City of Devils: A Novel (32 page)

‘Indeed,’ Lombroso said. ‘Well then, Marshal, why don’t you read it in the paper like a man of the people should?’

Machinetti stared at him. ‘If you do not hand it over I will have you taken into custody right now for tampering with evidence.’

Lombroso raised his eyebrows. Out of the corner of his eye James could see the two carabinieri that Machinetti had brought with him, standing tensely by as if readying themselves for what would no doubt be a difficult arrest.

‘Give the letter to me now!’ Machinetti barked. ‘It is evidence.’

‘Tssk tssk, Machinetti. You remind me of one of my children.’ Lombroso wagged his finger and shook his head like a nanny admonishing one of her charges.

Machinetti paused as if he was weighing up the situation. ‘This is not helping your case, Lombroso,’ he said in a quieter but more threatening tone.

‘What case?’ Lombroso asked brusquely.

‘Why murder, of course,’ Machinetti replied. ‘The evidence against you is mounting. The notes name you and now you appear to be anxious to get to this letter. What’s the matter? Are you afraid it might name you as an accomplice?’

Lombroso stood up, took the letter from James and held it up as if to give it to him. ‘Here, have it. I have seen enough.’

Machinetti walked slowly over to him, a sly smile on his face. ‘You will be hearing from us soon, Professor, I promise you that. Now give me the letter. It is police property.’

‘Indeed it is,’ Tullio said firmly as he took the letter from Lombroso. ‘As such, I will take it.’

Machinetti went towards him as if he was about to snatch it back. James wondered for a second if there was to be an unseemly brawl but at the last moment Machinetti appeared to change his mind and smirked at Tullio instead.

‘I expect it is just a hoax, anyway,’ he said dismissively.

Lombroso’s expression darkened and he looked at Machinetti. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. But as you should know by now, Marshal, assumptions are dangerous things.’

With that he swept out, rather magnificently, leaving Machinetti standing open-mouthed and Baldovino looking as if he was making mental notes for his next story.

James went to leave but turned back and studied the marshal for a few seconds from the doorway. Machinetti seemed intent on thwarting their investigation at every turn. Evidence was far from safe in his hands. Could it really be nothing more than a feud that made him behave in such an obstructive fashion?

Machinetti scowled at him. ‘Hurry along, Dr Murray. Your master is waiting for you.’

James spun on his heel contemptuously and walked out of the building into the street, breathing the fresh air gratefully. Machinetti hated Lombroso, that much was clear. But was it enough to make him a killer? James thought of the hatred in the policeman’s eyes and concluded that it was entirely possible it was.

17

Just as they have their own jargon, criminals have their own special literature
.

Lombroso, 1876 p 79

‘Gentlemen, I believe we have a clue!’

Lombroso sat back in his chair, clutching a copy of the
People’s Voice
, and looked at them with an expression of satisfaction etched upon his face. Having left Baldovino and Machinetti, Lombroso had promptly invited everyone to lunch at the museum, in order to discuss the murders and the significance of the letter that Tullio had handed back to him as soon as they had left the newspaper’s offices. He turned the front page towards them and they all looked at the headline.

‘What does the letter say?’ Ottolenghi asked.

Lombroso cleared his throat and began to read.

‘To whom it may concern. My work is inspired by men of science. I will not stop until the gates of Hell have truly opened. I am but a lone voice crying in the wilderness.
It is signed,
Pilgrim!

‘Not much of a clue,’ Ottolenghi declared.

‘I thought it might help us establish an identity or a motive,’ Tullio agreed, ‘but it’s just a vague reference.’

Lombroso threw his hands up in despair.

‘Really, you should all know better! It is not a clue in the established sense. But if this letter
is
from the killer it will help us to understand what sort of a person he – or she – is. Murray, what would Dr Bell suggest we ask?’

