by James R Benn
“He was murdered,” I said.
“Tell me more, sonny boy,” Dad said.
“He’s a heavy smoker. But there are no matches on the ground, no last cigarette. Maybe he had his last smoke elsewhere and came here to kill himself, but that doesn’t feel right.”
“Why?”
“This is a nice park. Nice buildings on three sides. But the way he’s facing, toward East First Street, there’s a power plant and waterfront buildings. The way I figure it, a suicide would sit facing the other direction, have a cigarette, take in a view of the trees and the park, then do the deed.”
“So what happened here?”
“The killer grabbed him, brought him here. I can’t tell for sure, but I don’t see a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, which he probably was never without. Plunked him down here, facing away from the houses so no one would notice right away.”
“And then told him to shoot himself?”
“No. The killer shot him, then put his hand around the weapon and fired a second round into the ground to get those powder burns on it.”
“Good thinking, Billy. Now bring that boy over here. The lad who found the body.”
The kid was maybe twelve or thirteen. He was gangly, shivering in the cold wind.
“You touch the body?” Dad asked him.
“Wouldn’t touch a dead guy,” he said, staring at the ground.
“Don’t blame you,” Dad said. “You’re a good lad, I can tell. Some folks would have rolled him over and taken his wallet. You did the right thing.” Dad clapped him on his bony shoulder, but didn’t let go. He pulled him closer and patted him down, producing a pack of Raleighs from his jacket pocket, Sir Walter himself staring at us. “The lighter, boy.”
“It was on the ground, honest,” he stammered as he dug a Zippo out of his pants pocket. “The smokes too. I figured nobody’d want ’em anyway.”
“Were there butts on the ground?”
“Yeah, two. I cleaned ’em up so no one would take notice of the missing pack.”
“You’re too young to smoke, kid. I ought to tell your folks,” Dad said. He let the kid beg and promise never to take anything again before telling him to shove off.
“You had a good theory, Billy,” Dad said as we both looked out toward the harbor. “But Walt Hogan here, he worked across the way. Owned one of them warehouses. So he did have his last smoke here, looking out at something that was important to him.”
“Why’d he kill himself?” I asked, as we walked out of the park, past rows of narrow houses.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe money problems, maybe trouble with the law we don’t know about yet. We’ll find out. What’s important to remember, aside from not trusting whoever finds the body, is that there are more reasons for killing than you can shake a stick at. Makes little difference if it’s your own death or another’s.”
“Is hope a reason?” I asked.
Before Dad could answer, the front door of a house opened and Severino Rossi stepped out. He opened his mouth to speak, and then I awoke with a sharp gasp, only to see Kaz shutting the door in our darkened room. Somewhere along the line I’d fallen asleep again, and Rossi had found his way back into my dream.
“What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” Kaz said. He pulled the blackout curtains tight and lit a lamp. “Did I wake you?”
“Yeah,” I said, planting my feet on the floor and untying my shoelaces. “I was dreaming about a case my dad took me on. Turned out to be a suicide. But Severino Rossi was there too. It was all mixed up. Rossi was about to say something when you came in.”
“About the suicide?”
“I don’t know. I’d just asked my father if hope was a reason for killing. Loss of hope, I meant.”
“Was it an actual case?” Kaz asked, kicking off his shoes.
“It was. Guy was a warehouse owner named Walter Hogan. Dad found out later that he’d gambled away the company payroll. Then he borrowed from a shyster, and lost all that on the horses. He was going to get the broken-leg treatment, lose his business, and betray the people who worked for him.”
“It sounds like hope had passed Mr. Hogan by long before he pulled the trigger,” Kaz said.
“I don’t think so. He probably had hope up until the last race, which could have won him everything back. That’s the thing about hope. The thought of it bucks you up for one more try.”
“Like Colonel Remke,” Kaz said.
“And maybe our killer. If only you’d stayed out later, Rossi might have told me. How was your walk with Nini?”
