City of Devils: A Novel (35 page)

‘Oh yes, do tell us, Professor. What kind of person is Pilgrim?’ piped up a small, bossy woman who was seated nearby.

Lombroso looked down his spectacles at her. ‘I do not give public consultations, madam,’ he replied rather pompously and she turned away, disappointed.

Horton laughed loudly. ‘Come, come, Professor. Don’t be so reticent. After all, he has been writing to you, has he not? It was in the
People’s Voice,
so it must be true!’

‘Do not believe everything that you read in the newspapers, Signor Horton!’ replied Lombroso.

‘Now in that we do agree, Professor,’ Horton muttered with a sideways glance at DeClichy. James noticed that he suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if he had inadvertently let something slip.

Borelli snorted. ‘I think we can put aside Signor Baldovino’s musings on the subject. Did he not also say in the same article that this Pilgrim had reportedly been seen in the Piazza Statuto performing a satanic ritual? This, according to him, required dancing with eight naked virgins round a bonfire! Not what you might call a reliable source of information, by any stretch of the imagination.’

‘Ah yes, the Piazza Statuto, scene of the first tribute murder. Isn’t it also the centre of black magic in the city?’ Horton asked.

‘It is certainly said to be so, signor. I am surprised you have not yet visited it,’ Borelli laughed.

‘There’s still time,’ Horton replied, smiling. ‘Why, I believe I may even go there on my way home. If I’m lucky perhaps I’ll make the acquaintance of Baldovino’s naked ladies!’

There was a brief hush at the rather risqué turn of the conversation. Horton, however, seemed to have no reservations and sat grinning at the assembled company as if he had made a witty comment rather than a coarse one.

Suddenly there seemed to be a small commotion coming from the top table. The Marchesa was taking her leave and leading the ladies out, given the lateness of the hour. Father Vincenzo stayed and began to hold forth to those who remained. Among them was DeClichy. He had been deserted by Madame Tarnovsky who had been obliged to withdraw with the Marchesa, and was left at the table looking distinctly uncomfortable. He shifted around on his seat as if he wanted to say something but could not screw up enough courage to do so. Then he caused something of a stir by getting up and leaving the table, knocking over his glass as he did so.

He seemed to be heading in their direction and Lombroso groaned audibly. ‘Is there no escape from that wretched man! I suppose I had better speak to him.’

DeClichy, however, had other ideas. Instead of Lombroso he seemed to be making his way towards Horton who was leaning back on his chair, puffing at a cigar. Horton, suddenly noticing DeClichy approaching him, leapt to his feet and seemed to back away. DeClichy was clutching a small piece of paper in his left hand. Horton visibly paled as DeClichy waved it at him and on reaching him, clutched his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. The expression on Horton’s face was a combination of both fear and fury. Before anyone could say anything he had shaken away from DeClichy’s clutch and moved swiftly towards the magnificent oak doors leading to the exit. DeClichy was left staring after him with a look of incredulity. He seemed frozen in his position for a second or two as if he did not know quite what to do. Then he recovered himself and went off, apparently in pursuit of Horton. All of this had been witnessed by Lombroso, who sat back in seat and watched the scene with interest.

After both DeClichy and Horton had left he leaned over to James and Ottolenghi. ‘Gentlemen, may I suggest that you follow them? I don’t know why, but I feel that they may lead us to something.’

They nodded their assent and left almost as abruptly as those they were pursuing but by the time they got outside they could see only Horton who was making his way across the Piazza Carignano towards the Via Pietro Micca. DeClichy, however, seemed to have completely disappeared.

19

Where criminal women differ most markedly from the insane is in the rich luxuriance of their hair
.

Lombroso, 1876 p 55

At first Horton seemed to be an easy mark. He moved slowly and his extravagant astrakhan-trimmed coat, together with his ornate silver-topped cane, certainly made him stand out. Ottolenghi and James pursued him through the streets. Occasionally he would come to a halt and they were forced to take cover behind one of the city’s many arches or down an alleyway. After a few minutes it started to drizzle and the landscape took on a strange glow as the yellow light from the flickering gas lamps was reflected in the windows of the shops and cafes that lined the streets. It felt good to be doing something concrete at last. For so long all they had done was talk about the murders. Now perhaps they finally had a suspect in Horton, who fitted Lombroso’s criminal type to some extent – but then, so did most people in one way or another.

All at once Horton’s pace began to speed up and then slow down again as if he knew he was being followed and was doing his best to confound his pursuers. More than once Ottolenghi, who was slightly ahead of James, would be forced to stop suddenly in order to avoid being seen, causing a minor collision from behind in the process.

On they went through the murky night. Visibility was low thanks to the combined forces of the rain and the fog which had started to curl round their feet and then risen to their faces. It smelt bad – like rotten eggs or sulphur. Were they getting nearer to hell? James wondered. He knew that was a fanciful suggestion, conjured by nerves and fear, but the pursuit of their quarry seemed endless and James was beginning to ache with the effects of the cold and damp. On and on they went, across piazzas, round corners and through walkways until suddenly Horton disappeared.

‘Where on earth did he go?’ James asked.

Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t on earth at all,’ he said gloomily.

James shook his head. ‘You’ve been listening too much to the priest. Horton’s here all right. He’s just ducked into a building somewhere.’

‘I expect you’re right. There are a couple of brothels in this area and I’ve heard he is a frequent visitor to such places.’

‘I don’t know why, but that sounds just like Horton.’ James shivered. ‘After all this I think we deserve a large brandy. I’m frozen to the bone. Should we visit these places ourselves?’

‘No, let’s leave him to his pleasure,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘I really don’t think we will accomplish anything by tracking him down. Besides, La Capra’s not far from here. We could see how Tullio’s been getting on.’

