City of Devils

by Diana Bretherick

  ‘I’ll go downstairs and ask Sofia to bring us some,’ James said, happy to have an opportunity to speak to her. He went down to the kitchen, full of anticipation, but when he got down there he could only see the other girl who had been helping out that evening.

  ‘Where’s Sofia?’ he asked, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

  ‘She went out, signor,’ the girl replied, ‘just after she dropped the plate.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘No, sir, she just went, but she looked . . .’ The girl hesitated.

  ‘Looked what?’ he asked urgently.

  The girl frowned. ‘She looked frightened. I thought at first that it was because she dropped the plate and she was scared she would get into trouble, but that’s not like her.’

  ‘You’re right. It isn’t.’ In a few short moments he was heading towards Sofia’s rooms. He had to make sure that she was all right because her reaction was odd. As he approached the small piazza where she lived he saw her in the distance. She was sitting on a low wall outside her room, her head in her hands. He was about to call out to her when someone approached her from the other side. She stood up and James saw him seize her by the shoulders, lift his arm and strike her across the face. She struggled and screamed. James shouted out and began to run towards them. The figure turned and looked at him. Its shape seemed oddly familiar but he could not see clearly in the shadows and, taking advantage of the distraction, Sofia broke free from the figure’s grip. To no avail – he grabbed her again and in doing so caused her to fall as James reached them. She lay motionless on the cobbles and the figure began to run. James was riven by indecision. Should he go after Sofia’s attacker or stay and tend to her? In truth, there was no choice. He could not leave her lying in the street. He knelt down and saw blood trickling from a cut on her head. He held her in his arms and looked at her, fearing for a moment that he had lost her. But she was breathing steadily enough. He lifted her up and carried her back to Lombroso’s house, where he knew she would be safe.

  The following morning Sofia lay in bed, her dark hair cascading over the pillow like a strange, exotic head dress. She was dressed in a white cotton nightgown with lace around the cuffs and collar, not quite a shroud and not quite a wedding gown, but a parody of each.

  When James had arrived with Sofia, Lombroso had examined her. He confirmed what James had hoped, that she had simply sustained a bump on the head and would make a full recovery with rest and care. Now, he looked at her from the doorway – as near to her as decency would allow. He longed to hold her hand, to sit by her and wait until she awoke so that his was the first face she would see. But he knew that was impossible and that made him even more determined somehow.

  There was nothing practical he could do to help Sofia but at least he could try to find who had hurt her. He decided to pay a visit to the victim from Tullio’s past cases, the man who had been unfortunate enough to have an inverted cross carved into his flesh. His name was Angiolo Sighetti and he worked as a meat porter in the Porta Palazzo market, so James made his way there. As Sighetti had a substantial criminal record for offences of petty theft the file had included a mugshot which James hoped would assist in identifying him. He was a sullen-looking man, short, stocky with blunt features. His hair looked to be dark but with a shock of white in the centre, giving him the air of a down-at-heel pit pony. Even with this distinguishing feature it took James longer than he thought to track him down but when he finally saw him it was obvious that he had got the right man.

  Sighetti was heaving the carcass of a sheep onto his broad shoulders. The day was mild and the man’s shirt was open to the waist. It flapped to and fro and every now and then the ugly raised scar tissue was left in plain sight. James walked towards him, weaving his way through handcarts and housewives, stalls and stockmen as well as the general market detritus generated by all of them.

  ‘Angiolo Sighetti?’

  The man looked suspiciously at him. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about your attack.’

  ‘I’ve already given a statement. That’s all you’re getting.’ He started to walk away, the headless carcass bobbing up and down on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m not a policeman.’

  Sighetti stopped and turned.

  ‘Then what are you, a journalist?’

  ‘No, but I’ll pay you for any information you give me.’

  Sighetti stared at him for a moment and then nodded curtly. ‘Just wait for me to dump this. I’ll meet you over there.’ He nodded in the direction of a shabby bar on the far side of the market. ‘You can buy me a beer.’

  A few moments later James was sitting opposite Sighetti as he picked up his drink and took a large gulp. He wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand and grinned. ‘That’s better. Now, what do you want to know, exactly?’

  ‘Just tell me what happened to you.’

  ‘It was at night. I was on my way home from my local bar, La Capra, and someone came up to me from behind.’

  ‘Were you drunk?’ James asked.

  ‘A bit, I suppose. But what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. But it might have made you easier prey.’

  ‘Perhaps. But they were quick. Even a sober man couldn’t have escaped.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Yes, there were two of them. One held me from behind and pinned my arms to my side.’

  ‘And the other? What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. They slipped a hood over my head and I saw nothing.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The second man carved me. Merda! It was painful. Look.’ Sighetti pulled back his shirt to reveal his scar. ‘It’s the devil’s mark, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what some would say. Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘I’ve thought about this long and hard but it only came to me a couple of days ago.’

  ‘What?’ James asked, leaning forwards.

