They remained standing, one on each side of the table with the yellow, white and green gold ingots on it. De Vincenzi saw the huge diamond sparkling on the other man’s chest, and his crystal-clear blue eyes also sent out dark flashes. He felt Besesti was ready for a fight. What was he afraid of?
“How long have you been in Milan, Signor Besesti?”
“About two months.”
“Where are you from?”
“South America.”
“Are you Italian?”
“Originally, as my name would imply. I was born in Argentina.”
“Have you ever been to South Africa?”
“No, never.”
It seemed to De Vincenzi that his reply came a bit too quickly.
“Or the United States?”
“No.”
“England?”
“Are you planning to say a rosary of the world, asking me if I’ve been in every country?”
“Not all of them, but I would like to hear your reply to my question about England.”
“Do you intend to tell me why you’re asking me these questions?”
De Vincenzi smiled. However exhausted he was from lack of sleep and nervous tension, this interview amused him. He couldn’t have said why even to himself. What could he have against this rich man who was, one would suppose, used to giving orders and respected by everyone? His very wealth excluded him from suspicion of having committed such a crime. But was it a crime for gain, this one? The inspector reached out and toyed with one of the precious gold bars.
“You seem not to be worried about leaving these gold bars around.”
The blue eyes looked at the gold ingots.
“Those are samples. I was hoping to deliver them to someone who lives in this hotel, to give him some work.”
“Carlo Da Como?”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“Have you known Signor Da Como for long?”
The reply came after a short pause.
“I met him in Milan.”
“Or in London?”
“Why London?”
“Have you been to London, yes or no?”
“Of course I’ve been there. But what possible interest can you have in knowing that?”
“Did you ever meet Major Harry Alton?”
This time Pompeo Besesti paled visibly.
“I met him by chance. Not in London, however.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening, and last night until four this morning?”
“Well, honestly, will you explain to me first what reason and what right you have to ask me all these questions?”
“A crime was committed in this hotel yesterday.”
“What do you think I have to do with this crime of yours?”
“Douglas Layng was stabbed in the back.”
“No!” It was a cry of anguish. But he recovered himself. “Did someone kill that young man?” His eyes were brimming with sadness—and also with terror. “But why? Why him of all people?”
“Well, he wasn’t the only one to be killed,” the icy voice of the inspector continued.
It was a rapid transformation: Pompeo Besesti lost all his triumphant self-assurance. His eyes shone dully, as if the light in them had been extinguished. His cheeks sagged, and the slight tremor that had barely been noticeable before was now almost a convulsion. It was startling.
“Do you wish to sit down?” De Vincenzi asked kindly.
Besesti practically brushed him away.
“Why do you want me to sit down!” Even his voice was no longer his own; its full, round sonority was broken and it became weak and shrill. He went on. “All right, tell me everything. It’s necessary for me—and for you. And I’ll tell you what sort of ties linked me—” But he stopped himself and looked the other man in the face with severity. “In any case, it could be that what I know has nothing to do with the boy’s death, and what I know may be of no interest to the Italian police. Who killed him?”
A moment earlier, De Vincenzi had been feeling some pity for Besesti and would have saved him, tried to conduct the interview with some delicacy. But with the sudden return of fire in this insolent, vulgar man, he delivered a direct blow.
“We’re looking for a certain Julius Lessinger.”
Besesti paled and was speechless for some moments, yet his eyes expressed a cruel anguish. He grabbed the table, which teetered.
De Vincenzi went over to him, put a hand on his shoulder and physically forced him to sit down. “Try to pull yourself together, and tell me everything you know. Only then will I be able to protect you effectively.”
There was a long pause. The interrogation that followed was one of the most difficult De Vincenzi would have to conduct in the whole of his long career. It was clear that Besesti was afraid of some unknown danger—or known only to himself—which hung over him. All the same, he was disinclined to reveal the secrets of his murky past, one that might constitute just as serious a danger if laid bare. He was subject to moods of pitiful self-abandonment alternating with stubborn, irritable rebellion. De Vincenzi felt things heating up around him. Events were moving forward, and he’d have to hurry. This man was resisting: he was keeping him shut up in a room while a scream might come from outside at any moment, the scream of another victim, a shot from a revolver, the mad wailing of those women… He could have slapped him, and was kept from doing so only by the thought that not even violence would wrench a frank and complete confession from this man.
“Where did you meet Major Alton?”
“In Australia.”
“How long ago?”
“Four years, five… I don’t know any more. It was when the war broke out.”
Those answers came easily, but then he dug his heels in. “Australia, given that it was under the English Crown, was at war. Argentina, no. There was nothing to keep me in Buenos Aires. My company had come through a difficult year, and we weren’t doing business any more. We dealt in furs. I had been robbed by my cashier and I left. I had a few projects in mind. I disembarked at Sydney, and it was there that I met Alton and we became business partners.” He lost his train of thought again. “We equipped some steamships and were doing some coastal trading around the islands.”
