by James R Benn
“Where did you hear that?” Soletto growled, waving off Zlatko.
“Is it the truth?”
“There was a struggle. Monsignor Corrigan, he bled everywhere. Molto sangue.” He shrugged at the sadness of it all.
“I saw a distinct trail of blood in the photographs. The ones your gendarmes took.”
“All you had to do was ask,” Soletto said, stretching out his arms. “We would have provided them to you. You cannot rely on someone who takes bribes.”
“I agree. Your English is very good, Commissario.”
“There are so many Englishmen here these days, one has the opportunity to practice,” Soletto said. “I would prefer to keep to Italian, but the Inglesi do not bother to learn it. You said that was your last question, yes?”
“You didn’t really answer it. Are you certain Monsignor Corrigan did not move from where he was left?”
“He could not have. His injuries were too severe.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said, rising from my chair. There was something Soletto was hiding, something that made him nervous. There was no reason he should be, nothing that I could pin on him. Rossi was dead or in the Regina Coeli. Case closed.
Or was it? I felt for the diamond that was in my pocket. It was a long shot, but if Soletto was in cahoots with the killer, then a wedge between them might do the trick.
“By the way, have you found any more diamonds?”
“Diamanti?”
“Yeah, like this one.” I held the sparkling gem up between my thumb and forefinger, letting it catch the light.
“More diamonds, you said?” Zlatko asked. “Where were the others?”
Soletto looked confused, his thick eyebrows knitted together.
“The killer—the real killer—hid them in the one place he knew was safe. Corrigan’s room. He must have gotten in after you had it searched, Commissario. Or did you miss that loose floorboard? A small fortune, maybe more, I’m not a jeweler.”
“Those diamonds are evidence!” Soletto bellowed, banging his fist on the table.
“But the case is closed, Commissario. You said so yourself. I will turn them over to the Pontifical Commission, as soon as my investigation is complete. Buongiorno.”
I walked out as calmly as I could. There was dead silence until I cleared the door, then more shouting and fist-banging, which told me our little chat had been worthwhile. I’d expected the cold shoulder, for a lot of reasons. A cop protecting his turf and pro-fascist tendencies were at the top of the list.
One thing I could always count on was greed. If there were more diamonds—and outside of a rich dame’s ring, they seldom traveled alone—then I’d bet that’s what the killer used to pay off Soletto. The phony line about more diamonds unaccounted for might lead Soletto to think the murderer was holding out on him. Or plant the idea he could squeeze him for more. Either way, my hope was that Soletto was now a loose cannon, rolling toward a killer who thought he was home free.
I made it outside without being arrested or shot, which was a relief. Now I had to find Kaz and see if he remembered to check on the keys, or if he’d spent the whole afternoon sightseeing with the princess. Then get a haircut, which might lead to information about Diana, although the connection was definitely lost on me.
I walked back to the scene of the crime to look at it again. I imagined it in the hours before dawn. Severino Rossi asleep, hidden behind one of the colonnades. Corrigan standing by the door, his killer close. They had to know each other, or at least the killer hadn’t seemed a threat. It would have been easy enough to yell out, to attract the attention of one of the Swiss Guard, if not a nearby German. Interesting, I thought. This area was close enough to the border line that one of the Krauts on patrol could have seen or heard something. Too much of a long shot, I decided, so I’d go back over the little I knew for sure.
Corrigan is stabbed, several times, until the knife finds its fatal mark. He collapses, and falls just inside the Gendarmerie jurisdictional line. Or drags himself there. I thought about the blood. There’d been a lot of it, from multiple stab wounds. I could see the killer removing his coat and laying it on the sleeping Rossi, then stealing off into the night, leaving behind a dead monsignor and a sleeping fugitive Jew, covered in a blood-soaked coat.
