City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  Lombroso paused and stared at him. It seemed to James that he was reluctant to give anything away but he would have to in order to get anything meaningful from Father Vincenzo. ‘Symbols, for one thing. We found something at one of the scenes – an inverted cross. I know, of course, that it is a Satanic emblem but is it one that is of special significance to any of the cults you speak of?’

  Father Vincenzo raised his eyebrows. ‘How interesting. Yes, there is a Solomonite sect that use that sign.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For their rituals – sacrificial mostly – attempts to summon evil spirits.’

  Lombroso looked over to James and Ottolenghi. ‘My two assistants found some evidence of such a rite in the tunnels. Murray, tell Father Vincenzo what you saw.’

  ‘There was a large double circle and three pentagrams,’ James said.

  Father Vincenzo nodded. ‘Was there a diamond marked in the centre?’

  ‘Yes,’ James replied.

  ‘That signifies the forty-fifth parallel – black and white magic coming together for a common purpose.’

  ‘What purpose?’ Lombroso asked.

  Father Vincenzo frowned. ‘That is the worrying aspect. We have had a number of macabre murders and under those circumstances I would think that the aim is to conjure up something or someone to either deal with or collude with the culprit.’

  ‘Who?’ James asked, both fascinated and appalled by this information.

  ‘Only one being could deal with evil on this level: I have no doubt that this rite was conducted in order to summon the Devil himself.’

  For a moment silence descended on the room. ‘Ludicrous!’ Lombroso declared.

  ‘I know you do not believe in the Devil, Professor,’ Father Vincenzo said quietly. ‘But many inhabitants of our city do and that in itself could be dangerous.’ He turned to James and Ottolenghi. ‘I imagine you found certain remains, did you not?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ottolenghi replied. ‘They looked to be pig and chicken organs.’

  ‘I see,’ Father Vincenzo said. ‘Well, that is something. But I should warn you that this rite may well have been a mere preparatory exercise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lombroso asked.

  ‘To summon the Devil himself the sacrifice must be human.’ Father Vincenzo looked at Lombroso. ‘It is surely possible that the murders were committed for this purpose – to provide human organs as a sacrifice.’

  Lombroso shook his head. ‘No, no. The organs are left at the scene, not removed for some ill-conceived ritual. There is no connection. The murders are the work of a person who suffers from moral insanity, albeit at a level that I have not come across before.’

  ‘I have heard you talk of this before, have I not?’ Father Vincenzo said. ‘I seem to remember that you suggested that such a person could be both rational and insane – an interesting idea.’

  ‘Indeed, that is what I said, although I am not sure of the extent to which that might apply to the killer.’

  ‘Why must evil be considered an act of the insane?’

  Lombroso looked him in the eye. ‘I do not see evil as anything other than an irrational choice. Indeed, the concept is a conundrum in itself. Does it really exist at all, I wonder?’

  ‘It is abstract, naturally, but its consequences are clearly visible, as we have all seen.’

  Lombroso sipped at his drink and pondered the question carefully. He appeared to be looking around the room at his various artefacts in search of an answer. Eventually he spoke. ‘If evil men had cloven hooves and horns, how simple life would be! That is what people like the members of this cult seem to think, I believe, encouraged by the Church. I do not share that view. Evil can hide in all sorts of places, minds included.’

  ‘So your research is wrong?’

  Lombroso smiled and shook his head. ‘Not at all. Crime is one thing and evil is another. My work tells me that some criminals can be identified physically and are a throwback to more primitive times. Evil, however, is different and much more easily concealed than a tendency towards criminality. A man can be evil in intent but never commit an evil deed.’

  ‘So you could not then, as an expert in such things, as a scientist, identify an evil man from his appearance?’ Father Vincenzo asked, his eyes narrowed as if preparing not to accept the answer.

  ‘I think I could, yes,’ Lombroso replied with unfamiliar modesty.

  ‘How?’ Father Vincenzo asked. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘I would look into the eyes, Father. That is where the soul lies. One can see everything, provided that is, one looks in the right way.’ With that Lombroso drew closer, stared into Father Vincenzo’s eyes and smiled enigmatically.