“It was raining, Billy. We went to her room after supper.”
“Kaz, are you blushing?”
“No, not at all. It is warm in here.”
“These rooms haven’t been warm since August. Imagine, a baron and a princess. They could make a movie about you two.”
“Who would play me, do you think?” Kaz asked, kicking off his shoes.
“Jimmy Cagney,” I said, knowing that would please Kaz. He was really more of a Leslie Howard type, but he’d been shot down last year over the Bay of Biscay, so I didn’t mention him. “Did Nini know anything about Genoa? Or were you too preoccupied to ask?”
“Duty comes first,” Kaz said, hanging up his cassock. “She did say that Monsignor Montini channeled a good deal of money to Cardinal Boetto in Genoa. Boetto works with a Jewish relief agency, the Delegazione Assistenza Emigranti Ebrei. The cardinal, along with a group of priests, nuns, and lay people, help them with funds, forged documents, and smuggling routes into Switzerland.”
“And Corrigan, Bruzzone, and O’Flaherty were the go-betweens?”
“Yes, until a few months ago. The Gestapo raided the cardinal’s offices but found nothing. They left him alone, but are hunting several of his aides, who have gone into hiding. Nini said our three monsignors had all left Genoa moments ahead of a roundup.”
“Which is basically what Bruzzone told us,” I said. “That’s why he didn’t leave the Vatican for so long.”
“Nini thought that he was overcautious,” Kaz said. “Corrigan went into Rome often and was not picked up. O’Flaherty only stopped recently, since his activities here have attracted so much attention. Even so, he continues to go over the wall at night, in disguise.”
“Maybe Bruzzone simply lost his nerve. Hard to blame the guy.”
“We should ask him more about that,” Kaz said, turning off the light. “But now I have to sleep. I am exhausted.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
Kaz threw a shoe at me, missing by a mile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
WE HAD AN escort of six Swiss Guards the next morning, surrounding Monsignor O’Flaherty, who had a firm grip on the briefcase that held the documents from Remke. Monsignor Bruzzone was along as well. O’Flaherty had told us over an early breakfast that he’d shown the documents to Montini the night before, and that we were sure to get a favorable hearing.
We crossed Saint Peter’s Square, the sky a dense gray that matched both the damp paving stones and the uniforms of our escort. Passing between a pair of guards at the Bernini colonnades, we entered the Cortile di San Damaso, a small courtyard within the Apostolic Palace, where Swiss Guard stood at attention at the entrance to the Pope’s personal quarters. We went the other way, entering the Medieval Palace under an archway just as heavy raindrops began to splatter the ground.
O’Flaherty led us into a room that was a riot of color compared to the dreary day outside. It was huge, probably forty by sixty feet. The floor was white marble with the papal crest inlaid in gold. The walls were papered in yellow and white, topped off by ornate moldings with angels tucked into the corners. Couches and chairs were arranged around three sides, all done up with some florid chintz of yellow flowers and vines. It looked like a vision of what a classy whorehouse back home might aspire to, except for Bishop Zlatko, who stood sour-faced, looking everywhere but in our direction.
We sat, facing an empty table
. The door opened and a thin man in his forties strode in and sat alone at the center. His hair was thinning, and his eyes were hooded by heavy brows, his forehead wrinkled in worry.
“I think it will be easiest if we all confer in English,” he said, speaking slowly but precisely. “I am Monsignor Giovanni Montini, Minister of Ordinary Affairs for the Secretariat of State. I have asked the good Bishop Krunoslav Zlatko to attend to us. Bishop, I understand you had lodged a complaint about our visitors, but it is now withdrawn. Is that correct?” Montini nodded in our direction, but his eyes were on Zlatko.
“Yes, Monsignor,” Zlatko said, rising from his chair. It must have irritated him to have to defer to a mere monsignor. But among the Roman Curia, a monsignor could have the Pope’s ear while a dozen bishops cooled their heels in the palace hallway. “I was concerned for the safety of His Holiness and our neutral status. But I have conversed with these two young men on several occasions, and I believe their intentions are honorable. I would only counsel discretion on their part.” In other words, we’d worked a deal and he had something that would insure my silence.