A scapegoat if there ever was one.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I FINALLY TRACKED Kaz down. Not by finding him, but by asking where Princess Nini Pallavicini hung her hat, beret, or tiara. Being the keen investigator that I am, I cornered Kaz in no time. He and the princess were having tea. My first success at detection in the Vatican.
The princess was housed in the Hospice Santa Marta, not far from the German College. Nuns in steel-blue habits with giant white coifs that looked like sails gathering wind worked in the ground-floor refectory, preparing food for the refugees and families of diplomats who were housed there. Kaz and his princess were in a nearby sitting room, sipping tea from delicate china, while Mary, holding the baby Jesus, looked down on them from an ancient painting.
“Father Boyle, please join us,” she said.
“Thank you, Princess, but tea isn’t my drink. I need to talk with Kaz, if you don’t mind.”
“Please, call me Nini. ‘Princess’ is so tiresome, and Piotr has told me some remarkable stories about you. I feel we are already friends.”
“Okay, if you’ll call me Billy,” I said as I took a seat. “But don’t believe everything he says.”
“Then you are not General Eisenhower’s nephew, and not the great American detective, second only to Dick Tracy?” Nini let a playful smile dance across her lips while Kaz blushed.
“Dick Tracy’s only in the funny papers,” I said. “And the general and I are distant cousins of some sort, but since he’s older, I call him uncle, although not in public. It’s not the kind of thing I spread around when I’m in a German-occupied city.” I gave Kaz a hard glare, but I wasn’t too worried about Nini blabbering to anyone. She looked like a dame who could take care of herself.
“I am sorry, Billy,” Kaz said. “It came out in conversation.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Did you manage to squeeze in any time to look into the matter we discussed, what with sightseeing and teatime?”
“Well, Nini did take a few minutes to show me the excavations in the necropolis under the basilica. Did you know they found what may be the bones of Saint Peter himself?”
“That’s great, Kaz, but what about the keys?” Kaz was about the smartest guy I knew. That meant he knew a lot about everything, so sometimes it made it hard for him to focus on just one thing. Especially when a beautiful princess was leading the way.
“Yes, yes, the keys. We found the porter’s office in the Medieval Palace. He keeps copies of all the keys hung on the wall behind his desk. He also delivers mail within the building, takes messages, and runs other errands.”
“Not to mention he was sound asleep,” Nini said. “We could have robbed the poor man blind.”
“So anyone could have taken the keys to Corrigan’s room, and replaced them?”
“It would be easy,” Kaz said. “Within the Vatican, there has been little personal property or theft to worry about.”
“Nini,” I said, figuring Kaz had filled her in on everything by now, “have you heard anything about diamonds?”
“Other than wonder which Nazi swine stole mine? No. I am sure some of the refugees here have valuable jewels, simply because they are easy to carry and hide.”
“Can you think of any reason why Monsignor Corrigan would have one in his room?”
“One makes little sense. If a refugee had diamonds, he might give them to a trusted person to sell for food or identity papers. But one? Let me see it.” I gave her the diamond, and she held it up to the light. “Very nice. I can see no flaws. One diamond like this would fetch a good price. A handful of these, a fortune.”
“Severino Rossi was a jeweler by trade,” Kaz said, apparently having
forgotten to share that tidbit.
“Well, he certainly knew his diamonds. It is quite beautiful.”
“Had you met him?” I asked. “Helping Monsignor O’Flaherty, perhaps?”
“No, no one by that name. I do not know what he looked like, so I cannot say for certain.”
“Where have you been, Billy?” Kaz asked, as Nini studied the glittering diamond.
“Turns out Brackett was actually useful. He got me in to see Soletto. I had to go with an escort from the Pontifical Commission, Bishop Zlatko. A real piece of work.”
“Zlatko is pro-Nazi,” Nini said. “He is practically an agent of the Croatian puppet state.”
“He’s also not too fond of Serbs, Jews, Protestants, and the Eastern Orthodox Church. And probably a few others we didn’t get around to talking about.”
