dress and two of the suits belong to the countess, the other woman’s suit is for a fairly minor character, the housekeeper, the man’s suit belongs to the village priest, and the German uniform is for Gunter’s character. Those are the dummies I was using over there.”
Liz Falla went over and poked her fingers through the holes. “Through the heart,” she said, “— or where it would be.”
“That’s exactly what I said to Piero,” said Betty Chesler. “Through the heart, I said.”
“I presume there’d been a break-in?”
“In a manner of speaking, though it wasn’t that difficult. I wish now I’d opted for a trailer, but this was so roomy and I like the higher ceiling. Besides, I wasn’t that worried with security guards patrolling the grounds. Whoever it was came in through the window.” Betty Chesler indicated the broken pane. “And now that we’ve lost the location manager” — this was said with heavy sarcasm — “the police have dusted for fingerprints. The young lady took the dagger away.”
“He — whoever — left the weapon.”
“Yes. Very fancy, like something out of an Errol Flynn movie, as I said to the police officer here, but I imagine you’re too young, aren’t you, to know who I mean.” Betty Chesler shuddered. “I just screamed when I got in here and saw what had happened. It looked like a massacre.”
“Was it generally known that these particular costumes would be on the dummies that night?”
“Well, anyone coming in and out of here over the past three or four days would have known, because that’s how long they’ve been up. Mr. Lord and Mr. Bianchi wanted some changes to the countess’s outfits — they’re building up her role, so I hear — and Mr. Sachs had put on quite a bit of weight since his original fittings, so we had to alter them.”
“And the housekeeper and the priest?”
“Casting changes. For the housekeeper they’d gone from a jolly roly-poly English actress to a gaunt Italian lady, more of a Mrs. Danvers type — you know, like in Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca? And they’d gone the other way for the priest — from cadaverous to cuddly, don’t ask me why.”
“I see. Thank you, Ms. Chesler. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, this is where you can reach me.” Moretti handed her his card. Then, on the spur of the moment, he asked, “Do you have any theories yourself? You talked about an omen. A warning.”
Liz Falla was standing by the table where the attacker had left the dagger. As he said this, Moretti saw her look across sharply at him, then away. She said nothing, so he continued. “About what? Or whom?”
Betty Chesler looked at Moretti. “I don’t know for sure,” she said slowly. “I work on a lot of historical films, and sometimes I get a strange feeling, standing in a room like this, surrounded by the past. It could be just that — but whatever this is about goes a long way back. That’s my opinion.”
“A long way back — in time, you mean?”
“Right. This isn’t about what Gilbert Ensor did or said to insult Monty Lord, or what the marchesa did or said to upset — well, just about everybody, that one. I mean, I can understand why knives — guns aren’t so easy to come by, unless you’re in America — but why bother with decorative daggers? If you can find that one out, Detective Inspector, you’ve probably got the answer.”
“So these are not like any knives or daggers used in the film?”
Betty Chesler shook her blond beehive vigorously. “I don’t do weapons, but I know that much. There’s guns of all sorts, and a few knives — World War Two army issue type things, I suppose. Plus the odd bomb or grenade. But no fancy handles.”
As they went back down the steps, Liz Falla asked, “Was she helpful, or were you just saying that, Guv?”
“A bit of both. I’d like to know why such a major change in a minor character — it could mean absolutely nothing, but it could also be part of that feeling she has that all this has something to do with the past.”
“Which past, that’s what I thought when she said that.”
“Exactly. But daggers, not just knives, have been used three times and that has to be significant. Murderers have quirks, but I can’t believe this guy has managed to get hold of a handful of fancy daggers cheap, and is using them for reasons of economy.”
Liz Falla reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out several sheets of paper. “I got what they call a shooting schedule from Mr. Bonini, as well as the list of cast and crew members. They usually make out a schedule for the whole project and it is updated each day. It gives names, times, and location. Who are we interested in next?”
“Vittoria Salviati, DC Falla — if your Italian steered you right.”
They were in luck. The young actress was scheduled for a shoot that afternoon. By now it was late morning and, according to the schedule, she would be in makeup. Moretti went back up the steps and asked Betty Chesler where they would find her.
As they made their way back up the drive, Moretti asked, “Has anyone mentioned anything that might be of interest from any of the statements taken so far?”
“Nothing, Guv. I did ask about the security guard’s statement, and apparently he saw and heard nothing unusual, until he came across the body — except that one of those big lights were on. There’s nerve for you, illuminating the scene of the crime!”
“Unless,” said Moretti, “it was Toni Albarosa who switched it on, because he saw something unusual — something he was not supposed to see. I think we’re about to find out why he was on the terrace at night, taking a murderer by surprise. But I don’t think he was the original target.”
Vittoria Salviati was as pretty as a picture, chocolate-box beautiful. As she turned around in the chair before the brightly lit mirrors, Moretti could not restrain a sharp intake of breath. She looked no more than eighteen years old and, even allowing for the miracle of movie makeup, her pouting red lips, cloud of tousled dark hair, and huge dark eyes against her porcelain skin did indeed take the breath away. But the white around those huge dark eyes was bloodshot, and their expression was anguished. Moretti introduced himself and Liz Falla, and established that she was reasonably comfortable speaking English.
“Do I have to speak to you now? I have a difficult scene to do — could it wait until tomorrow?”
“We would like just a brief word now with you, Miss Salviati. It would be better, coming from you, rather than from anyone else — wouldn’t it?” said Moretti, gently.
The young actress turned and nodded at the makeup artist, a middle-aged man with purple hair and a nose ring. As he left the trailer, he turned and rolled his eyes knowingly at the two policemen. As soon as he had left, Vittoria Salviati burst into tears.
“You know, don’t you? Who told you?”
“Guessed would be a better word, Miss Salviati. Toni Albarosa was either coming to see you, or leaving.”
“Leaving — oh my poor, darling Toni! It was always such a chance we took, with the marchesa so close, but we could not keep away from each other — you know how it is.”
Moretti
