The Death Mask Murders Read online

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Jack quietly, feeling his stomach begin to churn with trepidation and excitement.

  ‘You.’

  ‘What did I tell you? Here goes the Kimberley trip,’ said the countess, shaking her head.

  ‘Seriously?’ said Jack, looking dumbfounded. ‘This is nonsense, surely. I don’t know anything about the man, or these cases you just told us about. And he wants to meet me? Are you sure? Why?’

  ‘That’s what we would like to find out. With your help, of course,’ added Dupree, smiling, well aware that Jack wouldn’t be able to refuse.

  3

  Gatekeeper’s Cottage: 26 September

  Once Jack got his head around the baffling Landru request and its potential implications, he had reluctantly agreed to meet the notorious killer, but only if access to all the police and prosecution files would be made available to him. He wanted to find out as much as possible about the Death Mask Murders and Landru’s conviction before visiting him in prison.

  A grateful Lapointe had personally delivered all the material within twenty-four hours, and Jack and Dupree had locked themselves away in the Gatekeeper’s Cottage to trawl through the hundreds of pages to familiarise themselves with all the facts and fascinating aspects of the case.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said Dupree and poured Jack another Scotch. It was two in the morning and they had worked for more than ten hours straight, sustained by snacks and cheese platters delivered by the countess.

  Jack rubbed his aching neck and reached for his glass. ‘This case is unbelievable,’ he said and held up a bundle of papers. ‘More questions than answers, that’s for sure.’ It was a report by Professor Francesca Bartolli, an eminent forensic psychologist and well-known freelance criminal profiler who had worked on many infamous cases throughout Europe over the years, and had a reputation for being one of the best in her field.

  ‘Ah, I thought you would home in on that,’ said Dupree. ‘That report has troubled me too over the years.’

  ‘You must admit, looking at all the evidence in this case objectively – now from a distance – it does raise some serious issues and doubts, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does,’ conceded Dupree. ‘But the pressure to convict was incredible at the time and, as is unfortunately so often the case, this can override objectivity and sound judgement.’

  ‘Then let me ask you this: is it conceivable that the wrong man was convicted here?’

  Dupree took his time before answering. ‘While the evidence was rather overwhelming, it was perhaps a little too pat; too perfect and too convenient, if you know what I mean. Rarely seen in cases of this kind, which are usually quite messy and confusing, with numerous blind alleys and false leads and only the occasional evidence gem. However, everything here pointed clearly to Landru and this was, of course, seized upon by the police and the prosecutor at the time, desperate for results. After all, the accused was caught in the act, red-handed. Case closed.’

  ‘I take this as a yes, then?’

  Dupree shrugged.

  ‘Especially in light of Professor Bartolli’s report. She raised some serious concerns here that appear to have been completely ignored,’ said Jack and pointed to the report on the table.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Is she still around? Active?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Rome.’

  ‘I would like to meet her if possible. Before I speak to Landru.’

  Dupree smiled. ‘I was expecting something like that. But I have to warn you, she’s quite formidable, as I remember.’

  ‘Are you trying to scare me?’

  ‘Not at all. Just a little warning.’

  ‘You think she might try to profile me?’

  ‘Now, there’s a thought,’ said Dupree, smiling. ‘Unfortunately, she only does criminals, not incorrigible rascals. I’ll talk to Lapointe and arrange it.’

  ‘Good. I think this could be really important.’

  ‘According to the prosecutor in charge of the case, the report was an inconvenient distraction, that’s all,’ said Dupree. ‘He ignored it. But then, there was something else. Something totally unexpected …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t find it in these files because it happened a year or so after Landru’s conviction. In fact, it happened only a few years ago, in 2014 when La Santé prison was closed for renovations and all the inmates were moved to other prisons.’

  ‘I thought Landru was in the Fleury-Mérogis Prison?’

  ‘He is now, but he was in La Santé after his conviction until the prison closed.’