“Very well, Bishop Zlatko. Thank you. Do not let me keep you from your duties.” Zlatko looked stunned at the dismissal, but recovered quickly. As he passed me, he made eye contact and gave a slight nod toward the door. We’d meet outside.
“Gentlemen, I have unfortunate news,” Montini said after the door had shut behind Zlatko. “I have just spoken with His Holiness. He is much disturbed by the activity of Banda Koch. They invaded the extraterritorial properties at Saint Paul’s Outside the Walls. They took over sixty refugees, Jews, antifascists—anyone without papers.”
“It is terrible,” O’Flaherty said, a touch of belligerence in his voice. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “What is the Holy Father going to do about it?”
“He feels this may be the first step in a German takeover of the Vatican,” Montini said. He had a pained expression that said he thought this was wrong, even foolish. “We have heard rumors of a plan by the SS to invade the Vatican and place the Pope under Nazi protection. In Germany, of course. His Holiness believes that the actions against our properties may be the first step in implementing this plan.” Montini sighed, not making eye contact.
“What are you not telling us?” Bruzzone asked.
Montini folded his hands on the table as if in prayer. Then he spoke, so quietly that I had to strain to hear him. “In order to avoid giving the Germans a pretext for invasion, His Holiness has directed that all guests be expelled from Vatican properties outside these walls. It is to be done immediately.”
“That is outrageous!” O’Flaherty barked as he stood. “I don’t believe it.” Bruzzone pulled him back down onto the flowered couch, where he sat, teeth gritted against the anger straining to burst out of him. He struck me as the kind of priest who had to really work at obedience.
“What will you do?” Bruzzone asked.
“I have managed to dissuade the Pontifical Commission from making this their work. If I had not, this would be an official meeting with the cardinals present, instead of a gathering of steadfast friends. And their welcome guests.”
I could feel O’Flaherty exhale. “You are going to throw a monkey wrench into the works, then,” he said.
Montini waved his hand and shrugged, granting the point even if he didn’t understand what a monkey had to do with a wrench. “Do you recall when the commission ordered the Swiss Guard to turn away Allied prisoners entering the piazza?”
“Yes,” O’Flaherty said. “The order was never enforced.”
“And once His Holiness has ignored an order—his or the commission’s—it remains ignored. So leave it to me. No one will be expelled. But it means this is a difficult time to ask the Pope to engage in espionage.”
“Again, Giovanni,” O’Flaherty said. “He did so in 1940. We know much more now about what is happening in these camps. It makes it even more important.”
“Yes, I agree. But in 1940 there were no German divisions in Rome. The SS did not run Italy.”
“Sir, may I speak?” I half rose from the chair. I wasn’t sure of my status here, but I figured I had little to lose.
“Yes,” Montini said, smiling. “Mr. Boyle, is it?”
“Yes sir. I understand how this is a delicate matter, and that timing is important.” I took a deep breath, willing myself to slow down and make sense. “But remember, what Colonel Remke is asking for is simply an acknowledgment that you’ve received the document about the planned coup. He mentioned you by name, Monsignor. Not the Pope.”
“True,” Montini said. “But as an officer of the Secretariat, I speak for the Pope. It would have been different if this colonel had asked Monsignor O’Flaherty to sign such a letter. He could do so, without repercussion. Would that satisfy the colonel?”
“No. He was quite clear about you, given your position here.”
“Monsignor?” Kaz rose and walked toward Montini.
“Please, feel free to speak, Baron Kazimierz.”
“You have seen the Auschwitz Protocol as well?”
“I have. We have heard many reports, but this is the first detailed documentation. It is beyond belief. Shocking.”
“Yes, Monsignor. It would not be espionage, would it, to accept receipt of this report?”
