City of Devils: A Novel (46 page)

‘Are you on duty?’ he asked.

Tullio shrugged. ‘Yes and no. I was invited as a guest but I’ll be keeping my eyes open for anything unusual.’

‘Surely the Pilgrim would not dare to strike here, in front of so many witnesses?’ James said.

‘It’s unlikely, I grant you. But, from what the professor has said, he seems to know a good deal about his work.’

‘So we may actually be in the company of a killer!’ Ottolenghi exclaimed.

‘It’s possible, that’s all I’ll say. We can’t be too careful.’

James looked round again at the assembled guests. Could one of them be a multiple murderer? It seemed incredible and yet so did much else about this whole affair. He wondered if he should mention the report he had found to Tullio. They were his papers, after all. But something made him pause.

As he observed the various guests in their various cabals he saw Oskar Reiner who beckoned James over. ‘Herr Murray, I am glad to speak to you before I leave.’ His hair and eyes seemed paler than ever.

‘What can I do for you, Reiner?’

Reiner pulled him roughly though discreetly to one side, as if he was being arrested. ‘Come with me. I don’t want anyone to hear.’

James, curious to hear what he had to say, did not resist, though he wondered if such force was entirely necessary. He followed Reiner out of the door into the hallway where they skulked by a large aspidistra.

‘I realise that you may think that I am overreacting by talking to you here,’ Reiner said, ‘but it could be a danger to you if we were overheard. At least one person, possibly two may have already lost their lives.’

James looked at him, startled by this revelation. ‘So what is it?’

‘It’s about Horton . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘I was conducting some interviews with some prostitutes introduced to me by a woman named Rosa Bruno, the woman who was murdered.’

Remembering what Sofia had told him, James nodded and Reiner continued, ‘I was asking them about the sexual proclivities of their clients, particularly involving violence. Both she and they told me about a particular client who had an overwhelming need to inflict pain.’ He paused. ‘Murray, I have heard many shocking things in my career, but what they told me . . .
Mein Gott
! Nothing could have prepared me for this individual’s depravity!’

‘And this individual was . . .’

‘Horton, yes.’

‘And have you told anyone else?’

Reiner looked down at the floor for a moment. When he looked up James was alarmed to see that his pale eyes were brimming with tears. ‘That night at the opera . . . I had to . . . you must understand. I needed to speak to someone and I knew he had an interest.’ He paused again as if he was willing himself to say the words.

‘I told DeClichy – and now he is dead!’

Suddenly James remembered the expression on DeClichy’s face as Reiner had whispered into his ear. No wonder he had looked so shocked. He took Reiner by the shoulders.

‘Now listen. There is nothing to say that either you or even Horton has caused harm to either Rosa Bruno or DeClichy.’

‘But if I had not told DeClichy—’

‘You had to tell someone and he was investigating Horton, as you, as we
all
knew.’

Reiner nodded miserably.

‘Reiner, I would have done the same in your place. There is nothing to reproach yourself about. Just leave it with me and I will tell the authorities as soon as I can.’

‘Thank you, Murray,’ Reiner said, shaking him by the hand. ‘You will let me know what happens, will you not? Whether or not he has killed anyone, Horton is still dangerous.’

James nodded gravely. ‘Indeed. That much is only too clear.’

Reiner left then and James stood for a moment, absorbing what he had learnt. This, presumably, was what Rosa Bruno had wanted to tell them and what had brought about her savage death. The same applied to poor DeClichy. No doubt Reiner would have been next. The more he heard about Walter B. Horton, the more James became convinced that he was the killer. The problem was that there was not, as yet, any direct proof. All they had so far was evidence of Horton’s character and that in itself would not be sufficient to connect him to the killings. They needed more. And James hoped that if things turned out as he suspected then more was exactly what he would be in a position to provide.

