City of Devils: A Novel (21 page)

James was actually rather enjoying himself but didn’t like to say so. It was not every day that one got the opportunity to fire a pistol without fear of consequences.

The subject, Ausano, a local pickpocket, also looked happy enough. It probably made a nice change, earning money legitimately just for sitting down. According to Ottolenghi, some years before Lombroso had conducted some experiments using the same equipment in order to measure the difference in responses indicated by blood pressure readings to various stimuli, both pleasurable and unpleasant. Today he had decided to repeat the experiment. In part this was in order to clarify the results, as the previous recording left something to be desired. But James suspected there was also an ulterior motive. He hoped that Lombroso had been impressed by his dedication but it seemed that he wanted to test him, to see if he could manage such experiments, juggling complex and delicate equipment whilst dealing with subjects who were not always as compliant as they might be. Once the purpose had been explained and the financial aspect agreed, Ausano had been more than content to allow matters to take their course. He was still, however, much given to grumbling, which was proving to be test enough.

James looked out of the window. A small, agitated crowd had gathered and he could see the plume of Machinetti’s hat bobbing at its centre.

‘Professor, I think there may be trouble.’

‘Let us try another form of stimulus,’ suggested Lombroso, ignoring James’s comment. ‘Murray, you take over from Ottolenghi.’

Ottolenghi grinned at him as he showed him the equipment and James started to adjust the terminal.

‘Is he properly connected now?’ asked Lombroso, impatiently.

‘One minute . . . yes, now I am sure,’ James replied, hoping that he had got it right.

‘So I hear you had an encounter with Judge Robertini,’ Lombroso asked their subject casually.

Ausano furrowed his distinctly receding brows.

‘That bastard! I’ll slit his throat if I ever meet him again! Three years’ hard labour for a cloth purse with a few
lire
in it and a snuffbox that wasn’t even real silver. There’s no justice!’

Lombroso raised his eyebrows at Ottolenghi who stifled a laugh. Ausano scowled at him.

‘Any change registered?’ Lombroso called out to James.

‘None.’

‘Try looking at this.’

Lombroso handed Ausano a picture of a naked woman.

‘Very nice, I’m sure. Looks like that woman downstairs – the housekeeper is it? A sweet piece.’

James tightened the strap round Ausano’s wrist a little.

‘Ow! Watch it. It’s too tight!’

James bent down and pretended to loosen it. ‘You’re not fit to breathe the same air,’ he whispered.

‘Careful, young man, you’ll dislodge the machine,’ warned Lombroso, frowning at him.

Ottolenghi raised his eyebrows at James and shook his head.

‘Did anything show on the dials?’ James asked innocently.

‘No,’ Ottolenghi replied. He started to attend to the machine, which had indeed become dislodged.

‘I don’t see why I should put up with this,’ complained Ausano.

‘Think of the money. Is that not your usual motivation? I remember you telling us that you would sell your very soul for cash,’ said Lombroso sternly. ‘Now, how about a nice cigar?’

Ausano sat back in his chair, apparently placated.

‘Still nothing,’ announced Ottolenghi, who was watching the various dials.

‘What about some wine?’ Lombroso showed the thief a bottle of Paolo’s Barolo and Ausano nodded vigorously.

‘A slight rise – no more than eighteen pulses, though.’

Suddenly the door was thrust open and Machinetti burst in with Giardinello following close behind.

‘It’s gone off the scale!’ James shouted excitedly, emerging from behind the screen with such vigour that he almost knocked it over.

‘Giardinello – the gun!’ cried Machinetti. Ottolenghi was standing in the corner still holding the pistol that he had taken from James. Giardinello, presumably overcome by events, ran over to him and instead of taking the gun from his politely outstretched hand, wrestled Ottolenghi to the ground. The gun slid across the floor, landing at the feet of Lombroso who picked it up swiftly in case the temptation proved too much for Ausano.

They made an interesting tableau. Ottolenghi was pinned to the floor by Giardinello. Ausano had got to his feet and was leaning towards Machinetti with an expression of such intense hatred on his face that it was if the Devil himself had come into the room. James stood by the fallen screen holding Ausano by the arms to restrain him. Machinetti stood in the doorway, a look of alarm etched on his face. Lombroso looked at him, a sardonic smile playing about his lips, a pistol in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

‘Ah, Machinetti, you have arrived just in time. We were about to take some wine. Will you join us?’

