5

The layout of the second floor was completely different from the first and third floors. When he reached the bottom of the service stairs, De Vincenzi found a short hallway with one door at the end and two on the sides. The door at the end was open and he could see a vast room with several tables, a rough wooden counter and a number of chairs. Although it was empty, it was obvious to De Vincenzi that it was the atelier. The dressmakers had left their work on the chairs or tables, and the usual large tailors’ scissors could be seen on the counter along with irons, both coal and electric. Fabric pieces and offcuts were scattered more or less everywhere. On the right wall, two openings without doors led to two square rooms: one contained sewing machines, and the other a large table with cutting machines. And from behind a further closed door at the other end of the room came the muted sound of chattering and the intermittent clatter of plates and glasses. The dressmakers were eating. Once again De Vincenzi pictured poor Evelina, who’d told him she took her midday meal with the employees. Slowly he retraced his steps and tried the handle of one of the two doors in the corridor. It opened…

The room was empty. A bed with the familiar bedspread of grey damask, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a table and a few chairs. On the walls, several rotogravure pictures of cinema actresses and ballerinas snipped from Italian and foreign periodicals. On the table, a cheaply framed photo of a young girl whom De Vincenzi easily recognized as one of the models. This was Valerio’s room.

He opened the wardrobe and saw quite a collection of suits. The young man must have spent all his money on clothes. Even the dresser drawers were full of fine underclothes, silk shirts, colourful pyjamas. He went back to the table. From a small bottle of perfume beside the photograph came the sharp and irritating scent of heliotrope. He hurried to put the cap on the bottle, but the scent lingered. He sat down and began slowly going through the papers lying around everywhere and inside the two drawers of the table. It was a slow process, since Valerio had saved letters from many women and bits of paper torn from illustrated newspapers and publicity flyers of all kinds; the drawers were full. De Vincenzi was rewarded for his patient sifting through all these papers with a precise idea of Valerio’s character and intelligence. Even more enticing, however, was a cutting from an American paper which he now held in his hands. It had instantly aroused his keen interest.

He read the half-column from the news section carefully. It told of the disappearance of a gangster, Lester Gillis, who was renowned as one of Edward Moran’s regular goons. The last time the man had been seen was in a bar on 18th Street. His disappearance wouldn’t have aroused anyone’s interest in the normal course of events, but some clothes and a few cards that pointed to his identity had been discovered on a deserted East River dock in Manhattan. The jacket had had a hole in it around the right shoulder, to all appearances produced by a bullet from a revolver. The shot must have come from close range, since the fabric appeared to have been burnt by the gunpowder. The paper’s theory was inspired guesswork, but it seemed no one doubted that this had been a case of gangsters settling accounts. De Vincenzi pored over the cutting and on the reverse he found news from another city in the United States. That is, provincial news, as one of our journalists would say, and it provided him with the date of the paper: 12th January 1935.

How had Valerio come by the cutting? Clearly, he wouldn’t have been able to snip it himself: in 1935 Valerio was hardly more than fifteen and living on the street in Naples, as Madame Firmino had told him, and he couldn’t even have dreamt at that point that he would meet Cristiana O’Brian or Prospero O’Lary. No, this time it was a really miraculous coincidence. De Vincenzi folded the cutting and put it in his pocket before closing the drawers. He stood up, and as he turned he saw Verna Campbell stationed in the doorway. The woman was staring at him, a sarcastic smile flitting across her lips.

“There you are!”

“I saw the door open as I was coming out of my room…” and, turning slightly, she nodded towards the door opposite Valerio’s.

“You lived very near the dead man, Signorina. How can you tell me you saw him only rarely?”

“I said he avoided being seen by me.”

“Come in. Since you’re here, we’ll take up our discussion of yesterday.”

“Your interrogation, you mean!” The smile disappeared from her face as she came in. Her eyes turned steely and her entire body stiffened. It appeared that the room awakened an irrepressible disgust.

“Why did Valerio avoid seeing you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t question me on that point, Mr Detective. Valerio is dead and the relationship I had with him should be of no interest to you.”

“Valerio was murdered, Signorina Campbell.”

The girl shot him a fiery look. “Are you implying—”

“I’m not implying anything. But I’m looking for the man or woman who killed him.”

“I might have done it, but I didn’t. Someone else got there first. Someone who might have had more reason than I did for getting rid of that pest.” Verna Campbell spoke with cruel resolution.

“Look, Miss Campbell, I’d like you to tell me exactly who this ‘someone’ is who might have had such a motive.”

The girl’s eyes shone with sarcasm. “Ah, is that all?”

“Of course that’s all.” He marvelled at his smooth tone. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down? Our interview may take some time.”

“I prefer to remain standing.”

“As you wish. You see, Signorina Campbell, you’ve told me too much to be able to stop there.”

“What did I tell you?”

“Hmm. Various things, which helped me to understand a number of others. In any case, assisting justice is a duty, and it won’t do you any harm to carry out that duty. But we must continue. You’ve enlightened me regarding Valerio’s character and morality, and in doing so revealed your hatred of him—your current hatred, which may have sprung from another feeling you no longer have for him, or at least believe you no longer have, for some reason of your own.”

“Shut up!” She’d gone deathly pale and the order came from her lips with extraordinary vehemence. “Shut up! You have no right to root around in my heart.” Her chest was heaving. De Vincenzi heard her grinding her teeth and, as he understood these symptoms, prepared himself for a hysterical attack. But through some extraordinary feat of will Verna succeeded in controlling herself.

“Where are you going with this, Mr Detective?”

“I’m trying to discover the name of the person who murdered Valerio.”

“I don’t know. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I’m too grateful to whoever it is to betray them.”

“Now think, Signorina Campbell. The person who strangled Valerio hasn’t stopped at that. Evelina was strangled too. And it’s not over! In some cases, a crime is nothing but the first link in a chain…”

“Why should they kill again?” Her voice was now shaky and her face had gone paler than ever.

“Because they’ve already killed, and because sometimes one must go on killing in order to try and save oneself. Because this morning Cristiana found another orchid in her room.”

Verna’s eyes widened. “An orchid? What does that mean?”

De Vincenzi ignored the question. “Won’t you tell me what you know, Signorina Campbell? Won’t you tell me when you saw Valerio for the last time?” He paused, staring into her eyes so intently that she finally lowered her own. “How did you know, Signorina Campbell, that Valerio was dead and lying on Signora O’Brian’s bed? The news of his death couldn’t have reached you by the time I questioned you.”

“Who told you I knew anything?”

“You yourself. You showed not the least surprise when I suddenly presented you with the body.”

“Cristiana had told me that there was a police inspector in her room who wanted to speak to me. And she said: ‘Valerio’s had the great idea of getting himself killed and he’s landed us all in it.’”

She looked away. What she’d said might have been true, but she was hiding something else—something other than the tumultuous storm of thoughts and feelings caused by discovering that Valerio was dead.

“Have you seen any orchids in this building, Signorina Campbell?”

Again, terror danced in her eyes.

“Orchids?”

“Did you know that the murderer leaves an orchid beside each body?”

“Yesterday,” she murmured, almost whispering, “yesterday, in this room, there were two orchids in a vase. Valerio must have brought them.”

“Where were they?”

“There, on that table.” She looked at the table and remarked, “And now the vase is gone, too!”