“You must be careful, both of you,” Nini said. “There are factions within the commission, and it is obvious that the pro-German side won out. Zlatko will report anything you learned.”
“Well, that won’t take long. Soletto clammed up, insisting he’d caught the right man. But why did the commission need to send Zlatko along? Soletto is pro-fascist, isn’t he? An informer to the secret police?”
“Things are more subtle here, I am afraid,” Nini said with a sigh. “Yes, Soletto has connections with the OVRA, the Fascist security force. But they are finished here, since Mussolini fell from power. The factions within the commission operate on another level. They act to steer the Pope one way or the other. To show favor to the Nazis, or the Allies, or to remain steadfastly neutral. All this is beyond a simple informer like Soletto.”
“I’m beginning to think we’re going to cause more trouble than this investigation is worth,” I said. “So far, all I’m certain of is that Rossi didn’t do it, unless he’s the dumbest killer on record.” I told them about my parting shot to Soletto, hoping he’d think his partner in crime was holding out on him.
“If there is a partner in crime,” Kaz said. “Commissario Soletto may simply be doing his duty as best he can. Perhaps we are going about this backward, assuming he is in on it.”
Backward. Kaz was right. I had something backward. “Kaz, you hit it out of the park with that one.” They both looked at me with quizzical expressions. “Baseball. A home run. Anyway, we were puzzled as to why Corrigan dragged himself up the steps to the basilica.”
“The blood trail I told you about,” Kaz said to Nini, who nodded quickly.
“But we were looking at it backward. He didn’t crawl. The killer dragged him up the steps. The struggle took place below Death’s Door, but in order for it to come under Soletto’s jurisdiction, the killer had to place the body on the steps of the basilica, since Saint Peter’s Square itself comes under Italian authority. There was no reason to do that unless he could count on the chief gendarme to close the matter quickly. If the Gestapo or the Fascist police got involved, the whole thing could have spun out of control. This way, the killer was apprehended, declared guilty, and handed over to the Germans. Case closed.”
“Piotr, a home run, how wonderful!” Nini said, patting Kaz’s hand with hers. He blushed again.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Kaz said, waving away the compliment while thoroughly enjoying it. “Your remark about there being more diamonds may work if Soletto is overly greedy, or quick to anger at having been given a paltry payoff.”
“He is both,” Nini said. “And I would not count on much from Mr. Brackett. That man is depressed much of the time. We don’t see him for weeks, then suddenly he appears, full of ideas and schemes. None of them amount to much. Be careful of both men, they can lead only to trouble.”
“We are forewarned,” Kaz said gallantly. “Billy, Nini has a problem to discuss with us. She needs our help.”
“It must be serious,” I said, keeping to myself the thought that if Kaz could have handled it, he would have fallen over himself to impress his princess.
“You know we have hundreds of Jews, POWs, antifascists, and even some German deserters hidden within the Vatican,” Nini began. “Monsignor O’Flaherty also has placed hundreds of others, mostly escaped British POWs, in hiding places throughout Rome.”
“Yes. A huge undertaking,” I said.
“Especially feeding all of them. We give money to families in Rome to buy what extra food they can, but here within the Vatican walls, everything has to be carefully hoarded and distributed fairly. The bombings have disrupted food deliveries, and there is little to be had in the markets when we can get to them.”
“Billy,” Kaz said, “someone is stealing food, here in this building. From a locked room.”
“Who keeps the keys here?” Given what Kaz had found in the palace, any number of people could have helped themselves.
“Sister Louise and I have the only keys to the storeroom. In better times, this building is a dormitory for religious visitors. Since so many people pass through, they keep things well guarded.”
“How many people know about the storeroom?” I asked.
“It is not a secret, but we don’t announce it either. All the sisters and those who help gather the food know of it. It is in the basement, and most residents have no reason to go down there.”
“How much is missing?”
