City of Devils: A Novel (47 page)

According to Esquirol, some homicidal monomaniacs have a quiet, melancholy inconstant and impetuous character, while others are known for their kindness. When they are violent, the catalysts include the weather, abnormal indigestion, over-excitement of the nerves, religious exaltation, imitation, misfortune and extreme poverty
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Lombroso, 1889 p 272-3

James, Ottolenghi and Tullio sat for a while, trying to make some sense of the letter and its contents. Tullio seemed reluctant to leave Lombroso’s side, even for a moment, and had to be persuaded to move away from him, just a little. James had some sympathy with his feelings. The threat felt more palpable than before, although he was certain that none of the professor’s immediate circle could be involved. Still, they did not know the whereabouts of Horton and his behaviour was suspicious to say the least, particularly in the light of Reiner’s information.

‘This just gets worse,’ James said gloomily. ‘Did you see Gemelli’s face when he left?’

‘I did,’ Ottolenghi replied. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there is yet another meeting tomorrow.’

‘What about Horton?’ James asked Tullio.

‘I have sent officers to his hotel to see if he has turned up there.’

‘He certainly has some questions to answer,’ Ottolenghi said.

Tullio nodded grimly. ‘He has something to do with all of this, I’m sure of it.’

‘He must be a prime suspect at the very least,’ James said. ‘He brought the letter and his behaviour has been odd from the beginning. And there’s more.’ He told them what Reiner had revealed earlier.

‘It’s horrible, of course, but it doesn’t prove he’s a killer. And somehow he doesn’t fit in with the professor’s description of a schizoid killer,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have more than one personality, or if he has it certainly hasn’t manifested itself.’

‘But isn’t that the point? There’s a hidden side to him that most people do not see,’ Tullio said.

‘Perhaps so, but I certainly wouldn’t describe him as charming,’ James said.

‘True,’ Ottolenghi added, ‘and he does not appear to be hiding any of his feelings. He seems pretty straightforwardly unpleasant to me.’

‘All the same, we cannot be certain of his innocence just because he doesn’t fit in with the professor’s ideas.’ James leant forwards and spoke more quietly. ‘After all, he may be wrong.’

‘I agree,’ Tullio said. ‘We obviously cannot dismiss Horton as a suspect. He should be questioned at the very least.’

Ottolenghi sat back in his chair and drained his glass. ‘I don’t know about you but I could do with a drink and maybe some coffee.’

‘I’ll go downstairs and ask Sofia to bring us some,’ James said, happy to have an opportunity to speak to her. He went down to the kitchen, full of anticipation, but when he got down there he could only see the other girl who had been helping out that evening.

‘Where’s Sofia?’ he asked, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

‘She went out, signor,’ the girl replied, ‘just after she dropped the plate.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘No, sir, she just went, but she looked . . .’ The girl hesitated.

‘Looked what?’ he asked urgently.

The girl frowned. ‘She looked frightened. I thought at first that it was because she dropped the plate and she was scared she would get into trouble, but that’s not like her.’

‘You’re right. It isn’t.’ In a few short moments he was heading towards Sofia’s rooms. He had to make sure that she was all right because her reaction was odd. As he approached the small piazza where she lived he saw her in the distance. She was sitting on a low wall outside her room, her head in her hands. He was about to call out to her when someone approached her from the other side. She stood up and James saw him seize her by the shoulders, lift his arm and strike her across the face. She struggled and screamed. James shouted out and began to run towards them. The figure turned and looked at him. Its shape seemed oddly familiar but he could not see clearly in the shadows and, taking advantage of the distraction, Sofia broke free from the figure’s grip. To no avail – he grabbed her again and in doing so caused her to fall as James reached them. She lay motionless on the cobbles and the figure began to run. James was riven by indecision. Should he go after Sofia’s attacker or stay and tend to her? In truth, there was no choice. He could not leave her lying in the street. He knelt down and saw blood trickling from a cut on her head. He held her in his arms and looked at her, fearing for a moment that he had lost her. But she was breathing steadily enough. He lifted her up and carried her back to Lombroso’s house, where he knew she would be safe.

