City of Devils: A Novel (4 page)

Lombroso’s focus appeared to be on the corpse itself and he peered down at it, a look of disgust on his face. ‘I have seen many things, but there is something about this . . .’

‘What, Professor?’ Ottolenghi asked.

‘To see a corpse in this state is bad enough but it’s the mutilation and the posing of the body. It is so . . .’ He paused, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes in an apparent effort to regain his composure. ‘. . . deliberate,’ he continued. ‘I have never seen anything like it. This act required a level of depravity that is almost unimaginable.’ He stared into the distance, a troubled look on his face.

‘It was found early this morning. We have been looking for you for some time,’ Machinetti said reprovingly.

Lombroso replaced his glasses and looked at him with ill-disguised contempt. ‘I have been where I am most days, at the museum.’ He turned to James. ‘Really, if this is the level of detection then no wonder the crime rates are high!’

Machinetti’s face was as black as thunder. ‘We called on you earlier and you were not there!’

‘I was taking my usual morning refreshment at Al Bicerin,’ Lombroso said.

‘Well, you shouldn’t have!’

‘I do apologise, Marshal,’ Lombroso replied sarcastically. ‘Obviously I should have known that you would wish to speak to me and cancelled all of my appointments.’

‘I would advise you not to be impertinent, Professor. You are a suspect in this case as you will see,’ Machinetti said, apparently with some satisfaction.

‘What do you mean?’ Lombroso asked.

Machinetti snapped his fingers at Giardinello. ‘The note! Quickly!’

‘Wait, just one minute!’

The voice came from the edge of the crowd. Machinetti turned towards it and scowled as he saw the slight figure of a smartly dressed young man stride towards them.

‘Tullio, what do you want? This is my area, not yours.’

‘Inspector Tullio, if you don’t mind, and that is not how it works, Machinetti, as you well know,’ the young man replied, patiently. ‘I have jurisdiction here.’

James studied Tullio and decided that he had not been in his position long. Everything about him gave the impression of effort from his neatly clipped beard to his posture, which had him leaning slightly forward as if he was anxious not to miss anything.

Machinetti paused, frowning apparently with the effort of thinking. ‘I was here first,’ he declared.

Tullio smiled thinly. ‘You certainly were. Only you could contaminate the scene of a crime quite so comprehensively. I don’t want your officers blundering about any more, destroying the evidence as they go.’

Machinetti stared at him with hostility. James observed their mutual dislike, wondering why they seemed to be so intent on having a dispute about territory rather than cooperating in the investigation of the crime. Ottolenghi whispered in his ear, ‘Inspector Tullio is an officer from our other investigating body, the Public Security Police, the PS. Machinetti hates him almost as much as the professor, and that’s saying something.’

‘Why?’ James asked.

‘The PS is supposed to police the city but so are the carabinieri. Who does what is a matter of dispute. As for Tullio himself, he’s university-educated, very bright and also a believer in scientific policing, which is not widely supported here.’

James looked at Tullio with new interest. He wondered if the young policeman had also studied under someone like Dr Bell. Word of this new approach to criminal investigation had spread beyond Edinburgh, he knew, and it was obvious that Tullio shared James’s view that not only the body of the victim, but also the scene of the crime and what might have been left there by the perpetrator should be given almost as much attention as possible suspects in a case.

Lombroso, who had evidently overheard, nodded with approval. ‘It has great possibilities. Machinetti, you should listen to this young man. You might learn something.’

Machinetti grunted and turned away.

Tullio smiled at them. ‘Professor, Ottolenghi, it is good to see you both – and signor?’ He extended a hand towards James who took it gratefully.

‘Ah yes, this is my new assistant, Dr James Murray from Scotland,’ Lombroso said. James felt a jolt of excitement at hearing his position confirmed.

‘Welcome to Turin,
Dottore
,’ Tullio said. ‘Now, Professor, perhaps you and your colleagues could be of some assistance with what is left of the evidence?’

‘Indeed,’ Lombroso replied. ‘We were just about to examine the note.’

Tullio nodded his approval. ‘I agree, but first let us record the position of the body.’ He turned and summoned a small dumpy man with an untidy moustache carrying some equipment. ‘Please proceed.’

