by James R Benn
“Not at all, Monsignor,” I said. “It is simply procedure.” For any decent cop, I wanted to add, but saw no percentage. I stood in the doorway, taking in the room. To the left was a narrow bed. One dresser against the wall. Straight ahead, a small table placed by the single window with a view of an interior courtyard. A sink and washstand in the corner. One bookshelf, crammed with books, magazines, and loose papers. A worn carpet covered most of the wood floor. A single easy chair was placed at an angle to take advantage of what view there was. An end table held more books and magazines. On top of the pile was a biography of Sir Thomas More, the bookmark at the very beginning. Beneath that was a Rex Stout novel, The League of Frightened Men. That bookmark was near the end. Had Corrigan been reading this the night he was killed? I tried to imagine him in the room, rising from his chair, perhaps covering the mystery with the weightier biography, a bit embarrassed by his nonreligious reading material, thinking he’d finish when he returned. Murder makes fools of us all.
“Okay,” I said. “Kaz, you check the bed, I’ll work from the other end. Monsignor, thank you for your help.”
“It was nothing. I will stay, if you don’t mind. To lock up afterward.”
“Sure,” I said. “Don’t touch anything.” Bruzzone hung back in the doorway, shaking his head, perhaps thinking it had been a bad idea to bring us here.
Kaz had already started methodically pulling the bedding apart. I began in the corner, going through the washstand, and worked my way out. I could sense Bruzzone’s disapproval, and I knew it wasn’t pleasant to watch us go through his pal’s stuff. It was a long shot, but we might find something that would tip us off to why Corrigan was killed, or maybe who he was meeting in the middle of the night at Death’s Door. If it wasn’t Severino Rossi.
There was a good chance it was, I had to admit. The war pushes people right to the edge. Some, like the mother with her two children, hang on right at the precipice, fingers dug into the slippery clay of life. Others, seeing only the certainty of death, lash out like a drowning man climbing on the back of his rescuer, desperate to grab a few seconds of breath and life. Was Severino Rossi drowning when he met Corrigan? From what I’d learned from Diana, there was no drowning man like a Jew on the run in Nazi-occupied Europe.
I replaced Corrigan’s toiletries, feeling Bruzzone’s eyes on my every move. I checked the bookshelf, fanning pages, looking for anything interesting. Nothing but scraps of paper floated to the floor, bookmarks and notes, hastily scrawled comments about the text. The detritus of a scholarly mind.
“Find anything, Kaz?” I asked, more out of boredom than anything. Searching a room is dreary business. The pieces of someone’s life after he’s died take on a weighted, lonely feel. As if a matchbox or a pencil were suddenly more important since it may have been the last thing the dead guy used, the warmth of his touch still fresh, clinging to the wood or paper. It ought to be the other way around. They’re junk now, ready to be swept away. Useless, and sadder than they should be.
“Nothing, Billy. The usual.” He was going through Corrigan’s clothes, checking pockets, socks, and the normal contents of a man’s dresser.
“How long do you expect to be?” Monsignor Bruzzone asked, leaning in the doorway.
“Not much longer, I’d say. We might have better luck at his office.”
“That may not be,” Bruzzone said. “His work was transferred to another monsignor. He went through all of Edward’s papers and cleaned out his desk. Feel free to look, but I doubt anything is left. We did not think there would be anything of importance regarding his murder.” He gave an apologetic shrug.
We kept at it, finding nothing. Corrigan did have a well-used street map of Rome, but there were no marks, no cryptic references to Rudder, the OSS, or a radio. Nothing but creases and folds, which showed that he must have carried it with him a lot. I stuck it in my pocket. You never know.
“I will return shortly, gentlemen,” Bruzzone said. “My own rooms are down the hall and I cannot watch this any longer. I know you must, but forgive me, seeing you handling Edward’s things is too much.” He shut the door, and we heard him walking down the corridor.
“Emotional fellow,” I said.
