City of Devils: A Novel (8 page)

‘Tuck in, my boy, tuck in!’ urged Lombroso.

James gingerly put a piece of what looked like meat in his mouth and began to chew. It was surprisingly good, tender and flavoursome. It seemed that he had misjudged Paolo and his fat swearing chef.

‘Have some polenta with your
finanziera,
it’s very good!’ Ottolenghi handed him the plate of yellow slabs and he took one. He bit carefully into the ochre crust and tasted the creamy combination of cheese and butter in its centre.

‘What is in the
finanziera
?’ he asked.

Ottolenghi smiled. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

James nodded enthusiastically.

‘Chicken organs and offal.’

James stopped chewing momentarily. Then, as the taste and the texture of the food had its effect, he grinned and continued to eat with relish. Lombroso slapped him on the back with such enthusiasm that his face almost ended up in his meal. ‘Good man, good man! And the wine, you must try some. It’s Barolo from Paolo’s cousin who has a small vineyard outside the city.’

Ottolenghi poured the wine into the glasses. It was soft and ruby red. Finally James began to relax a little but he still wondered why Lombroso had chosen this particular location even though the food was so good. Surely there were more refined places with similar culinary standards. Lombroso seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing what he was thinking.

‘We are here as scientists, to observe,’ he murmured quietly. ‘Watch, you may learn something.’

Ottolenghi grinned and nodded towards the other tables encouragingly. James gave him a sceptical look and then noticed Lombroso frowning. ‘Murray does not yet understand. Ottolenghi, tell us who we have here.’

‘Over there are two
ricettatori
or “fences”, as I think you would say in English,’ Ottolenghi said, pointing at the two men arguing over watches. ‘Their trade is in stolen goods.’ James nodded. He had seen their like in some of the inns he had frequented as a student and the Italian version did not seem to differ much from their Scottish counterparts.

‘The men in the middle are a band of robbers. They originated in Sicily but have come here for richer pickings,’ Ottolenghi went on.

Lombroso nodded. ‘Look at their faces, Murray, and tell me what you see.’

James opened his mouth, about to speak, but Lombroso lifted a restraining hand. ‘Take your time. These things cannot be rushed.’

James observed the subjects carefully as he ate. This was an opportunity to make an impression and he did not want to squander it. Eventually he spoke. ‘The fences have facial hair, but it’s quite scanty and they look rather shifty. They both have quite sharp features.’

Lombroso nodded enthusiastically. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, they are both thin with rounded shoulders.’

‘Capital, Murray, capital! You are a natural anthropologist! And what of our friends on the centre table?’

‘They have thick, dark hair. Two of them have prominent ears and the one on the left looks like a monkey!’ declared James. He was so caught up in his description that he failed to notice that he had been overheard. The men looked at them hard with threat in their eyes.

‘Time to go, I think,’ said Ottolenghi briskly. With that he threw some money on the table, took up his hat and made his way towards the door. Lombroso followed behind him but James found his path of exit blocked by the man he had just compared to a monkey. The man leaned towards him and grimaced as if he was about to hit him. James did not want to get into an unseemly brawl in front of Lombroso but for a minute it seemed almost unavoidable. He began to square up to his foe but Paolo saw what was happening and he approached the man and whispered something in his ear. The supposed villain stood aside, a smile of mockery on his swarthy face, and James sidestepped him and made for the door. One of the men rose as if to follow but Ottolenghi casually went over to him and slipped some notes into his hand. He nodded appreciatively and sat down again. As they left and made their way outside, the men’s loud laughter followed them along the passage.

They walked towards the river at a brisk pace. As Lombroso put it, pursuit was unlikely but with the volatile mind of the criminal one can never be sure. He was smiling as he said this, so James was not sure how seriously to take the threat but thought it safer to accept it at face value.

When they arrived at the river bank Lombroso suggested that they could now afford to slow down a little and they strolled along it in a companionable silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The events of the previous day seemed a long time ago.