James nodded reluctantly. Ottolenghi was right. What would following Horton to a brothel achieve? It made sense to head for La Capra, even though he’d been thinking of somewhere a little more refined for their reviving drink: one of Turin’s famous cafes, perhaps, or the bar at the Hotel Inghilterra.

Instead they made their way through the narrow streets until the sign of the goat’s head came into view, swinging in the wind, its hollow eyes staring eerily at them. As they pushed their way in through the door James could smell the same odour as he had last time they were there – sour milk, combined with stale sweat and tobacco. He thought to himself that he must have been mad to agree to go there rather than to the gilt splendour of Caffe Norman.

Their ears were met with a cacophony of raucous laughter and shouting as one group of drinkers tried to make themselves heard over another. James saw Tullio sitting at the bar looking miserable and pointed him out to Ottolenghi. They made their way over to him, and his eyes lit up as he saw them.

‘I am glad to see you,’ he said.

‘Has the old woman shown up?’ Ottolenghi asked.

Tullio shook his head glumly then suddenly his expression changed. ‘Look, over there in the corner, by that door at the back! It’s the man we were following the other day.’

It was hard to see in any detail as there was so much shadow but James could make out a cloaked figure sitting in front of the door that had the carving on it, a carafe of wine before him. Could Tullio be right? Swiftly, he got Gambro’s attention and the barman confirmed that the man had drunk in La Capra before.

Not wishing to alert him, they agreed to approach cautiously. They made their way towards him, as if they were merely looking for a free table. Every now and again James looked over in an effort to see the man more clearly. But it was hopeless. Not only was he shrouded in shadow but he also wore a hat pulled down over his face. He was certainly not eager to be identified.

They were about halfway to his table when a commotion erupted in front of them. Someone’s drink had been spilt and an argument began. There was much pushing and shoving. Insults were exchanged and then punches. Before long everyone seemed to be involved. Even old Pietro had got to his feet and was waving his tankard and shouting abuse at no one in particular. Two women were rolling on the floor screaming at each other and pulling out each other’s hair.

It was a traditional drunken brawl – little more than a free-for-all – and James’s party were not left out, their formal dress making them into targets with Tullio joined by association. An elderly man leapt onto Tullio’s back and started to hit him. He threw him off and picked up a nearby stool, waving it at the man who thought the better of continuing his assault. Ottolenghi was punched in the eye and pushed to the ground. Tullio, having rid himself of another assailant, rescued James from the fray. Beer and wine was everywhere. The place was in chaos.

Gambro waded in and began to pull people apart, then, with the help of one or two others, ejected the worst brawlers from the bar. Unfortunately, Ottolenghi, James and Tullio became part of this mass eviction and found themselves thrown into the mud in the street outside. Tullio’s nose was bleeding copiously. James could see from his expression that he was furious, and not a little embarrassed at having been caught up in something like this. He looked as if he might call for reinforcements and start arresting people.

‘We might as well go back in,’ he said.

‘Won’t we get thrown out again?’ James asked nervously. He was doing his best to clean himself with his handkerchief but was making little headway.

Ottolenghi grinned. ‘Don’t worry, at least now we’ll blend in!’

James looked down at himself – a man in a dirty dress suit – and grinned doubtfully.

‘Anyway,’ Ottolenghi continued, ‘I don’t think Gambro meant to get rid of us. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was accidental.’

‘It had better have been!’ Tullio replied. ‘If he or his friends try it again they’ll find themselves sharing a cell. Come on. I want to find out if that man was the same one we followed.’

By the time they were inside again things had calmed down somewhat. One or two people limped out assisted by their companions but most that remained, including the dark-haired man who had started the whole thing, had taken their seats again and were drinking happily as if nothing had happened. They all looked over to the corner where the shadowy figure had sat. The seat was empty.

‘Where could he have gone? I didn’t see him come past us,’ James wondered aloud.

Tullio shook his head. ‘We were somewhat preoccupied. He might have got past us, either of his own volition or propelled by Gambro. Let’s ask him if he saw anything.’

‘He certainly didn’t get past me,’ replied Gambro to their question. ‘Last I saw him was in the corner where he was sitting.’

They ordered drinks, by now sorely needed, and made their way over to the table where the mystery man had been sitting. Where had he got to? Had he managed to get past them in the confusion? As James placed his drink on the table he noticed something. Carved into its top was the same symbol as that on the door behind them. He pointed it out to Tullio and Ottolenghi.

‘I meant to mention the inverted cross on the door earlier, but I wasn’t sure that it was significant as it’s apparently so common.’

‘The inverted cross,’ said Tullio, ‘just as the professor found on the bodies.’ He breathed in sharply and crossed himself, which startled James a little. It was a sign of superstition that seemed out of place given Tullio’s interest in scientific policing. Ottolenghi frowned with concentration as he examined both carvings carefully. When he had finished they sat in silence for a moment as if digesting the possible significance of the symbol. Tullio looked worried and puzzled at the same time. It was as if none of them knew quite what to do at that point.

Suddenly Tullio’s eyes lit up. He seemed to have had an idea. He turned to the door behind them. It was not locked and opened easily. He beckoned to Gambro to come over.

‘Where does this door lead?’ he asked, urgently.

‘Just to the cellar – I wouldn’t go down there if I were you. It’s damp as hell and smells worse than in here,’ Gambro counselled.

‘Is there any other way out of here or the cellar?’ Tullio asked.

‘No, not really – well, not unless you count the tunnels.’

‘Of course, I should have realised!’ He turned to his companions. ‘Did you know that there’s a network of them running under the city?’ They nodded, having heard of them just hours earlier. ‘It never occurred to me that there might be an opening here.’