The Hotel of the Three Roses

by Augusto De Angelis

  Whose dark or troubled mind will you step into next? Detective or assassin, victim or accomplice? Can you tell reality from delusion, truth from deception, when you’re spinning in the whirl of a thriller or trapped in the grip of an unsolvable mystery? You can’t trust your senses and you can’t trust anyone: you’re in the hands of the undisputed masters of crime fiction.

  Writers of some of the greatest thrillers and mysteries on earth, who inspired those who followed. Writers whose talents range far and wide—a mathematics genius, a cultural icon, a master of enigma, a legendary dream team. Their books are found on shelves in houses throughout their home countries—from Asia to Europe, and everywhere in between. Timeless books that have been devoured, adored and handed down through the decades. Iconic books that have inspired films, and demand to be read and read again.

  So step inside a dizzying world of criminal masterminds with Pushkin Vertigo. The only trouble you might have is leaving them behind.

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Did you know?

  AVAILABLE AND COMING SOON FROM PUSHKIN VERTIGO

  About the Publisher

  Copyright

  1

  The rain was coming down in long threads that looked silvery in the glare of the headlamps. A fog, diffuse and smoky, needled the face. An unbroken line of umbrellas bobbed along the pavements. Motor cars in the middle of the road, a few carriages, trams full. At six in the afternoon, Milan was thick with darkness in these first days of December.

  Three women darted hurriedly, as if driven by gusts, breaking the lines of pedestrians wherever they could. All three were dressed in black, the fashion at the start of the war, and their little gauze hats were studded with pearls. They wore string half-gloves, and all of them gripped the handles of their umbrellas in the same way, with the bony fingers of their right hands, as if threatening someone with a club. Their profiles were beaked, their eyes bright and alert, and with those chins and noses they seemed to be cleaving the crowd and the heavy mist of fog and rain. How old they were was anyone’s guess. Age had fossilized their bodies, and each was so similar to the others that without the colourful hat ribbons under their chins—mauve, claret, black—a person might have thought he was hallucinating, convinced he was seeing the same woman three times in a row.

  They climbed up via Ponte Vetero from via dell’Orso, and when they came to the end of the lit pavement they plunged into the shadows of Piazza del Carmine. They instantly breathed a sigh of relief; until then, they’d had to battle through the crowd in single file, and here they found themselves more or less alone, with all the space they needed to trot along towards the church. When they reached the little door the first one pushed it, and they disappeared within.

  The man who was following them and who had avoided catching up with them when they were in the piazza now came to a halt in the rain in front of the church. He seemed put out, and stared at the little black door. He passed through the short columns that closed off the porch; the chains were no longer there, only the rings that had once held them. With some difficulty, he unbuttoned his yellow raincoat with one hand and took out his watch. He had to huddle under the glow of the street lamp to see the time. Then he went up to the porch doors and hid there. He closed his umbrella.

  He waited, staring at the small church door the whole time. Every now and again a black shadow would cross the piazza and disappear behind the church doors. The fog grew thicker. Half an hour went by, more. The man seemed resigned. He was tall and large, with a smooth, ruddy face under his bowler hat. His eyes were a watery blue-green, his mouth fleshy and sensual. He had propped his umbrella against the wall to dry and was rubbing his hands together with a slow, rhythmic motion which accompanied his interior monologue. He must have reached a conclusion because he suddenly clapped his hands together, as if putting a full stop to a sentence. He turned to look at his watch: 6.38. He grabbed his umbrella, opened it and ran from the porch without once glancing back at the church. It actually seemed as if he was fleeing for fear that the three women in black would come out and see him—the same ones he’d followed there only a short while before.

  He entered via Mercato from Piazza del Carmine and then turned into via Pontaccio. Finding himself in front of a huge glass door that led into a vast lobby, all lit up, he opened it and went in. THE HOTEL OF THE THREE ROSES could be read on the glass door in large letters, and behind the glass hung a menu.

