The Hotel of the Three Roses (Pushkin Vertigo) - Softcover

Angelis, Augusto De

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1782271716 ISBN 13: 9781782271710

Verlag: Pushkin Press, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

When murder pays a visit to a seedy Milan hotel, Inspector De Vincenzi races to solve the case before more guests are checked out—for good
 
The shady Hotel of the Three Roses is home to an assortment of drunks and degenerates. Inspector De Vincenzi receives an anonymous letter, warning him of an imminent outrage at the guest house. Shortly after, a macabre discovery is made—a body is found hanging in the hotel's stairwell. As De Vincenzi investigates, more deaths follow, until he finally uncovers a gothic and grotesque story linking the Three Roses' unhappy residents to each other.

This intensely dramatic mystery from the father of the Italian crime novel, Augusto de Angelis, features his most famous creation—Inspector De Vincenzi.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Augusto De Angelis (1888-1944) was an Italian novelist and journalist, most famous for his series of detective novels featuring Commissario Carlo De Vincenzi. His cultured protagonist was enormously popular in Italy, but the Fascist government of the time considered him an enemy, and during the Second World War he was imprisoned by the authorities. Shortly after his release he was beaten up by a Fascist activist and died from his injuries.

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The Hotel of the Three Roses

By Augusto de Angelis, Jill Foulston

Steerforth Press

Copyright © 2016 Augusto de Angelis
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78227-171-0

CHAPTER 1

The rain was coming down in long threads that looked silvery in the glare of the headlamps. A fog, diffuse and smoky, needled the face. An unbroken line of umbrellas bobbed along the pavements. Motor cars in the middle of the road, a few carriages, trams full. At six in the afternoon, Milan was thick with darkness in these first days of December.

Three women darted hurriedly, as if driven by gusts, breaking the lines of pedestrians wherever they could. All three were dressed in black, the fashion at the start of the war, and their little gauze hats were studded with pearls. They wore string half-gloves, and all of them gripped the handles of their umbrellas in the same way, with the bony fingers of their right hands, as if threatening someone with a club. Their profiles were beaked, their eyes bright and alert, and with those chins and noses they seemed to be cleaving the crowd and the heavy mist of fog and rain. How old they were was anyone's guess. Age had fossilized their bodies, and each was so similar to the others that without the colourful hat ribbons under their chins — mauve, claret, black — a person might have thought he was hallucinating, certain that he was seeing the same woman three times in a row.

They climbed up the via Ponte Vetero from via dell'Orso, and when they came to the end of the lit pavement they plunged into the shadows of Piazza del Carmine. They instantly breathed a sigh of relief; until then, they'd had to battle through the crowd in single file, and here they found themselves more or less alone, with all the space they needed to trot along towards the church. When they reached the little door the first one pushed it, and they disappeared within.

The man who was following them and who had avoided catching up with them when they were in the piazza now came to a halt in the rain in front of the church. He seemed put out, and stared at the little black door. He passed through the short columns that closed off the porch; the chains were no longer there, only the rings that had once held them. With some difficulty, he unbuttoned his yellow raincoat with one hand and took out his watch. He had to huddle under the glow of the street lamp to see the time. Then he went up to the porch doors and hid there. He closed his umbrella.

He waited, staring at the small church door the whole time. Every now and again a black shadow would cross the piazza and disappear behind the church doors. The fog grew thicker. Half an hour went by, more. The man seemed resigned. He was tall and large, with a smooth, ruddy face under his bowler hat. His eyes were a watery blue-green, his mouth fleshy and sensual. He had propped his umbrella against the wall to dry and was rubbing his hands together with a slow, rhythmic motion which accompanied his interior monologue. He must have reached a conclusion because he suddenly clapped his hands together, as if putting a full stop to a sentence. He turned to look at his watch: 6.38. He grabbed his umbrella, opened it and ran from the porch without once glancing back at the church. It actually seemed as if he was fleeing for fear that the three women in black would come out and see him — the same ones he'd followed there only a short while before.

He entered via Mercato from Piazza del Carmine and then turned into via Pontaccio. Finding himself in front of a huge glass door that led into a vast lobby, all lit up, he opened it and went in. THE HOTEL OF THE THREE ROSES could be read on the glass door in large letters, and behind the glass hung a menu.

Inside the lobby, the man looked like someone who feels at home. He left his umbrella in a large, shiny brass stand near the door, pushed his hat back on his head and went to sit on a wicker sofa in the far corner, under a standard lamp with a large rose-coloured lampshade. He crossed his legs and cordially declared, "Foul weather, Signora Maria. I'll bet the radiators in here are cold."

Maria held court at a desk behind an opaque glass partition that divided the lobby from the dining room and from the corridor leading to the kitchen. She sat there, matronly, already too fat but still hale and hearty, with smooth, firm flesh of a uniform pearly whiteness. She was wearily doodling lines and circles on a piece of paper in front of her, absorbed in some thought — or maybe none. She'd noticed her guest come in and hadn't even bothered to raise her blonde head.

"Mario has just gone out to refill the boiler," she said in a hushed, somewhat croaky voice, studiously continuing her doodling.

The man let out a grunt of satisfaction. Then there was silence. All at once he heard a stirring behind the long counter in the dining room.

"Has Mario come back?"

"At your service, Signor Da Como. Here I am."

"An aperitivo ... "

When he saw the glass in front of him on the wicker table he drank it down in one gulp, clicking his tongue. And then, again, silence. The man drummed his fingers on the table. He stood and went over to warm up by the radiator. Took a few steps, got as far as the stairs and turned back. He hesitated. He put his hands on his stomach, tucking his thumbs into the little pockets of his waistcoat and then stuffing them into his trouser pockets. His hat had fallen back towards his neck even further, to form a sort of halo around his flushed face.

He finally made up his mind and went to lean on his elbows at the manageress's desk. The room was already dark, and only one lamp shone over the front desk. Maria was glued to the counter, where Mario was setting out plates of cold roast, marinated eel and fruit, and also one with prosciutto, salami and mortadella. She barely even seemed to notice him.

"Signora Maria ..."

"Mmmm —"

"What time does Signor Virgilio return?"

"The usual time. Why?"

The man went quiet. He put his finger on the white paper, running over the lines and circles as if trying to feel their outlines in relief, for the sake of doing something and to pull himself together. He was embarrassed. He looked up at the woman but his eyes fell to her white neck, its skin so smooth and firm it seemed to lack pores.

"I wanted to ask Virgilio something. But in any case it's the same whether I ask you or him."

"What?"

"I need the usual favour. A hundred lire. I'll pay it back tonight."

"But you already had a hundred the other night. And you're a month behind with the rent. And you have an outstanding bill with Monti for breakfast and lunch that would frighten you. He told me. It's true that it's nothing to do with me. If the waiters want to give credit, that's their business."

"I know. But frighten — frighten who? Not me. I'll pay Monti's bill too. A night goes well, and I settle everything. But I'll pay back the loan of two hundred lire tonight for sure. The Englishman has received money. And he'll play tonight."

Maria's face looked more static than ever. Only her pale lips were somewhat tense. She opened the desk drawer and took out a banknote, her copious bosom moving back as she did so.

"Here's your hundred lire. But it's the last you'll get. I've said the same to your friend Engel. We can't make loans! We're not a bank."

"Thank you. Mario, give me another aperitivo."

Just then the glass door opened and the three women in black entered the lobby one after another. Da Como turned to look at them and put his glass down quickly. He smiled and made no hurry to...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Pushkin Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1782271716
• ISBN 13: 9781782271710
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 224
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar