City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  ‘So what is it that really brings you here?’

  James wondered why he had raised this now. Was the fact that they were currently guarding a corpse significant? He hesitated. How much did Ottolenghi know? Could he really be trusted? James realised that it was unlikely that he knew anything. They were stuck here, possibly with a killer nearby, and nothing to do but talk so perhaps, he thought wryly, it was as good a time as any to ask.

  ‘I came to learn, just like you,’ James replied cautiously.

  ‘But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there. You said as much in the café, before the salon.’

  ‘Do you think that someone can really be born to crime?’ James asked, ignoring Ottolenghi’s comment.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied. ‘But as Lombroso says, others are brought to it for different reasons. Why do you ask? Don’t you have faith in the professor’s theories?’

  ‘I am not sure that faith is the right word. Scientists are supposed to ask questions, aren’t they? I just wondered . . . well, how does one tell a born criminal from an ordinary person? Is it really just a case of physical characteristics? And . . .’ he paused for a moment before continuing, ‘is criminality hereditary?’

  ‘Well, I suppose the answer is yes and no.’

  ‘Ach! Why am I not surprised? Is nothing straightforward?’

  Ottolenghi went on, with, James detected, just a note of impatience in his voice. ‘The professor’s theory is that one can see criminality in physical characteristics and that these can be passed on through family members, and of course he may well be right. But I can’t help feeling that there is more to it than that.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There are so many other reasons for the committing of crimes, particularly those of violence. How can we be sure that it is merely a question of birth? Some may be sorely provoked to commit their deed, for example, or it may be a question of genuine need or desperation.’

  ‘Or insanity?’ James suggested.

  ‘Well, perhaps, although that would be rather more difficult to justify. People could claim insanity as an excuse even though they had a propensity to violence all along.’

  James paused. ‘But what if the criminal is genuinely out of his mind?’

  ‘I would say that depends on the crime.’

  ‘Murder, for example?’

  Before Ottolenghi could give his answer a rustling sound came from a side tunnel, then they heard footsteps coming slowly towards them. They shot to their feet and stood on either side of Rosa Bruno’s bloody corpse, ready to defend it and, presumably, themselves. James could hear Ottolenghi breathing rather shakily. He held up his lantern. He could just about see that a few yards away there was a figure moving slowly along the passage away from them.

  ‘Stop there! Identify yourself!’ shouted Ottolenghi.

  The figure seemed to half turn as if it was about to obey. Then it started to move quickly away from them. Without a thought James and Ottolenghi began to follow it through one tunnel after the next, twisting and turning as much as before until it was no longer clear whether they were following a real figure or mere shadows cast by their lantern. Eventually they came to a halt, too breathless to continue. Then their lantern gave a last defiant flicker and went out, plunging them into darkness. Instinctively James put out his hand but could feel nothing. Then he heard more rustling as if someone or something was moving closer, brushing against the wall. He wanted to call out but when he opened his mouth no sound came out. Something touched his face, something soft, as if it was fluttering past him. Blindly he tried to brush it away and suddenly a hand grabbed his wrist. Desperately James tried to pull free of its grip.

  ‘It’s me!’ Ottolenghi’s voice rang out in the blackness.

  ‘Let’s just stop for a moment,’ James said with relief. Once they had recovered a little they stood quietly but there was only silence. Not the rich, velvet kind of silence when one is safe and secure in one’s own bed but a heavy, oppressive silence full of threat and what seemed to James to be nothing less than pure evil. Then they heard breathing.

  ‘Murray?’ Ottolenghi hissed. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ So terrified was he that he could, in truth, no longer tell.

  The breathing seemed to get closer and closer to them. James sniffed at the air. There was a familiar stench surrounding them – something between sour milk and decay. He almost gagged at it. And then the breathing began to fade and they heard the someone – or something – moving away from them at speed. This time they did not follow.

  ‘Murray?’ Ottolenghi said again, his voice thin and small with fear.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I can feel some cooler air.’

