by James R Benn
“But he confided in you,” I said. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“No. Two months ago he said he needed to limit his activities with the escapees. He said his other work made it too dangerous, and if the Gestapo got onto him, it could compromise us all. He told me about the code name in case he ever needed to get a message to me, but he never used it.”
“So for the past two months, he hasn’t been active with your organization?”
“No,” O’Flaherty said. “But we’d see each other almost every day, in the normal course of our work. We were friends. I miss his company terribly.”
“Monsignor Bruzzone as well? Is he part of your group?” Kaz asked.
“Yes, has been from the beginning. The three of us were on the first inspection tour of POW camps in the north, mostly around Genoa. We helped the bishop there with Jewish refugees flowing in from Vichy France. Bruzzone and Corrigan worked mainly with them, while I focused on the POWs.”
“That was when you were recalled,” I said.
“Yes,” O’Flaherty said with a grin. “I know I can be too enthusiastic at times. One of my many failings. I made the bishop who was in charge look bad. But that didn’t last long. Monsignor Montini sent us back to Genoa with money and false papers for the refugees.”
“Who is Montini?”
“The Minister of Ordinary Affairs in the Vatican State Secretariat. Ordinary meaning he has jurisdiction over affairs within the Vatican City State itself. But he is a favorite of His Holiness, and often acts in areas beyond his brief.”
“Where did the false papers come from?” I asked. “The OSS?”
“Strictly speaking, they were not false,” O’Flaherty said. “Vatican passports, baptismal certificates, all printed on official paper courtesy of the Vatican print shop.”
“So Corrigan had access to ready money and identity papers,” I said. “Vatican and OSS cash for refugees, plus the papers. A tempting target.”
“Walking around with thick stacks of lira is commonplace,” O’Flaherty said. “We dispense funds all over Rome. The papers, yes, they are valuable. The right identity papers are life itself. But it would be a simple matter to rob us on any back street. Why do so in Saint Peter’s Square?”
“Food is the currency of the day in any case,” John May said as he entered the room, a thick file folder under his arm. He sat at the table in the seat D’Arcy had vacated and poured himself coffee. I didn’t think butlers normally sat in their boss’s chair. Despite the veneer of English respectability, this was a place where the rules of polite society did not apply. “It’d be worth your life to carry bread in some Roman neighborhoods.”
“What do you think was worth Corrigan’s life?” I asked.
“I wish I knew,” May said. “But I have some information for you. This is the Gendarmerie file on Corrigan’s investigation. I have to return it within the hour, so look quickly. Do you read Italian?”
“I do,” Kaz said. He took the folder and handed me the photographs. They showed Corrigan’s body from several angles. There were knife wounds in his torso and slashes on his arms. It looked like it had been a sudden, ferocious attack, but an unskilled one. The murderer had stabbed Corrigan repeatedly until a thrust to the heart finished him.
“The killer is strong,” I said. “And determined, but not experienced.”
“What makes you say that?” O’Flaherty asked, looking at the pictures of his friend and shaking his head sadly.
“Multiple wounds,” I said. “He probably had never stabbed a man before, and struggled to find the right spot. Corrigan fought back, but the first thrust had already weakened him. It takes strength to keep stabbing a man. Killing a guy with a knife is hard work if you don’t know what you’re doing. Harder than you’d think.” I studied the pictures. There was a large, dark pool at the base of the steps. Not surprising, since the heart, or the major arteries leading to it, can pump out a lot of blood before the body gives up the ghost.
“Yes,” Kaz said, “the report states that there were numerous wounds, some superficial, others not very deep. The killer finally found his mark with a single penetrating wound between the ribs into the heart.”
“Even so, it appears Edward did not die immediately,” O’Flaherty said, pointing to a trail of blood on the steps.
“Right. It looks like he dragged himself up the steps to lie against the door.”
“Perhaps he was trying to get into the basilica,” May said.
“No,” O’Flaherty said. “That is the Door of Death. It is kept locked except for funerals. Edward knew that.”
