by James R Benn
“Do you think the thief is here?” Kaz asked.
“If he’s housed here, yes. He couldn’t afford to stay away from a meal; it would arouse suspicion.”
“Perhaps it’s one of those poor fellows captured at Tobruk two years ago,” he said. “I could understand that. They look half starved.”
“Maybe. But they probably made it through by sticking together, not going each man for himself. Remember, the thefts were small stuff, not enough for a whole squad.”
“So we need to look for a loner,” Kaz said. “Maybe someone who was recently captured.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he would have had less time to adapt to privation. Or perhaps he was never captured, but made his way here after he was shot down. He’d owe less to others if he hadn’t shared in their suffering.”
“Good thinking, Kaz! You’re getting to be one helluva detective.” He blushed again, and I caught his eye as Nini passed with a tray of dishes. Her smile was dazzling, and it was all for Kaz. “You are one lucky guy, you know that?”
His face went blank, and I knew it hadn’t been the right thing to say. A guy with good luck didn’t lose his entire family to the Nazis, and then watch the woman he loved die in an automobile explosion.
“I’m sorry, Kaz, I didn’t mean…”
“No, Billy, it is all right. I know what you meant, and I feel it too. But I feel pulled in two directions. The past contains deep sorrows, and the present offers a chance at joy. I have to convince myself that I am not betraying one for the other.”
“Kaz,” I said, leaning in and placing my hand on his shoulder. “There is not a single person in your past who would not want you to have joy in your life. You owe it to them to live, not simply exist.”
“I know,” Kaz said in a small, hesitant voice. “But it is so much easier to not feel anything. To not care about living removed all burdens. Now, my heart breaks every time I see her.”
“Because she reminds you of loving Daphne.”
“Yes.”
“Whom you will never forget, until your dying day, no matter what.”
Kaz didn’t reply. He looked at me from behind steel-rimmed spectacles, his eyes moist. A lift of the eyebrow, a nod, and that was enough. I let my hand slide from his shoulder, and we both fidgeted in our seats, trying to figure out what to say next.
“So, Dick Tracy,” Kaz said. “Tell me what to look for.”
“Okay,” I said, glad of the change in topic. “Look at their hands. Pros will take care of their hands, more than any regular guy. Lock picking takes concentration, patience, and good hand-eye coordination, so watch for somebody comfortable with himself, like a guy who could sit and wait without fidgeting. And if he’s a professional criminal, he’ll sniff out a cop in no time, so be subtle.”
“I am merely a simple priest, Father Boyle. Bless you for your concern.”
I slugged him in the arm and left.
At the German College, I knocked on Monsignor O’Flaherty’s door. It was opened by a short, wiry man with thick black hair and a finely trimmed mustache. One hand rested on the doorknob and the other held an open straight razor.
“Come, come,” he said, waving the razor at me. “I shave the monsignor, come, come.”
“Father Boyle,” O’Flaherty’s voice boomed out. “Meet Rino Messina, the best barber in all of Rome.” He was seated in a straight-back chair in the middle of the room, with a towel draped over his shoulders and a half-shaved face.
“Father Billy Boyle,” I said, following O’Flaherty’s lead to maintain my priestly identity. It was probably a good idea not to share too many secrets with a guy who visited the Regina Coeli as often as he did. “Pleased to meet you, Rino.”
“Please, Father, sit and I cut you next.” I took that to be a limitation of his English, not a threat. I sat in an easy chair facing O’Flaherty, who gave me a quick nod of approval.
“Rino is one of our close friends,” the monsignor said. “He gives haircuts to the wandering souls who show up on our doorstep and makes them presentable. He also smuggles clothes in for the men, right, Rino?”
“Yes, some days I wear three suits in and one out!” Rino had a good laugh over this.
“The POWs I just left were still wearing their uniforms,” I said.
“That’s a fraction of the boys we’ve got hidden,” O’Flaherty said. “Most are kept in apartments throughout Rome. Rino helps outfit them so they can blend in once they leave here.”
“I bring soldati anywhere in Rome, safe,” Rino said as he finished with the monsignor. “Good shave, yes?”
“Excellent. Father Boyle, a bit of a trim?”
“Sure,” I said, getting into the chair and letting Rino adjust the towel around my neck. He worked the scissors the way barbers do before they start in, and then began snipping.
“The monsignor say you ask about Sister Justina, yes?” Rino said as he bent my head forward.
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“Oh, yes. Good nun, she help many people. I go with her, many times, to bring food and lira all over the city.”
“To the families who house the escapees,” O’Flaherty added.
“Yes. Not much food in Rome, very hard.”
“Were you with her when she was arrested?” I asked.
“No. I would not be here if I was. She was taken at checkpoint on Via del Corso. Bad luck, many people arrested.”
“For what?”
“All manner of violations,” O’Flaherty said, staring out the window like a hunted gangster. “Forged papers, no papers, deserting work details, and so on. The Germans will seal off a block and check everyone’s papers at least once a day. They always bag a few that way.”
“What was Sister Justina charged with?” I had to stop myself from saying her real name.
“That’s what Rino found out on his last visit to the prison,” O’Flaherty said, nodding to the barber.