  ‘That infamous prison where Carlos the Jackal served time, and Michel Vaujour escaped by helicopter?’

  ‘That’s the one. Landru was held in the special VIP area for “personalities”.’

  ‘You don’t say. A VIP area glamourising notorious inmates?’

  ‘The media couldn’t get enough of it. Visitors and cameras were actually allowed into the prison for a while after it was closed, and a curious public was given access to the inside of the , empty and quite dilapidated prison that had seen so much: the dregs of society, the worst offenders, and many executions.’ Dupree took a sip of Scotch.

  ‘During the war,’ he continued, ‘nine political prisoners were executed by guillotine, and nine by firing squad in one single day: thirty April 1944. The last execution at the prison was a double beheading by guillotine in 1972. Quite gruesome.’

  ‘Charming place.’

  ‘It all happened just after the prison was closed.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of the obvious attractions was Landru’s cell. A visitor left something behind for Landru. Anonymously, of course.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An envelope addressed to Landru was left on his bunk. A reporter visiting the prison found it and took it back to his paper.’

  ‘What was in it?’

  ‘Something curious and quite sensational.’

  ‘Are you dragging this out intentionally because you want to kill me with suspense?’

  Dupree laughed. ‘Nothing like that. I can’t afford to lose you now, before we go and meet Landru. Lapointe and the Prefect would never forgive me. So you see, you are quite safe for the time being—’

  ‘Then get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘A handwritten note addressed to Landru, and a four-hundred-character cipher.’

  ‘A cipher you say? How odd. Do we know what that was about?’

  ‘Instead of handing the letter to prison authorities, as should have been done, the paper published the note and the cipher, which as you can imagine caused quite a stir and became a sensation. In fact, the paper referred to it as the Death Mask Cipher, and offered a huge reward to anyone who could crack the code. As you can imagine, the authorities weren’t thrilled about this. It reopened a dreadful case and led to all kinds of questions and speculation. It put the spotlight once again on the two unsolved Death Mask Murder cases. Very embarrassing for the police.’

  ‘Extraordinary. You said there was a note addressed to Landru as well; do you know what it said?’

  ‘There was. All it said was something like this: “All the answers you are looking for are right here”.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘It was more than that. Landru’s lawyers demanded the case be reopened in light of this new information. Needless to say, the authorities would have none of this and dismissed the entire matter as a hoax, but it wouldn’t go away. The paper fuelled the fire with the reward, and several prominent mathematicians and cryptologists joined forces to crack the code. The paper reported regularly on their progress and so kept the story alive for a long time and in the public domain.’

  ‘And? Was it ever cracked?’

  ‘No. Not even a supercomputer in the US, nor ingenious programs designed by professional cryptologists working for the FBI could come up with answers. Eventually
, the public lost interest and the story died down.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Jack, suspecting there was more.

  ‘Yes, until now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s about that new information Landru has raised in his letter.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘Well, it’s to do with this cipher, you see,’ said Dupree, looking quite sheepish.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  ‘I wanted to keep something up my sleeve in case you didn’t want to become involved …’

  ‘I see. Isn’t that a little devious? A few more juicy titbits to jolly me along if needed, and tempt the curious writer in me; is that it?’

  ‘Another Scotch?’ said Dupree, reaching for the bottle in the hope of deflecting the warranted rebuke.

  ‘Did Landru say anything more specific about the cipher?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dupree quietly as he refilled Jack’s glass.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He claims to have cracked it and said that you helped him do it ... Cheers!’

  4

  Rome: 28 September

  Jack crossed the Piazza della Minerva in front of his hotel next to the Pantheon, stopped briefly at Bernini’s Elephant and Obelisk – one of his favourite statues in Rome – and then turned into a small side street leading to Armando al Pantheon, a Roman institution popular with locals, serving traditional Roman and Lazio fare. The reason Jack had chosen this small, intimate family restaurant for his meeting with Professor Bartolli was a comment made by Lapointe after he had arranged the meeting: ‘Remember, like all good Italians, Professor Bartolli loves to eat. Make sure you take her to a nice restaurant. I told her all about you.’