De Vincenzi looked him in the face. Did coastal trading mean furnishing German submarines?
“Was Major Alton in the British army?”
“No! What do you mean? What does the British army have to do with anything? Alton was a free man. Oh, yes, you mean his rank. But it was years and years since he’d been in the army. In 1901, after the Boer War, he resigned his commission. In any event, nothing that happened during that time concerns me. I didn’t even know him then! I have nothing to do with this. Do you understand? Nothing to do with it!” He was worked up, practically shouting.
De Vincenzi smiled. “I understand. Rest assured. You’re not involved. You had no connections with Julius Lessinger.”
Besesti threw him a look that might have been either pleading or angry. The look of a cornered beast, pushed to the limit, which doesn’t ask for mercy because it knows it’s pointless and which lacks the energy for the final pounce.
“Did you and Major Alton act alone in this coastal trading between the islands? Was it a good business?”
“I rebuilt my wealth on the back of it.”
“I can believe it. Did you also meet the major’s wife during that time?”
Besesti looked at De Vincenzi with surprise. “No. Alton went to Europe. But I knew at the time, in fact, that he’d taken a wife. He was married here in Italy.”
A flash of intuition coursed through the inspector.
“The couple stayed in this hotel, am I right?”
“What are you saying? But of course! You’re making me think… I swear I don’t remember… Yes, definitely. The major must have been here that year because I wrote to him at this address from Sydney. When I got to Milan a few months ago, I came to this hotel precisely because I remembered its name.”
“What did Alton do after that?”
“He went back to Australia.”
“With his wife?”
“No. He came to Europe to join her for a month or two every year—until 1917. We dissolved our business then, sold the steamships. I stayed a bit longer in Australia, went back to Argentina for a while. Until a few months ago, when I decided to establish myself in Milan.”
“In order to set up the Bank of Pure Metals?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I certainly couldn’t have stayed there doing nothing. The bank is a healthy business: ten million in capital, all in deposits.”
“It’s all yours?”
“Yes.”
“By Jove! The earnings from your coastal trading must have been really remarkable!”
“You’re free to disbelieve it. But no one can dispute the money I have.”
“Did Flemington also let you know about the death of Major Alton and the opening of the will, which is to take place here in this hotel, today in fact?”
“Yes, but the information was of no interest to me. I never had and I don’t have any reason to believe that Alton’s will concerns me.”
“Then how do you explain the lawyer’s having asked you to come as well?”
“I don’t have an explanation.”
“What about the death of Douglas Layng?”
“Ah!”
“And the death of Giorgio Novarreno?”
“Has he been killed as well?”
“He was stabbed.”
Besesti didn’t speak for several minutes. The silence in the room was interrupted only by the sound of water dripping from a tap in the sink, left on or perhaps broken. De Vincenzi noticed it only that moment, and from then on the relentless, penetrating, monotonous noise obsessed him. It was as if the drops were falling soft and muffled on his head.
“No! I cannot see why anyone would kill Novarreno. I knew him. I met him here. But I would never have imagined that that Levantine had any connection with Alton or his heirs.”
“Maybe it was he who created one—a tie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know Signora Mary Alton?”
“No.”
“But Douglas Layng, yes—right?”
“I met him here. It would have been about a month ago.”
“What sort of friendship did he have with Major Alton, or how closely related were they? And with Signora Alton?”
“I don’t know!” Besesti struggled to get up. Once on his feet, he seemed to recover his pompous demeanour. He looked at the inspector with his blue eyes, still murky and cloudy. “Inspector, this questioning has gone on long enough. I have no right nor any duty to tell you anyone else’s secrets. I have nothing to do with the crimes committed in this hotel.”
“And with those that are about to be?”
He looked away, and then quickly at the door.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
De Vincenzi said coldly, “Fine. You know very well what I’m alluding to. It’s my duty to protect your life along with everyone else’s. Yet although I’m doing everything I can, you’re doing nothing to help me! You’ll only have yourself to blame.”
He turned his back on Besesti and made for the door. He had his hand on the knob when Besesti called out, “Inspector!”
“Well?”
“When Flemington arrives, do let me know. I need to speak with him immediately.”
“The meeting with the heirs is fixed for today. Flemington has already arrived in Milan.”
“Without saying anything to me! Where is he? Tell me where he is and let me go to him.”
“You’ll see him shortly.” And De Vincenzi left the room, closing the door behind him. He found Sani and the two officers in the corridor.
“The doctor has arrived,” Sani told him.
“Put a guard on this door.”
De Vincenzi went up to Room 6. Standing in the doorway, he saw the doctor from the emergency medical service there with the body. “The same wound as the other one, Doctor?”