James had only to think for an instant before his tutor’s voice came into his head. ‘Why would he or she write such a letter in the first place? Do they want to be found and if so why? Are they seeking attention? Again, if that is so, then why? What kind of language is employed? How have they expressed themselves? What paper and ink was used? Is this someone who has access to good quality writing materials? If not, then are they poor or pretending to be poor?’

‘Well done, Murray,’ Lombroso said. ‘And I would add this question. Are they a savage or refined, or something in between?’

Tullio looked even gloomier than before. ‘Questions, so many questions – but no answers. Sometimes I feel as if we will never get to the bottom of this and the murders will just go on and on.’

‘Questions that once they are answered will tell us more about our killer,’ Lombroso said patiently. ‘He, or she, will be caught.’

‘Of course, what is interesting is the name he gives himself,’ James said thoughtfully.

Lombroso stroked his beard. ‘Mmm, yes. What is the significance of the name “Pilgrim”, I wonder?’

‘It clearly has some religious connection,’ James said.

‘Yes, a religious devotee of some sort, perhaps,’ Lombroso said. ‘The quote is from the bible, as I recall.’

‘Or it could mean that the writer is on some kind of quest,’ James said, thinking of Bunyan’s
The Pilgrims Progress
, a book he had been made to read at school, much to his displeasure at the time. Now, of course he wished that he had paid more attention.

‘Mmm, but a quest for what?’ Lombroso said.

‘How certain can we be that the letter is genuine?’ Tullio asked.

‘We cannot be certain at all. That is why I needed to see the original,’ Lombroso explained. ‘I need to ascertain if the handwriting is the same as in the Tribute notes found with the victims. I will need to see all of them together, with the letter.’

‘They are held by Machinetti but I may be able to get hold of them, with or without permission,’ Tullio said.

There was a tentative knock at the door. It opened softly as if the person did not wish to disturb him.

‘
Mi scusi, Professore
?’ Sofia came into the room. James looked at her and an image of her, a sweet golden memory from the previous night’s lovemaking, flashed before his eyes, making him catch his breath.

‘Sofia, what is it?’ Lombroso sat up straight, his eyes wide and alert. ‘Has there been another murder?’

‘No, Professor,’ Sofia replied quietly. ‘This letter was left at the front door a few moments ago.’

She handed it to Lombroso who held it up for all to see. The envelope was written in red and addressed as
A Tribute to Lombroso.
There seemed something faintly theatrical about the whole thing, as if it had been rehearsed. James wondered if Lombroso had asked Sofia to bring it in like that, to play up the element of drama. Would the professor really go to such lengths just for that, or was there another reason?

‘Did you see who delivered it?’ James asked, a trifle sharply.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Sofia left quietly, giving him a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement before she did so. Ottolenghi raised his eyebrows at him and James had to admit to himself that he was enjoying the subterfuge involved with his and Sofia’s relationship. It added a certain thrill to the affair. But ever since he had seen Lombroso leaving her rooms the possibility that she was somehow playing with him, was perhaps in league with the professor, was still in his head, like a tiny worm burrowing away at his faith in both of them.

Lombroso did not even seem to notice that Sofia had gone. He studied the envelope closely. ‘It looks the same as the others. The handwriting seems to be identical.’

‘What does it say?’ James asked.

‘Wait, young man, wait. We must not be impatient. The killer has apparently seen fit to communicate directly with us. The least we can do is to treat such a message with respect.’

‘I’m not sure I hold with the idea of respecting a common criminal,’ Tullio said.

‘A criminal he certainly is but common he is not. It is only by recognising that fact that we will catch him.’ Lombroso held the letter up to the light and examined it carefully. ‘Mmm, reasonably good quality notepaper, expensive but not prohibitively so.’

‘What about the handwriting?’ Ottolenghi asked.

Lombroso leaned back in his chair, with a smug look on his face.

