Gambro’s inner struggle apparently complete, he evidently decided to take the path of least resistance. ‘What, old monkey man? Yes, I knew him. He drank in here regularly.’
‘Why “monkey man”?’ Ottolenghi asked.
‘Why do you think? He looked like one with his big ears, flat nose and hairy arms. He was an ugly bastard.’
‘You use the past tense. Why?’ James asked, thinking that he might catch him out.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Everyone knows that. Don’t you read the papers?’ He pointed at a news-sheet on the grimy bar.
Tullio grimaced. Neither his superior or Machinetti would be pleased that the news of the murder had spread. He picked up the paper and looked at its contents.
‘What do you know?’ James asked, keen to find out whether Lombroso’s connection was public knowledge.
‘Not much,’ Gambro said, ‘just that he had his nose and ears cut off.’
James looked at Tullio who nodded at him, confirming that this was all the information given and motioned to Gambro to join them at a table. They sat down, having chosen the one furthest from the slumbering old man.
‘So, how well did you know Soldati?’ Ottolenghi asked.
‘I served him drink and passed the time of day with him. Sometimes I threw him out if he’d had too much. That’s it.’
‘Was he popular?’
Gambro laughed. ‘Is anyone?’ He leaned back in his seat. Time for some of his home spun philosophy with which he no doubt entertained his customers whenever they would listen. ‘In this place, and dare I say it, in this world, if you can buy a few drinks you can be the most popular man in the room. But as soon as the money runs out and the drink stops flowing,’ he clicked his fingers, ‘you disappear from view.’ Gambro paused and started to pick his nose thoughtfully. ‘The thing about Soldati is that he was a mean bastard. He liked to scrounge but not to share. He won’t be missed much.’
James’s brows were furrowed with concentration. His Italian was good but his grasp of Piedmontese, was much more limited. He thought it best to allow Tullio and Ottolenghi to ask the questions and rose to explore the tavern, leaving the other two to continue. He could still listen while he looked round the place and they could tell him what was said in more detail later. He was aware of Gambro’s eyes following him suspiciously.
‘Did he have enemies?’
‘Well, no one liked him. But no one hated him either. Not enough to chop him up anyway.’ Gambro shuddered and shook his head. ‘Who would do something like that?’
‘Who else was here the night he was killed?’ asked Ottolenghi.
‘Usual crowd – Vilella, he’s always here; Fat Maria, her mother Rosa, and Maria’s daughter. Oh yes, and Carlo, Luigi the Fish, a few others – old Pietro, of course.’ He nodded towards the sleeping man in the corner. ‘The others will be in later, I shouldn’t wonder, if you want a word.’
Tullio nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps. Were there any strangers that you noticed?’
Gambro stroked his chin thoughtfully as he struggled to remember. ‘Trouble is, one night in here is pretty much like another. But I think there was someone . . . a man that I hadn’t seen before. He ordered a glass of our best Chianti and he sat in the corner. Oh yes, I remember now, we laughed because he sat in Pietro’s place. He wasn’t happy. We had to move him in the end.’
Tullio edged forwards in his seat. This could be significant. ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’
‘No, sorry. They all blur into one after a while. He wore a cloak, though, I do remember that, with a gold clasp. I noticed it because it shone. Not much shines in here, not even money. It caused quite a stir, not that it seemed to bother him. He looked as if he was in a world of his own.’
Suddenly there was a small commotion in the corner. Pietro had finally come out of his self-inflicted coma. ‘Drink, I want a drink!’
Gambro gave a wry smile and went over to the bar to comply with his customer’s demand.
Tullio and Ottolenghi got up to leave and James rejoined them. He had found little of interest. The place had several rooms, all of a similar size and there were no doors as such, just huge stone archways, roughly hewn. Most of the whitewash on the walls had seen better days and was peeling off in flakes like dead skin. You could see the entire tavern from the bar but not in detail. It was full of dark corners, perfect hiding places for those who did not want their business overheard. James thought to himself that it was just like any other place that sold cheap alcohol: dirty and smelly and, more likely than not, when open, full of rogues and whores. Then he remembered Sofia. Perhaps he should be less judgmental. After all they were still people, as the professor had said, with friends and family and feelings like anyone else. Still, the place itself did not seem out of the ordinary – except for one thing that had intrigued him.
At the end of the furthest room there was a locked door with a table and a single chair in front of it. The back of the chair was in the shape of a goat’s head and carved on the door behind it was another depiction of a horned creature, again presumably a goat after the tavern’s name, but this time with human features. Beneath this was a crude carving of an upside-down cross. Did Devil worshippers meet here perhaps? Was this the gate to Hell? He smiled to himself. You’d certainly need a stiff drink if you were about to be on nodding terms with Old Nick.
‘We’ll be back later to talk to the others,’ Tullio said.
‘Thanks for the warning,’ Gambro grunted as he turned his attention to filling Pietro’s glass and taking his money.
As they retraced their steps along the narrow street Tullio explained the gist of the conversation to James.
‘So we may have a suspect!’ Ottolenghi said excitedly. ‘The man in the cloak!’