  As soon as Jack stepped into the crowded, wood-panelled room and was shown to his table, he felt instantly at ease. Run by the Gargioli family since the sixties, the restaurant radiated wellbeing and Roman charm, and the mouth-watering cooking aroma drifting out of the kitchen promised outstanding food for which the establishment was well known. Jack could understand why reservations had to be made weeks in advance to get a table.

  Jack ordered some olives and a bottle of 2007 Illuminati Ilico Riserva Montepulicano d’Abruzzo, which he hoped his guest would enjoy, and then sat back soaking up the bustling, rustic atmosphere. He had almost finished his second glass of wine when Professor Bartolli walked in and looked around. Jack recognised her at once from the photos on her website and held up his hand to attract her attention.

  Carrying a battered violin case under her arm and looking somewhat flustered in her tight-fitting leather jacket – her long, curly dark-blonde hair a little dishevelled – Bartolli didn’t quite fit the image Jack had formed in his mind of the sophisticated criminal psychologist with a fearsome reputation, whose court appearances were legendary and performances under cross-examination formidable, instilling fear in those brave enough to question her opinions and findings.

  ‘I am so sorry for being late,’ said Bartolli, shaking Jack’s hand, ‘but despite my best efforts to leave the rehearsal before we finished, I was unable to do so. I play in a small chamber orchestra.’ Bartolli bent down and pushed the violin case under the table, as there was nowhere else to put it. ‘But the conductor would have none of it. “How would Vivaldi feel,” he said, “if suddenly a number of key phrases in the concerto went missing?” I had nowhere to go after that. That’s why I’m late, sorry. The last Friday of the month is practice night, only to be missed at the risk of being pilloried or, God forbid, expelled,’ Bartolli prattled on. ‘But Lapointe insisted we had to meet tonight. He said it was urgent. So, here I am.’

  ‘You are a musician as well?’ said Jack, trying hard to look serious as he watched the fascinating woman take off her jacket and scarf, tie back her hair and sit down. Tall and slim, in her early forties, with a prominent Roman nose and wide-set green eyes that didn’t seem to stop smiling, she had an aristocratic look that reminded Jack of a painting of Lucrezia Borgia by Bartolomeo Veneto. He reached for the bottle and poured some wine into her glass. ‘Looks like you could do with some wine.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ asked Bartolli.

  ‘It is,’ replied Jack, ‘but no-one’s looking.’ They both burst out laughing. ‘Salute!’

  ‘Nice wine,’ said Bartolli, pointing to the bottle. ‘A 2007 Illuminati Ilico; good choice.’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘What’s not to like? Did you choose it because of the name?’

  ‘Illuminati, you mean? The Bavarian secret society founded in 1776 to oppose superstition, curb religious influence over public life and abuses of power? No, I chose it because I was hoping you would like it. It’s one of my Italian favourites.’

  Bartolli looked at Jack, impressed. There was more to this guy than his good looks, reputation, and all the wild stuff about him on the internet suggest, she thought, and gave Jack her best smile. Instead of an evening she had viewed as a nuisance, she was beginning to relax. ‘You did well; I love it. Shall we order? I’m starving.’

  ‘Good idea. Discussing serial killers and controversial convictions on an empty stomach is never a good idea, especially after a demanding concert rehearsal,’ teased Jack.

  ‘You are absolutely right.’ Bartolli opened a small leather handbag that had seen better days, took out a pair of glasses and put them on. Then she picked up the menu and began to study it with avid concentration, the old-fashioned, steel-rimmed glasses giving her an endearingly studious look that was somehow at odds with her casual, almost bohemian manner and appearance.

