LITMIR.BIZ

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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 was aware of a quizzical glance in his direction from his partner.

      “Did you meet on Rastrellamento, or had you known each other before?”

      “We met on the first day and it was what the French call ‘coup de foudre,’ Inspector.”

      “Forgive me, Miss Salviati,” said Moretti, “but — you are a very beautiful woman. You must have had men making passes at you, falling in love with you, at every step. What was different about Toni Albarosa, that you would risk an affair with a man married to the daughter of the marchesa, who was on the premises, and who clearly has a position of importance on this project?”

      Vittoria Salviati swung around from the mirror on her swivel chair, giving both officers a glimpse of slim brown legs beneath her cotton wrap as she did so.

      “That’s just it — he didn’t make a pass at me. He just looked at me so sweetly with his big eyes, and told me — oh, the most beautiful things you can imagine! For a whole week before he slept with me! Oh, I’m sure this is all my fault. I’m sure this has something to with that bitch of a wife of his, or that bitch of a mother-in-law of his, or both of them!”

      “I don’t think you need blame yourself for his death in that way, Miss Salviati. I think that Mr. Albarosa was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did he ever say anything to you about anything he might have seen or heard during those nightly visits? Outside in the grounds, I mean?”

      “No. Mostly we didn’t talk once he got to my room.”

      Moretti could think of no adequate response to this.

      “Does everyone have to know?” Vittoria Salviati leaned forward anxiously in her chair, affording Moretti a generous glimpse of her much-photographed and beautiful bosom.

      “Not immediately, but when we find who is responsible, the reason for Mr. Albarosa’s presence on the terrace at that hour may come out in court.”

      There was a knock on the door and the makeup artist put his head into the room. “Miss Salviati’s due on the set in half an hour and — oh my God!”

      With a wail and a shriek he ran across and held the actress’s face between his hands.

      “Vittoria sweetie, what have they done to you, what have they said to you!” He turned

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