Being November, the sun was already setting, casting a rosy glow over the water. As they walked through the Parco Valentino towards the Piazza, the Via Po and the university, James thought to himself that he felt happier and more fulfilled than he had for a long time. His initial reason for going to Turin had almost been forgotten and he began to wonder whether he could finally put the past behind him and begin afresh.

Suddenly Lombroso shivered slightly. It might have been the cold air. After all, the sun had almost set and dusk was nearly upon them, but James wondered if, despite his best efforts to put it from his mind, the murder of Giuseppe Soldati had returned to haunt the professor. Again the tiniest of doubt about Lombroso intruded into his own mind but he put it aside, preferring for the moment to enjoy the experiences his new life was providing.

Lombroso turned to Ottolenghi. ‘I must go back to the university now. There is some work I must finish. Why don’t you take Murray for a tour of the city? Then perhaps you could go for some refreshment in one of our fine cafes and tell him of our current projects? I will see you both later at the house – if it is convenient for you, Murray, of course.’

James nodded, happy to be included. They watched Lombroso hurry off through the park into the distance.

Ottolenghi smiled at him. ‘He must like you. It took me two months to get an invitation to one of his salons and you’ve only been here two days!’

James’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t realise that was what he meant.’

Ottolenghi laughed. ‘How do you feel – nervous?’

‘Should I be?’

‘A little, perhaps, it is a kind of initiation, I suppose, in the professor’s eyes.’

James grinned. ‘I’d better pass then!’

Ottolenghi patted him on the back. ‘Don’t worry; I’m sure you will. Anyway I’ll be there to help, if you need me and I’m sure that you won’t. I think perhaps we will need to discuss your strategy, though.’

James looked up to the skies in mock despair. ‘Ach, you think I need a strategy – that will need a drink!’

‘Well, maybe strategy isn’t quite the right word! But tour first, drink later,’ laughed Ottolenghi, ‘and not too much. You’ll need to have your wits about you at the salon.’

They wandered out of the park and towards the Via Po where they hired a cab. Ottolenghi was an excellent guide and they drove through the streets, pausing every now and again for him to point out this building or that landmark – museums, galleries, palazzos and piazzas – until James was almost intoxicated by the sight of them all. Then they took a turn out of the centre of the city and drove through some of the less prosperous areas. The people stared at them listlessly as they drove past, as if want had drained the life from them. James could smell the poverty as it drifted in through the windows. No olive oil or herbs here, just filth and decay. He recalled smelling the same odour as he walked through the streets from the asylum on his way back from visiting his father. The thought of it made him feel nauseous. Once or twice James looked over to his companion. His face was kind and artless, trustworthy somehow. Like Lombroso his eyes darted about, taking everything in, and occasionally he would mutter something as if he was making a mental note. Eventually he rapped on the window with his cane and the driver nodded, having been told of their final destination before they set out. They had arrived at the Piazza Solferino.

Ottolenghi indicated a cafe on the corner. As they went in, James looked in wonder at the decor, which was heavy with gilt and mirrors, like a Parisian palace. In the centre of the room was a pyramid of delicacies, perched precariously on one another, little toasts loaded with salami and ham, quails’ eggs, roasted peppers and tomatoes, olives, small balls of rice that had been deep fried until golden, tiny white cheeses and sandwiches cut so small that they looked as if they belonged in a doll’s house. Ottolenghi smiled at James’s expression.

‘Cafifè Norman is famous for its
stuzzichini.
We will be offered a plate of them with our drinks.’

He nodded in satisfaction. Despite the glories of their lunch, the walk and the tour had given him an appetite; or perhaps it was the sight of hunger in the eyes of the poor. James felt guilty that he could enjoy all of this when those they had seen earlier would be grateful for even a morsel of what they were about to eat. But of course it didn’t last. He reasoned that depriving himself would not help anyone so there was little point in worrying. As they walked through the cafe, marvelling at the food on display, the sights he had seen less than an hour ago quickly began to leave his memory and by the time they sat down had quite gone.

They settled in a corner and Ottolenghi ordered some wine. This was smoother and lighter than Paolo’s though it still had a fruity taste.

‘Chianti, from Firenze,’ Ottolenghi informed him.