  The priest laughed. ‘Say for the purposes of argument that a person is evil, does it necessarily mean that evil has to amount to an irrational choice?’

  Lombroso nodded thoughtfully. ‘Choosing evil over good – how very interesting.’

  ‘We have come full circle, have we not, Professor?’ Father Vincenzo said, a trifle smugly, it seemed to James.

  ‘Indeed we have,’ Lombroso said. ‘Back to moral insanity – and I am as uncertain as I was before.’

  Before Father Vincenzo could respond, the door opened suddenly and Machinetti pushed past the maid who was attempting to prevent him from entering without being announced. He was closely followed by an embarrassed-looking Giardinello. Machinetti paused briefly to acknowledge Father Vincenzo with a deep and ostentatious bow before turning his attention to Lombroso.

  ‘It has happened again and all roads lead to you, Professor!’

  Lombroso looked severely at Machinetti. ‘What has happened?’ he asked in a tone of thinly veiled impatience.

  ‘There has been another murder . . .’

  There was silence as they all tried to take in this information.

  ‘Will it ever end?’ Lombroso muttered beneath his breath.

  ‘And this time we have evidence of both your motive and opportunity so I must insist that you accompany me to be questioned.’ Machinetti nodded at Giardinello who reluctantly moved towards Lombroso. James and Ottolenghi stood openmouthed but silent in response to what was going on. Father Vincenzo looked on, a slight smirk on his face, which, James thought, was a puzzling reaction, particularly after he and Lombroso had seemed to reach some kind of an understanding. Fortunately, at that moment both Borelli and Tullio arrived.

  ‘Marshal, what is happening here?’ Tullio asked brusquely.

  ‘I am taking the professor in for questioning,’ Machinetti replied. ‘Yet another body has been found with a note as before. I advise you not to interfere, Tullio. The questore himself has authorised this.’

  Tullio frowned at him. ‘On what basis are you detaining the professor? Is there evidence?’

  Machinetti smiled triumphantly and looked at Lombroso. ‘Oh, there is plenty, I assure you.’

  Borelli stepped forward, a look of puzzlement on his face. ‘Who is the victim? We know about one, found last night in the tunnels. But who is the other?’

  Machinetti took a deep breath, puffing himself up until he looked like a fat turkey in a farmyard. ‘There is a fifth victim and he is well known to all of you. It is Dr DeClichy.’

  ‘DeClichy!’ Ottolenghi exclaimed. ‘But that cannot be. We saw him late last night and he looked to be on his way home!’

  ‘It is true, I’m afraid,’ Tullio said grimly. ‘He was found early this morning, in an alley off the Via Pietro Micca.’

  ‘He was strangled then disembowelled,’ Machinetti said with apparent relish.

  ‘That is indeed a tragedy,’ Lombroso said quietly. ‘That poor man. Why would anyone want to do this to him?’

  ‘This changes things, Professor,’ Tullio said. ‘The victim is a respectable academic. People will be frightened.’

  ‘They should be. Who knows where he will strike next?’ Borelli said. ‘What information do you have, Tullio? Is it definitely the same killer as before?’


  ‘There was a note. That means it must be the same killer,’ Machinetti declared firmly. ‘Not only that, but DeClichy was known to Lombroso here, as were the other victims. We also have a number of witnesses who have told us that there was bad blood between them.’ He turned towards Lombroso. ‘Come, Professor. It’s down to headquarters with you.’

  Giardinello approached Lombroso who protested loudly, in company with almost everyone else. A small scuffle broke out as Tullio tried valiantly to prevent the arrest. Ottolenghi and James joined in. Borelli started to shout at Machinetti. Then suddenly a voice boomed out over them all.

  ‘How is the faithful city become a harlot! It was full of judgment; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers.’

  They all turned to look at Father Vincenzo who was standing with his hands clasped before him. ‘I will pray for you, Professor.’

  ‘Thank you, but there is no need, Father,’ Lombroso said. ‘I can assure you all that I have not murdered anyone – well, not directly anyway.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Machinetti spluttered. ‘You had motive, opportunity and knowledge. It is my duty to arrest you.’