“People do odd things in their last moments,” I said.
“Odd to those of us still full of life,” O’Flaherty said. “But I’d wager a man who knows he is in his last moments would not waste them on oddities.”
I had to admit he was right. I’d seen some strange last moments, at least the ones that weren’t sudden or the stuff of nightmares. Lots of guys reached for a picture, or a letter, or a religious medal, some memento they carried to remind themselves of a life beyond the battleground. But I never saw anyone who dragged his dying body up three stone steps.
“Who found the body?” I asked.
“One of the Swiss Guard, on his rounds at first light.”
“What about the supposed killer?” I asked Kaz, as he flipped through the typewritten report.
“One Severino Rossi. He carried a French passport, marked with a red J for Juif. Jew.” He passed a photograph around. A gaunt, unshaven face gazed dully at the camera. His hair was long, curling over his forehead. His eyes were dark, his mouth gaped open in surprise, or fear. The steps of the basilica were visible in the background.
“One of the many who fled Vichy France,” O’Flaherty said. “He may well have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and been a convenient scapegoat.”
“He was found behind one of the Bernini colonnades,” Kaz said, scanning the report. “Covered in a bloodstained overcoat, asleep. Apparently that was enough evidence for Soletto.”
“What it lacks in plausibility it makes up for in convenience,” I said. “This guy Rossi knifes Corrigan, for no discernable reason, then takes a catnap a few yards away? It doesn’t add up.”
“It might,” May said. “Perhaps he was meeting Corrigan to ask for his help. If Corrigan refused, he may have lost control and attacked him in a blind fury. Then, where could he go? The Swiss Guard had all the entrances covered, and the Germans were at the border. They would certainly question anyone leaving at that hour. His best bet might have been to wait and leave with a crowd.”
“Could be,” I said. “But he still sounds like a patsy to me. Anything else about him in that file, Kaz?”
“Born the first of June, 1921. Brown hair, brown eyes. It lists his height, weight, occupation, the usual from his passport. From Toulon, and lived in Genoa after he escaped Vichy France, until the German roundups began. Then he went into hiding. Nothing else.”
“Thanks for the file, May,” I said. “Any chance we could talk to Soletto about this? And not have him turn us over to the Nazis?”
“I think so. He is a Fascist sympathizer, and we know he has informed in the past, but he values his position here, and he can see which way the war is going. He may not be very cooperative, but I don’t think it would be a risk. Monsignor?”
“No, especially if we arrange an instruction from on high,” O’Flaherty said. “Monsignor Montini, I think.”
“Monsignor Bruzzone advised against it,” I said. “He thought it would be dangerous.”
“I think it’s worth the chance. Soletto may appreciate the opportunity to ingratiate himself with the Allies,” O’Flaherty said. “I’ll contact you tomorrow once things are set up.”
“And I must return this file,” May said, “if you’re done with it.”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks, not that there was much of value in it. What did it cost you?”
“A piece of cheese, no large
r than my hand. Sad, really.”
“Well, lads, what’s next?” O’Flaherty said, after May was gone.
“Monsignor Bruzzone is going to show us Corrigan’s room in the morning. Then we’ll wait to hear from you,” I said.
“Anything else I can do for you boys?”
“Tell me, Monsignor,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “what is it like on the streets of Rome? Are there German patrols? Have any of your people been arrested?”
“There are Germans everywhere, but you’ve got to be careful not to show fear. For the most part, they go about their business, and if you do the same, you’ll blend into the background. But when they set up security checkpoints, that’s when it gets dangerous. They might block off a street and search everyone. Or stop a tram. Why, are you planning on seeing the sights?”
“Just curious, Monsignor. We might get lucky and find that Severino Rossi is still in custody.”
“Well, if he is, he’s in the Regina Coeli. Going in isn’t the problem. Getting out is.”
“Are they holding any priests or nuns there? It might give us an excuse to visit and look for him.”