  ‘Two things. Firstly, the man holding me from behind stank to high heaven. It wasn’t the usual thing – sweat, dirt. No, it was more like sour milk. That’s the closest I can get anyway. Just the thought of it makes me want to heave.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘It was something the second man said after he’d carved me. He whispered it into my ear. I’ve no idea what it means.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t recall the exact words but it was something like: “A good man cannot be harmed, alive or dead.” ’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘No idea. One of them hit me on the back of my head and I passed out. That’s the last thing I remember.’

  ‘Just one last question, the second man, did he have an accent?’

  Sighetti scratched his head. ‘I can’t be certain but he sounded different. Not foreign, necessarily, like your good self, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. No, if anything he spoke like my lawyer does – a bit posh, educated, you might say. Sounded just like him, in fact.’

  ‘And your lawyer is from Turin?’

  ‘I think so. He’s the best in the city, that’s for sure.’

  James thanked Sighetti for his trouble and, having paid him, bought him another beer and thrown in a sandwich for good measure, he left.

  It seemed that Sofia was right. Their killer had rehearsed his method, or part of it, at least once. This time the carving had been done alone and on the front of the chest rather than the back, presumably to test it out. But there had been no attempt to rehearse the main mutilations, at least not in Turin anyway. The problem was that although this new information was certainly of interest it did not take him any nearer to identifying the killer, or indeed his accomplice. It sounded as if it could be Horton, who spoke Italian like a native. But then it could also be practically anyone else. Still, that comment the second man had made to his victim had a familiar ring to it. Where had he heard it before? If he could work that out then he might be able to identi
fy the killer.

  James had only intended to take an hour or so to see his witness but it was almost two o’clock when he returned to Lombroso’s house. He was admitted by the maid he had spoken to last night. Her face was tear-stained and for one dreadful moment James thought that Sofia had taken a turn for the worse.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked her fearfully. ‘What’s the matter? Is it Sofia?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s the master, the professor.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s been arrested! The carabinieri came for him earlier and took him away.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  The girl began to sob. ‘Murder, signor! The ones in the paper – they said he was the Pilgrim!’

  There was a knock at the front door and James nodded to the girl to open it. It was Ottolenghi and Borelli.

  ‘You’ve heard, then,’ Borelli said grimly.

  ‘Machinetti finally got his way,’ Ottolenghi added.

  ‘Assisted no doubt by the influence of Gemelli,’ Borelli said. ‘This will mean the end of Lombroso’s career if we can’t sort it out soon.’

  ‘Where is he?’ James asked.

  ‘He’s being held at carabinieri headquarters,’ Ottolenghi said.

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Madame Tarnovsky said as she descended the staircase to join them, having been tending to Sofia. ‘Let’s go and get him released. He isn’t the killer. We all know that. We just need to persuade that ridiculous policeman Machinetti to see the truth.’

  ‘What is the truth?’ Borelli asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ottolenghi said. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that the professor killed all these people?’

  ‘He has alibis for some of the murders,’ James said. It seemed strange to hear Borelli, of all people, one of Lombroso’s oldest friends and colleagues, speak as if he was unsure of his innocence.

  ‘Some, not all,’ Borelli said. ‘What if he arranged them?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ James asked again.

  ‘To allow him to solve them, of course,’ Borelli said. ‘You heard him last night with his schizoid killer theory. He loved it!’

  ‘Even Cesare doesn’t love his work enough to kill,’ Madame Tarnovsky said, scornfully.

  ‘Can we really be sure of that?’ Ottolenghi said quietly.

  James looked at him and frowned. ‘So even you’re doubting him now.’

  ‘He maybe a little over-zealous in his methods at times but he’s no killer,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘Anyway, I think it is time we gave Cesare the chance to answer for himself. We need to get him released.’

  They agreed to go to carabinieri headquarters to see what could be done but Borelli declined. It was as if, James thought, he had given up on his old friend.

  When they arrived they found Tullio sitting in the entrance hall looking rather lost.

  ‘Have you spoken to Machinetti?’ Ottolenghi asked.

  ‘I have, but he won’t budge,’ Tullio said. ‘Gemelli managed to persuade him that Lombroso was bluffing and had written all the letters.’

  ‘So what can we do now?’ James asked, sighing. ‘If Machinetti’s convinced we’ll never get the professor released.’

  There was a pause and then Madame Tarnovsky spoke. ‘I believe I know the best way to approach Machinetti. Could we get him to speak to me, do you think?’

  Machinetti was duly summoned with the assistance of Tullio. He came bristling into the room as if ready to attack.

  ‘Ah, Marshal, how kind of you to see me,’ Madame Tarnovsky said with her usual charm.

  Machinetti seemed taken aback. Charm was clearly something he was not used to. He gave a short and uncomfortable bow.

  ‘What can do for you, signora?’ he asked.

  ‘Could we speak in private, do you think?’ she requested.

  He nodded and escorted her into a nearby side room. A few minutes later he emerged, blushing like a young girl, and signalled to one of his men.

  ‘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.