  Inside the lobby, the man looked like someone who feels at home. He left his umbrella in a large, shiny brass stand near the door, pushed his hat back on his head and went to sit on a wicker sofa in the far corner, under a standard lamp with a large rose-coloured lampshade. He crossed his legs and cordially declared, “Foul weather, Signora Maria. I’ll bet the radiators in here are cold.”

  Maria held court at a desk behind an opaque glass partition that divided the lobby from the dining room and from the corridor leading to the kitchen. She sat there, matronly, already too fat but still hale and hearty, with smooth, firm flesh of a uniform pearly whiteness. She was wearily doodling lines and circles on a piece of paper in front of her, absorbed in some thought—or maybe none. She’d noticed her guest come in and hadn’t even bothered to raise her blond head.

  “Mario has just gone out to refill the boiler,” she said in a hushed, somewhat croaky voice, studiously continuing her doodling.

  The man let out a grunt of satisfaction. Then there was silence. All at once he heard a stirring behind the long counter in the dining room.

  “Has Mario come back?”

  “At your service, Signor Da Como. Here I am.”

  “An aperitivo…”

  When he saw the glass in front of him on the wicker table he drank it down in one gulp, clicking his tongue. And then, again, silence. The man drummed his fingers on the table. He stood and went over to warm up by the radiator. Took a few steps, got as far as the stairs and turned back. He hesitated. He put his hands on his stomach, tucking his thumbs into the little pockets of his waistcoat and then stuffing them into his trouser pockets. His hat had fallen back towards his neck even further, to form a sort of halo around his flushed face.

  He finally made up his mind and went to lean on his elbows at the manageress’s desk. The room was already dark, and only one lamp shone over the front desk. Maria was glued to the counter, where Mario was setting out plates of cold roast, marinated eel and fruit, and also one with prosciutto, salami and mortadella. She barely even seemed to notice him.

  “Signora Maria…”

  “Mmmm…”

  “What time does Signor Virgilio return?”

  “The usual time. Why?”

  The man went quiet. He put his finger on the white paper, running over the lines and circles as if trying to feel their outlines in relief, for the sake of doing something and to pull himself together. He was embarrassed. He looked up at the woman but his eyes fell to her white neck, its skin so smooth and firm it seemed to lack pores.

  “I wanted to ask Virgilio something. But in any case it’s the same whether I ask you or him.”

  “What?”

  “I need the usual favour. A hundred lire. I’ll pay it back tonight.”

  “But you already had a hundred the other night. And you’re a month behind with the rent. And you have an outs
tanding bill with Monti for breakfast and lunch that would frighten you. He told me. It’s true that it’s nothing to do with me. If the waiters want to give credit, that’s their business.”

  “I know. But frighten—frighten who? Not me. I’ll pay Monti’s bill too. A night goes well, and I settle everything. But I’ll pay back the loan of two hundred lire tonight for sure. The Englishman has received money. And he’ll play tonight.”

  Maria’s face looked more static than ever. Only her pale lips were somewhat tense. She opened the desk drawer and took out a banknote, her copious bosom moving back as she did so.

  “Here’s your hundred lire. But it’s the last you’ll get. I’ve said the same to your friend Engel. We can’t make loans! We’re not a bank.”

  “Thank you. Mario, give me another aperitivo.”

  Just then the glass door opened and the three women in black entered the lobby one after another. Da Como turned to look at them and put his glass down quickly. He smiled and made no hurry to approach them. This time Maria leant over the desk, saw the three women and turned towards the factotum.

  “If they’d come five minutes earlier, we’d have saved a hundred lire.”

  Mario hazarded a smile closer to a grimace. His frog-like mouth lent itself perfectly to that sort of look.

  “I really wasn’t expecting a visit from you, dear sisters. It makes sense for me to come and see you, but you…”

  Da Como spoke with his hands in his pockets. An unlit cigarette, stuck between his lips as soon as he’d seen them, hung from one side of his mouth and his tone was ironic, almost mocking—as it surely wouldn’t have been had he stopped them in Piazza del Carmine, when they were going to vespers and he’d lingered in the rain.

