City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  James started to get to his feet but Lombroso placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘There is no rush, Murray. We will finish our drinks first. Bicerin cannot be hurried. It must be savoured. Try it and you’ll see what I mean.’

  James sat down again, picked up his glass and sipped the hot liquid through the cold cream. Lombroso was right. It was both delicious and surprising, for through the rich dry note of the coffee was a sweeter one – chocolate. He could see why this had become a habit for both Lombroso and Ottolenghi. As he enjoyed the enticing mixture of flavours he decided that he would make every effort to join them in future. This was something not to be missed. The café was beginning to fill up with people of the same view and James noticed that some of them were staring at Lombroso. It could have been due to his existing status, of course. He had noticed a similar effect wherever they went with him, such was his reputation, but today he thought that he detected a difference, something more prurient and less admiring than he had seen before. Lombroso, however, seemed oblivious to it and appeared to be concentrating on his bicerin.

  He finished drinking and spooned up what remained of the chocolate in his glass. This was clearly an acceptable practice as James noticed several other people doing the same. Lombroso wiped his beard fastidiously and got up to leave. ‘Come, gentlemen, Signor Baldovino and the People’s Voice await.’

  They followed obediently. As they bustled through the city James noticed people looking at them. Some whispered to their companions behind their hands. There was no doubt in James’s mind. The connection between Lombroso and the murders had been made in the minds of the public. The repercussions from this would no doubt follow swiftly and yet Lombroso seemed either unaware or simply unconcerned. James shivered slightly – perhaps due to the anticipation of what might be coming or perhaps it was simply the cold air. It was a chilly, bright day and the city’s buildings were at their best, shining in the pale sunlight. It was hard to believe that such terrible events had happened not far from here. They called in at the headquarters of the Public Security Police, a grand building nestling next to the carabinieri offices situated in a large piazza in the heart of the city. Luckily Tullio was there and Lombroso’s celebrity meant that they could see him without a problem. It seemed that neither Tullio nor his superiors had read that morning’s People’s Voice. Ottolenghi explained the situation and showed Tullio the article.

  Lombroso looked at him steadily. ‘I am sure that a man of your calibre can understand why I need to see the letter.’

  Tullio nodded. ‘Graphology, the art of handwriting analysis . . .’

  Lombroso beamed at him. ‘Ah, I see I was right. You are that rare thing, a policeman who is also a man of science.’

  Tullio smiled back. ‘I have an open mind about most things, Professor. Any new techniques we can find to help us catch criminals have to be explored.’

  ‘If only others in your profession were as enlightened,’ said Lombroso. ‘So you will accompany us?’

  ‘I will, but I need to explain it to my superior first.’

  He disappeared for a few minutes but soon returned. With him was the familiar form of Lieutenant Giardinello.

  Tullio explained. ‘My superiors are eager to encourage cooperation between the security police and the carabinieri. Besides, it may be that Signor Baldovino will require persuasion.’

  Lieutenant Giardinello grinned amiably and Lombroso acknowledged him with a nod. ‘Shall we go, then?’

  With that they set off on the short walk to the offices of the People’s Voice. Before long they reached a small square and Lombroso pointed at an uninspiring-looking building in the corner. James was surprised. He had been expecting something bigger and finer. As they entered what looked like a front office he saw that the ceilings were low, giving the room a poky, claustrophobic feel. Lombroso rapped on the counter with his cane but no one came. He rolled his eyes impatiently and strode through to the next room with the others following in his wake.

  He paused at a desk where a boy was sorting through post and asked him for Baldovino. The boy pointed over to the corner of the room where a small, sharp-featured man was seated.

  James thought that if he were to describe him to Lucy he would say he resembled a weasel. Baldovino’s small eyes were looking into the mid distance as he thoughtfully probed his ear with a pencil. He had thin, sandy-coloured hair, slicked back revealing a pronounced widow’s peak. His complexion was sallow, with a kind of waxy sheen, not unlike that of a corpse, and his expression suggested that he was a man who always thought the worst of people. He was lounging at his desk, his feet balanced on it, and his chair tilted and wobbled precariously with each new aural probe. One of his colleagues helpfully kicked at it, almost causing Baldovino to fall. There were one or two sniggers as he tried to recover himself.

