City of Devils: A Novel (12 page)

‘Then we must find whoever did this and ensure that he is brought to justice,’ Ottolenghi said firmly.

Lombroso looked almost alarmed at this prospect. ‘No, no! We must leave it to the authorities. They will find the person responsible and deal with him appropriately.’

‘But Machinetti is a fool. You said as much yourself!’ Ottolenghi exclaimed.

‘I did say that and it is true but I’ll warrant that Tullio is not and neither is young Giardinello. Machinetti may think he is the chief investigator but his underlings do most of the work. They will solve this crime . . . eventually.’

‘But eventually may be too late!’ James replied.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Ottolenghi.

‘What if this criminal strikes again? It is not uncommon for one person to commit a series of crimes. I have read many accounts of such men. There was a Dr Palmer in England – the Rugeley poisoner – he killed again and again. And there are others. What of Gilles de Rais – he murdered hundreds!’

Lombroso tutted at James. ‘I do not think that this is such a case. Really, Murray, you have an eye for melodrama. Perhaps you should write a “penny dreadful”! That is what the English call works of sensational fiction, is it not?’

‘I just do not want him to get away with his crime, whoever he is,’ James said, subdued by Lombroso’s scornful reaction.

‘And neither do I, Murray. But we should leave it to the authorities. Nothing will be served by you and me interfering in matters that we do not fully comprehend.’

‘But we are studying crime and criminals, surely we could help at least?’ James implored.

Lombroso sighed and looked morosely into the dying embers of the fire. ‘I can see that you will not allow the matter to rest until I explain in full. I suppose that shows a certain tenacity which may be an advantage in the study of crime.’

There was a long pause. Lombroso stroked his beard thoughtfully, gave a deep sigh, and began. ‘There was a case, some time ago, in which Machinetti and I were professionally involved. It was before he was promoted to the position of marshal. He was eager for advancement and obviously viewed it as an opportunity to make a name for himself.’

‘What kind of case?’ James asked.

‘A particularly hideous offence. A young woman, the daughter of a count, a very rich and influential man, had been reported missing. It was hardly surprising that the authorities were anxious that she be found. For some reason Machinetti was chosen to head the investigation and he decided to consult me. He wanted to know what kind of man he was looking for and where we might find him . . . and the girl.’

There was another pause.

‘What happened?’ asked Ottolenghi.

‘I told him that on no account should he allow publicity. The man we were seeking was not the sort of person who could be found in that way and, anyway, the publicity itself might provoke him into violence. He did not listen to me. He arranged for posters to be put up everywhere and for broadsheets to cover the story in detail.’

‘The man was not caught?’

Lombroso shook his head vigorously.

‘Machinetti decided to insult the man by describing him as weak and unintelligent. He thought this might encourage him to make a mistake.’

‘Did it work?’ James asked.

‘No, it did not,’ replied Lombroso bluntly.

‘Was she found?’

‘Unfortunately she was – but not alive. She had been strangled and it was obvious that she had also been violated in a most obscene manner. There were some hints in the press and from the authorities that
I
was to blame for the girl’s tragic end.’

Ottolenghi shook his head in disbelief. ‘But surely it was clear that it was not your fault. You gave Machinetti advice and he did not act upon it. In fact, he chose to ignore it.’

Lombroso’s expression was steely with anger. ‘That is not the account that Machinetti gave, but even then he had to wait many more years for a promotion that he would otherwise have got in months. The perpetrator was never caught. Fortunately, some of Machinetti’s superiors took my side in the matter but he somehow persuaded himself that I alone was responsible. He still believes it now and I doubt he will ever come to terms with the fact that I was right and he was wrong. Machinetti simply cannot be trusted with the truth. The man even lies to himself when it suits him.’

James peered down at his hands. He did not know where else to look. No wonder the professor had been so reluctant to become involved with the investigation.

‘So you see, Murray, I prefer to have as little to do with Machinetti as possible – and now that this murder has occurred I fear that he will take the opportunity to avenge himself for what he perceives to be the wrong that I did him.’

‘Surely you could reason with him, or perhaps I could on your behalf?’ James suggested, outraged.

‘You are very kind, Murray, but I fear that nothing anyone could say will change Machinetti’s mind. If it is at all possible he will ensure that I am blamed for this killing. I only hope that Giardinello or Tullio are bright enough to see through Machinetti and have sufficient strength of character to defy him.’

‘But surely we cannot take that risk? Both are inexperienced. There is no guarantee . . .’ His voice tailed off, seeing the expression on Lombroso’s face.

‘For the last time, my answer is no.’ Lombroso’s voice was stern and it was evident that he would brook no further argument. ‘But you are right about one thing. We are studying crime and perhaps we should stop wasting our precious time and get on with it.’ He looked at his pocket watch and frowned. ‘It is late, gentlemen. We will speak no more of this.’

He dismissed them with a perfunctory wave of the hand and picked up a book.

Having collected their coats they agreed to walk together for a while as they did not live far from one another. The evening was cold and the fog swirled round them as if it was trying to swallow them whole. James was glad of the company. The streets were deserted and quiet apart from their footfall.

‘What do you know about Reiner?’ James asked, eager to break the silence.

Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘Not a great deal on a personal level. He is a psychiatrist, very well respected in his field.’

‘I just wondered. He has an unusual manner.’

‘There are few of us in this field who are not guilty of that!’ Ottolenghi said laughing.

‘True,’ James said. ‘Take the professor, for example. I still can’t see why a man of his experience would allow someone like Machinetti to dictate what he involves himself in.’

