After speaking to the investigating magistrate and dictating the longest passages of his report, Inspector De Vincenzi went off with his two officers, leaving only one of them at The Hotel of the Three Roses to guard Rooms 5, 6, 7 and 9, which the magistrate had locked and sealed. Another stretcher had already carried away the body of Nicola Al Righetti.
In the lobby, Da Como and Engel were sitting quietly on the sofa. Some way away Pompeo Besesti was stretched out on a chair, staring into space. Engel was still wearing his white pyjamas under his overcoat. It was ten in the morning, and the rain continued to fall. From the window a parade of open umbrellas could be seen on the pavement.
“I don’t understand,” the harsh, deep voice came suddenly, “how the American kept Layng’s body hidden until that evening.”
“The inspector understood it,” Da Como replied. He’d been present when De Vincenzi had dictated his report and had his meetings with the magistrate. “The young man was killed at midday when he went up to his room after he returned from a walk. After stabbing him to death, the American feared that the blood would leave visible traces in the room, so he covered the body with sheets.”
“But why was Layng in his pyjamas? And why had he gone to bed?”
“He wasn’t feeling well. Maybe they made him drink something. He’d told Stella Essington that he wasn’t feeling well, and at eight that evening she came to his room and saw both the body and the killer. When she heard that Al Righetti was dead, she talked. The body stayed in Room 5 for the whole day, and the American locked the door.”
“But to get it upstairs?”
“He seized on the moment when everyone was downstairs in the dining room. Al Righetti ate, as usual, in the billiard room. Pietro served him, but of course Al Righetti was often on his own in there. So it was easy for him to go up the service stairway, which communicates directly with the corridor on the first floor. Only Bardi posed any danger to him, and only for an instant. But the American made it in time and took advantage of the moment of panic to go back down to the billiard room without being seen, and then to rush from there to the dining room.”
Silence. Then again, that deep, hoarse voice: “But how did they think they could get away with it?”
“She was the instigator—the woman. She knew the story of Julius Lessinger from Alton and she continued to keep the major’s fear alive, hoping to make use of the story with Al Righetti’s help. They didn’t want to kill him and they couldn’t, because Mary had read the first will which the major made when he married her. She wanted to inherit the whole of it. When Alton wrote to tell her he was about to die, and Flemington then informed her of the meeting to be held in this hotel, she wrote the letter from Hamburg and conceived of the whole diabolical scheme.”
“What about me?” asked the deep, hoarse voice, broken by a hiccup.
“For you, old friend, they had in store an ‘accidental’ death caused by the sight of the man hanging on the landing. You can thank Bardi—he saved your life.”
Engel laughed in his thundering way, which caused Besesti to leap from his armchair. “I wouldn’t have died! I’m thick-skinned.”
Da Como firmly agreed.
A further silence followed. Virgilio crossed the lobby from the direction of the staircase. He was looser and more disjointed than ever, his legs going haywire and his arms in front of him, as if he were afraid of falling. He walked over to the desk and stopped. His wife, placid, white and matronly, was still drawing circles with her pencil on the back of that day’s menu. Mario went behind the bar.
“Mario, bring me an aperitivo,” ordered Da Como.
The four scopone players went back to their corner table in the dining room and started up their interminable games once more. They’d removed their collars and ties, their faces were exhausted and their eyes ringed with dark circles. They smoked and drank without let-up.
“I cannot understand how the sevens can be broken up in the first hand,” Verdulli squawked.
Da Como was just bringing the glass of liquor to his mouth when his hand stopped in mid-air. He stared at the door.
Three women had appeared in the entrance, one after the other. Each wore ribbons—claret, mauve or black—on an austere dress, and their profiles were exactly the same: beak-like under sequinned hats.
Da Como stood up and moved towards them cheerfully.
“What’s new, dear sisters?”
Claret Ribbons spoke. “Jolanda wanted to come back here.”
Mauve Ribbons pursed her lips in disgust.
Black Ribbons whined, “We’ll give you ten thousand.”
“Eight thousand!” the eldest snapped.
“Ten thousand,” Jolanda pleaded.
Just then, while Carlo Da Como smiled sarcastically, preparing his response, the telephone rang. Mario ran to answer it and immediately reappeared at the door to the toilets—for the phone was in there—holding the receiver in one hand.
“Signor Besesti, the Bank of Pure Metals is on the line…”
