City of Devils: A Novel (48 page)

‘Release Lombroso,’ he ordered, brusquely. And with that he left quickly, presumably not wishing to witness his prime suspect leaving the premises.

Madame Tarnovsky soon joined them.

‘How on earth did you manage that?’ James asked in awe.

‘I simply appealed to his better nature,’ she replied, a knowing smile on her face.

‘He has one then?’ Ottolenghi asked.

Madame Tarnovsky shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps not, but he does have one feature . . .’

‘What’s that?’ James asked.

‘His vanity,’ she replied. ‘I simply reminded Marshal Machinetti that the evidence against Cesare was scant and suggested that it might be better to release him and put him under surveillance. That way he could be certain of catching him red-handed.’

‘So not only did you procure his release but also further police protection. Bravo, Madame. Perhaps I should be recruiting you!’ Tullio said in admiration.

As Madame Tarnovsky acknowledged him with a smile an officer arrived and told them that one of them would have to identify Lombroso and sign for him, so James and Ottolenghi dutifully followed him to the cell area.

As James had expected, Lombroso was neither angry nor dejected at his detention. Anything but, in fact. As they arrived they heard laughter and there, seated on a bench surrounded by some of the most fearsome criminal specimens James had ever seen, was the professor. He seemed to be examining a set of colourful tattoos belonging to an enormous man with a shaved head and no teeth, who, he learned later, was a notorious thief and robber. They quickly identified Lombroso and he was extricated from the cell without further ado, once he had bade a cheerful and prolonged farewell to his cellmates. He didn’t seem particularly grateful for his release at first. In fact, he appeared to be rather annoyed.

‘You could have left it a little longer,’ he said, indignantly. ‘I was getting some extremely useful material.’

He did, however, react rather more graciously when he heard about Madame Tarnovsky’s intervention, roaring with laughter on discovering that she had managed to provide him with round-the-clock protection, courtesy of Machinetti.

‘Madame, you are a lady of many talents,’ he said, a broad smile on his face. ‘Now, I think it is time to go home. I hope you will all join me.’

All of them accepted the invitation and soon they were sitting in the large living room where the salon was usually held. Coffee and sandwiches had been served and Lombroso was holding forth again about his new criminal type. As he did so, something on the floor caught James’s eye – a flash of colour beneath the picture of an African chief. It was a piece of red and gold card. James went over, scooped it up and examined it.

Before he could say anything the maid came in. ‘There is a letter. It has been redirected from the museum, sir.’

Lombroso held out his hand but she shook her head.

‘It is for Dr Murray.’

She gave it to him and Lombroso raised his eyebrows.

‘Really, Murray, I do think you could have your personal mail sent to your home,’ he said tetchily.

James looked down at the letter. ‘It is not personal, Professor, and has a bearing on the case. Well it might, depending on the contents.’

Lombroso did not look pleased. His homily had been interrupted. He gave a dry laugh. ‘I doubt that, Murray. We are dealing with criminal anthropology here, not guessing games. Science will solve these murders.’

‘I agree completely, Professor, and science is exactly what I have here.’ James waved the envelope.

‘Very well, tell us what astounding discovery you have made.’

James ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents.

‘Well?’ Lombroso said impatiently.

‘I sent the cigar ash we found at the Ausano murder scene to Scotland, to be analysed by Dr Bell who has a certain expertise on such matters.’

‘I see . . . Well, I am sure we could have done something similar here,’ Lombroso said in hurt tones.

James could have pointed out that Lombroso had been somewhat sceptical when he had raised it after Ausano’s murder, but he decided to err on the side of politeness.

‘Indeed, Professor, but as Dr Bell has written a monograph on the subject . . .’

Lombroso nodded. ‘Well, of course I have been planning something similar myself but there has not really been time with the symposium and these murders. Go on, Murray.’

James cleared his throat and looked round. This time, he thought, it was his turn to make a dramatic announcement.

‘The findings indicate that the ash is from a cigar made in Havana but available only in certain states of America – California being one.’

‘Horton!’ Tullio declared. ‘It must be.’

‘Well, it is not conclusive,’ Lombroso said, clearly reluctant to move away from the notion of a criminal type.

‘But it is compelling,’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

‘When one adds it to the other evidence . . .’ Ottolenghi said.

‘Such as?’ Lombroso asked.

‘This!’ James said, holding the piece of red and gold card up with a flourish.

‘What’s that?’ Lombroso asked.

‘I think Horton left it here last night. It comes from the base of his cigar.’

‘And how does that connect him to the murders?’ Lombroso asked. ‘Really, Murray, a piece of paper can be dropped by anyone.’

‘Not this one,’ James said. ‘I found an identical piece of card at the scene of Ratti’s murder.’

‘It all fits, Cesare,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘Look at the way Horton has challenged you from the first moment he arrived.’

‘Particularly at the last salon,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘It was a very public challenge too.’

‘Tribute equals test, Professor,’ Tullio added. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘And then he disappeared,’ James remarked. ‘In fact, he has acted very suspiciously throughout this whole affair. He was lurking in the university library not so long ago. And now we have the ash and the cigar paper left at two crime scenes.’

‘And let us not forget the cigar butt from the first murder scene!’ Tullio said excitedly.

‘I don’t think that we should get too carried away,’ Lombroso said. ‘After all, he does not fit my new criminal type – not exactly, anyway. But there is certainly enough to indicate that he might well be our man.’ He paused. ‘All we have to do is find him.’

Lombroso withdrew to his study shortly after this, saying he wanted to find some notes on the criminal type and do a further comparison with what they knew of Horton to see if they tallied.

