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pained and frightened, the way one would be when summoned to rush to a family member’s aid.
    Maione walked toward him.
    â€œDotto’,
buonasera
. Unfortunately, there’s no need to hurry. That girl’s not going anywhere ever again. Her name is, or was, Cennamo. Maria Rosaria Cennamo.”
    Modo gave him a bewildered stare:
    â€œCennamo? Who’s that?”
    Madame Yvonne took a step forward as if she were stepping onto center stage, and intoned dramatically:
    â€œViper, Doctor. Viper, our own Viper, is dead.”
    The doctor took off his hat and scratched his head.
    â€œViper. Poor girl. Where is she?”
    Ricciardi walked slowly over to him.
    â€œCiao, Bruno. So you knew her, this signorina?”
    The doctor grimaced wearily.
    â€œOh, ciao, Ricciardi. At least it’s you, on this case, and not one of your incompetent colleagues. Yes, of course I knew her. Everyone in the city knew her. In her way, she was a celebrity. And after all, I’m someone who knows all of these girls.”
    He waved to the group of women in nightgowns, who all responded affectionately in return.
    Ricciardi sighed.
    â€œI’m well aware that you’re familiar with this place.”
    The doctor was preparing a retort when Maione broke in:
    â€œSpeaking of family members, Dotto’, is that famous dog still with you?”
    â€œOf course he is, Brigadie’. Why on earth would he leave me, with what I feed him? Sure, his ideal meal would be ground policeman, but he finds that all too rarely in his bowl.”
    Maione snorted.
    â€œMy flesh would be too tough to chew, Dotto’. You’d probably blunt the edge of your scalpel if you tried.”
    â€œIn any case, the dog is downstairs. He’s just like Ricciardi, he doesn’t like to come into places like this. He waits for me, and if I’m in here too long, he even starts to howl. I’ve acquired a mother-in-law, not a dog.”
    Ricciardi pointed upstairs.
    â€œCome on, let’s go take a look at the young lady. After all, this lovely reception is being held in her honor.”
    Â 
    While Modo was focusing on the corpse, Ricciardi examined the bedroom more carefully.
    It seemed that nothing was missing nor, at first glance, was there any reason to suppose that theft had been the motive. The drawers were all shut, the jewelry box on the dresser was full, and in any case, none of the baubles inside seemed especially valuable, junk for the most part, gaudy but made of cheap metals. The chaos that reigned in the room was only the result of the girl’s messiness.
    He started searching more carefully.
    He looked in the dresser drawers, turning up nothing other than a vast assortment of elegant unmentionables, culottes, brassieres, stockings, and negligees of every cut and color. No letters, no documents.
    And no whips.
    He looked on the floor, under the carpet, beneath the bed. He noticed that everything was very clean. But he found nothing.
    He realized that in all likelihood there’d been a brief struggle: whatever had been atop the nightstand had been swept off, possibly by the woman herself as she thrashed frantically, seeing as her left leg had been very nearby; apart from a few hairpins and a nail file, there was nothing on the nightstand. It must not have made much noise, because some of the objects had fallen on the bed and the rest onto the thick carpet that covered the floor; nothing had broken.
    The commissario focused on the objects that had been knocked off the nightstand, but here too nothing seemed out of the ordinary: a bottle of glycerine, a container of talcum that hadn’t burst open as it fell; nail polish, a small mirror with a handle, a small bottle of perfume with the name “Fleurs Parisiennes”; a round tin of face powder without a lid, but practically empty; a brush made of inlaid wood, a comb, and a cigarette case. All of them scattered across the carpet, with the exception of