O’Flaherty looked at me, studying my face. He seemed to be weighing the risk of sharing information with me. Which meant he had information. “Leave that to me, will you?” O’Flaherty said, holding my eye with a steady gaze. “It’s a soup I don’t want too many cooks stirring.”
“Excuse me,” came an urgent whisper from the doorway. “Monsignor, I must speak with you.” A woman stood in the shadowed darkness of the hallway, where all I could see was her face. It was enough. Wide, dark pupils beneath elegantly arched eyebrows. High cheekbones setting off lips as red as a cardinal’s robe. She stepped forward hesitantly. We all stood, but Kaz positively snapped to attention as if a four-star general had walked into the room.
“Gentlemen, this is Princess Nini Pallavicini,” O’Flaherty said, introducing us after she’d whispered an urgent report to him.
“I heard you had arrived,” she said with the slightest Italian accent. “Welcome to our little cabal.” She wore a beret and a raincoat, with water beaded on her slim shoulders. She held out her hand, and I shook it, unsure of the protocol. Kaz wasn’t.
“Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz,” he said, taking her hand in his and giving a little bow, his heels snapping, his lips brushing the air above her small, delicate hand. “Currently serving as a lieutenant with the Polish Army in Exile. Charmed, Princess.”
“What sort of secret agent are you, Baron, to give me your real name?” She let go of Kaz’s hand after a few seconds of graceful hesitation.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Father Dalakis will return in a moment. But I could not bring myself to lie to a princess.”
“What interesting visitors you have, Monsignor,” she said, her eyes lingering on Kaz. “But I must take you away from them. We have a problem. Is John about? I need some supplies.”
“Yes,” O’Flaherty said. “Go find him and I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“A princess in the Vatican?” I asked as she left the room.
“Princess Nini Pallavicini comes from one of Rome’s oldest aristocratic families,” O’Flaherty said. “Her husband was a fighter pilot, killed over Sicily. She was involved in the antifascist uprising after Mussolini was deposed. When the Germans took Rome, the Gestapo came to arrest her, and she escaped by jumping out a second-story window and making her way here. I gave her sanctuary, and she has been a great help to our cause.” O’Flaherty rose and donned his cape. “But I must leave you now. An emergency. Please find me tomorrow morning and we’ll sort out your visit to Soletto.”
“One question, Monsignor,” Kaz said. “Does the princess harbor any ill will toward the Allies for her husband’s death?”
“No. She reserves that for the Nazis and the Fascists.”
“Good,” Kaz said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“DO YOU THINK we will see the princess today, Billy?”
“I don’t know, Kaz,” I said. “If I spot her, you’ll be the first to know.”
It was the third time that morning he’d asked the same question. Most guys, head over heels for a dame, walk around with their heads in the clouds and spout the goofiest stuff. I’ve done it myself, but at least I knew I sounded like an idiot. Kaz didn’t have a clue.
“I wish I were not pretending to be a priest,” he said, running his finger around the white collar as if he wanted to rip it off.
“I’d settle for you pretending to be a detective,” I muttered as we walked up a gently sloping path in the gardens behind Saint Peter’s. If Kaz heard me, he was too distracted to pay me any mind. I couldn’t begrudge him a romance, anyway. Not after what he’d been through. Horror, loss, sorrow. A little joy would do him good. I wouldn’t mind some myself.
After last night’s conversation, I was sure Father O’Flaherty knew more than he wanted to tell me about priests and nuns held by the Gestapo. I was also sure he was the careful sort, and wouldn’t spill unless he had a good reason to. A cautious type like Brackett might think him a loose cannon, but to me he seemed a decent guy. If all else failed, I could always try the truth. Might even work.
“I wonder what the trouble was last night?” Kaz said. “When the princess came in, I mean.” As if there was another topic of conversation.
“Let’s ask when we’re done searching Corrigan’s room,” I said. “I need to get more out of him.”
“About Diana?”
“Yes.” Was she still in a Gestapo cell, dead, or on her way to a concentration camp? I didn’t like any of the choices, but at least I’d have a shot if she were still alive and in Rome.
