Marta and Madame Firmino stood motionless, as if paralysed. De Vincenzi hesitated briefly, and had started dashing for the stairs when he heard the lift coming up at the other end of the corridor.
The doors opened suddenly to reveal Cristiana. As soon as she saw the huddle of people she started in their direction. De Vincenzi approached her.
“Where have you just come from?”
Cristiana had on a beaver fur with a matching beret. Her strange, pallid face was thrown into stark relief in the dimly lit corridor. She stared dumbfounded at De Vincenzi, the thin black lines of her eyebrows forming two question marks.
“From the street. I went out… You didn’t tell me not to.”
“You’re right. But you should have told me.”
Rosetta’s sobs interrupted him. He turned round.
“Wait. Don’t any of you move from here!” And he ran to the stairs. He only had to go down to the landing on the second floor before he found something, and that something was the body of John Bolton, alias Russell Sage, alias Edward Moran. The man had fallen dead just as he got to the landing, and half his body lay over its marble paving, half over the stairs themselves. The door to the second floor—the one that must have led to the kitchen and the workers’ dining room—was closed.
De Vincenzi leant over the body. The man was lying face down. It could hardly have been otherwise, since just above his collar a black hole opened up his ruddy neck: a rivulet of blood streaked his right cheek and puddled on the floor. He’d been shot from behind and below. De Vincenzi felt his hand: still warm. As far as he could tell, he’d been shot recently, probably only a few minutes before.
He got up and went to open the only door on the landing. As he had suspected, it led to a narrow hallway one had to cross to get to the kitchen. Off the kitchen was a smallish room with long tables and benches neatly aligned along the walls. The tables were covered with white oilcloth. All the other doors were closed. De Vincenzi crossed the dining room to open the door on the other side. He saw the large atelier filled with busy dressmakers. One or two turned at the sound of the door opening and looked at him in surprise. Everything in order there. It actually seemed pointless to ask if they’d heard the sound of the shot.
He now knew exactly what he had to do, and each of his movements was swift and considered.
The door to Valerio’s room was closed. Verna Campbell’s was open, however, and he saw her inside tying a white apron over a black dress.
“Did you go out with Signora O’Brian?”
Verna glanced at her hat and coat still lying on the bed.
“I’ve just come back, in fact,” she said.
“But were you with the signora?”
“Ask her.”
“I will ask her. But answer me. How did you get here?”
She acted surprised and answered, “We came up in the lift. Cristiana went ahead of me.”
“Was it only the two of you?”
“Who else would it have been?”
“Prospero O’Lary.”
“No. We didn’t see him.”
“Don’t leave your room. I’ll need to speak to you again.”
He turned on his heel and quickly re-entered the atelier. He spotted a dressmaker standing next to the table, measuring a piece of silk—its colours, flowers and arabesques gave it a sense of voluptuous heaviness—and addressed her.
“Has anyone come through here?”
The woman had a pasty face and her eyes were too pale. She was thin and miserable, but her blue-green eyes were alert. All the dressmakers were watching De Vincenzi with curiosity.
“Come through here? What do you mean?”
“Yes. Has someone come into this room with you? Have you seen anyone pass through the atelier?”
“No, no one.”
Clara ran in from the cutting room. “What’s wrong, Inspector? Who are you looking for?”
“How long have you been here, Signorina Clara?”
“For some time. This is my place, you realize—with the workers.”
“Well, I’ll repeat my question: have you seen anyone come into the atelier? I mean someone other than the workers. Signora O’Brian’s maid, for example.”
“No, Inspector. No one has been in here for at least an hour.”
De Vincenzi glanced round. Astonished faces, spiteful faces, curious faces. Blonde hair, black, chestnut, red, in disarray. He nodded a goodbye to Clara.
“Don’t let anyone leave this workroom. No one who’s in here must leave for any reason.” He went back through the kitchen to the landing. He passed the body and hurriedly descended the stairs. When he got to the foyer at the bottom, the service doorway was ajar. Anyone could have come and gone through it.
He went back upstairs to the first floor. He ran towards the offices, threw open the doors and flew through to administration. Prospero O’Lary was sitting at his desk consulting some papers. De Vincenzi gave no sign of surprise.
“Already back?”
The little man leapt to his feet.
“You’re here, Inspector? What else has happened?”
“Nothing. Aren’t the two bodies from yesterday enough for you, Signor O’Lary?” De Vincenzi’s tone was facetious. He shot Prospero a friendly look.
“Oremus” put a hand to his head, then let it fall to smooth the lapels of his frock coat.
“For me? Oh! For me…”
“Where have you been, Signor O’Lary?”
“Why? Why are you asking where I’ve been?” He was trying—and failing—to maintain his composure.
“You must tell me. Signora Cristiana O’Brian went out too and everyone is worried about her absence.”
Prospero’s face lit up, and he immediately seemed more sure of himself. “In fact, I went out to look for Cristiana. Ask Marta and Madame Firmino. They’ll tell you that…”
De Vincenzi slowly nodded.
“Leave Marta and Madame Firmino out of this. They’ve already told me. I don’t doubt what you’re telling me, Signor O’Lary. I just want you to explain why Cristiana’s sudden absence worried you so much that you ran out to find her.”
“After everything that’s happened her absence could only be strange, no?”
“Where did you go to look for her?”
He hesitated, then stated vigorously, “I’m asking you not to press this point, Inspector. The lady’s private life does not concern you.”
“Oh, you think not? Well, did you find her?”
“No. My guess was completely mistaken. Cristiana hadn’t gone where I went to look for her.”
“To the Albergo Palazzo? To her husband?”
The man was startled. “So how would I have known that Moran was at the Albergo Palazzo?”
“You didn’t know, of course. The only one who knew was he—or she—who sent him the invitation and the plan of this building.”
“The plan?”
De Vincenzi moved away from the desk. “It’s an old story.” He made for the door, and turned round.
“Where can Signora O’Brian have gone? You’ll need to help us if we are to look for her.”
“But has she really not returned?” He was genuinely surprised.
“You see, O’Lary, I actually think you need to start telling me at least some of the many things you’re hiding! Valerio wasn’t killed in Cristiana’s bedroom. He was strangled in the ‘museum of horrors’, amongst the mannequins, and in the spot where he was killed I found a medallion from the San Siro Dog Track, which most likely belonged to Cristiana O’Brian.”
“Oh!” “Oremus” raised his hands in a gesture of comic deprecation. “You can’t imagine now that—”
“If you only knew the vast number of things I imagine, Signor O’Lary, you’d be surprised at how they can all remain calmly in my brain.”
The little man went quiet and studied De Vincenzi more closely than ever. He seemed to be trying to decide something.
“You’re right. We need to look for her. She may have got mixed up in something without meaning to. Cristiana has changed a lot recently. She’s been doing things she’s never done before. She started—yes, well, she’s been using Valerio… The idea probably wasn’t hers. I’m telling you, she’s really changed, Inspector.”
De Vincenzi smiled.
“I know all this by now, Signor O’Lary, and Evelina knew it too. She was strangled because she knew it.”
O’Lary opened his hands in despair.
“How awful!” He seemed disinclined to defend Cristiana. “What now, Inspector?”
“Nothing for now, Signor O’Lary. It’s essential that I attend to the third body.”
“What did you say?” He turned scarlet before suddenly blanching. “A third body?”
“Exactly! You didn’t know there were three orchids? Just as there are three bodies…”