City of Devils: A Novel (25 page)

James rubbed his eyes in frustration and yawned. It was time to go. He closed the volume carefully and left it on the desk for the librarian to replace. As he did so, a piece of paper fell out. Perhaps DeClichy had left something behind. He picked it up and looked at it. It was full of meaningless scribbles – diagrams and doodles – nothing of importance. He turned it round. At the top was some writing. It said
Dr Death.

He stared at it. What could it mean? As he was considering this he heard a commotion coming from downstairs. Voices were being raised and one sounded all too familiar. He went over to the stairwell and listened.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘
Sì,
Dr Horton, but it makes no difference. It is late and we are about to close. No one can be admitted to the library at this late hour.’

‘Oh, come on. I just want to look at a few notes that my colleague DeClichy has left me. I won’t be more than a minute or two.’

‘No, Doctor. You will have to come back tomorrow.’

‘Now listen to me, you jumped-up little nobody, if I want to go upstairs then no one will stop me. You’ll just have to wait!’

James heard the librarian sigh loudly. ‘Doctor, it is not as simple as that. Someone else is already up there looking at the material you mention. It would not be fair to disturb him. Come back tomorrow.’

There was a pause as Horton took in this information. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But you’d better make sure that the material is available for me – and I mean all.’

‘
Sì,
Doctor, of course,’ the librarian said.

Then James heard the door slamming shut and the librarian’s footsteps as he left his station, presumably to inspect the lower floors before closing.

So Horton knew that DeClichy was on to something, although exactly what remained to be seen. Whatever it was it seemed that Horton certainly had something he wanted to hide.

Suddenly he heard a sound from the corridor. It was the creaking of a loose floorboard, as if someone had just trodden on it. James froze. Silently he crept towards the sound. Was it just the librarian come to remind him that the library was about to close? If so, where was he? Hadn’t he said that no one else was here?

James moved quietly along the corridor and stopped. The only sound was that of his own breath. He held it for a few seconds. There was more creaking, this time from behind him. He turned quickly and thought he saw a shadow ducking behind some shelves. He walked quickly in that direction but could find nothing. Then he heard the sound of books falling to the floor and some quiet cursing. There was definitely someone there! James caught the sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye and ran towards it. He could not see clearly in the gloom as not all the shelving was lit. Whoever it was ran between the shelves and began to push books into James’s path in an effort to slow him down. He slid about and almost tripped several times until he came hurtling round a corner and straight into a footstool that had been placed right in the middle of an aisle. James went over it and came down with a clatter. He heard a figure coming from behind and turned fearfully to face it.

‘Really! This isn’t a playground!’

The librarian stood peering down at him. Then he put a hand out which James gratefully took. ‘I thought you were different but you academics are all the same. No respect. Come along. Time to go, young man.’

As they made their way towards the stairs the librarian treated him to a number of anecdotes of previous academic misbehaviour in the library. James tried to look suitably contrite. When they got to the desk James heard the main door swing shut. Whoever it was had gone and by the time James had extricated himself and left the building, having apologised profusely to the librarian, whose help, he reasoned, he might need again, there was no one to be seen.

He started to make his way through the cold night towards Sofia’s rooms. He felt restless as he walked through the city, as usual now shrouded in mist. This day, as every other day he had spent in this city, had been eventful – the prison demonstration, Sofia whispering to Reiner, the professor’s suspension and now the events in the library. It was hard to make sense of them all. Perhaps Sofia might be persuaded to tell him what Reiner had wanted and perhaps more about Rosa Bruno and what she might know. He would have to tread carefully, though. He did not want to upset her again, but if she
did
have information that might help them catch the killer then he needed to know.

It was not far to Sofia’s rooms but by the time he reached them anticipation had almost overwhelmed him. As he rounded the corner of the alleyway he saw the candle in the window – a sign that she was waiting for him. He smiled at the thought of her touch. But then he saw something that he had not expected. A man approached Sofia’s door and rapped on it with his cane. It had a distinctive silver top that James was sure he had seen before. He strained in the murk to see the man’s identity as the door opened to admit him. Was it Reiner? No – the build was wrong. Sofia stood in the hallway holding a candle. She stepped back and for a split second James caught a glimpse of the man’s features as the light shone briefly upon his face. He saw heavy brows and a beard. Was it . . . could it be . . . Lombroso?

The door slammed behind Sofia’s visitor, leaving James standing, still wondering about what he had seen. Could Sofia have lied to him? Was there something between her and Lombroso after all? He tormented himself by imagining them together, Lombroso enjoying Sofia’s kisses as he himself had done, whispering words of love to her. He felt sick at the thought of such betrayal. How could she have deceived him so blatantly? Of course he knew of her past and that was difficult enough to deal with, but at least the anonymity of her erstwhile clients and the distance of time meant that, for him, they were just shadows that he could put aside. An affair with his employer and mentor could not be so easily forgotten. How could he look at either of them in the same way again? And if Lombroso was capable of this deception, then could he be responsible for other, even greater, lies? Why was he so reluctant to investigate murders when his connection to them via the bloody notes threatened his reputation? Could he be involved, perhaps with an accomplice, as the footprints had indicated? Did Sofia know and was she only with James to keep him quiet?

