City of Devils: A Novel (36 page)

‘Well, there’s only one thing for it. If that man has gone down there then we’ll have to follow him,’ Ottolenghi said firmly.

Gambro shook his head. ‘It’s not safe. There have been quite a few collapses recently.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Tullio replied.

‘ “I” ?’ James protested. ‘Don’t you mean, “we” ?’

Tullio shook his head. ‘There’s no sense in all of us putting ourselves at risk. I’m paid for this. You are not.’

Ottolenghi shook his head. ‘If you go, we go,’ he said firmly.

A few moments later they were all making their way down some decidedly rickety stairs, armed only with three lanterns Gambro had given them and Tullio’s truncheon. As they went down into the depths James shivered and looked longingly back up towards the light. He couldn’t help thinking that it was as though they were descending into hell itself. James could have sworn that he caught a whiff of sulphur as if, with every step, they were drawing closer to the Devil.

One thing was certain. There was no going back now and James was apprehensive. What if they found the killer? James had conjured up in his mind a shadowy image, half human, half demon, with glowing eyes and . . . well, he wasn’t sure what else he envisaged.

Of course, the terrible truth of it was that this murderer was no supernatural being, but a man. That was a far more frightening thought than anything that James could imagine and none of Lombroso’s theories, or indeed those of anyone else concerned in the study of crime, dealt with the reasons for this level of depravity.

He shivered in the chill atmosphere. ‘It’s so cold down here,’ he complained.

‘It is said that the tunnels are haunted by the spirits of dead soldiers,’ whispered Tullio. ‘Perhaps that is why.’

‘Who built them?’ James asked. Conversation made him feel less nervous, whatever its content.

‘Soldiers, I think,’ replied Tullio. ‘The tunnels are named after Pietro Micca, a soldier who died in 1706 while defending the city during the siege of Turin. He detonated a mine down here, somewhere.’

Their lanterns flickered in the gloom as they made their way through the archways and brick-lined passages. There was no sign of anyone, although once or twice James thought he saw a figure in the distance. Tullio told them that it was just his own shadow on the walls ahead but James was not so sure.

And then they heard it, a soft rhythmic drumbeat from what sounded like a few hundred yards away. They stopped to listen for a few seconds and then decided to follow the sound. Could this really be some kind of ghost? For a moment or two it seemed as if they were all seriously considering the possibility. The tunnels were dark and atmospheric and seemed an ideal habitat for a spirit.

They began running for the sound seemed to be moving away from them. Then suddenly there was an unearthly scream, shrill and terrifying, which stopped them in their tracks. There was a clatter and then more darkness. James came to a halt, his fear so acute that he could barely move.

Ottolenghi had dropped his lantern. Now the light was so dim that they could hardly see anything. James looked down at his own. It was dangerously close to going out. He had never encountered anything like this before. He felt as if his whole body was clenched with the tension. On went the drumming – it seemed to be getting louder but also was moving away more quickly until it was difficult for them to keep up. It was not helped by the fact that they would occasionally get to a dead end and have to retrace their steps and make a turn. The drumbeat seemed to change direction as if it was taunting them. On and on they went, through tunnel after tunnel for what seemed like hours. Then Tullio came to an abrupt halt and put his finger to his lips.

‘Sssh – listen . . .’ he whispered.

The drumbeat had stopped as quickly as it had begun. There was what sounded like laughter, the sound of footsteps running and then silence.

Tullio looked around him. They had been so intent in their pursuit that it seemed he was no longer sure of their exact location. James looked at his face and his heart sank.

‘We’re lost, aren’t we?’

‘Not exactly,’ Tullio said. ‘The tunnels run all over the city and there are entrances and exits everywhere. It’s just a matter of finding one.’

James shivered. What if they couldn’t find their way out? It had to be a possibility at least. He could hear scrabbling noises that sounded alarmingly like rats and the smell of sulphur he had noticed earlier seemed to be getting stronger. He felt panic rising in him.

Ottolenghi looked absolutely terrified. Then, in the gloom, they heard footsteps again. He could hear his own heart, hammering away in his chest. Tullio beckoned to them to follow him and they did so although James was not at all sure that he wanted to meet whoever they were pursuing. The footsteps gradually increased in speed until they were running. Then, as they rounded a corner, Ottolenghi fell to the ground in a heap and scrabbled in the darkness in an effort to get to his feet. James offered him a hand to get up and when he took it he could feel that it was wet. Ottolenghi’s face was filled with horror as he looked down. James thought that he had tripped over a dead animal of some kind, a dog or a cat. It was neither.

Tullio brought his lantern lower and they could see that Ottolenghi’s hands were covered in blood. He was sitting next to a corpse. Once he had been helped to his feet they began to examine what they had found. They stared down, transfixed by the sight before them. The body lay in a large pool of blood, dark and sticky in the fading light, like a slick of oil. Tullio started to move his lantern slowly downwards and they saw her face, her eyes staring up at them as if she was pleading for help. Her mouth was opened in a grimace – almost a snarl. Then something on her chest shone in the flickering light of the lantern. They looked at it more closely. It looked like a piece of a liver. James looked at Ottolenghi. He had his hand over his face as if trying to protect himself from breathing in the horror.

It was the body of Rosa Bruno.

Tullio moved his lantern down further to reveal yet more.

Rosa’s skirts were up around her waist. The skin of her stomach had been sliced open and her intestines pulled out and arranged on her thighs. Somehow, James thought, it looked slightly surreal, as if someone had drawn it.

‘My God. Who . . . who could do such a thing?’ he said. He was about to look away when something caught his eye. ‘What’s that in her hand?’ he asked. As Tullio lifted her left arm they could see that she was clutching a note.

‘Let me see,’ Ottolenghi said, sufficiently recovered to apply his scientific policing methods. He looked at it carefully. ‘Another tribute note to Lombroso.’

‘What do we do now?’ James asked. ‘We can hardly leave her down here.’

‘I’ll go back to the surface and alert the authorities,’ said Tullio, decisively. ‘Assuming I can find my way out of here, that is. The entrance can’t be far away. The killer would have had to get the victim down here to perform the mutilation.’

James looked at the pool of blood. ‘She was still alive when he did this.’

Tullio nodded grimly. ‘It certainly looks that way but even if she wasn’t the killer would not want to go far from the exit.’

‘He must have done this at least an hour or two ago, from the state of the blood,’ James said.

‘You’re right,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘In which case . . .’ James said, his eyes widening in fear.

‘What?’ Tullio said urgently.

‘Who screamed?’

They stood in silence and the darkness seemed to close in on them, as if the walls were moving ever closer.

Tullio lifted his lantern. ‘I must go. This must be reported in the proper way and besides, I want to let the professor know first in case he wants to examine the body. You two stay here and keep guard. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.’

‘What if the killer comes back? Presumably those were his footsteps,’ Ottolenghi said, nervously.

‘The killer was obviously leading us here. He wanted us to find the body,’ Tullio said. ‘I don’t think he’ll be back.’

James looked over to Ottolenghi who nodded at him with a confidence that he really did not share.

They watched Tullio as he made his way along a passage. Soon the light of his lantern had disappeared into nothing, leaving them with the dim flicker that was all that was left of James’s. All they could do now was wait and hope that Tullio knew what he was doing. As they sat, James heard more scrabbling, and he saw some movement out of the corner of his eye. Soon the rats began to join them. Presumably they could smell the blood. There was plenty of it, after all. The men kicked out at them but made little impression. James could still hear them scratching and squeaking and it made his skin crawl. They sat in silence for a while, alone with their thoughts. Then Ottolenghi spoke.

‘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.