Machinetti puffed himself up like a cat defending its territory. ‘You should be more careful with firearms, Professor.’

Lombroso sighed. ‘Everything is under control, Marshal, I assure you. Now is there anything else? We are busy, as you can see.’

Machinetti pursed his lips. ‘There has been another murder. You are to come with me for questioning.’

‘Another!’ exclaimed Lombroso. ‘What do you mean? And what has that to do with me?’

‘Yes, another – and it has everything to do with you,’ replied Machinetti.

‘Why? Who is the victim?’ Lombroso asked.

‘You can tell us that.’

‘I can’t actually, which is why I asked you,’ Lombroso said.

Machinetti paused and frowned at him. ‘Your note was left, again.’

James gasped. Even though he had suspected that the Soldati murder was just the beginning, to have it proved like this was dreadful. Oddly, the horror of the situation appeared to have escaped Lombroso who seemed more intent on scoring points against Machinetti than anything else. It was as if the news hadn’t quite sunk in.

‘As I did not do anything, I fail to see how it can be called
my
note,’ Lombroso said slowly and clearly, as if addressing a stupid child.

‘We’ll see about that,’ Machinetti said ominously.

Lombroso looked at him with one eyebrow raised. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No. But you still have questions to answer,’ Machinetti replied.

‘I don’t see why they cannot be asked here,’ said Ottolenghi, who had been released by a somewhat sheepish Giardinello. James was still holding Ausano, who looked as if he could not quite believe what he had just witnessed.

‘Neither do I,’ Lombroso said firmly. ‘Come, Marshal. There is a study next door. We can discuss this matter there. Ottolenghi, perhaps you can show Signor Ausano out and tidy up a little before joining us. Murray, would you mind accompanying me? I think that I would like a witness and, of course, you might find it instructive.’

With that he left the room, leaving Machinetti staring after his retreating figure. Eventually he recovered himself and he and Giardinello followed Lombroso, with James bringing up the rear, leaving Ottolenghi and Ausano looking warily at each other.

Lombroso’s study was a small room and it was with some difficulty that everyone squeezed in. Machinetti perched uncomfortably on a small stool in one corner. It was, in some ways, a miniature version of the museum. Every available inch was covered with books, papers and what could only be described as curiosities – a couple of animal skulls, a phrenology head, one or two small carnivorous plants and what appeared to be a pickled hand in a jar, which Giardinello could not take his eyes from. Lombroso sat on a large leather chair behind his desk. He seemed relaxed but James could tell that he was covering his real feelings. Something about the look in his eyes indicated a certain tension, which under the circumstances was hardly surprising.

‘So, Machinetti, tell me about this murder. I ask again, who is the victim?’ asked Lombroso.

Machinetti opened his mouth as if he was about to answer him but then remembered that it was he who was supposed to ask the questions. ‘I believe you know his identity.’

‘I think I have already established that I don’t, but I gather we are talking about a man.’

‘You do know, don’t you!’ Machinetti insisted.

Lombroso shook his head and looked upwards.

‘Do you know a man called Pietro Mancini?’ barked Machinetti.

Lombroso’s brows furrowed. ‘The name is familiar. Although how can you be sure that this is connected to the other death?’

Machinetti looked at him significantly but Lombroso had had enough.

‘Please stop playing these ridiculous games. If I did know anything then I would be foolish to tell you, would I not?’

There was another pause as Machinetti thought about what had been said. Finally he realised that he was wasting his time. ‘We have found another letter –
A Tribute to Lombroso
– just like the last one.’

‘In blood?’

Machinetti nodded.

‘Tell me, was anything . . . missing as before?’

‘The tongue was cut out.’

Lombroso seemed unmoved by this revelation. It was, of course, easier, because he had not seen the victim. All the same, James was surprised by his lack of emotion, particularly as he was connected to this murder in the same way as he had been to the first. He wondered if Lombroso was hiding his real feelings, being reluctant to show weakness in front of his old foe.