He went back in and moments later a hush descended as Horton strode into the centre of the room as if the limelight belonged to him by right. Following behind him was a cloaked figure, slightly hunched. Its face was obscured by an enormous hood. It passed within about a foot of James and he had to turn away from the sour stench that surrounded it. Sofia was standing next to him and he heard a clatter as the figure passed by her. She had dropped her
stuzzichini.
James knelt down to start scooping up the food onto the platter but when he stood up Sofia had gone, he assumed to get a cloth or perhaps some more food.

People started to move away from Horton who was now standing in front of a striking painting of an African chief. It seemed to James that they wore similar expressions – a sort of amused superiority. Horton took a cigar from his pocket and lit it ostentatiously. The cloaked figure stood next to him.

James looked over towards Lombroso who was staring at the figure in fascination, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Borelli stood next to him, frowning. The figure slowly turned towards Lombroso and began to pull back the hood.

‘Stop!’ cried out Horton. ‘Not yet!’

He need not have worried. The face of the figure was almost completely obscured by a carnival mask with the features of a wolf.

‘What is the reason for this, Dr Horton?’ Lombroso asked.

Horton smiled broadly. ‘I have brought a subject for you to analyse, Professor.’

He uttered Lombroso’s title with such contempt that it was clear he thought that the professor would not meet the challenge he appeared to be laying down before him.

Lombroso gave a short bow. ‘How interesting. I would be delighted to assist. What would you like to know?’

Horton smirked at him. ‘We have heard you talk of your theories so often, Professor, I thought it was high time you gave us a demonstration.’

‘I see,’ Lombroso said, politely. ‘Exactly what questions would you like me to answer?’

Horton looked smug. ‘What kind of a man is this? Is he a criminal, and if so, what variety? Describe his characteristics. Put your theory to the test, Professor. Are you prepared to take up the challenge?’

The professor removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes thoughtfully. For a moment James thought that he was going to decline Horton’s request. ‘I always enjoy a challenge, you know that, Horton.’

There was a ripple of applause. Gemelli looked particularly pleased but not, James assumed, for benevolent reasons. Ottolenghi looked concerned and James started to wonder if Lombroso had made an error in so readily picking up the gauntlet thrown down by Horton.

‘There is one thing, however. I must see the face. Otherwise I cannot identify this man’s type.’

The disguised man shook his head vehemently and Horton pursed his lips in thought. ‘The man does not wish to be identified,’ he said. ‘But what if you could feel his features beneath the mask. Would that suffice?’

Lombroso stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I believe it would.’

The atmosphere was highly charged as Lombroso strolled around the figure. Occasionally he would lean towards him, sniffing. James was surprised that he could bring himself to get so close given the disgusting aroma that emanated from the subject. Then he began to measure him, using what looked like a piece of string pulled from his coat pocket. He pulled out the ears and flapped them to and fro as if they were bits of paper. He felt beneath the mask for the nose and mouth. Then he picked up the hands and examined them closely through an eyeglass. Finally he made the subject march up and down as if on an army parade ground.

Lombroso sighed and rocked backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘May I ask the subject some questions?’

Horton nodded. ‘Not too many, mind. We don’t want to make it too easy.’

Lombroso went to the back of the figure and peered over his shoulder. ‘Has your head ever felt heavy?’

The figure cleared its throat. ‘Yes, sir, it has, particularly in the summer months.’ The voice was rough with an underlying whine. It sounded vaguely familiar.

‘Mmm, interesting, interesting . . . And tell me now, do you ever suffer from headaches?’

‘No, but in the winter I am light-headed.’

‘Have you ever killed anyone?’

There was a sharp and universal intake of breath from the audience, for that is what they had become. Horton interjected, ‘Come, come, Professor. That’s cheating.’

‘Are you liked by your neighbours?’ Lombroso went on quickly.

‘Only when I’m buying drinks, otherwise they hate me.’

‘And your family?’

‘Them too.’

‘Would you kill?’