  “Naturally! Your coming to see us is perfectly understandable, Carlo. We have a respectable house, we do. And whenever you come, of course, it’s always to ask us for something.” The first sister, perhaps the eldest of them, spoke. Her claret-coloured hat ribbons trembled under her chin as she uttered those words, though her bloodless lips barely moved.

  “And why else should I go there, Adalgisa?”

  All four stood near the glass door, the three sisters aligned in front of the man, his hands in his pockets and the cigarette dangling from his lips. Mauve Ribbons shifted, but no sound issued from the mouth of the second sister, who must have been forcibly restraining herself; her eyes were fiery. The last one, however, had a strangely gentle, imploring look, and the corners of her mouth contracted to create two deep furrows, so that she appeared on the verge of tears.

  “Carlo,” she whispered so softly that her brother could barely hear. He started.

  “Well then?”

  “We must speak to you,” Adalgisa said, as she looked around in disgust.

  “Will you sit down?”

  “Here?” Mauve Ribbons now spoke and her screechy voice, quivering more in indignation than surprise, rose shrilly above the pitch of the others.

  Da Como looked around in turn.

  “Yes, here. Where else? You wouldn’t want me to take you to my room.” He laughed and took the cigarette from his mouth. “Everyone thinks this hotel has only one floor. But there’s a little door there, to the right of that landing”—he pointed to the stairs—“and if you open it, you’ll see a little stairway like one in a bell-tower. I go to the top to get to my little room… a garret… There are four or five little rooms up there. One for me, one for Engel and the others for the maids and the kitchen boy. It would hardly do for me to receive you in my luxurious apartment, dear sisters.”

  Adalgisa turned to the other two. Mauve Ribbons pursed her lips, holding back the most biting contempt. Black Ribbons looked ever more imploring, and it was on her that the first sister’s eyes fastened.

  “It’s for Jolanda,” she affirmed. “So listen to us, Carlo. We can speak to you just here. Manfredo…”

  Da Como smiled, a look of triumph flashing through his eyes. He turned to the imploring sister.

  “How is your son, Jolanda?”

  She answered quickly. “He’s well, Carlo. He’s a good boy. He loves you.”

  “Really? I believe you, even though I’ve never noticed it. Is that so?”

  “Definitely. Manfredo is about to take a wife…”

  “Ah!”

  “We need to set him up. It’s necessary—”

  “Naturally! You’d like to give them the Comerio property. Ideal! He could really make something of it. But given that the property is mine… the only thing of mine I haven’t already sold… So you’re here on an errand.”

  “Carlo.”

  “It’s not an errand. We’re your sisters. The Comerio property has been mortgaged twice. We’re doing you a favour to ask, since otherwise you’ll be losing it all the same, forced to hand it over to your creditors. We’ll pay off the mortgages and we’ll offer you…”

  Da Como gloated even more. He rocked on his feet, his solid body swaying.

  “So! You’re offering…”

  “Five thousand lire.”

  “Ah!”

  “It’s a lot. It’s too much. But Jolanda wanted to give you as much as possible.”

  “Dear Jolanda.”

  “You know, Carlo, Manfredo would so like to have that bit of land.”

  “Of course, of course! Five thousand! You don’t want to sit down, eh?”

  “So you accept?”

  “No. I refuse. The Comerio property is still mine and I’m keeping it.”

  The three women started.

  “Carlo,” Black Ribbons was pleading. But the ribbons on the other two trembled with contained rage.

  There was a silence.

  “May I offer you a little grappa?”

  “We’re leaving!” Adalgisa commanded and, taking the other two by the arm, she pushed them towards the door.

  Da Como hurried to open it.

  “Goodbye, dear sisters!”