‘It’s good,’ James said as he sipped at it gratefully. It was particularly welcome, as the autumn sunshine had given way to a distinctly chilly evening. ‘What do you make of last night?’ he asked, longing to talk about the murder.

Ottolenghi looked at him thoughtfully. ‘It’s difficult to say. It was clearly pre-meditated. Odd about the note too, and written in blood. A strange business.’

‘I wanted to ask the professor about it but—’

‘He obviously doesn’t wish to discuss the matter,’ Ottolenghi interrupted.

‘But surely we should investigate; after all it is hanging over him, and if the university hears of it then . . .’ He tailed off, not quite knowing what the consequences might be.

‘I suppose you’re right. They might stop the symposium and that would be a great blow. It might also give some ammunition to his enemies. Still, the professor must know that and I wouldn’t like to act against his wishes. He can be very stubborn.’

‘Who are these enemies?’ James asked, thinking it strange that someone of Lombroso’s professional stature could be under threat.

Ottolenghi counted them off on his fingers. ‘Fellow academics, the university authorities, the judiciary, politicians, the police, the Church; he’s upset all of them at some point or another. If he gives any of them the slightest opportunity to bring him down they’re bound to take it.’

James was shocked. ‘Surely that’s all the more reason to at least try solving this murder, even if we have to work with Machinetti.’

Ottolenghi shook his head. ‘Ah, Machinetti. There’s a story in that. There’s no love lost between him and the professor.’

‘Could they not put that to one side – just for this?’

‘I doubt it. I think it runs pretty deep. All I know is that they worked together on a case once and it didn’t go well. Ever since then they’ve been at loggerheads and the professor flatly refuses to have anything to do with him.’

‘Perhaps we could make one or two informal enquiries,’ James suggested. ‘He couldn’t object to that, surely?’

Ottolenghi sipped his drink as he considered this. ‘Well, I imagine it couldn’t do any harm to revisit the scene of the crime. But that will have to wait until tomorrow. You have to get through your initiation first and we should concentrate on that for now.’

James agreed. ‘Who is likely to be there?’

‘Well, you’ve met Horton already I hear, so you know him.’

‘Yes, although I can’t say I warmed to the man. There was something odd about him but I can’t quite place it.’

‘Then there is Borelli, if he can get back from Paris in time.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s a lawyer, a professor at the university and a close friend of our professor’s. They have worked together on several projects over the last few years.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Madame Tarnovsky will be there.’

‘Yes, the professor mentioned that. I’d really like to meet her. I’ve read several of her monographs on the female offender. I’m actually looking forward to this evening now!’ James paused. ‘And of course, with all of these experts on crime in one place it would be a wonderful opportunity to consult them about the murder.’

Ottolenghi poured some more Chianti. ‘So tell me, Murray, how long have you been qualified?’

‘Not long.’

James wondered if the somewhat abrupt change of subject was intentional. Ottolenghi seemed almost as reluctant as the professor to get involved in the investigation of Soldati’s death.

‘And what brought you to medicine?’

‘My father was a doctor. He specialised in diseases of the mind.’ James paused, recognising, not for the first time, the irony of such a statement.

‘Are you in private practice? They tell me that is where the money is.’

James laughed ruefully. ‘Not in Edinburgh. There are too many doctors and not enough wealthy patients to go round for that to be true. No. I was working with my father until . . . recently. I haven’t practised on my own account yet. I don’t know if could now.’

‘Oh, I see,’ replied Ottolenghi, who evidently didn’t.

James looked at his new friend’s puzzled expression and wondered whether or not he should confide in him. He decided against it. They had not known each other long enough. Perhaps one day he would tell him everything but not yet. ‘And you, Ottolenghi, are you a medical doctor?’ he asked.

Ottolenghi smiled and nodded. ‘I am indeed, though it seems a long time since I have tried to heal anyone. These days my patients are either already dead or perfectly healthy.’

‘How long have you worked for the professor?’

‘A while now. He is such a great mentor and I have learned a great deal from him.’

‘Do you agree with all of his theories?’ James asked, curious to see if Ottolenghi shared some of his own misgivings.