  James concentrated and then he felt it too, just a hint of a breeze. ‘Let’s go towards it.’

  James clutched Ottolenghi’s arm. He did not want to be parted from him down here in the darkness, not even for a second. They made their way slowly towards the air and then they saw a faint orange glow in the distance.

  James started to think again of the Devil. Had they reached the opening to Hell? Were the legends right? ‘Should we go on? We don’t know what we’ll find,’ he asked nervously.

  ‘We have no choice. We’ll never get out if we don’t,’ Ottolenghi replied.

  Hesitantly they made their way towards the light. As they did so they heard murmuring in the distance and the sound of yet more footsteps and some dragging noises. James’s imagination got the better of him for a moment as he saw in his mind demons with cloven hooves and heavy reptilian tails trailing in the dust of the tunnel. Terrified, they turned a corner and stared at the sight before them.

  There was a fire, or rather the remains of one. The orange glow had come from its dying embers. Surrounding it were some markings in the dust. Ottolenghi walked over to examine it further and suddenly turned away in disgust.

  ‘What is it?’

  Ottolenghi held his lantern near to a bundle on the ground. ‘It looks like organs of some kind.’

  ‘Human organs?’ James said in alarm.

  Ottolenghi looked at it more closely. ‘No, they are too small . . . unless . . .’

  ‘Not a child!’

  ‘No, no, they’re definitely not human. A pig, I think.’

  ‘Thank God!’

  That having been established James started instinctively to look around him at the markings. ‘These look like some kind of pentagrams, so there may be a link to black magic after all.’

  ‘Ssh.’ Ottolenghi held up his hand. Someone was approaching. They looked at each other fearfully. It was too late to run. They would have to face whoever or whatever was coming towards them.

  Terrified, they peered into the shadows and suddenly they saw them – Lombroso and Borelli coming towards them, both carrying lanterns. Borelli had a stout silver-topped cane, similar to Lombroso’s, and was brandishing it threateningly. Lombroso was wielding a sword stick. The pair put their weapons down when they saw Ottolenghi and Murray.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ Lombroso said, as if nothing untoward was happening.

  Borelli bowed slightly to them. ‘We thought you might need assistance.’

  James looked at Lombroso’s swordstick.

  ‘Just a precaution,’ he said crisply. ‘One never knows who one might encounter in a place like this.’

  ‘Rosa Bruno wasn’t so lucky,’ Ottolenghi said.

  ‘So we saw,’ Lombroso said.

  ‘How did you find us so quickly?’ James asked him.

  ‘Borelli here knows the tunnels like the back of his hand, luckily for you.’

  Borelli nodded. ‘We were in a cab on our way to the Via Legnano and we saw Tullio. He told us where you were. We dropped him off at his office and came straight here, then we heard you.’

  ‘Heard us?’ James said.

  ‘You are only a moment or two away from the body,’ Borelli said.

  ‘We must have been going round in ci
rcles,’ Ottolenghi said with a grimace.

  ‘Follow me, gentlemen,’ Lombroso said. ‘I want to take a look at the victim.’

  ‘But what about these organs and the pentagrams?’ James asked, bemused at Lombroso’s evident lack of interest.

  ‘Oh, they’re just the usual Satanists,’ Lombroso said airily. ‘I don’t think there is a connection.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you at least take a look, Cesare?’ Borelli suggested.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said tetchily, wandering over to the bloody bundle and poking it with his cane. ‘As I thought, pig and chicken organs. Just some kind of sacrificial ritual. It needn’t trouble us. These lunatics are everywhere.’

  ‘Still, it is a coincidence, is it not?’ Borelli said.

  ‘Perhaps. I will consult an expert in due course, just to rule out a connection,’ Lombroso replied. ‘Now let us find our victim, poor soul. Borelli, you lead the way.’

  They followed Borelli’s lead and found that they were just round the corner from where they had been told to wait.