The following morning Sofia lay in bed, her dark hair cascading over the pillow like a strange, exotic head dress. She was dressed in a white cotton nightgown with lace around the cuffs and collar, not quite a shroud and not quite a wedding gown, but a parody of each.

When James had arrived with Sofia, Lombroso had examined her. He confirmed what James had hoped, that she had simply sustained a bump on the head and would make a full recovery with rest and care. Now, he looked at her from the doorway – as near to her as decency would allow. He longed to hold her hand, to sit by her and wait until she awoke so that his was the first face she would see. But he knew that was impossible and that made him even more determined somehow.

There was nothing practical he could do to help Sofia but at least he could try to find who had hurt her. He decided to pay a visit to the victim from Tullio’s past cases, the man who had been unfortunate enough to have an inverted cross carved into his flesh. His name was Angiolo Sighetti and he worked as a meat porter in the Porta Palazzo market, so James made his way there. As Sighetti had a substantial criminal record for offences of petty theft the file had included a mugshot which James hoped would assist in identifying him. He was a sullen-looking man, short, stocky with blunt features. His hair looked to be dark but with a shock of white in the centre, giving him the air of a down-at-heel pit pony. Even with this distinguishing feature it took James longer than he thought to track him down but when he finally saw him it was obvious that he had got the right man.

Sighetti was heaving the carcass of a sheep onto his broad shoulders. The day was mild and the man’s shirt was open to the waist. It flapped to and fro and every now and then the ugly raised scar tissue was left in plain sight. James walked towards him, weaving his way through handcarts and housewives, stalls and stockmen as well as the general market detritus generated by all of them.

‘Angiolo Sighetti?’

The man looked suspiciously at him. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I wanted to ask you about your attack.’

‘I’ve already given a statement. That’s all you’re getting.’ He started to walk away, the headless carcass bobbing up and down on his shoulder.

‘I’m not a policeman.’

Sighetti stopped and turned.

‘Then what are you, a journalist?’

‘No, but I’ll pay you for any information you give me.’

Sighetti stared at him for a moment and then nodded curtly. ‘Just wait for me to dump this. I’ll meet you over there.’ He nodded in the direction of a shabby bar on the far side of the market. ‘You can buy me a beer.’

A few moments later James was sitting opposite Sighetti as he picked up his drink and took a large gulp. He wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand and grinned. ‘That’s better. Now, what do you want to know, exactly?’

‘Just tell me what happened to you.’

‘It was at night. I was on my way home from my local bar, La Capra, and someone came up to me from behind.’

‘Were you drunk?’ James asked.

‘A bit, I suppose. But what’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, nothing. But it might have made you easier prey.’

‘Perhaps. But they were quick. Even a sober man couldn’t have escaped.’

‘They?’

‘Yes, there were two of them. One held me from behind and pinned my arms to my side.’

‘And the other? What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know. They slipped a hood over my head and I saw nothing.’

‘Then what?’

‘The second man carved me.
Merda
! It was painful. Look.’ Sighetti pulled back his shirt to reveal his scar. ‘It’s the devil’s mark, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what some would say. Did you notice anything else?’

‘I’ve thought about this long and hard but it only came to me a couple of days ago.’

‘What?’ James asked, leaning forwards.

‘Two things. Firstly, the man holding me from behind stank to high heaven. It wasn’t the usual thing – sweat, dirt. No, it was more like sour milk. That’s the closest I can get anyway. Just the thought of it makes me want to heave.’

‘And the second?’

‘It was something the second man said after he’d carved me. He whispered it into my ear. I’ve no idea what it means.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I can’t recall the exact words but it was something like: “A good man cannot be harmed, alive or dead.”’

‘So what happened then?’

‘No idea. One of them hit me on the back of my head and I passed out. That’s the last thing I remember.’

‘Just one last question, the second man, did he have an accent?’

Sighetti scratched his head. ‘I can’t be certain but he sounded different. Not foreign, necessarily, like your good self, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. No, if anything he spoke like my lawyer does – a bit posh, educated, you might say. Sounded just like him, in fact.’

‘And your lawyer is from Turin?’

‘I think so. He’s the best in the city, that’s for sure.’