We walked in silence, passing an ancient church, tiny in the looming shadow of Saint Peter’s, sandstone wall the color of rust. Skirting the Governatorato, we passed the gardener’s house. The fellow with the ample mustache wasn’t in sight, but the woman who had peeked from behind the curtains yesterday was. She stood outside with two small children. A cloth sack hung from one shoulder, her arm supporting the weight of it. The kids, a boy and a girl, maybe five and six years old, played on the lawn while the woman kept watch, glancing in every direction, averting her eyes after she spotted us. As she turned away, the sack slipped from her shoulder and the contents spilled to the ground. Tins of food. Cheese and a small salami. She scooped them into the bag and called her children into the house.
“She looks wary,” I said. “Even here.”
“That is probably how she stayed alive,” Kaz said. “And kept her children with her.” There was a chill in the air, but the sun was bright and the grass still green and lush. The boy and the girl looked like children the world over, playing without a care, satisfied with the moment at hand. Their mother stood hawk-like, ready to defend her young with her last ounce of energy.
We circled around the basilica, crossed a small square, and came to the Medieval Palace, where Monsignor Bruzzone was due to meet us. He’d told us exactly where to wait, which was good since the buildings all ran into one another here. The Sistine Chapel, the Pope’s living quarters in the Apostolic Palace, and the Medieval Palace were all connected by passageways and corridors. They didn’t look like palaces, but more like government architecture from the last century jammed together at all the wrong angles.
“Here, Fathers,” Bruzzone called from an archway leading into one of the buildings. We crossed a small piazza as he spoke to a Swiss Guard at the entrance. The guard stood aside to let us pass. “Buongiorno,” Bruzzone said as he patted the shoulder of the guard in his gray field uniform. For the duration of the war, the Swiss Guard had traded in their colorful striped outfits for a more modern look.
“You and Monsignor O’Flaherty both seem on good terms with the Swiss Guard,” I said.
“Yes, with all our activities, it pays to know them by name,” Bruzzone said, pushing back his thick black hair from his forehead. “I also minister to them spiritually. Tell me, did you have an enjoyab
le dinner last night?”
“Quite,” Kaz said. I wondered if he was going to describe the virtues of Princess Nini Pallavicini for the monsignor, but he held back. “You have an interesting circle of friends, Monsignor.”
“To say the least, Father. Here, this way.” Bruzzone led us down a narrow, arched corridor. Marble columns lined the passageway, lit by ornate brass chandeliers, giving the stone a soft, warm glow at odds with the sudden chill that settled upon us once we were out of the sun. “The next building is the Apostolic Palace, which you may have heard of. It is where His Holiness lives.”
“And what exactly is this building?” Kaz asked, going along with the tour-guide routine.
“The Medieval Palace is where the secretary of state has his office, and other officials as well. One floor is living quarters, small apartments for those who live here permanently. Come, this way.”
We went up a marble staircase, the walls decorated with artwork, mostly paintings of high-level Holy Joes from the distant past. Cardinals, they looked like. Maybe this was the reward the also-rans got when they didn’t come out on top in a papal election. Not a bad spot for your portrait to spend the centuries. The ceiling gleamed with gold-leaf trim, a contrast to the jade-black marble at our feet. Back in Boston, I’d been impressed with the lobby at the Copley Plaza. Compared to this, it was a cheap flophouse. Bruzzone led us to a hallway on an upper floor. This section wasn’t as fancy, the floor tiled and walls empty of paintings. A slot by each door held an elegantly lettered name tag. We stopped at Corrigan.
“Here,” Bruzzone said, drawing an old brass key from his pocket and opening the door. “I have not been inside since the day of Edward’s death. No one else has, either.”
“I am surprised that Soletto did not have it searched,” Kaz said. “Even if he was sure of his suspect.”
“Monsignor Corrigan was a man of great faith and good works,” Bruzzone said, clearly offended. “Whatever the faults of Commissario Soletto, he knows that much. What do you expect to find? Evidence otherwise?”
