“Bad people? Not good people. People who punch priests in faces and break bones . . . thieves, bank stealers, murderers. You should know who bad are people, Sheriff. You are a policeman, no?”
“Of course, I know bad people. But I want to know about the bad people who want to hurt Father Joe.”
“Ah, sì, the people who want to hurt the Padré?”
“Si . . . yes,” said Kyle, with a hint of triumph in his reply. “The bad people who, ah . . . who want to hurt Father Joe.”
“Who are they?” asked Baldewin innocently.
“Who?” responded Kyle, thoroughly confused. “I don’t know. You tell me who. Who are they?”
“Who, who? Ah, si, Gufo. Owls,” said Baldewin triumphantly.
“Owls?”
“ Gufo . . . Owls. Hoo, hoo, Owls. No, no, no, not owls. No animals want to hurt the Padré. Bad people,” answered Baldewin, looking as bewildered and frustrated as Kyle.
It was apparent that my brother’s line of questioning was getting tangled in translation and would have, most assuredly, morphed into a bilingual version of ‘Who’s on First.’ So with my brother’s blessing, Joe stepped in and, flipping between Italian and English, began conversing with Baldewin. Under Joe’s pastoral-style guidance, he led our discussion away from barn loft hooters to things potentially more sinister in nature.
Baldewin began to tell us what he knew and his involvement in our ‘situation’—for lack of a better term.
“ . . . Ah, three days ago, I receive a telephone call from headquarters. I was told that Padré Mason was suddenly taken ill. In the ambulance on the way to hospital, the old priest asked for me and spoke about Padré Savina. And repeatedly blamed himself for putting Savina in danger.”
“These may have been the ramblings of a feeble, sick, old man,” said Kyle.
“Fable?” asked Baldewin.
“Feeble, feebleminded,” replied Kyle
“Debole di mete,” added Joe.
Baldewin shook his head, “No. He was weak, not feeble.”
Joe talked to Baldewin, again in Italian. As their conversation progressed, Baldewin became more animated with every word. And we soon learned why.
“Firmino says that his superiors believed Father Mason’s concerns because of who he was and by the circumstances in which he was found.”
“Which was?” asked Peterson, who, up to this time, had remained very quiet.
“Father Mason,” continued Joe, “was discovered in his room, on the floor, half-naked and panting for breath. His place was wrecked, vandalized. The few things that the poor man owned were thrown about the place. Books ripped opened, furniture knocked over, drawers pulled out and emptied.”
“Damn,” muttered Kyle.
“Who found the old guy?” I asked, “Was it Father Galamb?”
“I assume that it was—”
Baldewin interrupted Joe. They quickly exchanged words.
“It appears,” said Joe, looking a bit shaken, “to have been someone from the cleaning staff. Galamb, it seems, had been seen leaving Mason’s building about a half-hour before the cleaning lady’s discovery. And Galamb hasn’t been seen since.”
“Wasn’t it Galamb,” I asked, “who called you about Mason’s death?”
“It was.”
Baldewin leaned forward and looked at Joe. “Padré, when did when Padré Galamb telephone you about Mason’s death?”
“I was in a taxi . . .” said Joe. His eyes squinted behind his specs as if he were trying to see into the past, “ . . . I was on my way to the airport when my mobile buzzed. It was Galamb.”
“That was Monday morning, true?”
“Yes. It was a little after ten o’clock or so. Rome time, of course.”
“Are you sure that he called around ten o’clock?”
“The cab picked me up at my residence at ten. The driver was on time for a change. We went only a few blocks when I received Galamb’s call.”
“What did Galamb say, precisely?”
“He said that Mason had just died. The ambulance arrived too late to save him. Galamb went on to say that he was with Mason when he took his final breath. That was about it.”
“Did Galamb say anything more, Padré?”
“Well, he told me that the old man died peacefully but had no details for the exact cause of death. Galamb briefly talked about Mason’s many ailments concluding that any one of them could have been responsible for his death.”