  He scowled but then his eyes grew wide with surprise at the sight of Lombroso. He leapt to his feet and bowed slightly. ‘Professor, I am so pleased to meet you!’ He held out a hand towards Lombroso who looked down at it with disdain. Baldovino smirked and shook his head. James thought it might prove a mistake for Lombroso to make his dislike so obvious. After all, the fellow might be repellent but he did have the power of the press behind him.

  A chair was brought for Lombroso who sat down gracefully on it and leaned on his silver-topped cane.

  ‘I have come to see the letter.’

  Baldovino thought for a few seconds and then smiled broadly, no doubt as he realised that there might be a possibility of making some money.

  ‘What letter?’ he said, adopting what he probably thought was an innocent expression.

  Giardinello placed his hand on Baldovino’s shoulder and bent down to his recently explored ear. ‘You know what letter. Hand it over.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if you don’t I will take you out to the back of this building and explore the reasons for your refusal to cooperate with the carabinieri in much more detail,’ Giardinello replied threateningly.

  Suddenly Baldovino’s beady little eyes lit up. ‘Wait a minute, why is it the professor here who wants to see it and not Marshal Machinetti? And why does he want to see it at all?’ He looked directly at Lombroso then. It was clear that he sensed a story in the making. ‘Can you tell us who the killer is, Professor? Is that it?’

  There was a pause. Everyone looked away, not wishing to catch Baldovino’s eye. He warmed to his theme.

  ‘Don’t you think the people have a right to know? A killer in their very midst but the high and mighty scientist won’t reveal his identity. Now that is a good story, don’t you think?’

  Lombroso pursed his lips at Baldovino, who smiled and nodded with the certainty of a man who realised that he had the upper hand. ‘Machinetti doesn’t know that you’re here, does he, Professor? Now, why might that be? Let me guess: is it that he wouldn’t let you near this letter or any other evidence because you’re a suspect? Is that why you won’t tell us who did it, Professor? Was it you? I can see the headlines – “Lombroso the killer”. That’s what Machinetti thinks, isn’t it?’

  ‘That is ridiculous,’ Lombroso said angrily. ‘I am not a suspect.’

  Baldovino shook his head. ‘Is it ridiculous? After all, he hates you, Professor, doesn’t he? I remember that case, the young girl who died. Now that was a real tragedy. Machinetti swore he wouldn’t work with you again.’

  Still no one spoke. Baldovino was speaking the truth. Machinetti was already convinced of Lombroso’s involvement. He certainly would not want Lombroso anywhere near the letter and if he found out that he had been here he would no doubt jump to the worst conclusion.

  Baldovino hesitated for a moment. ‘You can see the letter but it’ll cost you.’ Lombroso rolled his eyes in irritation. Tullio pulled out his wallet and took out a note. Baldovino tried to take it from him but he snatched it away. ‘Letter first, money later.’

  Baldovino put his thin hand into his shirt and pulled out a piece of paper. Gi
ardinello took it from him and, holding it at arm’s length, his nose wrinkled in disgust, handed it to Lombroso, who examined it carefully and began to write in a small leather-bound notebook that he had taken from his pocket. Suddenly there was some shouting from down the stairs. Giardinello’s eyes widened in alarm as he recognised the hectoring tones of Machinetti. Tullio sighed.

  ‘Baldovino! Where the devil is he, the devious little bastard!’ Machinetti came striding round the corner, a couple of Giardinello’s hapless colleagues in tow.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Hand it over now and I won’t arrest you for obstruction, perjury and theft!’ He came to a sudden halt, having caught sight of Lombroso still examining the item he was seeking.

  ‘Lombroso! Why is it that everywhere I go, you are there first?’

  ‘Because I am quicker than you in all respects, Machinetti,’ Lombroso replied in a withering tone, handing the letter to James, who was standing next to him.