“Black market,” Rino said. “She purchase food and have many lira as well. It is not good, but the Gestapo does not know about the POWs.”
“That’s great, right? Half of Rome must be dealing in the black market these days.” An arrest for dealing in the black market was preferable to a charge of spying.
“True, true,” O’Flaherty said. “The punishment for dealing in the black market can be severe, but so many do it that the decrees are seldom enforced. And the fact that they haven’t made any connection between Sister Justina and our activities is very promising.”
“So how do we get her out?” I asked as Rino finished with the scissors and brushed the back of my neck.
“There is some good news,” Rino said, with a shrug and a glance at O’Flaherty that told me the bad news was going to far outweigh the good.
“Give it to me straight,” I said.
“Well, me boy,” O’Flaherty said, “the good news is that Rino has found someone to bribe. A guard who is thankfully both religious and greedy. He doesn’t like seeing nuns arrested, but he wants a stack of lira for his troubles. His regular shift takes him to the gate where food and other deliveries are made. Where Rino goes in and out.”
“What about priests? Are they allowed to visit the prisoners?”
“Yes, usually to give the last rites. But it is not uncommon. And to answer your next question, yes, they use the same entrance.”
“If two of us go in, he’ll let three out, for the right price?” This was sounding like it could actually happen.
“Yes, yes, money is not the problem,” O’Flaherty said, somewhat hurriedly.
“What is the problem? What’s the bad news?”
“Two things,” he said. “First, the jailer in charge of the cells where Sister Justina is kept with other nuns is not bribable.”
“He is a fascist pig,” Rino said, with feeling.
“Can you get us to her cell?” I asked him.
“Yes. I have cut hair of women. Not nuns, but other women. I go there, and m
ake believe I am good friends with the guard. He is a fool as well as fascist.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s the other problem?”
“Pietro Koch,” O’Flaherty said. At the mention of the name, Rino crossed himself. Not a good sign.
“Who the hell is he?”
“The devil himself,” O’Flaherty said. “Italian-Austrian by birth, sadist by temperament, and more fascist than Mussolini, who is said to fear him. He heads up the Fascist political police, and operates with a gang of like-minded Italians and the worst of the Gestapo. He’s taken over a small hotel near the Villa Borghese and uses it as a private torture chamber. They call themselves the Koch Gang.”
“Banda Koch,” Rino said, looking like he wanted to spit.
“Tell me what this has to do with Diana-I mean Sister Justina.” I could barely get the words out.
“Koch has requested the transfer of all nuns in the Regina Coeli to his facility at the Pensione Jaccarino.”
“Why?”
“Because it amuses him to torture nuns. The man is insane, but connected. He has full powers of arrest, so no one dares speak out. He’s also under the protection of the Gestapo chief in Rome, so even the German Army couldn’t move against him.”
“He doesn’t have them yet,” I said, praying I’d understood correctly.
“No. The Germans love paperwork, bless their Teutonic hearts. It will take some time. We may have two or three days.”
“Rino, when are you scheduled to go back to the prison?”
“In two days. The visits are set by the Gestapo; I cannot go sooner.”
“In two days then, I go with you.” He nodded his agreement, and began to gather up his things. “Meet me at the monsignor’s place on the steps, where he waits for refugees. We will walk to the Regina Coeli. And pray God we return.”
“But how in the name of God will you get her out of that cell?” O’Flaherty asked after Rino had gone.
“Monsignor, have faith. I am sure the Lord will provide an answer.” Was I? Was I right to put others at risk on the possibility I’d actually get Diana out?
Yes, I decided. I’d gotten this far, and that had to mean something. Maybe it was all due to chance, or perhaps it was the Lord’s work. Either way, I had to make the most of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kaz and I were hunkered down in the shadows of a grove of conifers, between the Governatorato and the gardener’s place. It gave us a clear view of the route between the cottage and Santa Marta. It would have been easier-not to mention warmer-to grab the thief indoors, but there was no place to hide where he wouldn’t spot us. We’d donned heavy coats, scarves, and gloves, but there was a cold, damp wind blowing and I would have been tempted to call it a night, except that I wanted this guy for my own reasons.
I’d filled Kaz in on my conversation with O’Flaherty and Rino Messina. He didn’t like much of what I had to say, especially the part where I told him I didn’t want him tagging along on my little jaunt through the Regina Coeli. He told me he hadn’t spotted anyone suspicious, but John May had come up with a carton of canned salmon, which he delivered to Nini in the refectory with enough secrecy to insure that only a practiced eye would catch what was going on. His timing had been perfect: right after dinner, when it was too late to serve the salmon, but when most people were still sitting at the tables. Smart guy.
It was nearing midnight, and I figured we didn’t have long to wait. Electricity was rationed, and the power had been off for hours. Vatican City didn’t boast much of a nightlife.
“We’re doing great on the case of the purloined rations,” I whispered to Kaz. “And I caught a break on getting to Diana. I wonder if we’re going to get anywhere with Corrigan’s murder.”
“For all we know, the murderer could have left the Vatican,” Kaz said.
“If that’s true, we’re dead in the water,” I said.
