“So you say your husband was here today?”
“Yes.”
For the twenty minutes Cristiana O’Brian had been with De Vincenzi she had uttered nothing but monosyllables. He felt as if he were interrogating a three-legged table at a séance: one knock for “yes”, two for “no”, and he knew full well that ninety-nine per cent of her answers were made up, as if for the table.
Getting O’Lary to speak had been easier. As soon as the little man was attacked head on, he deflated. He tried several times to deny it, but ultimately he confirmed the information given by Verna Campbell, albeit reluctantly. Russell Sage, better known as Edward Moran, was to all intents and purposes the head of a criminal gang. He’d committed so many crimes that no one could ever put an exact number to them when he was finally arrested. Russell had actually had a double life. Under the name of Sage, he appeared to be an honest businessman, and so he was: a perfectly normal rep for a manufacturing firm. He stayed in large hotels, visited famous seaside resorts and after he married lived in sumptuous apartments, taking his young wife to all the society gatherings.
Of course, under the name of Edward Moran the man was quite something else. Even Dillinger had admired him, recognizing his genius in planning and executing bank robberies. It was rare for a hold-up he’d organized to fail—if ever. He never worked twice with the same gang: within the group he was the star, signed up for one job and that was it. But he got a king’s ransom every time. That said, no one had ever heard of Moran’s having used his weapons for any purpose other than intimidation. He had no bodies on his conscience, or at least none that could be personally ascribed to him. Of course he had his men, the ones he’d order to get rid of traitors, spies, anyone who lacked the common sense to understand how dangerous he was, how much they ought to fear him, how reckless, how foolish it could be to blackmail him. But he had no blood on his hands, and was proud of his girlish squeamishness around the wounded. So when the Feds finally succeeded in apprehending him, the court of Rutland could do nothing apart from condemn him to a maximum of seven years in Alcatraz, where his companions—from Al Capone to Harvey Bailey—were already waiting for him.
“When?” De Vincenzi had asked.
“In 1936,” O’Lary replied.
“But it hasn’t been seven years yet?”
“He’ll have been pardoned. He knew how to be the perfect gentleman—that is, when he wasn’t robbing banks!”
When they got to the subject of Cristiana, Prospero O’Lary’s loquacity came to a sudden halt. Yes, Cristiana had married Russell Sage; yes, she was perhaps ignorant of his true identity; yes, the woman had fled from him, abandoning him in Portland when the G-men were closing in on him. But the little man knew nothing else for certain—or he didn’t want to say any more. How had he met Cristiana? He’d met her in Miami and had agreed to leave with her. The woman had confided in him on the high seas, when their ship the Rex was already headed for Europe. These were the fruits of the interview with Prospero O’Lary.
The doctor and magistrate had then shown up, and the photographer, along with Sani and the other officers from the flying squad. De Vincenzi had put someone on guard on all three floors of the fashion house and had all the rooms searched apart from the office, where Cristiana O’Brian and Madame Firmino had remained undisturbed. He’d attended the questioning of the dressmakers and the models. The two bodies were taken to the mortuary. And so evening had arrived, followed by night.
It was ten o’clock now and Madame Firmino had left, saying she was going to bed. De Vincenzi had sat across from Cristiana in her office and begun the interview which had taken on such a laconic form on her side. He’d gleaned from O’Lary the fact that Russell Sage had made an appearance in the fashion house that very day, though O’Lary had hurried to state that it had to be pure coincidence, since he didn’t believe that Cristiana’s husband would have committed those two crimes. What’s more, O’Lary said that Cristiana had told him of Russell’s presence, and that she’d spoken to her husband in her own room while De Vincenzi was questioning Madame Firmino on the first floor. Having established this, it had been easy for De Vincenzi to learn during his questioning with Marta, Clara, Federico and Rosetta that John Bolton and his sister had attended the catwalk show and to identify in the ruddy, good-natured American the legendary and fearsome outlaw.
“So you have no idea how John Bolton discovered where your room was and how to get to it?”
“No.”
“Not even who might have sent him the invitation?”
“No.”
Cristiana exhibited no sign of abnormality apart from her persistent monosyllabic answers.
“Listen to me, Signora. What has happened in this house over the last ten hours isn’t only tragic, it’s frightening, grotesque and absurd.”
Cristiana bowed her head in agreement.
“Of course, these two crimes will be explained sooner or later, and then even their absurdity will seem logical. But at the moment I’d like to draw your attention to something, and I’d ask you not to make things more difficult for me by remaining mute.”
A faint smile crossed her face. “But I am answering your questions, Inspector! It’s not my fault if they only require a yes or a no.”
“Fine. That something is this. Why was there an orchid in your room, and why was there another on Evelina’s table? Does the flower have some special meaning for you?”
“My husband loves flowers. He often brought me an orchid when he came back home.”
“It’s quite a stretch to suppose that your husband could have committed the first crime, since I don’t see how he could have killed Valerio, carried his body to your bed and left the building, only to re-enter it at around four-thirty, that is, when the body was discovered. Even allowing for all those exceptional talents that made him famous in America, I refuse to believe he performs miracles, and I refuse absolutely to believe that he masterminded Evelina’s murder, which was committed while the showrooms were empty and after he and his sister had left. Coming in unseen would have been completely impossible at that time because all the entrances were being guarded by my men. Therefore, Signora, if the orchids weren’t brought into your house by Russell Sage—and I don’t see why he’d have done so, since he wanted to talk to you and he wouldn’t have had any need to resort to flowers to revive your memory of him—who did bring them here, and why?”
“If I could solve puzzles like that so quickly, Inspector, do you think I’d be stuck here with you, worrying over those two bodies? My exceptional gifts of divination would have allowed me to foresee and prevent the murders. You’re the one who’ll have to answer the Who? and Why?”
“You’re right, Signora. The duty falls to me, unfortunately.” And De Vincenzi stood up.
“I won’t solve them tonight, though, even if the absurdity of the situation, which the murderer purposely devised, might help me. I do however advise you, Signora, to take refuge in your room, or any other room you like. The house is under surveillance inside and out. I don’t think there will be any other unfortunate events—at least until tomorrow.”
“And you’ll be back tomorrow?”
“I’ll be back, Signora.”
“And you’ll explain the mystery?”
“I’ll try to explain it.”
“Goodnight, Inspector.”
“Good luck, Signora O’Brian. But you haven’t told me where you mean to spend the night.”
“Where? Oh God—even though I fainted today, which must make me seem over-sensitive, I don’t believe I have to give up my bed just because a cadaver was lying on it earlier. Nor do I see where else I’d sleep. There aren’t any guest rooms in this building, not even enough comfortable sofas.”
She too got to her feet and headed for the door. De Vincenzi followed and watched her as she went through Evelina’s room and down the corridor as far as the lift. She turned round.
“Goodnight, Inspector.”
A few seconds later she’d disappeared. For once, he did what he said he would do and left Cristiana O’Brian’s building. Outside, no doubt, the mystery wouldn’t seem so baffling.