  Lombroso nodded patiently. ‘Naturally I would expect nothing less. However, loath though I am to disappoint you, Marshal, I feel that I must point out the fatal flaw in your accusation.’

  ‘And what is that?’ Machinetti asked. His lips formed a thin line but some spittle had escaped from the one of the corners. James watched him, mesmerised, as it trickled slowly down to his chin.

  ‘The professor has an alibi,’ Borelli said firmly. ‘We left the dinner together last night then walked back here and sat and talked until Tullio summoned us to the scene of Rosa Bruno’s murder.’

  ‘It is true. We had much to discuss, given recent events,’ Lombroso agreed.

  Machinetti snorted. ‘Why should I believe you?’

  Borelli glared at him.

  ‘Your belief or otherwise is irrelevant, Marshal,’ Tullio said. ‘Evidence is paramount here. What reason do you have for supposing that the professor killed DeClichy?’

  ‘He was heard by various witnesses to have expressed a wish that the man would go away and leave him alone,’ Machinetti replied smugly.

  Tullio looked over at Lombroso. ‘Professor?’

  ‘I did say that on a number of occasions,’ he agreed.

  ‘But still the man persisted, did he not, and so you decided to take matters into your own hands and do away with him. Isn’t that how it went?’ Machinetti declared forcefully.

  ‘Really, Marshal, this is not an interrogation!’ Borelli said.

  Lombroso put a restraining hand on Borelli’s arm. ‘No, no, Adolfo. Let him finish. I want to hear all the evidence against me. It is most fascinating. So, Marshal, there I was in a state of, well, what would you say – fury, incandescence, apoplectic anger, uncontrollable rage, slight irritation?’

  Marshal Machinetti looked at Lombroso with a bemused half smile, as if unsure whether he was being mocked or hearing a confession.

  ‘And then I ran out into the night and followed DeClichy, having paused briefly to tell Borelli of my movements and asking him to risk his entire career and reputation by giving me a false alibi. Then, having waited for an opportune moment, I smote poor DeClichy down, strangled him and disembowelled the poor fellow with – what? A knife or some such, was it – which I happened to have secreted about my person throughout an opera and a dinner, just in case I should feel the need to kill someone? Then, not content with that, I turned up at the tunnels having been alerted by Tullio here and looked at what – an earlier victim? I have been remarkably active, have I not?’

  There was a pause. Everyone was staring at Machinetti whose face suddenly blanched. For a moment James felt almost sorry for him.

  ‘It could have happened as you say,’ Machinetti said, almost inaudibly.

  ‘What was that? Speak up, Machinetti,’ Tullio said, his authority growing visibly as Machinetti’s shrank.

  ‘It is plausible enough to believe . . . to believe he could have . . . he might have . . .’ Machinetti spluttered desperately.

  ‘But I didn’t,’ Lombroso said, almost gently.

  ‘No indeed you did not, because you were with me as I stated earlier,’ Borelli said, his hand on Lombroso’s shoulder in a show of support.

  ‘Come, Marshal, it is time we were going,’ Tullio said crisply. ‘We can discuss the case on the way back to your headquarters. Good afternoon.’ He paused for a second and then turned. ‘And, gentleman, please be careful. You are all potential victims now.’

  ‘Tullio,’ called out Lombroso. Tullio came back into the doorway and Lombroso whispered something in his ear. He nodded and left again.

  There was a short pause as everyone present seemed to be taking stock of what they had witnessed in the last few moments. James was almost ashamed that he had allowed himself to become involved in what was little better than the drunken brawl of the previous night. It all seemed extraordinary and, indeed, faintly ludicrous.

  Father Vincenzo, who had been watching all that had transpired with apparent interest, gave a short bow. ‘I will also take my leave of you, gentlemen,’ he said quietly, as if he himself had played no part in what had just passed. He turned towards Lombroso. ‘Before I go I will say this. We should not forget that five people have now died in tragic circumstances.’

