It was Cristiana’s maid: powdered face, slim yet muscular body in a short dress with thin blue stripes, her blonde thatch topped with a lacy bonnet. She kept her hands in the pocket of her little white apron and seemed not the least perturbed.
“Are you Signora O’Brian’s maid?”
“Verna Campbell.”
A hard voice, which came from her head. She threw her name out as if in challenge and stared insolently at De Vincenzi.
“Did the signora bring you with her from America?”
“Yes.”
So there were two of them: the other was Prospero O’Lary.
“Go out to the corridor.” The officer joined his companion who’d already studied four of the herms and was now admiring the fifth.
“Sit down, Signorina Campbell.”
The girl took a fresh look around before sitting down. She wouldn’t glance over at the bed and De Vincenzi was sure that she either knew about or had guessed the presence of the body. He put on a show of good-natured friendliness.
“Is it tiring serving Signora O’Brian, Signorina Campbell?”
“If doing nothing is a fag, then service here is certainly tiring.”
Following his habit of adopting the native language of those whose trust he wanted to gain, he spoke to Miss Campbell in English, and she used far niente in Italian for “doing nothing”. But her tone remained cross, almost disengaged, with all her phrases rising at the end.
“Is that why you came with her from America to Italy?”
“I came with her because I need to earn money.”
“Were you her maid over there too?”
“No. Mrs Sage hired me from the hotel where I was doing seasonal work in Miami. Since she offered to double my salary, I decided to come to Europe with her.”
“Sage?”
“That was the lady’s name, or at least the name of her husband.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.” A fleeting, sarcastic smile. Then the girl’s eyes turned mocking.
Sage? De Vincenzi felt he’d heard the name before. Or rather, read. That was it: he must have read it in a book or some newspaper.
“Divorce?”
“If you like.”
“What did Mr Sage do?”
“Robbed banks. He was renowned for it. It’s just that no one knew him under his real name of Sage, except when he stood before the court in Rutland. Until then he was content to become famous under the name of Moran.”
Edward Moran, sidekick of Machine-gun Kelly, Baby Face Nelson, John Dillinger… A phantom gangster, the one who’d hit up the Bank of Lincoln for a million dollars. But of course! De Vincenzi remembered him now perfectly, not because he was in the habit of following the exploits of American criminals, but because he’d come across quite an interesting book, Persons in Hiding, written by the head of the G-men, J. Edgar Hoover. He affected indifference.
“Nothing more natural than that the wife of such a villain should have wanted to divorce him and revert to her own name.”
“Who said anything different? Are you sure O’Brian is her name?”
She pursed her lips in spite. Verna Campbell wasn’t fond of her boss.
“So you came directly to Italy?”
“Yes. We disembarked in Naples, but after a few days there we went to Paris, and from Paris to London. Two months in London, and back to Paris again. We’d been in the French capital for three months and I thought we’d finally settled down there when the lady suddenly put us on a flight for Venice. We’ve only been in Milan for two years.”
“That seems normal as well. Didn’t it occur to you that Miss O’Brian was looking for the best place to establish her fashion house?” His smile was guileless. He’d discovered the woman’s Achilles’ heel and was trying to provoke her, make her speak. The ploy was successful.
“Oh, exactly! It was precisely because she wished to create a fashion house, one with lots of rich male clients for whom she’d do favours.”
“Male clients? Are you sure you’re not mistaken, Signorina Campbell? The rooms below are full of women.”
She looked at him pityingly. She’d never met a policeman so indescribably obtuse, or even dreamt there could be one.
“Well, I could be mistaken.”
Her condescending tone said: why bother obstructing this man when he’s so trusting? But she looked at the telephone on the small table next to the bed and De Vincenzi followed her gaze. Beside the telephone was a small book in green leather.
“Do you want to take a look under here, Signorina Campbell?”
He got up and walked towards the bed. The girl watched him indifferently. He lifted up the edge of the bedspread to reveal the body.
Verna Campbell paled, but displayed neither fear nor uneasiness. Instead, the dull roar of anger, a fiery hatred.
“Did you know him?”
“I don’t know him any more. At last he’ll go to hell!”
De Vincenzi covered up the corpse once again. When it came down to it he was sentimental, and he had an instinctive respect for the dead, for scoundrels who’d once been alive. The girl’s words, so icy and disrespectful, had upset him.
“Where were you today between two and four, Miss Campbell?” he asked in a hard voice.
“In my room.”
“Where is your room?”
“On the second floor before you get to the atelier.”
“Near the service stairs?”
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
“Exactly. But if you’re thinking I might have killed… that man, you’re making a big blunder. He’s been avoiding me for some time.”
“We’ll come back to that, Signorina.”
He accompanied her to the door. Verna Campbell left rapidly and disappeared down the service stairs. De Vincenzi let out a sigh. He was in a bad mood. The atmosphere was becoming increasingly charged and heavy with foreboding. He recognized his state of mind and it scared him, since it always heralded some catastrophe, as if the premonition itself had some power to act.
He returned to the bedside and looked at the small green book. He was almost afraid to touch it, but he overcame his repugnance, picked it up and leafed through it. It was an address book. The pages, divided alphabetically, contained only a few names and numbers. He read one or two of them, closed the book and put it in his pocket. It now seemed more important than ever for him to speak to the plump Evelina. A calm chat, a tête-à-tête, without interruptions, and above all, without heart attacks…
He ordered the two officers in the corridor: “Don’t move from here. No one is to enter this room except the investigating magistrate.”