‘Well, perhaps.’ Tullio was more guarded. ‘It is little use having a suspect if we cannot identify him. I will return this evening and see if anyone remembers him and, more importantly, knows who he might be.’
‘Will you bring some men to assist you?’ James asked.
Tullio shook his head. ‘I don’t want anything to get back to Machinetti and I prefer to work on my own for now. I have not been here long and I confess I do not know exactly who to trust.’
‘We will join you if we may,’ Ottolenghi said, having got James’s assent with a nod.
Tullio agreed and James thought he looked rather relieved. Tackling Gambro was one thing but questioning a whole host of ne’er-do-wells on their home ground was doubtless much more daunting. Tullio was of slight build with a neat though wispy little beard and small round glasses, not unlike Ottolenghi’s. There was something old about him despite his youth, a kind of wizened quality. He didn’t look as if he could stand up in a strong wind, let alone hold his own in a place like La Capra.
Solemnly they all shook hands and were about to part when a small figure emerged out of the shadows and gripped Ottolenghi’s elbow. It was an elderly woman, short and shrivelled, with thin dirty grey hair and one lone tooth in the centre of her mouth, visible as she grimaced at them. It was only much later that James realised it was meant to be a smile.
The woman looked surreptitiously from side to side as if worried that she would be overheard. ‘I hear you’re looking for information.’
Tullio looked at her suspiciously as if he thought that it was unlikely that she knew anything of use. He addressed her in her native dialect and Ottolenghi whispered a quick translation for James’s benefit.
‘Tell us what you know, Grandma, and be quick about it.’
Her eyes narrowed and she rubbed the fingers of one hand together in front of Tullio’s face.
‘It’ll cost you. Nothing is for free.’
Tullio raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘I might have known that money would come into it.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few lire. He waved it in front of the woman’s face.
‘What do you know?’
She leaned forwards as if she was about to whisper someth
ing. Then her expression suddenly changed and fear leapt into her eyes.
‘Later, in La Capra . . . ask for Rosa, Rosa Bruno,’ she hissed. Snatching the money and taking to her heels she ran, faster than one might have thought she could manage. They turned simultaneously to try to see what had terrified her. James saw a figure wearing a large hat disappearing into the murky back streets. He thought that he caught a glimpse of a beard but it was hard to say for sure.
He exchanged glances with the other two and then, as one, they took off in pursuit. On they went, down one dark street after another, Tullio leading, then James and finally Ottolenghi dutifully trying to keep up. There had been a recent heavy shower and the cobbles were greasy with a covering of mud and filth. James slipped and slid his way along in his thin-soled ‘gentlemen’s’ shoes, inwardly cursing his decision to wear them rather than his stouter walking boots. Passers-by looked on curiously as they flew past; some had to jump out of the way, others tried to do so but were less successful and once or twice James and Ottolenghi almost ended up in a heap on the ground with an angry soul or two. As they approached a large square James thought that the game was up but the figure dashed across it into a large, imposing-looking building, complete with Doric columns and what seemed at first to be stone lions but turned out to be a pair of sphinx at either side of a flight of steps. A sign at the front identified it as the Museo Egizio, which held the largest and most comprehensive collection of Egyptian artefacts in Europe. James had intended to visit it whilst he was in the city, although he had anticipated a more leisurely journey through its exhibits. As it was he tore across the piazza as if he was pursued by the Devil himself, even though the only person on his heels was Ottolenghi who was clearly out of breath. When they got to the door they slowed to a stately fast walk as they were subjected to the stare of a portly guard. They stood in the foyer, turning this way and that but Tullio and the figure were nowhere to be seen. As they recovered their breath and took stock, James peered at the contents of a large glass case in the middle of the entrance hall. It was a mummified figure covered in leathery skin, its knees hunched up in a foetal position as if it was protecting itself.
Suddenly they heard a shout from above. They looked up and saw the figure run across a balcony with Tullio on its trail. They ran up the broad stone staircase onto the next floor and began their pursuit afresh, all the while dodging sarcophagi and eerie stone statues who seemed to follow their efforts with empty lifeless eyes. James and Ottolenghi turned a corner only to see Tullio go down a narrow staircase at the back of the building. They followed him through a small door but their efforts were to no avail. As they emerged from the relative darkness they found themselves in the brightness and grandeur of Piazza Carlo Alberto. Tullio held his hands up in despair as the figure melted into a crowd of onlookers gathered at what looked like a political rally. It was impossible to see where he had gone and they stopped to catch their breath. Ottolenghi doubled up for a moment or two. He grinned ruefully as he recovered himself and James gave him a comradely slap on the back.
‘It seems that we’re on to something,’ Tullio pondered, ‘or why else would he run?’
‘I agree. Perhaps the old woman will be able to tell us more this evening,’ Ottolenghi said, still breathing heavily.
‘Indeed. Let us hope so. In any event I had better go before I am missed.’
Ottolenghi nodded. ‘We should go as well. The professor will be wondering where we’ve got to.’