James thanked Sighetti for his trouble and, having paid him, bought him another beer and thrown in a sandwich for good measure, he left.

It seemed that Sofia was right. Their killer had rehearsed his method, or part of it, at least once. This time the carving had been done alone and on the front of the chest rather than the back, presumably to test it out. But there had been no attempt to rehearse the main mutilations, at least not in Turin anyway. The problem was that although this new information was certainly of interest it did not take him any nearer to identifying the killer, or indeed his accomplice. It sounded as if it could be Horton, who spoke Italian like a native. But then it could also be practically anyone else. Still, that comment the second man had made to his victim had a familiar ring to it. Where had he heard it before? If he could work that out then he might be able to identify the killer.

James had only intended to take an hour or so to see his witness but it was almost two o’clock when he returned to Lombroso’s house. He was admitted by the maid he had spoken to last night. Her face was tear-stained and for one dreadful moment James thought that Sofia had taken a turn for the worse.

‘What is it?’ he asked her fearfully. ‘What’s the matter? Is it Sofia?’

‘No, sir, it’s the master, the professor.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s been arrested! The carabinieri came for him earlier and took him away.’

‘On what charge?’

The girl began to sob. ‘Murder, signor! The ones in the paper – they said he was the Pilgrim!’

There was a knock at the front door and James nodded to the girl to open it. It was Ottolenghi and Borelli.

‘You’ve heard, then,’ Borelli said grimly.

‘Machinetti finally got his way,’ Ottolenghi added.

‘Assisted no doubt by the influence of Gemelli,’ Borelli said. ‘This will mean the end of Lombroso’s career if we can’t sort it out soon.’

‘Where is he?’ James asked.

‘He’s being held at carabinieri headquarters,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Madame Tarnovsky said as she descended the staircase to join them, having been tending to Sofia. ‘Let’s go and get him released. He isn’t the killer. We all know that. We just need to persuade that ridiculous policeman Machinetti to see the truth.’

‘What
is
the truth?’ Borelli asked.

‘What do you mean?’ Ottolenghi said. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that the professor killed all these people?’

‘He has alibis for some of the murders,’ James said. It seemed strange to hear Borelli, of all people, one of Lombroso’s oldest friends and colleagues, speak as if he was unsure of his innocence.

‘Some, not all,’ Borelli said. ‘What if he arranged them?’

‘Why would he do that?’ James asked again.

‘To allow him to solve them, of course,’ Borelli said. ‘You heard him last night with his schizoid killer theory. He loved it!’

‘Even Cesare doesn’t love his work enough to kill,’ Madame Tarnovsky said, scornfully.

‘Can we really be sure of that?’ Ottolenghi said quietly.

James looked at him and frowned. ‘So even you’re doubting him now.’

‘He maybe a little over-zealous in his methods at times but he’s no killer,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘Anyway, I think it is time we gave Cesare the chance to answer for himself. We need to get him released.’

They agreed to go to carabinieri headquarters to see what could be done but Borelli declined. It was as if, James thought, he had given up on his old friend.

When they arrived they found Tullio sitting in the entrance hall looking rather lost.

‘Have you spoken to Machinetti?’ Ottolenghi asked.

‘I have, but he won’t budge,’ Tullio said. ‘Gemelli managed to persuade him that Lombroso was bluffing and had written all the letters.’

‘So what can we do now?’ James asked, sighing. ‘If Machinetti’s convinced we’ll never get the professor released.’

There was a pause and then Madame Tarnovsky spoke. ‘I believe I know the best way to approach Machinetti. Could we get him to speak to me, do you think?’

Machinetti was duly summoned with the assistance of Tullio. He came bristling into the room as if ready to attack.

‘Ah, Marshal, how kind of you to see me,’ Madame Tarnovsky said with her usual charm.

Machinetti seemed taken aback. Charm was clearly something he was not used to. He gave a short and uncomfortable bow.

‘What can do for you, signora?’ he asked.

‘Could we speak in private, do you think?’ she requested.

He nodded and escorted her into a nearby side room. A few minutes later he emerged, blushing like a young girl, and signalled to one of his men.