“Southern Europeans are more emotional,” Kaz said. “Or I should say, they show their emotions. The farther north, the more contained we are. For me, I should be glad to have you search my effects if I am murdered.”
“Good to know, Kaz. But try and leave a clue or two, will you? Corrigan wasn’t much help in that department.” I put the cushions back, coming up with one five-lira coin and a ticket stub from the Teatro Reale dell’Opera. “Let’s go and put the monsignor out of his misery.”
As I went to open the door, I noticed a coat hanging from one of two hooks. I’d missed it when the door was open. When I checked, I felt something small and hard in the inside pocket. I knew right away that this was something which didn’t belong in the Spartan room of a priest.
“Kaz, do you remember what was listed as Severino Rossi’s occupation on his passport?”
“Yes, he was a jeweler. Why?”
“This is why,” I said, holding what to my eye looked like a flawless two-carat diamond. I’d seen a few diamonds in my time on the force, and I knew quality because thieves knew quality. No self-respecting thief went for the cheap stuff.
“What is it worth?” Kaz asked.
“Maybe a thousand smackers or so. If Rossi was a jeweler, he may have had more. The question is, why did Corrigan have this one?”
“Are you done?” Bruzzone asked from the hallway. I slipped the diamond in my pocket and signaled Kaz to keep mum. No need to spread the word around.
“Yes, all done,” I said as we left the room, thinking that Bruzzone had left just in time to avoid disappointment. “You can lock up now.”
“You found nothing?”
“No, Monsignor. Thank you for helping, though. I know it was difficult.”
“Life is difficult, when we are tested. And these days, the Lord tests us constantly.” He inserted the key, the old lock resisted, grinding metal on metal until it gave way and the bolt fell into place.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“KAZ, SNOOP AROUND and find out who’s in charge of keys around here. There’s got to be somebody who hands them out and keeps track of them.”
“Do you think someone planted the diamond?”
The wind whipped our cassocks against our legs and sent the spray from a nearby fountain across our path as we made our way back to the German College.
“Could be,” I said. “But first I’d like to know if there are other keys floating around out there. If there are, then the field is wide open. If not, it’s more likely Corrigan had the diamond, which would establish a relationship between him and Severino Rossi.”
“But the diamond could be for anything,” Kaz said. “A gift, or to buy food for other refugees. It does not mean Monsignor Corrigan was corrupt.”
“You’re right. Gems make for great portable currency. Easily hidden, always valuable. Nothing wrong in Corrigan having them, but it does link him to Rossi, which is something we didn’t have before.”
“Right. I will go back to the palace and see if there is a porter who may know about the keys. Where will you be?”
“Wherever Monsignor O’Flaherty is,” I said.
I found him right where the nuns at the German College said he’d be—at the top step leading up to Saint Peter’s Basilica, not far from Death’s Door. He wasn’t hard to spot, with his red-and-black monsignor’s outfit and wide-brimmed hat, not to mention his tall, athletic frame. He held an open Bible in his hands, his head bowed, but as I approached I could see his eyes traveling across the square, scanning the thin crowd.
“Good morning, Father Boyle,” O’Flaherty said. “What can I do for you?” His eyes flickered in my direction, then shifted to the people wandering through the square, glancing occasionally at the German paratroopers patrolling the white demarcation line
.
“Waiting for someone, Monsignor?” I asked, avoiding his question for now.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I wait here for two hours every day, in case some weary traveler needs my help. The time and place are known to those in Rome who help us, and they send the poor souls my way.”
“How many have come your way?”
“Hundreds. More, most likely, if I gave in to the sin of pride and kept count.”
“Are they all hidden within the Vatican?” I asked, as a cold breeze snapped at our cassocks.
“Oh no, they’d be hanging out the windows, Father Boyle. We bring them in, feed and clothe them, and then take them to safe houses in the city. As safe as can be, at least.”
“How do you feed them all? It must be tough.”
“That it is. We have couriers who bring money to the families who are hiding prisoners and to the religious houses that have taken in refugees and escapees. It’s a dangerous business, to be sure.”