The doctor let out one of those inarticulate sounds which spared him the bother of answering. He got up slowly. He was so tall, he looked like a compass opening out. In his hands he held the switchblade, which he’d extracted from the dead man’s chest.
“The same weapon, I believe,” he said, turning to De Vincenzi. “It’s not easy to find a knife with such a long, thin blade. It reached the heart this time, too.” Then his skull-like face tensed and his eyes flashed. “But weren’t you and all your men in here when they killed this one? Are you going to let this massacre go on all night?”
De Vincenzi shrugged.
“I’m leaving, and I hope you won’t be calling me again to remove more knives from dead men’s chests.”
De Vincenzi had already left the room and gone down the first flight of stairs. He was hurrying up the steep stairway to the attic rooms while the doctor continued hurling sarcastic barbs at him. Despite the rude and discourteous manner in which they were offered, De Vincenzi felt the doctor’s words had something in them. No one would have believed that another man could be killed in this hotel, occupied as it was by police and guards in every corner.
Cruni was sitting on the top step. When he saw the inspector he rose, holding on to the railing.
“Any news?”
“No, sir. They’re sleeping in there.” He pointed to the maids’ room. “I sent the porter away since the room is still occupied by… the body. In the other two rooms there are now two men. But they were talking for a long time, shut up in the first room. It was the fatter one, the one who looks like an elephant, who called the other man as soon as he went into his room. He seemed crazy and panted like a seal. I’ve no idea what was going on, since they started speaking in English.”
He’d seen the porcelain doll: De Vincenzi didn’t doubt for an instant that Engel’s agitation hinged on that fact. But didn’t the doll belong to him? What was the story behind these porcelain dolls that had to be brought to Milan, to that hotel, by the will of Harry Alton, who’d advised his wife not to forget her own? I have reserved a surprise for you that’s not the least bit banal… But then something new had turned up—possibly expected, despite being feared—and the surprises turned macabre. He was about to knock on Engel’s door when an idea occurred to him and he stopped.
“Go and get the owner, bring him up here. Hurry!”
Virgilio arrived with Cruni at his heels, urging him to hasten upstairs. The poor man was dizzy with sleep and fear, completely disorientated by the wrath of God which had unexpectedly struck him and his hotel.
“How long have you managed this hotel?” De Vincenzi had to repeat the question in order to be understood.
“Two years.” He gave his explanations in broken sentences, now verbose, now struggling to find words. He’d been in charge of a large beer hall in the city centre. He’d found two or three clients there who’d lent him the necessary funds—partly to help him and also believing they were making a good investment—and he’d taken over the business in 1917, agreeing to a ten-year lease with the outgoing hotelier, who still owned the building.
“So in 1914, The Hotel of the Three Roses was managed by…”
“By Bernasconi, a Swiss man who’d founded it thirty years before and had become rich, chiefly because of the restaurant.”
“Where is this Bernasconi now?”
“Here, in Milan. He lives in via Solferino. He comes to see me every day. I would prefer him not to come, because—you know—everyone does things their own way, and all he does is criticize and give advice.”
“Take him back downstairs and get him to give you the precise address of the old hotelier. Go and get him at seven and bring him here.”
He’d hoped that Virgilio would be able to tell him about Major Alton and his wedding at The Three Roses in 1914. There was nothing to do, however, but wait for day to arrive so he could interrogate Bernasconi.
He knocked at Engel’s door. Silence at first, then a chair moving, a drawer closing. The man was moving about the room. He knocked again and said, “Open up. I need to speak to you.”
The door opened. Vilfredo Engel—huge, sturdy elephant that he was—had put on his white silk pyjamas, so tight he was practically bursting out of them. They pinched at his armpits and across the chest, and hugged his back and legs. The bottoms ended a full six inches above his ankles, leaving his enormous, hairy calves bare. His tiny eyes blazed with bewilderment under bushy grey eyebrows.
“What do you want? Why did you wake me up?”
But he hadn’t in fact been sleeping. The bedsheets were turned down in welcome, but it was clear he had not yet lain on them. De Vincenzi stepped into the room while Engel trailed after him awkwardly, waving his hands around to emphasize his objection. But no matter how hard he searched, the inspector could not see a doll. He must have hidden it in a drawer or his suitcase.
“Signor Engel, go back to bed if you wish, or else sit down. I need to speak to you without interruptions.”
“But who are you?”
“A policeman. Did you not know that a body was found hanging from an iron bar on the landing just outside your door last night?”
“Have you come to arrest me? In which case I’ll say nothing unless my lawyer is present.”
“Why should I arrest you? Were you the one who killed Douglas Layng?”
“No! I deny it. I didn’t even know the poor young man. It’s awful. Just because he was hung up outside my room, there’s no reason in the world to believe that I have the least thing to do with such an atrocious crime.”