  Machinetti pursed his lips. ‘Tullio, I have spoken to the questor. He confirmed that I am investigating this crime.’

  ‘Really?’ Lombroso said. ‘You seem to have precious little to show for it.’

  ‘Actually, I think you will find we are both investigating it,’ Tullio said firmly.

  Machinetti glowered at him. ‘Give me the letter,’ he ordered, glaring at James.

  ‘Well now, Marshal,’ Lombroso said in a conversational tone, ‘I do not believe that it is addressed to you.’

  ‘It is for the people,’ Baldovino added self-righteously.

  ‘Indeed,’ Lombroso said. ‘Well then, Marshal, why don’t you read it in the paper like a man of the people should?’

  Machinetti stared at him. ‘If you do not hand it over I will have you taken into custody right now for tampering with evidence.’

  Lombroso raised his eyebrows. Out of the corner of his eye James could see the two carabinieri that Machinetti had brought with him, standing tensely by as if readying themselves for what would no doubt be a difficult arrest.

  ‘Give the letter to me now!’ Machinetti barked. ‘It is evidence.’

  ‘Tssk tssk, Machinetti. You remind me of one of my children.’ Lombroso wagged his finger and shook his head like a nanny admonishing one of her charges.

  Machinetti paused as if he was weighing up the situation. ‘This is not helping your case, Lombroso,’ he said in a quieter but more threatening tone.

  ‘What case?’ Lombroso asked brusquely.

  ‘Why murder, of course,’ Machinetti replied. ‘The evidence against you is mounting. The notes name you and now you appear to be anxious to get to this letter. What’s the matter? Are you afraid it might name you as an accomplice?’

  Lombroso stood up, took the letter from James and held it up as if to give it to him. ‘Here, have it. I have seen enough.’

  Machinetti walked slowly over to him, a sly smile on his face. ‘You will be hearing from us soon, Professor, I promise you that. Now give me the letter. It is police property.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Tullio said firmly as he took the letter from Lombroso. ‘As such, I will take it.’

  Machinetti went towards him as if he was about to snatch it back. James wondered for a second if there was to be an unseemly brawl but at the last moment Machinetti appeared to change his mind and smirked at Tullio instead.

  ‘I expect it is just a hoax, anyway,’ he said dismissively.

  Lombroso’s expression darkened and he looked at Machinetti. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. But as you should know by now, Marshal, assumptions are dangerous things.’

  With that he swept out, rather magnificently, leaving Machinetti standing open-mouthed and Baldovino looking as if he was making mental notes for his next story.

  James went to leave but turned back and studied the marshal for a few seconds from the doorway. Machinetti seemed intent on thwarting their investigation at every turn. Evidence was far from safe in his hands. Could it really be nothing more than a feud that made him behave in such an obstructive fashion?

  Machinetti scowled at him. ‘Hurry along, Dr Murray. Your master is waiting for you.’

  James spun on his heel contemptuously and walked out of the building into the street, breathing the fresh air gratefully. Machinetti hated Lombroso, that much was clear. But was it enough to make him a killer? James thought of the hatred in the policeman’s eyes and concluded that it was entirely possible it was.

  17

  Just as they have their own jargon, criminals have their own special literature.

  Lombroso, 1876 p 79

  ‘Gentlemen, I believe we have a clue!’

  Lombroso sat back in his chair, clutching a copy of the People’s Voice, and looked at them with an expression of satisfaction etched upon his face. Having left Baldovino and Machinetti, Lombroso had promptly invited everyone to lunch at the museum, in order to discuss the murders and the significance of the letter that Tullio had handed back to him as soon as they had left the newspaper’s offices. He turned the front page towards them and they all looked at the headline.

  ‘What does the letter say?’ Ottolenghi asked.

  Lombroso cleared his throat and began to read.

  ‘To whom it may concern. My work is inspired by men of science. I will not stop until the gates of Hell have truly opened. I am but a lone voice crying in the wilderness. It is signed, Pilgrim.’

  ‘Not much of a clue,’ Ottolenghi declared.

  ‘I thought it might help us establish an identity or a motive,’ Tullio agreed, ‘but it’s just a vague reference.’