Reluctantly they parted, having arranged to meet at La Capra that evening. As James wandered back to the museum he thought how comforting it was not to be alone in this. Between the three of them maybe they really would hunt the killer down. Then perhaps his real Turin adventure could truly begin.
7
I would not dream of detaining for life anyone with abnormal features until he is accused and convicted by the courts . . . To claim that criminal anthropology threatens individual liberty is as absurd as concluding that when you add two numbers, the result is a lesser rather than greater sum.
Lombroso, 1889 p 235
Later that afternoon James arrived at the university’s Great Hall ready to experience the opening of the symposium. Ottolenghi had told him who would be speaking over the next few days and it was an impressive list. His father had introduced him to the works of many of them and they had discussed some of their theories in detail.
James had inherited from his father a fascination with the workings of the human mind, particularly in relation to criminality. He remembered sitting with him in his study, happy and excited as they talked about his work. His father would tell him about the different areas of the brain and what damage to them might mean. James had been particularly fascinated by the story of Phineas Gage, a man who had miraculously survived an horrific accident whilst working on the railways in America. A large iron crowbar was driven completely through his head, destroying the area at the front of his brain known as the left frontal lobe. This was the first recorded case where the personality had changed and the man was transformed from being a shrewd and energetic person into a capricious, almost childlike character with an impulsive streak and a tendency to swear. According to the attending physician Gage had vomited and half a teacupful of his brain fell onto the floor.
James remembered the relish with which this story and others were told. ‘What secrets might we find in a criminal brain?’ his father had said. ‘If we can find and unlock them, then who knows what we can achieve!’
‘How can we do that?’ James had asked.
‘By looking at the brains themselves. There’s a man who has done just that.’ Then he had told him about Moriz Benedikt who dissected the brains of executed criminals to see if they differed from those of law-abiding men. He had found this idea at once both fascinating and repellent, even more so when his father’s obsession with the subject had led to tragedy and so turned James’s interest into a personal crusade. But for now, he was still a student, looking forward to seeing in the flesh those whom he had, up till now, only admired from a distance.
James entered the hall with some trepidation and immediately began to wish that he had arranged to meet Ottolenghi outside. The room was enormous, wood panelled and hung with portraits of bewigged luminaries from centuries gone by, none of whom he recognised. They stared at him sternly from the confines of their gilt frames as if challenging his right to be in their august presence.
There was a platform at one end, clearly set out for the debate, with rows of seating in front of it. The room was full of serious-looking men, soberly dressed for the most part, with the odd splash of colour from a fancy waistcoat or a cravat, sported, no doubt, to mark the wearer out as an eccentric. They stood about in groups talking earnestly. There was much gesticulation and even some raised voices, perhaps a result of the glasses of what looked like sherry being respectfully distributed by uniformed waiters. James could see Lombroso standing near the platform listening intently to Oskar Reiner whose words were illustrated by small precise hand movements as if was dissecting a body. Borelli stood with them. He saw a flash of bright colour in the distance; Anna Tarnovsky, looking resplendent in a fine purple gown. Her work was renowned and she was surrounded by a group of male admirers who were hanging on her every word. He considered going over to join them but thought the better of it as it meant pushing past the crowds. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Ottolenghi grinning at him.
‘What do you think?’
‘I wonder how much of the conversation is about criminal anthropology.’
‘Well, not all of it, I think you’ll find.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ James said as looked at the throng. ‘Dr Bell was always complaining about his colleagues gossiping. It used to drive him mad.’
‘Ah, well it’s no different here,’ Ottolenghi replied. ‘Come with me and you’ll soon see what I mean.’
As James followed him slowly through the crowds towards the row of seats in front of
the platform he could hear snatches of conversations.
‘He’s nothing more than a bully. I told him straight – you don’t intimidate me, Professor.’
‘They spend far too much time together. It’s not good for the faculty.’
‘He only got the position because he knows the Duke.’
‘Have you heard about Danillo – he claimed he had written the whole thing, when I know for a fact he only contributed a couple of lines!’
‘That man is intellectually dishonest! He cannot prove a single thing he has written using the proper scientific method, so he falls back on anecdotes and flimflam.’
‘I’ve told him a thousand times – your sample has to be pure. Yet he just ignores me as if I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s too much, it really is.’
Eventually they reached the first row of the seating and Ottolenghi turned to him triumphantly. ‘There! We’re guaranteed decent seats now.’
James laughed. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? Here are some of the finest minds in Europe all gathered together and all they do is gossip.’
Ottolenghi grinned at him wryly. ‘They may have fine minds but they’re academics. Gossip is their life blood – and the professor is no different.’
He indicated behind him to Lombroso who was listening intently as someone whispered in his ear. A smile spread its way over his face and he looked over towards DeClichy with narrowed eyes. No one, it seemed, was immune. Suddenly Ottolenghi nudged him and pointed at a small, rotund-looking man with a carefully waxed moustache who was making his way towards the stage.
‘That’s Professor Arturo Gemelli, dean of the faculty. He’s going to introduce the debate.’
James looked at Gemelli’s surly expression. ‘He doesn’t look particularly pleased about it.’
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