“No. We often receive reports from other parts of occupied Europe. Why?”
“He is onto something, Giovanni,” O’Flaherty said, slapping Kaz on the back, almost sending him reeling. “Listen to the lad, it could save three people from the Germans with no risk at all.”
“Go on,” Montini said.
“You could give us a letter acknowledging receipt of the Auschwitz Protocol. An experienced diplomat such as you could also insert language which the knowledgeable reader would understand referred to another, separate document.”
“Will that work?” Montini asked. “Would it free Sister Justina and the others?”
“It’s better than nothing, Monsignor,” I said. “If you absolutely can’t acknowledge the information about the plot, at least do that. It will give us a chance.”
“I agree,” Bruzzone said. “It may work, and you can sign such a letter without fear of incident. You have drafted letters for His Holiness on this very subject, responding to reports from bishops in Poland.”
“Perhaps,” Montini said. He rose from his seat and approached O’Flaherty and Bruzzone. All pretense of an official meeting was gone. The three men huddled together, conversing in Italian. They had an easy familiarity, their places in the Vatican hierarchy less important now than their common bond as friends and conspirators.
“Do you really think it can work?” Kaz whispered to me.
“It has to,” I said. “That was sharp thinking. It’s a good-faith effort on our part, which has to count for something. I wonder if we should have pressed Montini more, though.”
“If the Pope is nervous about the Germans taking the Vatican, I doubt he would associate himself with any document that would put him in league with the Allies and the anti-Nazi plotters.”
“Gentlemen,” Monsignor Montini said. “I believe I can craft the letter as you suggest. I will work on it today. Meanwhile, Monsignor Bruzzone will deliver both documents to Sir D’Arcy. He can get them to Switzerland, I imagine.”
“I made copies last night,” O’Flaherty said. “We will keep those for when the time is right. I have a priest working on a translation of the Auschwitz Protocol into English. I’ll give you a copy, Billy, when that’s done.”
“This must be kept secret, for the moment,” Montini said to Kaz and me. “I trust the monsignors implicitly. We have worked together many times during this war, to help the unfortunate among us. They are both good men, as you are, I am sure. Can I trust your silence?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I will have to report this to my superiors, once this mission is complete.”
“Of course,” Montini said. “Have you made progress in your
investigation?”
“We have,” I said. “As soon as we return with Diana—Sister Justina—I expect we will be very close to finding the killer.”
“Excellent,” Montini said. “We were greatly saddened at the loss of Monsignor Corrigan. The work we do is not without danger.”
“How soon can you have the letter ready?” I hoped he’d say within the hour. All I could think of was Diana crossing that white line.
“Not until later today. I have other pressing duties to attend to. Have Monsignor Bruzzone bring you to my office in the Papal Palace at three o’clock.” So much for my high hopes. One more day, then.
“Grand work, boys,” O’Flaherty said after Montini left us. “That ought to do the trick. Monsignor Bruzzone will get you the letter this afternoon. I must leave you now. We have a bit of a crisis in one of our houses.”
“In Rome?” I asked. “Remke warned you about the Gestapo, remember?”
“And I’m glad he did, boy. That’s why I’ll be disguised so my own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”
“Be careful, Hugh,” Bruzzone said as we filed out of the room. “There’s no disguising your height.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you all tonight. Good luck.”
“I shall bring the documents to Sir D’Arcy immediately,” Bruzzone said as we stepped outside. “I will meet you at the German College before three o’clock, to take you to the Palace.”
We stood under an archway in the courtyard, watching the two monsignors dash off in different directions, the collars of their coats turned up against the cold rain. Something that had been said in the fancy yellow room was not sitting right. Maybe I was thinking too much about Diana and was distracted. Or maybe there was something important that had been said. Or not said. I glanced around for Zlatko, but didn’t see him. The covered archway kept out the rain but not the biting cold. Maybe he got cold feet, either kind, and went indoors.