“Monsignor, I have to ask you something, and I can’t explain much about it.” I hoped O’Flaherty wouldn’t ask too many questions. I trusted him, but it was dangerous for too many people to be in on this secret.
“Go ahead, son. No reason you shouldn’t add to the mysteries of the world.”
“Is there a Sister Justina among those who help you?” That was the name Diana used, taken from a nun she’d met from Brindisi who had taught her the local dialect.
“Ah, so that is why you are so curious about any nuns who have been arrested, is it?”
“Yes, Monsignor.” I didn’t know what else to say. I needed O’Flaherty’s help, but I couldn’t explain why. It wouldn’t make sense anyway, and he might think it too dangerous to take a chance on a phony priest he’d just met.
“You are a spy, Billy.” He said it softly and simply. Not an accusation, merely a statement.
“I am not who I say I am, yes. But within these walls, I don’t think of myself as a spy.”
“Outside, the Germans would. And they would shoot you for it.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Of course. Any spy would be aware of the consequences.” He let the words hang there, his gaze fixed on mine. He knew. Maybe not the details, but he knew. Which I didn’t mind, since there was no pity in his eyes, which meant Diana was not dead. Yet.
“I love her,” I said, whispering as if in the confessional. “Tell me how I can help her.”
“Do you now, lad? Really love her? In this time of killing and desecration, you hold love in your heart? Or is it guilt, or lust, or any of those other terrible sins that drive men?”
“Monsignor, I was brought up to respect the Church and those who serve her,” I said, barely containing the fury building within me. “But even given your faith and your good works, who are you to question me like that?”
“A poor sinner who wonders at his own motivations, late at night, when sleep won’t come, when I wonder if my actions have caused others to suffer and die.” O’Flaherty rubbed his eyes, as he must have done in those small hours of the morning, awake with his thoughts. “Do you ever have such thoughts, Billy?”
“No,” I said. “What keeps me awake is the thought that I might not do enough, or worse yet, nothing at all. Maybe it is guilt.”
“Not at all, lad. Guilt is for what you’ve done in the past. Fear is what you suffer from now. Fear of what may come, regardless of your efforts.”
“What I fear most may have already happened.”
“No, it hasn’t,” O’Flaherty said in a low voice that the wind nearly carried off. “Look there, do you see that fellow in the brown coat and cap?”
I was dumbstruck, wanting to ask more, but his voice held an urgency that I couldn’t resist. I followed his gaze and spotted the man amidst a crowd of older women.
“Yes,” I said. “Are you sure, about Sister Justina?”
“Later,” he said.
We watched as the man in the brown coat detached himself from the group and wandered close to one of the Swiss Guard at his post near the bronze doors. The guard looked up toward Monsignor O’Flaherty, and the man headed our way.
“Another guest,” O’Flaherty said. “The Swiss Guard are under orders to turn away anyone seeking asylum. Which they do, following their orders to the letter. They also mention that they may wish to return during the times I stand here, to gather them in.”
“You know how to walk a fine line, Monsignor.”
“It’s all about having friends in high places who can adjust the line when needed.” He raised his eyes and looked at the Papal Palace, rising above the north side of the colonnade. I caught a glance of a figure in white, standing at an open window. Then he was gone.
“Was that the Pope?” I asked.
“His Holiness himself,” O’Flaherty said. “He watches me most days. We both act the part of the careful shepherd. You need a haircut. Come to my room tonight. Rino will give you a trim.”
“What? Wait—”
O’Flaherty flashed a grin as he descended the steps to greet the guy in the brown coat, steering him through the Arch of the Bells to a safe haven. I wondered if I could bring Diana to safety as well, get her to neutral territory. Anywhere but in the Regina Coeli. It seemed possible, now that O’Flaherty confirmed she was alive, and I was so close. I needed to find the right way in. As for the haircut, I had no idea what O’Flaherty’s game was. But I’d play it, that I knew for sure.