The man, a photographer, started to set up his tripod. Machinetti snorted with derision. ‘We don’t have time for this. I’ve already got someone to record everything, although personally I don’t see the need for such a thing. The man’s clearly dead. That’s all we need to know, surely.’ Machinetti pointed to another man standing next to the body with a pad and a pencil.

‘A sketch artist? That’s nowhere near as accurate!’ Tullio protested.

The artist positioned himself in front of the photographer who immediately picked up his tripod and moved it in front again. The artist tutted and moved once more until he was so close to the body he could almost reach out and touch it. Neither of them seemed remotely bothered by the repellent sight they had been asked to capture.

Tullio rolled his eyes impatiently.

‘Why don’t they just stand next to each other?’ James suggested. ‘Then we would have two different impressions rather than one.’

Lombroso agreed. ‘A capital idea, don’t you think, Marshal, Signor Tullio?’

They looked at each other and both nodded reluctantly. The photographer and the artist parted slightly and began their work. Suddenly there was a flash and a bang and everyone jumped – Machinetti almost fell off his shooting stick. The photograph had been taken. Not long after that the artist folded up his sketchbook after giving his drawing to Machinetti who folded it and thrust it into his pocket. Clearly keeping it away from Tullio was more important to him than avoiding creases.

‘Now perhaps we could examine the note?’ Lombroso said, a little impatiently.

‘Indeed, Professor,’ Tullio said, nodding at Giardinello who looked over to Machinetti for the marshal’s approval. There was a long pause. Tullio sighed with irritation. Finally, Machinetti nodded to Giardinello who approached the body and removed the note, gingerly holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Lombroso nodded his assent to Ottolenghi who took it carefully, peered at it and then handed it to the professor.

James craned his neck in order to get a better view. ‘Odd colour of ink,’ he observed.

Lombroso took the note and looked at it. James saw him pause, just for an instant, as he read it. Then the scientist in him took over. He sniffed it, his nose twitching like an inquisitive rabbit. Finally he held it up to the light. ‘That is no ink, my young friend – that is blood.’

Those at the front of the crowd gasped and there was an audible murmuring as the news was passed to the back. Lombroso beckoned to James and handed him the note. ‘Now, Murray, tell us what you see. Remember, be precise.’

‘It says—’

‘No, not what it says. What can you
see
?’ Lombroso said impatiently.

James looked at it carefully and heard the words of his teacher, Dr Bell, urging him to start with the obvious and then look behind it. ‘The writing is not erratic,’ he began. ‘Indeed it is penned in a very neat hand.’

‘Penned you say,’ Lombroso said. ‘Are you certain? What has been used to write it – a pen, a stick, a finger?’

There was a pause as James squinted at the writing before him. ‘It looks like a pen – it’s a neat hand, no smudges. There’s some staining, presumably from the victim’s nose but other than that it seems quite clean.’

‘Any other marks?’ Tullio asked.

James shook his head. ‘None that I can see . . . oh no, wait a minute.’ He turned the note round. ‘There are some smudged prints on the back.’

‘Let me have a look,’ Machinetti said, snatching the note. ‘Oh, they’re probably mine from earlier.’

Tullio stared at him incredulously. ‘You removed it from the body?’

Machinetti looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course. I wanted to know what it said. It might be a clue.’

Tullio shook his head and sighed. ‘I wonder that you bothered to replace it.’

Machinetti smiled smugly. ‘I put it back, just as I found it.’

Tullio gave him an exasperated look. James wondered why there was such hostility between them. After all, were they not both on the same side?

‘Exactly what does the note say?’ Tullio asked.

Machinetti smirked and held it up. ‘See for yourself.’

Tullio sighed. ‘Dr Murray, would you mind?’

‘Go on, go on. Let’s all hear it,’ Machinetti said.

James read aloud: ‘
A Tribute to Lombroso
.’

The crowd gasped and murmured again. Lombroso stood silently and looked down at his feet. James stared at him. What could it mean?

‘It is, I am sure you will agree, not much of a tribute,’ Machinetti said. His eyes betrayed his evident glee at Lombroso’s discomfort.