  ‘Interesting that he should choose a woman this time,’ Lombroso said, thoughtfully. ‘It seems that our killer is diversifying. I wonder which criminal characteristics he was emulating here. Is there a note?’

  ‘There is, but seeing it again I would say that it looks different,’ Ottolenghi, said holding it up.

  ‘Let me see that,’ Borelli said sharply. He took the note from Ottolenghi and peered at it. ‘You’re right, it is different.’

  ‘How?’ James asked.

  ‘The writing is all over the place. The first note was much neater,’ Ottolenghi said.

  ‘So were the others,’ a voice said from the gloom. It was Tullio, accompanied by a couple of carabinieri who he sent off to search the surrounding area.

  ‘The notes were mentioned in the newspaper, thanks to Baldovino. Could someone be trying to copy the murders?’ said Ottolenghi.

  Lombroso peered at the corpse in the dim light. ‘That is possible. Ottolenghi, Murray, could you turn her over and pull down the collar of her blouse a little?’

  They did so, allowing Lombroso to take a close look. He stood up and frowned. ‘She has been strangled – prior to mutilation, I would guess. That’s interesting . . . and she is not marked like the others. This would seem to support your theory, Ottolenghi.’

  ‘And the mutilation?’ Tullio asked.

  ‘It is savage, of course, but if I am not mistaken it does not directly reflect anything that I have written. Was this woman a criminal?’

  Tullio nodded. ‘Indeed so. I am told that Rosa Bruno was well known as a prostitute for many years. Recently though, she had been merely finding clients for others as well as working as a maid in a brothel.’

  ‘How enterprising!’ Borelli remarked.

  Lombroso seemed to be deep in thought. ‘The question is, though, if this is the work of the same person, and we cannot be certain that it isn’t, then why are these particular victims being sought out?’

  ‘That is a very good question,’ Borelli murmured.

  ‘I thought that we had established they all had worked for you?’ James said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Lombroso replied, ‘at least until now. I have not, to my certain knowledge, encountered Rosa Bruno before.’

  ‘We have, though,’ James said.

  Lombroso looked at them thoughtfully. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think I may be able to assist here,’ Tullio said. ‘We met Rosa Bruno outside La Capra. She told us that she had something to tell us but ran off before divulging it.’

  ‘Then we saw her later,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘She was in La Capra with Sofia – then she disappeared again.’

  James frowned. Did he have to bring Sofia into it?

  ‘I see. And what has she said on the matter?’ asked Lombroso.

  ‘Nothing. She would not tell us why they were meeting.’

  ‘Mmm. Well, Sofia knows many people in Turin and not all of them are particularly savoury characters,’ Lombroso said. ‘Still, I think we should ask her to tell us more now. You can ask her, Murray. She seems to have taken a shine to you.’

  James looked at him and wondered how much he knew about his relationship with Sofia.

  ‘It seems likely that this Rosa Bruno was murdered for what she knew, not who she was,’ Lombroso said. ‘But why is the note so different this time? And why mutilate the woman down here in the tunnels?’

  Questions and more questions, thought James. Four people were dead and that seemed to be all they had. Except, that was, for one thing: Rosa Bruno had known something and it looked as if she might have died because of it. It was time for Sofia to speak up, whether she liked it or not.

  20

  The morally insane repay hatred with hatred.

  Lombroso, 1884 p 215

  As they were making their way out of the tunnels the sheer horror of what James had just experienced began to sink in. A woman lay dead, her corpse horribly mutilated. But was this the work of the same killer? It hardly seemed credible that there could be two such depraved beings at work in the city at one time. And yet the note was different, as were the mutilations. They were more savage, if that was possible, not so precise.

  Having consigned the body to the care of the carabinieri they walked through damp and darkness in subdued silence. Soon James could see light in the distance and the passageway seemed to go into a slight incline. Eventually he could see an exit and the glint of what looked like an expanse of water. They made their way towards it and soon found themselves emerging through a stone archway and up some worn steps out into the night.