James was toying with the idea of confronting them when he heard footsteps coming down the rickety stairway. He instinctively turned into the alley and hid there. He heard the door open and a muffled exchange before it closed again. By the time he emerged all that he could see was a figure retreating into the mist. He sighed with relief. Perhaps it was an innocent meeting after all. He began to chide himself for being such a paranoid fool. Of course Lombroso was no murderer. He was a man of science. There was no conspiracy. How could he have thought such a thing, even for a moment. It was only natural for Lombroso to call on his housekeeper. He might well have had orders to issue for the following day. She had told James that they were not lovers and he had seen nothing here tonight to make him suspect that she had lied to him. He wanted to ask her about it, just to make sure of her in his own heart, but he realised that he could do no such thing. If she knew that he had been lurking outside her home, what would she think of him? She had already accused him of not trusting her and this would just prove it. No, tempting though it was to call on Sofia and demand answers to his many questions, it was safer to make his way home to his lonely lodgings and the cold supper, thoughtfully left out for him by his landlady. DeClichy, Horton and the missing newspaper pages were quite forgotten.

Ausano whistled to himself as he made his way through the old market at Porta Palazzo. It had been a good night. True, he’d spent the last of the cash he had made from helping out the professor with his crazy experiment but it had been worth it. That night, just for an hour or two, he had been king of the tavern. Everyone had laughed at his jokes and listened attentively to his anecdotes – that is until the money ran out and the drink ran dry. Still, it had been good while it lasted, Ausano thought philosophically, as he wove his way home. You have to enjoy life while you can because who knows when fate will catch up with you.

It was cold and clear but Ausano was insulated from the chill by cheap wine and
grappa.
He belched into the night air and muttered to himself, retelling one of his stories that had so entertained his drinking companions. He paused in a small piazza in order to relieve himself in a convenient alley. Leaning against a pillar for support he was doing up his fly and preparing himself for the last stretch home when he felt a blow to the back of his head – and blackness descended.

Some hours later, the proprietor of Al Bicerin, one of Turin’s most famous cafés, arrived with his young assistant Benito to begin opening for the day’s business. As he unlocked the door he turned and saw a figure slumped on the steps of the church opposite, known as the Consolata.

He tutted to himself. ‘Another drunk,’ he thought. ‘If he doesn’t move soon I’ll have to send the boy for the carabinieri.’ Later he looked out of the window and realised that the figure had not moved for at least an hour. Curious, he sent Benito over to take a look. He watched as the boy bent over the apparently slumbering form and then stepped back quickly, crossing himself as he did so.

‘Signor, signor!’ cried Benito. His boss hurried over, took one look and pulled the boy back.

‘Call the police, now! Tell them a man is dead and that half of his face is missing!’

13

Habitual murderers have a cold, glassy stare and eyes that are sometimes bloodshot and filmy, the nose is often hawklike and always large; the jaw is strong, the cheekbones broad; and their hair is dark, abundant and crisply textured. Their beards are scanty, their canine teeth very developed, and their lips thin
.

Lombroso, 1876 p 51

James arrived at the museum, ready to try his best to persuade Lombroso that he should investigate the murders. Both the victims were connected to him and had been horribly murdered. And it was at least a possibility, it seemed to James, that there would be more killings. The murderer was trying to make some kind of point and until Lombroso at least reacted by investigating then perhaps he would feel the need to drive it home yet further by killing again. Surely the professor could not put his own professional pride before someone’s life? It was unthinkable.

Sofia greeted him at the door and his heart lifted at the sight of her. She was looking as beautiful as ever, wearing her hair up as she had at the prison demonstration. It gave her a look of understated elegance that moved him and made him long for her touch.

She looked at him coldly. ‘
Buongiorno, Dottore.
’

He realised that she had been expecting him to visit her last night.

‘Sofia . . . I am sorry . . .’

She frowned at him and shook her head. He nodded, realising that she was trying to tell him that they might be overheard. ‘How are you today?’ he asked.

‘I am well,
grazie.
And you, signor? Are you well also?’ Sofia said formally. Her eyes, flashing with anger, told a different story.

‘I am, thank you.’ James gazed at her, entranced.

She stood back to allow him to enter. He wanted to take her in his arms, explain his absence the previous night and beg for her forgiveness – but propriety forbade it. She closed the heavy door and, turning, swept past him. Her hand brushed his. He felt a frisson of desire pass through his body.

‘The professor is in the laboratory. Follow me.’

He did as she asked and, as they walked along a dark corridor, he seized his chance and pulled her into an alcove with a large plinth in the centre of it. On top was a glass dome over an ape’s head.

She looked at him in alarm. ‘James, if we are caught!’

‘I don’t care,’ he murmured and kissed her. For a few seconds she tried to resist but then she yielded to him and he felt her tongue fluttering gently in his mouth. Suddenly a door opened further up the corridor and she pulled away. James pulled her back. She was about to protest when he put his fingers on her lips. Footsteps were coming towards them. James breathed in Sofia’s scent as she pressed herself against him and closed her eyes, like a child playing hide-and-seek. Suddenly the footsteps stopped and whoever it was opened a door and went into a room. They were safe.

Sofia opened her eyes and kissed his finger, still resting on her wide luscious lips. Then she nipped it playfully.

‘Ouch! What was that for?’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Something came up. I’ll explain later.’

They embraced again, then she smoothed down her dress and walked on. James followed her, grinning from ear to ear, until they reached the laboratory.

Before she knocked on the door she whispered in his ear. ‘Come to me later. I have something to tell you.’

She opened the door and ushered him in. ‘Dr Murray is here, Professor.’

‘Thank you, Sofia,’ Lombroso replied. He was standing by the window, looking mournfully down to the bustling street below. Tullio and Ottolenghi were perched on a couple of laboratory stools as if they were about to begin an experiment.