‘Well, at least we tried,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘There is little else we can do.’

‘Perhaps the professor will change his mind . . . if things get really bad, I mean.’ James spoke hesitantly, unconvinced by his own argument.

‘I doubt it,’ Ottolenghi replied. ‘It is quite clear the professor does not want to investigate this murder himself.’

‘Maybe not,’ replied James thoughtfully, ‘but there is no reason why we cannot look into it on his behalf. If we find anything we can tell Tullio.’

Ottolenghi nodded. ‘Yes, I am sure that he could be relied upon to be discreet.’

‘And if the professor finds out?’ James asked.

‘Then we will just have to hope he understands that we did it for him. But James, you should take care. The professor demands complete attention and if he thinks you have allowed this or . . . or
other
matters to divert you from your studies he will dismiss you. He is quite ruthless where that is concerned.’

James looked at Ottolenghi’s face. His expression was concerned rather than hostile. He smiled sheepishly. Perhaps Ottolenghi was right. Sofia was beautiful and James was sorely tempted to see her again but he had other things to think about. They must take precedence. Ottolenghi patted him on the shoulder, obviously satisfied that he had made his point and they continued their journey in silence.

Despite this James was still unable to banish Sofia from his mind. The memory of her face, the softness of her skin as he had stroked her cheek would not leave him. It was strange. Her words to Lombroso had almost been those of a daughter rather than a servant. He couldn’t work out their relationship and there was a familiarity between them that did not seem quite right.

Soon they came to the parting of the ways. They arranged to meet at the scene of the murder in the Piazza Statuto the following morning to do a little preliminary investigation before the debate. They bade each other good night and James watched Ottolenghi walk off in one direction as he turned to the other.

Before long he had to turn off the broad thoroughfare into the labyrinth of winding, largely unlit, narrow streets that led to his lodgings. There was not a soul around, leaving him to navigate his way through the swirling mists and the darkness, hoping that he was remembering the directions Ottolenghi had given him earlier.

As he walked, James began to turn the events of that evening over in his mind. If this was the Devil’s city then where exactly might the gates of hell be? He looked about him as he walked, increasingly unsettled by the oppressive, almost unnatural silence that weighed down on him. Was he imagining it or could he detect a hint of sulphur in the air? It was almost as if the Devil was leaving him a trail. As he carried on down the cobbled street his imagination began to jostle with his usual rationality. Occasionally he would pass a window where a gas lamp flickered and he almost thought that he could sense the presence of a demon squatting behind it, waiting to beckon him into hell. He began to walk faster, yearning for the safety and security of his rooms but at the same time forcing himself to think rational, more solid thoughts as he went.

He wondered why Turin had such a significant reputation for Satanism. Was there anything in it or was it just superstition? He smiled to himself briefly as he imagined telling Lucy of the legend. She would no doubt take it at face value and write a story about it, complete with some lurid illustrations. He chided himself for being so ridiculous. If there was a hell, it was more than likely man-made. He had seen plenty of evidence of that in last year or so.

But as he walked on, he slowly became aware yet again of a sensation of being followed. He thought that he could hear light footsteps behind him. When he stopped, so did they. He tensed himself and grasped his cane firmly. The silence of the night bore down, crushing him like a huge burden and he felt almost unable to breathe. As he looked round he heard a slight noise coming from an alleyway nearby. This time it seemed more persistent. His heart began to beat so quickly he thought that it would leap from his body. Was he about to be robbed or worse? Would he end up like Soldati, strangled and mutilated in a lonely piazza, his blood mingling with the dirt of the city? A figure emerged. Again James held his breath and prepared to defend himself.

6

Hitherto policing was conducted much as wars used to be waged: randomly and on the basis of hunches. Successful investigations depended on the astuteness and dedication of a few individuals. What we need now is to apply the scientific method to the identification of criminals.

Lombroso, 1896 p 331

A hand came out of the gloom and rested on James’s wrist.

‘Signor,’
breathed the figure into his ear. It was shrouded in a hooded cloak giving it an other-worldly air, though its touch was all too human. James gave a sigh of relief as he realised that it was Sofia.

She looked up into his eyes. ‘Come, come with me now.’

‘Sofia, what is it?’

She shook her head at him impatiently. ‘Just follow me. I will explain.’

His head was advising caution – after all, what did he really know about Sofia? But his heart – that was a different matter entirely. It wasn’t just the way she looked that attracted him. There was something intriguing about her – a hint that behind those dark eyes lay a wealth of secrets. Everything that Ottolenghi had said only moments ago became a distant memory. He went with her only too willingly as she took him by the hand and led him through the cold night. If she wanted him, then he was hers.

But there was to be no tryst that night. Instead they ended up at a tavern not far from the Piazza Statuto where Soldati’s body had been found. James did not notice much about the place itself, except that it was dingy and smelt unpleasant. But that did not matter. The only thing that occupied his mind was Sofia. He noticed that her hair was no longer neatly braided but was held back loosely with combs. She looked to James as if she had just stepped out from a renaissance painting.

She sat him down in a corner and returned shortly afterwards with a small bottle of clear liquid and two glasses. James did not know what the drink was and sniffed cautiously at it when she poured him a glass and swirled it round, watching the slightly viscous liquid cling to the sides. He was about to take a sip when he saw Sofia looking at him with her customary amused expression so he took a gulp instead. It was certainly powerful and not a little rough. He coughed and spluttered as its harshness coated his throat. It was like drinking fire.

He looked up to see Sofia laughing at him. ‘My poor signor! You are not used to our
grappa
.’