  James breathed in the fresh air thankfully. It was a distinct improvement on the stale, musty atmosphere with the additional pervading smell of death that they had just left. He sank down onto a bench. Ottolenghi came over to him, leaving Tullio, Borelli and Lombroso deep in conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry I mentioned Sofia, but you do see I had little choice, don’t you?’

  James nodded. ‘She doesn’t talk to me about that side of her life and I don’t like to ask too many questions.’

  ‘Because she used to be a prostitute?’

  James paused before speaking. He badly needed to confide in someone and he now believed Ottolenghi was someone he could trust. ‘I think Sofia may be hiding something – something important. I saw her discussing something with Reiner after the prison demonstration.’

  Ottolenghi looked at James in shocked surprise. ‘Are you sure? Why do you think that?’

  ‘They both looked furtive somehow. I hope that I am wrong.’

  ‘So do I. If the professor finds out that she has withheld important information he will dismiss her.’

  ‘I will try to persuade Sofia to tell us what she knows. But she is stubborn. It is one of the reasons I . . . it is why I . . .’ He paused.

  Ottolenghi finished the sentence. ‘You love her – or think you do.’ He looked at James with concern. ‘Friend, Sofia is beautiful, I know, but she is a servant. She is not for the likes of us. You must break off your liaison with her.’

  ‘I cannot, Ottolenghi,’ James said quietly. ‘I do love her, there is no doubt in my mind, and I don’t think that I can give her up, no matter who she is or what she has done.’

  ‘What, even if she is protecting a killer? You cannot seriously think that you can continue! Murray, you must leave her, even if your suspicions are wrong. She is of a different class.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ James replied. ‘I want to be with her.’

  ‘And what does she say to this?’

  He hesitated. ‘We have not discussed the future. There is something I need to attend to first.’

  Ottolenghi seized him by the shoulders. ‘There is no future not for you and her. You must stop this now. It will not end well, you must know this.’

  James shook his head. ‘Life is so brief, Ottolenghi. Can’t you see that one should take any opportunity to be happy?’ Ottolenghi looked at James blank
ly and it was obvious that he would never really understand.

  ‘Please do not tell anyone,’ James begged.

  Ottolenghi sighed. ‘You know that I won’t, but I cannot support you.’

  ‘I worry that she may be in danger from what she knows, particularly given her connection to the professor,’ James said.

  ‘We will make sure nothing happens to her,’ Ottolenghi said.

  They both looked over to Lombroso. ‘He doesn’t seem too shaken up by the murders, given his connection to them,’ James remarked.

  ‘Don’t be deceived,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘I can tell that he’s upset from the way he is concentrating on solving the puzzle. It is his way of dealing with it. Besides, he was an army doctor. He must have seen worse sights then.’

  Lombroso, Borelli and Tullio came over to them. The professor looked tired. ‘So our murderer, or should I say, a murderer, has presented us with another conundrum – a single female victim, dead for at least a day, by the look of things, an ex prostitute, though still working in the trade, I believe . . .’ Tullio nodded and Lombroso continued. ‘Strangled and mutilated by disembowelment, with her organs arranged on the bodies. A note was left but this time the body was not marked.’

  ‘She was not known to you, as the others were, though,’ Borelli reminded him. ‘Although your housekeeper knew her.’

  ‘That is no surprise,’ Lombroso said. ‘The prostitutes in this city, old and new, all tend to stick together.’

  James saw Ottolenghi steal a look at him, pity etched onto his face.

  ‘His killing is getting faster now it seems,’ Borelli remarked.

  ‘Indeed, if it is the same killer,’ Lombroso agreed, ‘and we are no further forwards with identifying him, or perhaps them, on tonight’s evidence.’

  ‘I wonder who was making those noises at the beginning?’ Ottolenghi said. ‘Was it the killer or an accomplice, leading us to the body?’