James took the opportunity to slip upstairs to see Sofia. Madame Tarnovsky came with him for the sake of propriety. James thought that she might have guessed how much Sofia meant to him.

James gave a gentle knock at the door and poked his head around it.

‘She’s not there!’ he exclaimed.

Madame Tarnovsky followed him into the room. ‘Perhaps she has recovered a little and decided to dress. Silly girl! I did tell her not to.’

James heard a rustling coming from an adjoining room and went to see if he could find her. Instead it was the maid making a bed.

‘Where is Sofia?’ he asked nervously. A terrible suspicion had arisen in his mind and he hoped against hope that he was wrong.

‘She was taken away earlier, sir, by an ambulance.’

‘Taken by whom?’ he almost shouted.

The girl stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t know! But there was paperwork and everything left for the professor. Oh, signor, did I do wrong?’ With that she burst into tears.

Madame Tarnovsky went over to the girl and began to comfort her. Hearing the commotion the others came up and James quickly told them what had happened.

Lombroso’s brows furrowed. ‘I certainly did not order an ambulance.’ He sighed and sank down onto Sofia’s empty bed. ‘It seems that the Pilgrim has decided to get to me through other means.’

‘Horton,’ James declared.

‘Speaking of which, did I hear you mention paperwork?’ Ottolenghi said.

James nodded. ‘Yes, the girl here said some was left for the professor.’

The girl fished an envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Lombroso. He opened it and gasped.

‘What does it say? Tell me, Professor, please.’ James could hardly contain himself.

Lombroso looked at it gravely. ‘It asks me to go to the top of La Mole Antonelliana at five-thirty this afternoon if I wish to see Sofia again. And then it says . . .’ He paused as if he could hardly get the words out. ‘It says that this is the last Tribute to Lombroso.’

28

Murderers affect gentle, compassionate manners and a calm air among those they do not know. While they are not great wine drinkers, they love gambling and sex.

Lombroso, 1876 p 73

They dodged Machinetti’s men easily enough by the simple device of leaving the house through a back entrance.

‘So much for round-the-clock protection,’ Lombroso had remarked, sardonically.

La Mole Antonelliana was, at 548 feet, the tallest building in Turin. When they arrived they stood for a moment or two looking at it. It was fenced off because the building was not yet completed. They found a side door in an alley, but it was locked.

‘How are we going to get in?’ James asked.

Lombroso pulled some keys from his pocket. ‘Crime sometimes pays, gentlemen. We should always remember that.’

He jiggled each of them in turn in the lock until finally there was a click and the door opened into a large central atrium.

‘How do we get to the top of the building?’ Ottolenghi asked. James looked around but there didn’t seem to be a lift of any kind.

Lombroso sighed. ‘We’ll have to take the stairs.’

They helped themselves to some builder’s lanterns left in the stairwell and began their ascent but their progress was slow. Lombroso was fit for his age but James could see that he was finding it a challenge. He stopped occasionally and leant on his silver-topped cane for support. Even James and Ottolenghi had to pause every now and again in order to catch their breath. Occasionally there was a creak and they stopped.

Ottolenghi smiled at the look of alarm on James’s face and informed him that the earthquake that had hit Turin earlier that year had caused some structural damage. ‘We should be all right though. It’s still standing.’

Once he had heard that, the higher they got the more James thought that he could feel the stairs actually moving. None of this deterred them, though. They all knew what was at stake. The killer was Horton and he had taken Sofia. He had to be stopped. James tried to put from his mind what they might find when they got to the top but it was hard. All he could think of were the mutilations that he had witnessed over the last few weeks.

Finally, after what must have been at least an hour, they arrived at their destination. It was already dark and, as they stepped out onto the topmost section of the building, an observation area surrounded by stone pillars, James was momentarily struck by the beauty of the city, its lights glinting in the evening gloom. He was about to say something but Lombroso put a finger to his lips to hush him then beckoned them to follow him as he slowly made his way round the circular balcony. James looked up for a second and saw the angel at the very top of the tower looking down on them as if protecting them. He was known in the city as the ‘winged genius’ and James fervently hoped that he would live up to his name.

Suddenly Lombroso stopped and then James gasped as he saw her. He almost did not recognise her at first. Sofia was still alive but her beautiful hair had been shorn. She was bound to one of the pillars and a cloth had been tied round her mouth. The lack of hair made her eyes look even bigger than before. They were full of fear and James wanted nothing more than to run to her and set her free. Ottolenghi stopped him with a restraining arm and he followed his glance to the floor beside Sofia.

A figure lay there and James could just see, in the light of Lombroso’s lantern, as the candle flickered in the icy wind, that it was surrounded by a pool of what looked like blood. Ottolenghi went over to the figure and felt for a pulse. He looked up and shook his head briskly. Lombroso joined him and examined the body briefly. James could see then that the cause of death was clear. He had been shot in the face. He turned away for a minute, revolted. There was almost nothing left of the man’s features. But even that had not been enough for the killer. The corpse had been further mutilated as the other victims had been. This time the heart had been removed and placed carefully on the stomach. Underneath it lay a note. Lombroso took a deep breath and lifted the congealed mass of flesh and blood in order to pull the note away. He got to his feet.

‘The last tribute,’ he murmured.

‘Well, not quite . . .’ The voice came from behind Sofia and James saw a figure in a hooded cloak standing behind her. At first his eyes were drawn to the cloak’s golden clasp that glinted in the fading autumn light, then he saw that the figure was holding a pistol aimed at Sofia’s head. He did not seem to be on the balcony itself and for a second James thought that the figure was floating in mid air but then he saw that the man was standing in a builder’s cradle suspended at the side of the tower.