Joe paused, look squarely at me. “Galamb did say that before Mason passed away, the old priest mentioned something about my going to Vermont for him. Galamb asked me why Mason would have me do that.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that possibly my errand may have been on Mason’s mind because he asked me to deliver a mass card to an old friend of his. Galamb agreed that the card for your uncle was probably the reason. Then he asked for your uncle’s address to be officially notified, as a courtesy, about Mason’s death. I gave it to him. And then he wished me well on my trip . . . Ooh, I may have mentioned to him when I was scheduled to land at JFK and hoped that the weather was good. As you remember, Rich, I have no fondness for flying. That was it. We said goodbye.”
“Interesting,” concluded Baldewin.
“How so?” chimed in Kyle.
“Mi scusi. Non capisco.”
Before Joe translated, Peterson asked, “Why is Padré Savina’s information interesting?”
“Ah, si. I understand. It is interesting because Padré Mason died on his way to the hospital at 11:15 PM, Rome time, about one hour after Galamb telephoned—”
“ —Joe, telling him that Mason was dead.” My finishing Baldewin’s sentence sent a shiver up my back and momentarily dampened the conversation. “Galamb told Joe that Mason was dead an hour before he actually died.”
It was Peterson who brought us back to task. “Doctor MacKenzie—” Suddenly, all eyes focused on me.
“Ah, yes, Deputy.”
Joe remained quietly thoughtful behind his coffee mug.
“Doctor MacKenzie, who is, I mean was, this Father Mason?”
Before I confessed my scant knowledge of the man, Baldewin spoke up. “He was a very dedicated, faithful, and capable priest. He had been an advisor to the Holy See and to popes since Pius XII. He was also my, ah, padrino . . . my godfather.”
“You really knew Father Mason!” reacted Joe with surprise.
“Of course. My family and I knew him for many years. He was friends with my uncle. The Padré and I worked on some eh, projects together.”
“Projects? What projects?” I asked.
“What projects were you involved in?” reiterated Kyle, jumping onto the questioning bandwagon.
“Ah, that I cannot tell you, except that it concerned the security of The Vatican and his Holiness. If you insist on asking me more about this, our conversation will become an international situation. A situation, I think, none of us want.” The warm, open conversation that was growing between Baldewin and us suddenly chilled. “I come to The States to help organize a visit by his Holiness. And I am here in Vermont to quietly look after Padré Joseph. I do not want to make trouble, Sheriff, but I can’t tell you more. I am sorry.”
Baldewin took a sip of his coffee. His face scrunched in disapproval. He then turned to Joe and asked, “You mentioned a mass card from Padré Borgata that you were to give to the Sheriff’s uncle, sì?”
“That is correct.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it to Richard.”
“May I see it?”
Obviously, our guest knew more than he was telling. And I was too tired to politely cope with his dodging our questions.
“Firmino,” I said, feigning familiarity while summoning up my old teacher persona, “what else do you know about this, eh, situation?”
“I’m sorry, ah, but I can’t tell you anything about it.”
“Firmino, we don’t want you to do something that you sh
ouldn’t do. But we do need to know more about why you are here, and who are the people that attacked Joe?”
“As I say, I am sorry—”
Then I snapped.
“Our uncle was bludgeoned to death yesterday—”
Kyle was about to correct me, but I shot him such a stern look that it caused him immediately to swallow his words and to sit straight up in his chair. Joe, too, bit his tongue for the moment and refrained from comment.
“—So, I am in no mood for your lack of cooperation. If you don’t answer our questions, I guarantee that there will be an international incident. I can see the newspaper headlines now, ‘Vatican Sends Assassin to Kill Local War Hero’—my uncle!” I knew that I was exaggerating, but the blood was up, and my mouth outpaced its pauser—reason.
“I am not an assassin! I did not kill your uncle. I protected Padré Joseph.”
“And I thank you for that,” responded Joe. “But for God’s sake, help us, Firmino. We need to know what is happening. Other people may die.”