  Lombroso threw his hands up in despair.

  ‘Really, you should all know better! It is not a clue in the established sense. But if this letter is from the killer it will help us to understand what sort of a person he – or she – is. Murray, what would Dr Bell suggest we ask?’

  James had only to think for an instant before his tutor’s voice came into his head. ‘Why would he or she write such a letter in the first place? Do they want to be found and if so why? Are they seeking attention? Again, if that is so, then why? What kind of language is employed? How have they expressed themselves? What paper and ink was used? Is this someone who has access to good quality writing materials? If not, then are they poor or pretending to be poor?’

  ‘Well done, Murray,’ Lombroso said. ‘And I would add this question. Are they a savage or refined, or something in between?’

  Tullio looked even gloomier than before. ‘Questions, so many questions – but no answers. Sometimes I feel as if we will never get to the bottom of this and the murders will just go on and on.’

  ‘Questions that once they are answered will tell us more about our killer,’ Lombroso said patiently. ‘He, or she, will be caught.’

  ‘Of course, what is interesting is the name he gives himself,’ James said thoughtfully.

  Lombroso stroked his beard. ‘Mmm, yes. What is the significance of the name “Pilgrim”, I wonder?’

  ‘It clearly has some religious connection,’ James said.

  ‘Yes, a religious devotee of some sort, perhaps,’ Lombroso said. ‘The quote is from the bible, as I recall.’

  ‘Or it could mean that the writer is on some kind of quest,’ James said, thinking of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, a book he had been made to read at school, much to his displeasure at the time. Now, of course he wished that he had paid more attention.

  ‘Mmm, but a quest for what?’ Lombroso said.

  ‘How certain can we be that the letter is genuine?’ Tullio asked.

  ‘We cannot be certain at all. That is why I needed to see the original,’ Lombroso explained. ‘I need to ascertain if the handwriting is the same as in the Tribute notes found with the victims. I will need to see all of them together, with the letter.’

  ‘They are held by Machinetti but I may be able to get hold of them, with or without permission,’ Tullio said.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. It opened softly as if the person did not wish to d
isturb him.

  ‘Mi scusi, Professore?’ Sofia came into the room. James looked at her and an image of her, a sweet golden memory from the previous night’s lovemaking, flashed before his eyes, making him catch his breath.

  ‘Sofia, what is it?’ Lombroso sat up straight, his eyes wide and alert. ‘Has there been another murder?’

  ‘No, Professor,’ Sofia replied quietly. ‘This letter was left at the front door a few moments ago.’

  She handed it to Lombroso who held it up for all to see. The envelope was written in red and addressed as A Tribute to Lombroso. There seemed something faintly theatrical about the whole thing, as if it had been rehearsed. James wondered if Lombroso had asked Sofia to bring it in like that, to play up the element of drama. Would the professor really go to such lengths just for that, or was there another reason?

  ‘Did you see who delivered it?’ James asked, a trifle sharply.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Sofia left quietly, giving him a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement before she did so. Ottolenghi raised his eyebrows at him and James had to admit to himself that he was enjoying the subterfuge involved with his and Sofia’s relationship. It added a certain thrill to the affair. But ever since he had seen Lombroso leaving her rooms the possibility that she was somehow playing with him, was perhaps in league with the professor, was still in his head, like a tiny worm burrowing away at his faith in both of them.

  Lombroso did not even seem to notice that Sofia had gone. He studied the envelope closely. ‘It looks the same as the others. The handwriting seems to be identical.’

  ‘What does it say?’ James asked.

  ‘Wait, young man, wait. We must not be impatient. The killer has apparently seen fit to communicate directly with us. The least we can do is to treat such a message with respect.’

  ‘I’m not sure I hold with the idea of respecting a common criminal,’ Tullio said.

  ‘A criminal he certainly is but common he is not. It is only by recognising that fact that we will catch him.’ Lombroso held the letter up to the light and examined it carefully. ‘Mmm, reasonably good quality notepaper, expensive but not prohibitively so.’