“Calm down. No one is accusing you of having killed Layng. But to say that you did not know him is a lie. Let’s not waste time. It will be better for you and for me.”
“I have nothing to do with it! I protest! I have the right to the assistance of a lawyer.”
But he sat down, and the chair squawked under his weight. With his hands on his knees, his shoulders rounded and his pointy head bent backward so he could keep an eye on De Vincenzi, he seemed like a gigantic monkey whose trainer had goaded him into putting on that silly white costume for amusement’s sake.
“Was William Engel your brother?”
“Yes.”
“When did he die?”
“In 1902.”
“In South Africa?”
“No, in London. In my arms.”
“He was an officer in Major Alton’s battalion?”
“Yes.”
De Vincenzi paused for some time.
“Would you repeat to me what your brother confided to you before dying?”
Engel blinked.
“Would you tell me about Julius Lessinger?”
He went on questioning, affecting indifference to the questions, yet watching for their effect on the man’s face. However, it wasn’t possible for Engel’s face, stiff and leathery as it was, to twitch or betray his feelings. De Vincenzi could only try reading his eyes, and he did this accurately, subtly, beadily: two shining points between half-closed eyelids.
“It’s an old story you’re asking about. I’d hoped it was buried for ever.”
“What if I told you that Julius Lessinger had killed Douglas Layng?”
“Impossible!”
“Why? Who else could have wanted that young man to die?”
“Who else?” He sniggered and then began to pant again in that way of his, with his lips and cheeks puffed out.
“Who was Douglas Layng?”
“The son of—” He stopped and reached out for the drawer. “There’s a bottle of cognac in there. May I offer you a glass?”
“Douglas Layng was the son of? Go on. Do you want me to complete your sentence? He was the son of Major Alton.”
He began to snigger once again. “If you already know…”
“What about his mother?”
“What gentleman would reveal such a secret? Because you find me in this shabby room on the top floor of a third-rate hotel, you think you have the right to insult me?”
What patience! But he wasn’t trying to be devious in order to avoid being questioned. It was worse than that: he was devious by nature.
“Look, Engel. Try to understand the seriousness of the moment, of all that has happened and might happen. How do you explain the body’s being placed on this landing right outside your room?”
“It’s the most out-of-the-way corner in the hotel for carrying out a crime, this is. The youth would have been dragged up here on some pretext. Don’t you see that this is a real dump? They don’t even light the rooms properly, by God!”
“He wasn’t hanged up here. Douglas Layng was stabbed hours before, then dressed and brought up to this landing and hung from the rope.”
Engel let out a sort of grunt. He might have been upset—but how could one tell?
“They would have known you would not have been able to avoid seeing him when you came up to your room that night.”
“Me?”
He made as if to get up, but fell back into the chair; it groaned. He drew back and looked around the room.
“All set up for me…”
“And look what they dropped at the bottom of those stairs.”
De Vincenzi took the small piece of folded paper from his pocket, the one Sani had picked up on the first landing of the stairway. He read: “The first: the youngest, the innocent. This isn’t a warning. It’s the beginning of a series.”
“Give it here!” Engel practically tore it from De Vincenzi’s hand and looked at it closely. He was frightened. He held the paper for several moments, still looking at it and panting continuously, gasping for breath. Suddenly he burst into laughter—coarse, raucous and punctuated by phlegmy coughs. There were tears in his eyes.
“What’s the matter? Why are you laughing like this?”
“Extraordinary, and all of you fell for it! Julius Lessinger, eh? Crocodiles! Revenge! A box full of diamonds! Now you’ll bring out all the details of that story that obsessed Harry Alton in the last years of his life. Ah! The man hanged up here in order to terrify me!”
“But that young man was killed. And not only him.”
“Of course he was killed. But first, it’s not at all certain that Lessinger is in Italy. And this paper is enough to show that Lessinger doesn’t have anything to do with the murder.” He laughed and laughed, murmuring “Imbeciles!” between guffaws.
De Vincenzi was overcome by a strange sense of the surreal, the fantastic. Madness.
“Lessinger has never been to Italy! He has always lived in Africa and Australia. He can’t write in Italian, Lessinger! And he couldn’t have learnt it in a few days, since he could hardly write in English!” He stopped. He seemed to have pulled himself together. He offered the sheet of paper to the inspector and got up. “The whole thing is a farce! Like putting that doll on my bed… Damned Da Como! He performs the tricks and the others take advantage of them.”
Whenever De Vincenzi had occasion to recount this scene later, he’d say: “If I didn’t go crazy in that room, I’ll never go crazy again in my entire life. Since, you see, if there weren’t already two people dead, one might still have been laughing! But there were two bodies, and only a few minutes later there would be a third, and I already knew who it would be.”