City of Devils: A Novel (31 page)

Since we usually attribute little value to everyday phenomena, the idea that a man’s handwriting can provide clues to his psychological state may seem useless and even bizarre . . . I know full well that copious data is needed to prove my argument that criminals can be diagnosed by their handwriting.

Lombroso, 1878 p III

As James made his way to the museum, everyone he saw seemed to be reading the
People’s Voice.
Whether they were sitting in cafés, leaning against lamp-posts or just walking along the street it felt as if they were staring and even laughing at him, the student of the man who might be a killer.

He looked at his watch. It was half past ten. No doubt Lombroso would be on his way to Al Bicerin, his favourite place for morning refreshment. James could not see the professor being deterred despite Ausano’s body having been found close by. He decided to go there in the hope that he could head him off before he walked into the crowded café and got a nasty shock. He got there just in time to see Lombroso and Ottolenghi making their way through the outdoor tables towards the door and he hailed them.

Lombroso smiled at him. ‘Ah, Murray, you have caught us out in our daily vice! Come and join us. You must try our local drink. Once you have, I guarantee coffee will never taste quite the same!’

‘Have you seen the paper?’ James asked.

Lombroso ignored him and strode into the café, leaving James and Ottolenghi to follow him in.

The place was tiny. There must have been only four or five small marble-topped tables placed around the room in front of plush red velvet benches. Lombroso spread himself out and indicated some elegant gilt chairs. Ottolenghi went to the counter to order. James passed over his newspaper, indicating the piece in question. As he read it Lombroso started to tut and his smile was soon replaced by a frown. Ottolenghi joined them and Lombroso handed the paper over to him without a word, his lips pursed.

‘I thought Machinetti had been persuaded to keep the details to himself for now?’ Ottolenghi said.

Lombroso nodded wearily. ‘Well, it seems that either he has changed his mind or someone else has seen fit to tell the . . .’ He picked up the paper and looked at it again, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘
People’s Voice.
Really, Murray, I’m surprised at you reading such an inferior publication. It’s the sort of thing only servants bother with.’

Ottolenghi looked sideways at James who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The waiter brought over their drinks on a tray; three small glasses seemingly filled with coffee and topped with cream. Both Lombroso and Ottolenghi visibly brightened at the sight.

‘What should we do, Professor?’ James asked anxiously.

‘Do? Do about what?’ Lombroso replied.

‘About the paper – it mentions you by name!’

He waved it away. ‘Oh, that is of no real consequence. It is an irritation, nothing more.’

James wondered how he could be so dismissive of it given his already precarious position at the university. He looked over to Ottolenghi who shrugged. It seemed that to some extent Lombroso was trying to pretend to himself that all was well. James had noticed that the professor had an ability to detach himself from reality when the occasion demanded. As he often reminded James, he regarded himself as a scientist and scientists are supposed to be objective.

‘But the letter the reporter received, might that not be interesting?’ Ottolenghi suggested.

Lombroso nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps, if it is indeed from the killer and not the product of a journalist’s fevered imagination. I know Baldovino of old. He is not a keen purveyor of the truth if it might spoil a good story. Still, there might be something in it. I think it is time to pay him a visit.’

‘What will the letter reveal?’ James asked.

Lombroso peered at him over his glasses. ‘It is not just what is in the document that is significant, but how it is written. One can tell much about a man from his script. It is a significant area for study but few have given it the attention it deserves.’

This was a new idea to James but it sounded interesting.

‘We need to see the original document,’ Lombroso said.

‘Might it be useful to take Tullio with us?’ suggested Ottolenghi. ‘It would give us more authority.’

Lombroso looked at him imperiously, as if he considered himself to have all the authority that would be needed. But then he nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose you’re right. It might smooth the path. We can pick him up on the way, if he’s free.’

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. Giardinello 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.