  They were in the middle of the entrance hall and had almost reached the street. They opened their umbrellas.

  “You wouldn’t have a hundred lire to lend me, would you?”

  He laughed, shut the door once more and turned to Maria.

  “If you only knew…”

  “What?”

  “They wanted to give me five thousand lire!”

  “And you refused them,” scoffed the manageress.

  “Exactly. They asked me to sell them the Comerio property.”

  “Ah! You’re serious?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the property is worth more than their offer?”

  “No. With two mortgages to pay off, it’s worth less. But I refused just to spite them.” He paused. “Haven’t I ever told you, Signora Maria, that I hate my sisters?” His voice was smooth as he lit his cigarette.

  The three women in black walked silently through the rain. The glass door of The Hotel of the Three Roses began to swing on its hinges, back and forth, back and forth, as guests returned for their meals. Maria slowly swivelled round in her chair and switched on the lights in the lobby and the dining room.

  2

  After nine at night, all the tables in the dining room at The Hotel of the Three Roses were covered with green baize. Once meals had been served, the chief concern of the two waiters was to remove the tablecloths. Bottles of wine and glasses remained on some tables. The guests themselves helped to clear up. Everyone was overcome by a sort of frenzy, and they gambled in there as if it were forced labour. Many remembered and recounted with pleasure how the four most tenacious scopone players—Verdulli, Agresti, Pizzoni and Pico—had once sat at the table, cards in hand, nourishing themselves on eggs and cognac for two days and two nights.

  And at nine that evening, the 5th of December 1919, Carlo Da Como began to shift around on his bed, where he’d thrown himself completely clothed just after the meeting with his sisters. It was as though the addictive excitement were seeping through the old walls and up to the top floor of the hotel to wake him. H
e stirred his limbs and, leaning out of bed, felt around for the light switch and flicked it on. A weak, pinkish glow like that of ten electric candles. Just enough, in any case, to reveal the meanness of that room, a garret with rooftop views. A small iron bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror, a washbasin standing on a pedestal, an enamel jug, a couple of chairs. But there was a yellow leather trunk and a suitcase of pigskin. And on the walls, three large colour prints by Vernet. Authentic ones which, with their galloping horses and flying jockeys, were alone worth everything else illuminated by the dusty lamp. The trunk, the suitcase and three prints were all Da Como had brought back with him from London. Remains of a shipwreck—his shipwreck. Apart, of course, from the heavily mortgaged Comerio property.

  He smiled. The old girls wanted it to give to Manfredo. Poor Jolanda. Her eyes had pleaded and her voice had whined as she asked him to agree, because it would have been her little boy’s greatest joy to possess that property. He’d said no with pleasure. Doing wrong for its own sake made him happy.

  He got out of bed and splashed his hands and face with water. He looked at himself in the mirror as he slowly dried off. He wasn’t hungry. He would go down now and have Monti give him two prosciutto sandwiches and a glass of beer. If the group were already waiting for him to play piquet, he’d eat while he played.

  The group were Engel and Captain Lontario. Every evening, the three of them played piquet from nine until midnight. They kept track of their points in a notebook and at the end of the month they settled up. It was also how Da Como and Engel played when they hadn’t a cent in their pockets, and at the month’s end, for good or ill, someone took care of it. So there were several months when the captain bore the cost. At 1 a.m., when the piquet, scopone and poker were over and the door of the hotel was shut for the night, those who remained got ready for something much more aggressive. They started playing seriously.

  Da Como continued studying himself in the mirror. Though he was fifty he hardly looked it; his plump body and his fresh, rosy skin were enough to inspire a young man’s envy. But inside he felt tired and worn out. The life he’d led had inevitably taken its toll. Listening closely, he could hear the wheels creaking in his brain and heart. That morning he’d bumped into Doctor Campi, who’d been a student with him in London, and the jolly doctor had cried, “Hello! How’s that heart of yours?” But maybe it had been his little joke. Of questionable taste, however, that joke.