  ‘I can strongly recommend some tomatoes with burrata to start, with some crusty bread, of course, followed by cacio e pepe. Then vitella arrosto con patate, perhaps? Do you like veal?’ she asked.

  ‘I understand it’s a speciality of the house.’

  ‘It is. You had a peek at the menu, no?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Why don’t you order for both of us? I’ve done the wine; it’s your turn,’ he said and closed his menu.

  ‘Trusting someone you’ve just met with such an important decision? Is that wise?’ said Bartolli, raising an eyebrow and clearly enjoying herself.

  ‘I’m used to living dangerously.’

  ‘I’ve heard. The internet is full of interesting stories about you.’

  Jack waved dismissively. ‘Exaggerations. You can’t believe all that stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know. I heard some of the stories from Lapointe and Dupree, and I’ve found them both to be very reliable in the past. And I read your book Professor K: The Final Quest last night. Dupree suggested I should do that before I met you.’

  ‘Ah. My Italian adventure two years ago,’ said Jack. It was his turn to look impressed. ‘You found time to read it?’

  Bartolli rolled her eyes. ‘It wasn’t easy, I tell you. I live in controlled chaos with two teenage daughters, my mother – who rules us all with an iron fist – and a dog, Paulo. He’s the only male in the household, and he knows it. I live in Trastevere, in an apartment above a busy market square. Paulo spends most of his day visiting the old codgers in the cafes, and the stallholders, who give him tasty morsels. He comes home at six and goes to sleep, just like my father used to do, after he was shot and had to retire from the Carabinieri.’

  ‘He was a policeman?’

  ‘Yes, a very good one. And before you ask, yes, he had a great influence on me and was one of the main reasons I studied criminal psychology.’

  Jack nodded but didn’t comment.

  ‘My daughters are out most nights,’ continued Bartolli. ‘Driving the local boys crazy. You see, reading a big book like yours isn’t easy in this environment, but I must say I did enjoy it, especially the parts about cooking and the pope. I read a lot about that in the papers at the time.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I remember we all watched Lorenza da Baggio win that nail-biting Top Chef Europe final in Florence. It was amazing.’

  ‘S
he’s an extraordinary young woman. Married now, to Tristan Te Papatahi.’

  ‘The other hero in the book. The one with the psychic powers?’

  ‘Yes. Tristan can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity.’

  ‘What a wonderful thought. Do you believe in psychic powers?’ asked Bartolli, watching Jack carefully.

  ‘I don’t like generalisations, but I do believe in what I see, and what I experience firsthand. I have known Tristan for more than eight years now. He was fourteen when we first met, confined to a wheelchair. Incapacitated, a vegetable. He spent several years in a coma after an accident, before he suddenly came out of it. His mother was a Māori elder. She too was a psychic, but his powers are stronger.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘Since then, I’ve seen him do some extraordinary things I cannot explain rationally.’

  ‘You are close?’

  ‘Yes, we are, but since his wedding a year ago, right here in Rome, actually, we don’t see that much of each other anymore. Married life has taken over. He lives in Venice now, in the Palazzo da Baggio, which they run as a boutique hotel. Very popular—’

  ‘Lorenza has a Michelin star restaurant there,’ interjected Bartolli, becoming excited, ‘Osman’s Kitchen. I would kill for a meal there.’

  Jack smiled. ‘That could be arranged, you know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘They were married here in Rome, you say?’ said Bartolli, changing direction.

  ‘Yes, in the Sistine Chapel, by the pope himself,’ said Jack casually, and refilled their glasses.

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘But I am. The wedding had to be held early in the morning before the Sistine Chapel was opened for tourists. A small affair. Family only. They tied the knot right under Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, with the pope’s blessing. It was a thank-you gesture by a grateful pontiff for what Lorenza had done for him. In a way, she saved his life.’

  ‘You are serious! Of course, the cooking in the Vatican, the Ottoman meal with its extraordinary medicinal properties. We read all about it. Incredible!’