That must have hit a nerve with Baldewin. He suddenly looked troubled, unsure. He tapped the table with his index finger. Joe must have seen his reaction too and continued to speak to his Swiss acquaintance calmly and reassuringly. In the manner of a high school guidance counselor, Joe used his well-practiced pastoral and bilingual skills on Baldewin to get him ‘to spill the beans,’ as they say.
“Why were you asked to watch me? Who is trying to hurt me?”
Baldewin glared at all of us silently. His confident demeanor had turned into something else. He started to talk.
#
CHAPTER 13
“Gentlemen, I cannot tell you everything that I know about this . . . eh, situation,” warned Baldewin, his voice quivering a bit as he spoke.
“Of course not,” I said snidely.
“No, of course not,” added Joe, more empathetically. “We wouldn’t want you to violate your conscience.”
“Yes, we Vermonters are very conscientious folk,” blurted in my brother.
Joe and I looked at each other, shook our heads.
“But,” continued Joe, “you know more than what you have told us.”
“Yes, that is true,” replied Baldewin. “I have my loyalty and obligations to the Holy See. Yet after you being attacked and arriving in Vermont . . . well, Padré, this situation troubles me.”
“Maybe telling us a little more about what you know could help to ease your conscience.”
“What do you mean?” charily asked Baldewin.
“I sense that you are uncomfortable about your assignment. You said so yourself, just now, that this situation troubles you. What is it that troubles you?”
“I come to Vermont only to watch over you, Padré,” protested Baldewin. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I am very grateful that you saved me from getting a terrible beating . . . maybe even, saved my life. And we believe you when you say that you didn’t kill—”
“Joe,” I protested, “this guy—” Joe put up his hand and gave me a glance of disapproval. I took the hint. Reluctantly, I kept my mouth shut—for a while.
Securing my silence, Joe brought his attention back to our guest. “And we really don’t think you killed the Sheriff’s uncle.”
Baldewin let an audible sigh of relief.
“You really scared those guys who were attacking me,” cajoled Joe. “They were roughing me up pretty badly. When you arrived, they took off like bats out of hell.”
“I am happy that I came to your rescue, Padré.”
“Like in an American Western movie, eh?” remarked Joe.
“Sì, like John Wayne leading the US Cavalleria.”
On that cinematic reference, Baldewin started to talk to us. Joe and I carefully guided the discussion to get as much information as possible before Baldewin maybe decided to clam up again. Peterson sat pensively taking notes on his little pad and only asked a question every now and then for clarification. Kyle’s contribution to the cause was some pertinent questions to verify Baldewin’s identity and about his service to the Vatican. Otherwise, Kyle just sat, listened, and ate the breakfast leftovers.
Aided by Joe, who skillfully flipped from English to Italian whenever our guest’s vocabulary fell short, our kitchen interrogation lasted for more than an hour. To my dismay, the information that our Swiss national brought to the table really didn’t help to answer any questions concerning my uncle’s death. Instead, it only added more mystery to Uncle Raymond’s enigmatic life. I thank my lucky stars that Peterson was an excellent notetaker. The young deputy did a yeoman’s service that day in my kitchen, considering the personalities who were there and the language difficulties. However, I did reach an undeniable conclusion as Baldewin’s story unfolded—the mysterious circumstances around my uncle’s death had a connection to the time when he was stationed in Austria. Our session came to an end when Kyle offered Baldewin half of his ham and cheese sandwich—part of a small repast that my brother had quickly rewarded himself with while making another pot of coffee.
In short, Baldewin’s story was this. Near the end of the Allied Occupation of Austria, Father Mason was involved in a clandestine operation to get a German Roman Catholic priest named Andreas Steinmetz out of the Soviet zone of the country.
This Steinmetz, Baldewin said, was a historian and an expert on pre-Christian Northern European cultures. In 1932, he became a Northern European language professor at Pazmany Peter University, Budapest, Hungary, where he stayed until 1953. But in 1953, he became a person of ‘special interest’ by the Russians for his strong anti-communist leanings. At the same time, he was sought by the other Allied powers for his pro-Nazi sympathies during the war. A day before Steinmetz was to be detained by the Soviet authorities, as the story goes, he left Budapest and made his way into the Soviet Occupation Zone of Austria. There he hid for several months and somehow got Mason involved in the situation.
