6

It was four o’clock on that rainy Friday in March when events in the Cristiana O’Brian Fashion House began to spin towards their dizzying and dramatic conclusion.

But De Vincenzi had been expecting this for several hours. As soon as he’d learnt from Verna Campbell that Valerio had brought the orchids to Corso del Littorio, he made his escape and left the fashion house. He took the lift from the second floor to the reception area and rapidly fired off some orders to Cruni before leaving the building, under the confused and watchful eye of the quaking Federico.

Cruni’s orders were to wait a few moments and then send away the officer and all the policemen stationed in the building. De Vincenzi had suddenly decided to lift surveillance and abandon the crime scene to the mercy of events and the will of the person who’d already killed two people and was surely contemplating killing at least one more.

Once in the street, De Vincenzi headed for a restaurant. He’d left Corso del Littorio so suddenly that no one would notice his absence, or at least not for some time. So he’d have a chance to eat before things started up again; he’d left the coast clear. That they would start up again, he had no doubt. Nothing that had happened up to that point could be anything other than preparation for the main event, the one for which Valerio’s body had been taken to Cristiana O’Brian’s bed and for which Evelina had been strangled.

He got to San Fedele at around two and found Sani waiting for him in his office.

“Anything new from Corso del Littorio?”

De Vincenzi shrugged—“Another orchid”—and went straight to his own room.

Sani understood his boss very well, and when he saw De Vincenzi lock the door behind him he said to himself that the latest orchid must in itself be an important development, one of those decisive factors that threw De Vincenzi into a particular state of turmoil and required him to seek solitude. It would lead to his taking decisive action and end with his explanation of the puzzle and the arrest of the guilty person. In fact, Sani immediately heard him pacing nervously across his room, another habit that revealed the intensity of his focus.

For his part, however, De Vincenzi wasn’t even trying to find an explanation for the mystery this time. He was sure there would be a new development, in itself illuminating, and he was waiting for it. It was the anxiety of expectation that made him nervy, both with himself and others. Whoever had let the furies loose with the crimes in the Cristiana O’Brian Fashion House was unable to stop, wait or call things off. He’d have to act quickly, though, as indicated by the third, ominous orchid… He struggled to gain control of his nerves, forcing himself not to think of the ordeal. But it required too much effort, so he decided to reconstruct the events of the last twenty-four hours. He went over them methodically and meticulously, starting from the moment he’d stepped into the building on Corso del Littorio.

The principal figures appeared to be Cristiana, Prospero O’Lary, Madame Firmino, Clara and… Verna. It was she who stood out in his memory, troublingly and all the more painfully because of her fierce cynicism. Then there was little Rosetta, with her plait like a mouse’s tail twisted round her head. Had the assistant really played no part in it? He’d bungled things by not questioning her. He’d surely have been able to get something out of her, since girls of her age are very curious and nosy…

One figure stood out from the others, like an obsession. There were no firm clues to set this person apart, yet he was basing all his theories on them, theories that had seen him practically flee from the fashion house, convinced that only in that way would he be able to return at the right moment. Naturally, he might be mistaken, and it was of course a serious risk he was taking—at the very least, he risked never being able to solve the mystery.

Three orchids: three bodies. At the moment there were only two bodies. Even though he believed his hunch was correct and would prove to be so, by removing himself from the scene he was setting himself up to stumble across another body before he could intervene.

He looked at his watch mechanically: it was three. At that very moment the telephone on his table rang. Instantly, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted. He approached the phone with the firm conviction that, for him, this was the beginning of the end, the final halloo of the hunt when it sights the fox.

A loud voice bloomed into the earpiece, making it vibrate. A voice both warm and instantly enveloping that came across as immediately likeable, even though it was mangling the Italian, twisting it with a foreign accent.

“Mr Detective De Vincenzi?”

“Yes. Go ahead, Signor Bolton.”

“Aha! You’re choosing the name you want, Mr Detective. So may I call myself John Bolton without being corrected? Thank you.”

“Call yourself whatever you like, Signor Moran.”

“Bolton! That’s better, thank you.”

“So?”

“I’ve been thinking, Signor Policeman.”

“And?”

“I’d like to see you again. The fruit of my reflections may interest you. However, I wouldn’t like to come to you…” The earpiece buzzed even more when the peerless John Bolton laughed. De Vincenzi had to hold the receiver away from his ear to preserve his hearing. When he put it back, Bolton had finished laughing. “It would be the first time I’d come spontaneously and willingly to a police station—and that would seem excessive, truly excessive.”

“I’ve got it, Signor Bolton. You’re worried that someone might see you?”

“A precaution, Mr Detective, a precaution. Well, what do you say to coming here to see me?”

“Now?”

“Oh yes, better now.”

It wasn’t the call De Vincenzi had been expecting. At least, the tenor of the communication didn’t seem to be what he was waiting for. And yet he felt strangely calm and contented. The wheels had been set in motion, the gears were working. It wasn’t because of his reflections that Bolton-Moran wanted to speak to him. It must have been some new thing urging him to reveal to De Vincenzi a detail he’d kept back at first. Some new thing, which the third orchid had foreshadowed that morning.

The telephone rang again. Corso del Littorio was calling: it was Madame Firmino.

“Inspector!” Her voice was broken, almost sobbing. “I found—I found a vase full of orchids. It was hidden. And don’t laugh at me, Signor Inspector, but I’m beginning to be afraid.”

“I understand, Signorina—and so well that I’ll be there straight away.” He hung up the receiver, put on his overcoat and hat. It had to be the beginning of the end.

Five minutes later he walked through the entrance to the fashion house.