“I noticed it three weeks ago,” the princess said. “At first only a few things, and I thought perhaps I miscounted. But every few days, more things went missing. A tin of jam or a bit of cheese. I was worried that one of our helpers was taking them, but I couldn’t believe it. We all work so hard to bring the food in, and there is never enough.” Her hand went up to her mouth, and for a brief moment the stress of danger and responsibility was etched on her face.
“Nini does not think it is one of her people,” Kaz said. “The thefts last week were worse, more food taken, the best delicacies. Meat, cheese, tins of fish.”
“The meat and fish are carefully doled out, so everyone gets proper nutrition,” Nini said. “It could become serious.”
“And you find the room locked every time?”
“Yes, there is no trace of forced entry.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Show us.”
Nini led us downstairs, into a small basement room filled with discarded furniture covered in dust and cobwebs. A workbench ran along one wall, with old tools and wood shavings scattered over it. One bare bulb lit the scene, dimly illuminating a single stout wooden door. Nini reached for her key, but I raised my hand.
“Wait,” I said. “Do you have a flashlight, or a match?”
“What?” she said.
“A torch,” Kaz supplied. “Torcia.”
“No, but I do have a lighter.” She flicked it on as I knelt to study the lock. It was an old one, probably from the past century.
“It’s a lever tumbler lock,” I said, squinting to make out the marks around it in the faint glow. The light went out as it got too hot for Nini to hold, and Kaz took it from her.
“Look,” I said, pointing to the scrapes around the lock. “It’s been picked.”
“Those little scratches?” Kaz said. “They could be from missing the keyhole in the dark. That door has probably been there for hundreds of years.”
“Yeah, but this lock wasn’t invented until the end of the eighteenth century. In any case, when you miss with a key, it does leave a mark, but a small ding, not a long scratch like these.”
“What are they from?” Nini asked, leaning in as Kaz had to let the lighter go out.
“Lock-picking tools.”
“Who would have tools like that in the Vatican?” Kaz said.
“Anyone who knows how to use them would know how to make them,” I said, walking over to the workbench. I rummaged around until I came up with a length of thick, heavy wire. An awl. A hacksaw, and pieces of scrap metal. “Everything a knowledgeable lock picker would need. Or locksmith, the only difference being in how the knowledge is used.”
“The thief made his own tools, here?” Kaz asked.
“So he simply pops down here whenever he’s hungry,” Kaz said. “Selfish of him.”
“So likely not a locksmith,” I said. “Most likely a B&E guy who never got caught.”
“Breaking and entering,” Kaz said, for Nini’s benefit.
“Luckily he hasn’t taken much, but what he has was the best of it,” she said.
“You said the amounts increased recently,” I said. “Would that have included a whole salami?”
“Yes,” Nini said. “Even Dick Tracy couldn’t have figured that out. How did you know?”
“A guess,” I said.
“A deduction,” Kaz corrected.
Back upstairs, we sat around as the sisters cleared the tea tray. I was getting hungry, and didn’t argue when they returned with bread, a bit of cheese, olives, and wine. Deducing is hard work.
“What next?” Kaz asked.
“We wait. And watch.”
“Who?”
“The gardener’s house,” I said in a low voice, putting a finger to my lips.
“That young girl?” Kaz said in disbelief.
“That young girl, who this morning held a bag of salami and other goodies. I didn’t think anything of it until Nini mentioned how rationed the meat was.”
“Rosana? She has two young children. How could she …?” Nini stopped herself, then said, “Aha.”
“Yeah. We may have a love-struck thief. Or one who is trying to impress her.”
“There are enough women here among the diplomat families who would give everything for that food. Some enthusiastically. But Rosana has been through a great deal. I don’t see her in that light.”
“How long has she been here?” I asked.
“Almost two weeks. She came in with the Sunday crowds, and asked a passing priest for help. Luckily he was a friend of Monsignor Corrigan. We were so full up, we had to put her and the children in the gardener’s cottage. She has been cooking and cleaning for him, and I think he likes the company.”