At this point in his story, I asked Baldewin why the Vatican would be interested in a pro-Nazi priest. He flatly said that he didn’t actually know. But Joe speculated on several possible reasons. One was the natural inclination of the Church to protect its priests from the Communists. Another reason could have been that Father Steinmetz’s fascist activities had made him a tragic embarrassment for Mother Church, and the Church authorities wanted him ‘put under wraps,’ so to speak, in the Vatican. A third possibility Joe gave was that Bishop Alois Hudal, an Austrian cleric living in Rome at the time—and not in the Vatican—could have taken a personal interest in Steinmetz’s safety.
“Who is this Bishop Hudal?” I asked.
“He was a conservative Austrian bishop in charge of the congregation of Santa Maria dell’Anima in Rome during the war. It was Bishop Hudal who had secretly organized, I regret to say, many of the Ratlines—a type of underground railroad for Nazis to escape from Europe during the late 1940s and early 50s.”
“A pro-Nazi bishop?”
“Yep,” said Joe, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “And just steps away from the Vatican, too.”
“How could he reconcile his conscience with the Nazi atrocities?”
“If I remember correctly, Hudal insisted that it was the liberal wing of the Nazi party—Himmler, Goering, and those guys—who were responsible for the atrocities.”
“And Hitler?”
“Hudal said that Hitler was a conservative Nazi, and the conservatives did not participate in the atrocities. The deluded soul went to his grave, strongly believing that Hitler never knew about the crimes committed in his name. Obviously, Hudal, like Steinmetz, had become an embarrassment for the Church after the war; he was eventually forced to retire.”
“Interesting . . . but does this mean that Father Mason was also a pro-Nazi sympathizer?”
Joe and Baldewin had a quick chat in Italian, and the Swiss grew agitated.
“No,” sharply declared Baldewin. “I knew Padré Mason since I was a little boy. He and my uncle were friends. They told
stories of how they hide downed Allied airmen in Rome from the Germans. Padré Mason was anti-communist and anti-fascist. He hated the Nazis.”
“He hated them so much that he wanted to help one of them to escape.” My sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed.
“Yes, he detested them,” growled back Baldewin. “That is why I believe he was ordered to do it.”
“By Bishop Hudal?” concluded Joe.
“Sì, or by someone in high position.”
“And so,” I replied, “Mason was just following orders, eh. I’ve heard that excuse before.”
“It doesn’t matter,” countered Baldewin. “Padré Steinmetz was killed when he was crossing over the border into the Allied Zone, near Linz.” Our guest took a breath and then calmly asked, “Ah, that reminds me. Sheriff, may I have my passport returned now.”
After reaching into his pocket, my brother slid all of Baldewin’s paperwork across the kitchen table to him. Baldewin thumbed through his black leather passport holder. He pulled out a raggedy, yellowing newspaper clipping and gave it to me. It was an article from the L’Osservatore Romano, and, of course, it was in Italian. I could only guess what it said. But the photo that accompanied the article made my toes curl.
“You see,” Baldewin continued to explain.
I saw something, but I didn’t understand the significance.
“Please, read,” our guest insisted.
“I can’t read Italian. But the photo—”
“Oh, excuse me . . . Ah, well, the newspaper story tells about Padré Mason trying to get Steinmetz across the border. It says that both Steinmetz and Mason were shot in the activity. Steinmetz died in a nearby hospital.”
“But this photo—”
“Ah, the picture is of Mason when he was leaving the hospital near Linz. The man on crutches, on Padré Mason’s right side, is my Uncle Max. He was also shot. He was hit in his right leg.”
“There are also two American soldiers standing at Mason’s left,” I said impatiently.
“They were the ones who came to my Uncle Max’s, Padré Mason’s, and Steinmetz’s assistance at the border.”
I eagerly showed Kyle the newspaper article, and his mouth dropped. He quickly collected himself to say, “Holy smoke! That’s—”
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 14