‘Ah, a severed tongue. Now that is interesting – it’s the traditional punishment for an informer and, of course, a warning to others.’

‘This was different. The doctor who examined the body said that in his view the amount and consistency of the blood indicated that the tongue was removed prior to death. Not only that but the jaw had been dislocated, the teeth had been broken and . . . something else.’

‘What?’ Lombroso asked.

‘The eyes had been taken from the sockets.’

James saw just a hint of anguish cross Lombroso’s features. ‘That would not be easy to accomplish.’

‘It seems he was stunned first by a blow to the head, then the tongue was cut out, the teeth broken, the jaw manipulated and finally the throat was cut.’

‘And the eyes?’ James asked.

Machinetti shrugged. ‘We do not know how that was done exactly. It seems as if an implement was used to . . . to scoop them out.’

James shuddered. ‘Surely the killer must be insane.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lombroso thoughtfully, ‘but he is also thorough, methodical even.’

Suddenly Lombroso slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Of course! Now I remember the name, Pietro Mancini. I met him in Pavia and measured his head to see if informants’ crania might differ in circumference. I also took notes on some jargon he was using. He had some interesting slang words, probably unique to his particular criminal gang. What was he doing in Turin? I thought he was serving a substantial sentence. He should still be locked up.’

Machinetti scowled. ‘He escaped. Evidently he felt it was safer out than in. He was already on the run from his associates in Palermo.’

‘It seems that he was wrong. But still, as I’m sure even you know, Machinetti, the removal of the tongue is a known punishment. The removal before death could merely indicate a new policy.’

‘I do not recall any policy regarding eyes and teeth,’ Machinetti said.

‘True, I’ll give you that, Marshal,’ Lombroso replied. ‘But it still could be related to his informing activities, things he’s seen and spoken of – it could be symbolic. In my experience it is the way the criminal mind works sometimes, a literal interpretation of punishment.’

‘But it still leaves the letter, which clearly implicates you,’ Machinetti said. ‘Where were you last night between the hours of ten yesterday evening and six o’clock this morning?’

Lombroso stood and drew himself up to his full height. ‘I was at the Marchesa’s reception until midnight, as I am sure you know.’

‘And after that?’

Lombroso sighed. ‘It was late. But I came here because I wanted to do some work.’

‘That is true. I dropped him off in a cab,’ Ottolenghi, who had just rejoined them, confirmed.

‘That, Professor, still leaves you ample time to get down to the riverside and kill Mancini!’ declared Machinetti triumphantly.

Lombroso put his hands in front of him as if waiting to be handcuffed. ‘Well, you had better arrest me now, had you not? Clearly, I murdered both of these poor souls and then left a letter as a tribute to myself, leading you to myself. Rather a good clue, wouldn’t you say? Not much of a mystery, though. Perhaps I should have made it a tribute to you, Machinetti, and then you could have interrogated yourself and got Giardinello to arrest you!’

In any other circumstances this would have been comical but James kept thinking of the second victim. Even a criminal did not deserve such a death. Here they were, crammed into this small room with Machinetti, now such an intense shade of puce that he almost matched the purple velvet curtains that hung at the window. His eyes were bulging and he seemed to be on the verge of exploding. But there had been a second horrible murder. Surely this was not the time for either man to attempt to score points.

‘If it was not you, then who killed them?’ Machinetti asked.

‘Machinetti,’ said Lombroso patiently, ‘one of us is a marshal of the carabinieri and I don’t believe that it is me. Now, why don’t you stop wasting your time and mine and go out there and find the answer to your question, there’s a good fellow.’

Machinetti gave him a look of pure hatred. He opened his mouth as if about to speak but evidently thought the better of it. He then tried to sweep out of the room in an attempt to retain at least some dignity. Sadly, it was not to be, for when he extricated himself from his corner, there was so little room that he was forced to sidle out, squeezing past Giardinello and James and knocking over a small table as he did so. Giardinello picked it up and bowed rather sheepishly before following behind him.

Lombroso sat back down in his seat and motioned to James to perch on the stool vacated by Machinetti. Ottolenghi joined them and they sat in silence for a while, allowing Lombroso to collect his thoughts. Finally he spoke. ‘It cannot go on,’ he murmured.