“Look, there!” Kaz whispered as he tugged on my sleeve and pointed to a figure moving from the direction of the Governatorato, but too distant to be heading to the gardener’s place. “Perhaps he will loop around, to see if anyone is watching.”
“Maybe,” I said, but it didn’t add up. The Vatican Gardens at night wasn’t exactly a high-crime area. In the light of the half-moon, I could make out the dark form, but there was no way to tell who he was or how he was dressed. He cut through a line of shrubs and disappeared. The only thing in that direction was the Vatican radio tower.
“Probably late for work at the station,” Kaz said. “I hope he did not scare off our man.” Frost plumed from his mouth as he spoke and the cold settled into our bones as we waited, watching the house and the approaches around it. Then we saw him. He kept to the shadows without drawing attention to himself. He didn’t dart about but walked confidently, carrying a sack slung over his shoulder, with the jaunty air of someone out for a midnight stroll. A guy used to nighttime getaways. He was headed straight for the cottage. I nodded to Kaz and we made our move.
“Hold it,” I said as I ran in front of him. Kaz grabbed the sack and held the guy’s arm as I took stock of our catch. He wore a US Army Air Force sheepskin-lined leather flight jacket with sergeant’s stripes. “What are you doing out so late, flyboy?”
“What’s it to you, padre? ” He stuck out his jaw defiantly as he spoke in a thick New York accent out of a Dead End Kids movie. “Hey, gimme that back.” He made a lunge for Kaz, who was opening the cloth sack.
“Easy, sarge,” I said as I grabbed a wrist and twisted it behind his back. “What’s in there, Kaz?”
“Youse ain’t no priests,” he said. “What’s your game?”
“Ah, the good sergeant must have been fishing, Billy. He has a nice supply of salmon in here. And a can of condensed milk.”
“I got that fair and square, and the milk is for the kids,” he said, grabbing at the bag with his free hand.
“Yeah, fair and square with some help from the picks you made for yourself in the basement. What’s your name, sarge?”
“Abe. Who the hell are you?”
“That’s a long story, Abe. Full name and outfit.”
“Abe Seidman, Ninety-eighth Bomb Group. My B-17 got shot down over Viterbo coupla weeks ago. One other guy made it out, but I never hooked up with him. Made my way here and snuck in past them Swiss Guards.” His eyes darted about as I let go of his arm, so I grabbed it again to keep him from bolting.
“How’d you manage that?”
“I had a ratty overcoat I picked up to hide the flight jacket, but it wouldn’t get me far. So I clocked this Kraut walking alone down the street, with these knuckle-dusters.” With his free hand he drew out brass knuckles, fitting them onto his hand. “I took his boots, long coat, and cap and walked in like a tourist. No way I was going to let those Nazi shits nab me. I’m Jewish, says so right on my dog tags. Look, I still got the bastard’s boots.” I didn’t look down to check, but kept my eyes on the lethal brass knuckles.
“Listen, Abe, I’m going to let your wrist go, but after you put those away. Then we talk, okay?” I watched him for some sign of resistance. He had a strong jaw, wide mouth, and dark eyes that darted between Kaz and me, assessing the situation.
“Okay, but I still want to know who you guys are and what the hell you’re up to.”
“Fair enough,” I said, easing up on my grip as Abe stashed his weapon. Bells began to toll the midnight hour from the basilica and all the other nearby churches. They were loud but soothing, the kind of sound that makes you think all is right with the world. But then, a shriek ripped through the night, followed by a louder, terrible scream.
“What the hell,” said Abe. “Over there.” He pointed to the radio tower.
“Come on,” I said. “Abe, stay with us. It’s a small place, we’ll find you if you hoof it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, taking off ahead of us, leaving the sack with Kaz. We sprinted to catch up, making our way up the hill where the stone tower stood with the ta
ll antennae reaching into the night sky.
We could have saved our breath.
Dark shadows and moonlight played across the body as the wind flogged the branches of the evergreens overhead. Beneath them, yards from the door to the radio tower, Commissario Filberto Soletto lay on his back, mouth open in surprise, or perhaps horror. Soletto’s jacket was open, his white shirt stained red. I had the terrible feeling that I had sent him here on a mission of greed, determined to get a larger share of diamonds.
“That’s a helluva way for a bull to end up,” Abe said. “Took a shiv to the heart.”
“How do you know he’s a cop?” I asked. “He’s not in uniform.”
“Pays to case any joint you’re going to spend time in, don’t it? His name is Soletto, head cop around here. I heard he’s on the take with the Fascist police, so I made it a habit to steer clear. Can’t be too careful, there’s a war on, ya know?”
“What do we do now, Billy?” Kaz asked. Damn good question, too.
Before I could suggest hightailing it, a nearby door opened and several figures emerged. There was no light, even from inside, because of the blackout.
“La santa madre di Dio,” a voice said, the speaker almost stumbling on the body as others from behind pushed forward. It was Monsignor Bruzzone, eyeing us uncertainly. “Who did this?”
“No idea,” I said. “Didn’t you hear the screams?” It seemed they should have made it to the body before us, given the distance we had to cross.
