City of Devils: A Novel (45 page)

‘Fellow scientists,’ he began. There was applause at this, for that was exactly how his audience wished others to see them.

‘I thank Professor Borelli for his timely and interesting speech. However, although I agree that we should be careful not to be intellectually arrogant, I would still like to remind us all of how useful our work can be in the maintaining of an orderly and just society.’

Lombroso looked around him at his audience. He had a way of looking which made each person feel as if he was addressing them directly.

‘Knowing one’s enemy is paramount in any battle and the war against crime which blights so many lives is no exception. If we can point at a man and say he is a criminal then we can rid society of this blight upon it. Some are unfortunate enough to be born to crime and our work means that we know who these people are. Because of this they can be removed from our society. But there must be a trial. They have to be given an opportunity to state their case. We are there at such occasions to ensure that justice is done and that the guilty are not able to confuse or lie to a jury. Our evidence is scientific and should not be doubted.’

Lombroso looked over to his old friend. ‘Unlike Borelli here, I believe that errors are unlikely. I believe in science. I apply scientific methods in my work and this brings me certainty. Without certainty then we have only emotion and that is of little use in such matters. I am confident that I can use my science and know when a man is a murderer.’

The attention of the crowd was palpable. Everyone knew of the events that had cast a shadow over the symposium and there had been all kinds of speculation as to the possible outcome.

Lombroso went on, ‘You all have heard about the tragedies of the past weeks. I can assure you as a scientist that the killer will be found. He will give himself away by his own characteristics – what he looks like, his background, his personality – all of these will bring him to justice and when he is found I will examine him and I will be able to say with complete scientific certainty that he is the one and that he must be punished.’

The audience rose as one and cheered and clapped and stamped their feet. Here he was again, Lombroso the showman. He was playing to his audience and they loved it. James looked round at their jubilant faces and wondered how many of them really believed in the certainty of criminal anthropology. Even Horton was on his feet, although James thought that his cheers were nearer to jeers. Only Father Vincenzo was silent. He shook his head slowly then turned and left the room. Presumably he felt that God and the Devil were more likely to be both their salvation and reason for crime and that science had little to do with anything. Perhaps, thought James, Lombroso, with his words of defiance, was merely tempting fate.

Eventually the audience drifted away to their respective hotels to ready themselves to leave. James wondered if the killer was one of their number.

Ottolenghi had been deep in conversation with Madame Tarnovsky but he came over once she made to leave. James waved at her but she did not see him. He was sorry not to have said goodbye. The last few days had been so hectic that he had not had the opportunity to attend much of the symposium.

‘So it is all over for another year or so,’ he said with a note of regret.

Ottolenghi nodded. ‘Yes, but we still have this evening to look forward to.’

‘This evening?’

‘The professor asked me to tell you. He has decided to hold one of his salons. Most people are not leaving Turin until tomorrow so he thought it would be pleasant for a select few to meet for one more time – as a kind of tribute to DeClichy. Oh, and there’s something else.’

‘What?’ James asked, intrigued.

‘The professor did say that there is to be a mystery guest, brought by Horton, apparently.’

‘Interesting,’ James said. ‘Who on earth could it be?’

‘Perhaps he’s going to reveal the identity of the killer?’ Ottolenghi suggested.

James thought that it was just the kind of dramatic stunt the professor might attempt to pull off. ‘Sounds as if it could be an eventful evening.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ Ottolenghi pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Good. I think there is just time to go home and change. I’ll see you later.’

‘What about the professor?’ James asked.

Ottolenghi looked over to Lombroso and James followed his gaze. Tullio was sitting not far from him, discreetly pretending to read a pamphlet. As Lombroso moved towards the entrance, Tullio followed at some distance behind like a guardian angel.

‘I think he’ll be safe enough,’ Ottolenghi said.

As he walked to Tullio’s office, James thought over the events since his arrival in Turin. There he had been, a young man on the threshold of something bright, new and honest – a future, a vocation. Then the first murder had happened and everything had changed. Each new death was more savage than the last and a solution still eluded them. The biggest conundrum of all was the murder of DeClichy. How did that fit in? He was no criminal. There was no mark on him, which had to be significant, and his disembowelment did not correspond to the other methods of dispatch and mutilation. And why was Rosa Bruno killed? She was a prostitute so she fitted the class of criminal but again the method was different and its execution less precise than the other murders. Was her death connected to something she knew? She had wanted to tell them something and they still had not worked out what. Could it be in relation to Oskar Reiner and his interviews at the brothel? It would be worth talking to Reiner directly about that. Hopefully an opportunity would present itself at the salon that evening.

James stopped in the Piazza San Carlo for a moment, looking in admiration at the elegant buildings, at the cafés beneath the porticoes where so much of Italy’s history, both political and cultural, had been forged. How had Ottolenghi described it during their tour – the city’s drawing room? That conversation had taken place only a few days ago and yet somehow it seemed as if months had passed. He had come to learn about criminal anthropology and, he hoped, about himself. Instead he had been plunged into an alien world of intrigue, murder and mutilation and was feeling increasingly disillusioned. Could Lombroso’s criminal types really be of any practical application in a criminal investigation? Ottolenghi seemed to think so and he was an ardent supporter of scientific policing. But still, he had been Lombroso’s assistant for a while now and perhaps loyalty had clouded his judgment.

James sighed dejectedly as he crossed the square and reached Tullio’s office which was in a smaller, less grandiose piazza. He had expected some difficulty in getting access to the papers but fortunately Giardinello was in the front office when he arrived and took him directly to them.