  ‘Indeed, you are right to remind us, Father,’ Lombroso said.

  ‘And they all seem to be connected to you, Professor . . .’ he said, striding out of the room before anyone could speak.

  Lombroso sank into an armchair as if he had been deflated. He looked mournfully into the distance and despite having known him for only a short time, James still recognised the signs of the melancholy that overcame him from time to time. Clearly the priest’s words had struck a chord.

  Borelli went over and sat by him. Ottolenghi signalled to James to continue their work and they set about measuring the skulls. It was good to be occupied with something. The news of DeClichy’s death had cast a terrible pall over their world. Before, the murders had seemed almost remote, even though the victims had been familiar to at least some of them. But this was different. This time they had lost one of their own and it had brought the horror even closer. James could see that Ottolenghi was thinking about it but they remained in silence for a good few minutes until finally Lombroso spoke.

  ‘He is right. I did kill DeClichy.’

  Startled by this admission, James looked over and wondered, though for no more than a split second, if he was about to make a bizarre confession, although the thought of such betrayal seemed unlikely.

  ‘Nonsense, Cesare, you were with me, remember?’ Borelli said.

  Lombroso shook his head, violently. ‘No, you don’t understand. I did not strangle him or wield the knife that mutilated him but I might as well have done. If it were not for me he would still be alive.’ Lombroso leaned towards his friend and placed his hand on Borelli’s wrist. ‘I turned DeClichy away, again and again. He wanted to tell me something. If I had let him then perhaps he would not be dead now.’

  ‘That is not so, Cesare. Even if you had spoken to him you could not have saved him.’

  Lombroso looked at him, frowning. ‘I disagree. I think he was trying to tell me something and died for his trouble.’

  ‘You think he was killed by the Pilgrim, then, as Machinetti says?’ Borelli asked. ‘Or was there a second killer, an accomplice perhaps?’

  Lombroso looked into the distance. ‘I don’t know who committed the act but this much I do know: if evil acts such as these are repeated often enough then immorality becomes a habit.’

  Borelli stared at Lombroso. ‘A habit? Surely these murders amount to more than that.’

  Lombroso gave a wry smile. ‘You misunderstand me, Adolfo. The thing about habits is that they breed mistakes. And where there are mistakes there are clues.’

  ‘Has he made an error then?’ Borelli
asked urgently.

  Lombroso smiled enigmatically. ‘That, my old friend, is what we must find out.’

  22

  Because the majority of criminals lack any moral sense, they fail to understand the immorality of crime.

  Lombroso, 1878 p 109

  Later that afternoon, when the Madagascan skulls were finally measured and each detail carefully recorded, James and Ottolenghi were instructed to meet Lombroso downstairs in ten minutes when, he told them, they would all be embarking upon a short journey. Borelli had long since left and so it was just the three of them moving in a carriage through the encroaching November darkness to their mystery destination.

  Lombroso seemed to have cheered up a little since his earlier attack of melancholia. He looked over to them and smiled. ‘I am assuming from your silence on the matter that you did not find anything of consequence by following our friend Horton last night?’

  As they explained the events of the previous evening, Lombroso listened intently, nodding and grimacing according to what they told him. ‘Interesting. We have not one but two slippery characters at large last night and two murders to boot. My hunch is that this is no coincidence.’

  ‘You think only one of them is the Pilgrim?’ James asked.

  Lombroso peered at him through his glasses. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not – well, not completely.’

  James was confused but did not wish to admit it. He looked over to Ottolenghi who had a faint frown on his face. It seemed that he was not alone. He remembered something that his father had told him: that if he wanted to learn, he should never be afraid to ask questions.

  ‘But Machinetti said that there was a note. It must be the Pilgrim who killed DeClichy, surely.’

  The carriage came to a halt. ‘Well, Murray,’ Lombroso said, ‘we may find out for certain in a few moments.’

  They alighted and James saw that they were outside the city morgue. It seemed that they had come to examine poor DeClichy’s corpse.

  Tullio was waiting for them at the entrance. He looked tired and it occurred to James that his constant battle with Machinetti must be taking its toll.