his coat.”

  “Well, Rosetta wasn’t mistaken.”

  “But why? Why would they kill an American no one knew? And why was he coming up the service stairs? Everything that’s happened here since yesterday is insane!”

  De Vincenzi shrugged. By this time he knew that insanity had nothing whatever to do with any of it. The murderer had calculated perfectly, knowing how to make the most of every opportunity with an astonishing readiness and facility. “If I manage to expose them,” he told himself, “I’ll consider myself lucky. My having guessed who it is means nothing at this stage, since not only do I lack an ounce of proof, but to all appearances I’m mistaken.”

  He approached the assistant. “Where were you coming from when you saw him?”

  Rosetta responded in a broken voice, “I was coming from the atelier. Madame—” and she pointed to Dolores “—had sent me away from the offices but I had to go back down to the first floor, because there wouldn’t have been anyone on the door if any clients had come.”

  “Why did you come back up here instead of going to the atelier?”

  “I heard Signorina Marta’s voice.”

  That must have been just when he’d finished his inspection of the trunk room and Marta and Madame Firmino were standing at the top of the service stairs.

  “Did you hear anything before you left the atelier? The sound of a shot?”

  “No.”

  “Go back to the atelier and don’t say a thing to anyone about what’s happened.” He took her to the corridor and sent her down in the lift. When he re-entered the room, Cristiana was sitting down.

  “I’m sorry, Signora, but it’s essential that you go down to the first floor. Madame Firmino and Marta will go with you.”

  Cristiana looked at him in surprise, but after a brief hesitation she began removing her fur beret and stood up. She threw her beret and fur on the bed and headed for the corridor. From the doorway she said ironically, “The body wasn’t found on my bed this time, Inspector!”

  “Sure enough. But perhaps it was only because of Rosetta that it was left on the stairs.”

  The woman flinched, and seemed to shudder convulsively. Her glowing, almond-shaped eyes looked enormous.

  “Do you think… do you think they wanted to…”

  De Vincenzi pressed her gently. “Oh, no one knows yet what they wanted. But don’t think about that now. One fact is certain in any case: they won’t kill anyone else and you won’t fi
nd another orchid.”

  Cristiana said nothing. She moved robotically. Madame Firmino and Marta followed behind her and De Vincenzi. De Vincenzi pressed the call button when they got to the lift, and as they waited he asked, “Would you like to tell me where you were today?”

  Cristiana revived, and murmured, “You won’t believe me.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Tell me anyway.”

  “I went to see my husband—the man who used to be my husband. I had Campbell come with me because I was afraid to see him by myself.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Before three. I’d left the hotel before three. We only said a few words to each other.”

  “Did you see him on his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “In his suite?”

  “In a sitting room full of flowers.” She smiled sadly. “He loves flowers…”

  The click of the lift was heard as it arrived at their floor.

  “Well, Edward Moran loved flowers, but there weren’t any orchids amongst the flowers you saw yesterday. I thank you, Signora.”

  Alone once more, De Vincenzi went into the trunk room. He took an orchid from the five that were left and returned with it to Cristiana’s room.

  10

  He put the orchid in a glass filled with tap water from the sink, then opened the door and went into the “museum of horrors”.

  It was a ruse. He was preparing a trap. Maybe the suspect would fall for it, maybe not. In any case he had little choice, since he had few cards to play in order to confuse him and get him to betray himself. So he wasn’t playing fair and square? Well, neither was the murderer.

  Never before had he come up against a suspect with both the desire and the know-how to assemble so much damning evidence against an innocent person in order to get them convicted. And purely to save himself: such villainy enraged him. No, he had no scruples about preparing a trap for someone who, during the previous forty-eight hours, had done nothing but set traps and manipulate appearances.