Tullio’s office was in the basement, in a dark and musty corner. Giardinello opened the door and ushered him in. James looked around in astonishment. He had expected a dingy, windowless cell. Instead the room was large with a high window that, whilst narrow, ran right round three sides and let in a reasonable amount of light. There was a rug on the floor and pictures on the walls and in the corner was a sizeable bookcase. A large, leather-topped old desk stood in the centre. He sat behind it and picked up a photograph in an elaborate gilt frame. Tullio was standing looking proudly down at a young woman who was balancing a baby on her knee. At her side was a small boy with a mischievous grin. Tullio had never mentioned his family once, presumably wanting to keep his personal life separate from his work. James thought to himself how little he really knew about the people he had encountered in Turin over the past weeks. A tiny niggle started at the back of his mind. Ratti’s last words before he lapsed into unconsciousness – ‘do not trust him . . .’

He looked again at the photograph and imagined a similar picture of him and Sofia with their own children and felt a pang of jealousy. But no . . . it was no good dreaming of things that could never happen. He had to be realistic.

Putting the photograph firmly down, James turned to the matter at hand and began to look through the papers. It was a rather sorry catalogue, mostly gang-related attacks, or so it seemed. There was nothing to suggest any connection with the horrible mutilations that they had encountered.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked up at the window. It was almost dark. He would have to go soon if he wanted to get to the salon on time. He sighed and turned back to the pile of reports. He picked up the next piece of paper and then casually glanced down at what was underneath. Then he looked again. There was a paragraph of writing but at the bottom was a drawing of a torso with a mark carved into the upper left shoulder. The mark was in the shape of an inverted cross.

26

Madmen with pellagra, epilepsy and alcoholism often manifest homicidal and suicidal tendencies at the faintest provocation.

Lombroso, 1889 p 276

The salon was in full swing when James arrived, although the atmosphere was more subdued than last time. Ottolenghi came over immediately, wearing his usual amiable expression.

‘
Buonasera
, James. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’

‘I was looking at those papers that Tullio found for me.’

Ottolenghi looked surprised. ‘I didn’t realise you were following that up. I assume you didn’t find anything.’

James paused. Then, ‘No,’ he replied, ‘nothing.’ He heard those words again – ‘Do not trust him . . .’

Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘Well, it’s hardly surprising. As if a killer would need practice. A man like that is of a particular type, as the professor has described. He is born to kill. Scientific policing is all very well, but it needs theoretical input to produce results. I’m beginning to see that now.’

James didn’t agree with Ottolenghi but there was no point in arguing about it now. It merely stiffened his resolve to investigate in his own way. He looked around the room. ‘Where’s Horton?’ he asked.

‘No doubt he’s hoping to make an entrance with his mystery companion.’

James grinned. Ottolenghi was right. Horton had a similar quality to Lombroso in that he enjoyed a certain amount of theatricality. He looked round at his fellow guests and their interaction – which was worthy of an anthropological study of its own. As ever, Lombroso was the centre of attention. He was holding forth on his latest ideas about Pilgrim and his likely characteristics, particularly in relation to his latest ‘discovery’, the schizoid criminal.

James was not sure of the wisdom of providing such a picture. Lombroso had, after all, been wrong before. Despite this he spoke with such authority and confidence that his ideas sounded compelling even though they didn’t necessarily bear close examination. Those that surrounded Lombroso seemed to be agreeing with every word he uttered. The only exception was Borelli, who was at least asking him some questions. Even this gave the impression of a kind of comedic double act except, of course, that jokes were few and far between. Everything Borelli asked was met with an ‘I’m glad you asked me that’ or ‘Ah yes, an excellent question, thank you,’ as if it had all been set up in advance. Had it not been for Borelli’s somewhat exasperated expression he might even have thought that it had.

James looked over towards the door and saw Sofia approaching. She smiled at him discreetly. She was carrying a platter of
stuzzichini
just like those he had tasted at the Caffè Norman. There were tiny ham rolls, mini toasts decorated with glistening olives and delicate crustless sandwiches. As she caught his eye she gave him a barely perceptible wink. James smiled and looked around to see if anyone had noticed but they were all too involved with their own conversations. He wondered idly what would have happened if he had gone over to her, thrown the platter aside and taken her in his arms. Nothing good, he imagined.

‘I see Gemelli’s here with his chums,’ he observed to Ottolenghi.

They looked over to the academics as they stood in a little huddle in the corner of the room, staring at Lombroso as he spoke. Every now and again Lombroso would glance over in his assistants’ direction and nod cordially at them, leaving them little choice but to acknowledge him. Gemelli gave him a curt nod but the expression on his face was unmistakably hostile.

‘I confess I’m not sure of the wisdom of inviting them,’ Ottolenghi remarked.

‘The professor’s playing some sort of game with them, isn’t he?’ James replied. ‘He’s teasing them with the invitation. He must have known that they would be quite unable to resist it.’

‘Perhaps, but it’s a risky strategy,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘Let’s not forget that Gemelli has already suspended Lombroso. He would not need much in the way of further ammunition to deprive the professor of his position on a permanent basis.’

‘True enough, particularly given the press coverage so helpfully provided by Baldovino with the malevolent encouragement of our friend Machinetti.’

‘That man’s a fool!’ Ottolenghi exclaimed.

‘But a fool with influential friends,’ said a voice behind them. It was Tullio, and they greeted him warmly. James looked at him differently. Seeing that photograph had given him an intimate glance into his life and as a result he felt he knew him better.