‘No, indeed,’ Lombroso replied quietly, ‘but I can assure you it has nothing whatsoever to do with me.’

‘You are not familiar with the victim?’ Machinetti asked. ‘He was a thief who was well known to us – Giuseppe Soldati. Have you no memory of meeting him at any point?’

There was a long pause as Lombroso considered the name. ‘I may do – I think he assisted with an experiment some time ago.’

Machinetti smiled briefly in triumph. He spoke slowly, as if relishing every moment. ‘Now then, let me see. A man is dead. You knew him. He has a note in his hand, naming you. More than a little suspicious, don’t you think, Professor?’

Lombroso looked up. His face wore a strained expression. ‘But I had no reason to see him since our brief meeting and I certainly did not do this to the poor fellow,’ he protested. ‘Even you must know that I could never do such a thing.’

Machinetti pursed his lips. ‘Where were you last night?’

There was a long pause. ‘I was working late at the museum.’

Machinetti raised his eyebrows. ‘Alone?’

Lombroso sighed. ‘Yes, alone.’

Machinetti looked over towards his men. It seemed to James as if his new employer was about to be taken into custody. Then he saw Tullio stride over to Machinetti and whisper to him. Machinetti’s face reddened.

‘Thank you for your assistance, Professor,’ Tullio said.

‘But the note! There has to be some reason for it!’ Machinetti protested.

Lombroso shrugged helplessly. ‘I agree, but I cannot think of what it might be.’

‘At the very least, you seem to be some kind of an inspiration for the killer,’ said Machinetti. Lombroso’s shoulders drooped. He looked tired, almost defeated. James caught Ottolenghi’s eye. He nodded back, almost imperceptibly.

‘Can we be of further assistance, Marshal?’ Ottolenghi asked.

Machinetti paused and thought about it. He looked over to Tullio who shook his head firmly. ‘Do not leave the city, Professor,’ Machinetti said curtly, dismissing them with a haughty wave of the hand.

Tullio frowned at this lack of courtesy and bowed slightly towards Lombroso. ‘Professor, thank you for your assistance. We may need to call on you again, with your permission.’

Lombroso nodded and started to walk away. James and Ottolenghi began to follow him. As they turned away and crossed the piazza James saw something out of the corner of his eye – a movement? He turned quickly and saw, or thought he saw, a dark figure disappear into the shadows. It was only for a split second and then it was gone. He shook his head and frowned to himself. Was he really so unaccustomed to the narrow streets that his eyes had begun to deceive him? He was sure that someone had been there and whoever it was had clearly not wanted to be seen. He turned and looked back, wondering if he should inform Machinetti or Tullio, but they were arguing loudly and clearly did not wish to be disturbed. He decided to leave them to it, thinking that he had probably imagined it anyway, and walked quickly to catch up with Lombroso who was walking quickly across the piazza towards the museum.

2

It cannot be denied that from time to time there have been criminals who are true geniuses – creators of new forms of crime, inventors of evil.

Lombroso, 1876, p 74

When they arrived back at the museum no one was in the mood to eat. Lombroso declared himself in need of solitude and Ottolenghi was required to return to his Madagascan skulls. James took his leave, having been told to report back the following day, and was more than glad of the opportunity to contemplate the events of the morning. Back at his lodgings, after he had eaten, he sat and began to write a letter to Lucy.

As he wrote he reflected on all that he had seen: the extraordinary exhibits in the museum, Lombroso’s experiment with his complicated contraption – a dynamometer he had called it. And then there was Sofia, who lingered in his senses without invitation. There was something intriguing about her. He could picture her form as clearly as if she was standing before him at that very moment, her lustrous hair hanging down her back, her wide mouth smiling – and all the while she looked straight at him, almost as if she was questioning his right to be there. He sat with his eyes shut, breathing in the memory of her delicate earthy scent. But then, despite his efforts to put it from his mind, a quite different aroma came to him – the cloying sour-sweet stench of what he had originally thought was death. He began to lose himself in thoughts of the terrible things he had seen, the body stiff with rigor mortis, the gaping cavity of bone and gristle of the face without the severed nose, the careful arrangement of the missing features holding down the bloody note. It was the stuff of nightmares.