‘It so happens that I have considered the subject of criminals’ handwriting before, and though I say it myself there were some very instructive findings. On studying them it became clear that the signatures of known murderers shared a number of characteristics. There were no flourishes in their vertical extensions and the letters were all slightly distant from each other and rather squashed and rounded. Many of them were young but showed evidence of a trembling hand. This however does not fit in. There is a very clear cross of the “t” – see, it is elongated – that signifies a certain energy. There are also a number of distinct flourishes, can you see?’

Lombroso showed them the envelope and pointed to some of the letters which were elaborately curled.

‘Look at this. It is extraordinary, is it not? See the way he has included curlicues and arabesques. It is almost—’

‘Artistic!’ Tullio exclaimed.

‘Perhaps, but more importantly it is familiar. It puts me in mind of the kind of signature that is common to killers, more precisely vicious and ferocious murderers. And yet . . .’

Lombroso looked at them and paused dramatically.

‘I do not think that this is in the same hand as the letter to Baldovino!’

‘Are you sure?’ Tullio asked.

‘No, not really,’ Lombroso admitted. ‘This is not a precise art and I did not have sight of the first letter long enough for a thorough examination. I was able to make a few notes but that is all. I can only make an educated guess but there are sufficient differences in the writing to suggest that they are in a different hand.’

‘Or perhaps it
is
the same hand,’ James suggested tentatively. ‘Maybe we are meant to
think
they are from two different people. Should we not look inside and see?’

‘Be patient. In a moment I will open the letter but first . . .’ Lombroso brought the letter to his nose and began to sniff at it. His nose wrinkled as if he had smelt something unpleasant.

‘What is it?’ Tullio asked.

Lombroso frowned slightly. ‘I do not know. All I can tell you is that, whatever it is, I have smelt it before, and recently.’

Lombroso handed the letter to Ottolenghi who also sniffed at it. He shook his head. ‘I cannot smell anything, just ink.’

He handed it to James. There was a slightly sour smell to it, like milk or cream on the turn. He was going to say so but something made him keep it to himself.

Lombroso shrugged, took the letter back and began to open it. ‘See how it is folded in three.’

‘What does that signify?’ Ottolenghi asked.

A few seconds passed.

‘Nothing,’ Lombroso replied. ‘The skill is to identify what is relevant but also what is not. Really, one can place too much emphasis on these things!’

He shook out the letter and began to read it. His eyebrows shot up with such ferocity that for a moment he looked like a startled rabbit looking into the barrel of a poacher’s shotgun.

“What does it say?’ Tullio asked.

‘
Behold each tribute that is made; for my work is your work. We will both be at the gates of Hell before long
,’ read Lombroso

‘Has he signed it?’

‘Yes, but interestingly not as “Pilgrim” but as “P”.’

‘That implies a certain intimacy, does it not?’ James suggested.

Lombroso nodded. ‘Perhaps he is feeling more secure. That would be excellent.’

‘How so?’ Tullio asked.

‘If this is from the killer then it signifies that he is starting to make mistakes. For example, he has also included the same symbol that was found on the bodies. That was not on the first note to Baldovino.’

‘Ah, the inverted cross. So it
must
be the killer. There can be no question. If the same symbol appears on his letter as seen on the bodies of the victims . . .’ James said.

‘Your reasoning is sound, of course, Murray, but you have forgotten something that we have already considered.’

They all looked at him, as confused as each other but it was Tullio who dared to ask the question. ‘But, Professor, what other conclusion could there be? The killer and the writer of this second letter must be the same person.’

‘Or two people!’ Ottolenghi added. ‘Remember we thought there were two sets of footprints at the scene of Soldati’s murder.’

‘Indeed! If there are two people involved then the writer need not be the killer. But,’ Lombroso shook his head, ‘this seems like the work of one person to me. There are no variations in method. Everything is very precise. No, I think we have one killer, perhaps with a dual personality, but one person all the same. The reference to the gates of Hell is interesting. It appears in both.’