Thoughts of Diana preyed on my mind as I stood looking out over the square and down the long avenue that led to the Tiber River. All I had to do was head that way, take a right, and in a few minutes I could knock on the prison door. Or walk under the windows, calling for Sister Justina. Foolish thoughts, but they were all I had.
A prayer wouldn’t hurt, I thought, as I walked into Saint Peter’s Basilica. Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and long shots, might give a listen if I sent up a prayer from here. Inside, it was another world. Hushed. Magnificent. Huge. Marble floors that reflected like glass, statues and paintings adorned with gold. I walked along the nave, watching two German officers, cameras around their necks, consulting a guidebook and speaking in whispers as they stood at the Chapel of the Pieta. The sculpture of Mary, with the body of Jesus draped across her lap, silenced even the conquerors. I had to pull myself away from that terrible beauty of a woman mourning her son and move on, not liking to be so close to my enemies, even here, in the safest of sanctuaries. Or was it death that drew my eye?
I came closer to the tomb of Saint Peter, if I remembered my Sunday school lessons right. It was in front of the massive Papal Altar, with four black-and-gold curved columns reaching to the ceiling under the great dome. At that moment, sunlight streamed in from the windows at the base of the dome, lighting the people standing underneath, bathing them in luminous brilliance. I spotted Kaz, shoulder to shoulder with Princess Nini, their necks craned as they studied the altar.
I wasn’t as close as I’d thought. The scale of the basilica threw me off as the vastness and grandeur of the building overwhelmed my senses. Kaz and the princess were tiny, as if they were miles away, or was it a trick of the light? I looked up to the ceiling and the room swirled around me, the colors thick and heavy, the weight of centuries pressing on me. I covered my eyes and looked again, and Kaz was still distant, mingling and disappearing into a crowd as clouds killed the sunlight, turning the interior into a cold, gray murkiness.
I left the holy place as if it spit me out.
I sat on the cold steps, my head in my hands. Something terrible had happened to Diana, I was sure of it. It wasn’t the Pieta, or the Germans, or the dazzling light. It was a scream in my brain, and I was certain where it was coming from.
The Regina Coeli.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I WANDERED THROUGH the gardens, making my way back to the German College. My brain was in high gear trying to figure some angle that would get Diana out of that damned prison. But this wasn’t my town and I had less
pull here than a hooker in a monastery.
“Father Boyle,” said a voice from behind. I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Robert Brackett, the American deputy chargé d’affaires. I didn’t like being surprised, especially by a heavy-footed civilian. Stay focused, I told myself. Diana worried me, a lot. But I needed to worry about a murder as well. Not to mention the murderer.
“Out for a walk, Mr. Brackett?”
“I was looking for you, actually. You asked about seeing Soletto.”
“Right,” I said. I’d forgotten we’d asked Brackett to arrange that, since he seemed less than enthusiastic about our investigation. “You have any news?”
“Yes, he’s agreed. I had to go through the Pontifical Commission for the Vatican City State,” Brackett said, knocking ashes from his pipe and tucking it into a pocket of his rumpled suit.
“That’s a mouthful,” I said, pleasantly surprised at Brackett’s sudden interest.
“It did take some talking. The commission is the executive branch of the Vatican government, and they take any hint of a violation to their sovereignty very seriously. But given the severity of the crime, they approved it, with one restriction.”
“What’s that?”
“A representative of the commission must be present at all times, to insure that the rights and privileges of the Vatican City State are respected. That’s an exact quote, by the way.”
“So who’s my minder?”
“Bishop Krunoslav Zlatko. I’m not sure if they did us any favors with that one,” Brackett said.
“Why?”
We sat on a bench near a grove of small pines as the wind swayed the branches, creating a sound like waves on the shore. But Brackett didn’t look like he was having a day at the beach.
“Zlatko is here as the representative of Archbishop Ivan šarić in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Or, as he’d insist, in Croatia. Zlatko is one of the Ustashi. You know what they are?”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering what Sterling Hayden and his Partisans had told me. “Killers.”