Horton stepped forwards as if he wanted to interject again but the figure answered before he could.

‘I might.’

‘Enough,’ Horton said. ‘It’s time for your conclusions, Professor.’

There was a long pause and Lombroso stood with his hands in his pockets, looking into the distance. Finally he spoke.

‘From the evidence present I think that we can conclude that this man is a born criminal – a thief, in fact. This is indicated by his physical characteristics – prominent ears, large nose and . . .’ Lombroso stopped and suddenly the figure cried out.

‘Ouch! That hurt. Did you see that? He pinched me!’

‘As I thought,’ Lombroso added, ‘extreme sensitivity to minor pain.’

‘Huh, minor!’ the figure said.

‘He also has a persecution complex and a penchant for eating mouldy polenta.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’ Horton asked, incredulously.

‘From his odour, of course, Doctor. You should know that, as a medical man. I would guess that he suffers from some kind of mental condition brought on by the disease pellagra, which can in itself be a consequence of eating mouldy food.’

‘Hmm, not bad, Professor, although the mental condition has yet to make its mark,’ Horton said. ‘Stupidity is not the same thing.’

The figure started to mutter angrily.

‘Quiet!’ Horton barked. ‘No one asked your opinion. Anyway, haven’t you something to give to the professor?’

The figure nodded and pulled an envelope from his pocket.

‘We found this on the way in,’ Horton said casually.

Lombroso took it from the figure and began to open it. People started to move closer in an effort to see what was in it but Tullio gestured for them to move back.

‘What does it say, Professor?’ James asked.

‘Yes, read it out, Cesare,’ Borelli said, eagerly.

‘Is it from the Pilgrim?’ Madame Tarnovsky asked.

‘It is indeed,’ Lombroso replied. He cleared his throat as if about to declaim a Shakespearean speech and began to read it out.

‘Watch out for the man who laughs and looks ahead with small mobile eyes. Thin beard and little colour, there’s nothing worse under the sun. These are some of my final tributes to you, Lombroso.’ He looked up, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘It is signed “the Pilgrim”.’

‘What does it mean?’ James asked.

‘They are popular Italian proverbs,’ Lombroso replied. ‘I have cited them before to demonstrate that my ideas are not out of step with public opinion. As to why they have been used here, well, I could not say for sure.’

‘Clearly it is another example of the killer’s twisted admiration for you, Cesare,’ Madame Tarnovsky said firmly.

‘Where and when did you cite them?’ Tullio asked.

Lombroso sat down heavily on a nearby armchair. ‘They appear in some notes I made for an article.’

‘Well, obviously the killer has read it and used it for this,’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

Ottolenghi shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.’

Tullio frowned in confusion. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

Lombroso sighed. ‘I have not yet written the article. I was going to and then I put it to one side, awaiting some further research. As far as I know the notes are still somewhere in my study.’

‘Unless they were taken in the burglary, Professor,’ Ottolenghi said.

Lombroso shook his head. ‘No, I was referring to my study here.’

James stared at him. That meant the letter writer had been here, in Lombroso’s home.

There was some sympathetic murmuring and a large glass of brandy was brought to Lombroso who sipped at it with a faraway look in his eye. His guests stood about in groups talking worriedly. Only Gemelli seemed unconcerned. James couldn’t hear all of what he was saying but it sounded more threatening than sympathetic. He heard the words ‘last chance’ and ‘sheer carelessness’ as well as ‘sullied reputation’.

It wasn’t long before guests began to drift away, bidding somewhat muted goodbyes to their host. Lombroso seemed remarkably unaffected by it all, despite the underlying threat in the Pilgrim’s letter. In fact, Borelli looked as if he had been more troubled by it than Lombroso. Soon, just the professor’s immediate circle of friends and colleagues were left behind to offer support, if indeed it was actually needed. It was only then that they noticed that Horton and his mystery friend were nowhere to be seen.

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