Death's Door (17 page)

“He seems quite capable, although I don’t know much about butlers. I have a cousin who was a housemaid, though.”

“You Irish are lighthearted, indeed. It must be from living on an island with a cold sea between you and your enemies. We Croats are too wary of knives at our throats to joke so much.”

“Shouldn’t we go find Soletto now?” I had to get out of there before I gave him a history lesson that might involve a right hook.

“Certainly, if now is convenient for you,” Zlatko said. He stood, smoothing down his black cassock and adjusting the scarlet sash. Then he spoke, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “One thing you should remember about Saint Peter. He was first called Simon, and only later became known as Peter. When Jesus said to him, ‘on this rock I will build my church,’ he may have been making a joke at his disciple’s expense.”

“What kind of joke?”

“Peter—
Petros
—means rock in Greek. It may have been a commentary on Simon Peter’s mental prowess more than his steadfastness. Remember, he was the one who denied Jesus three times after he was arrested.”

“I don’t follow your meaning, Bishop.”

“As a matter of doctrine, the Pope is infallible. But we should also remember that the Church of Rome was founded by a mortal, one who needed help and assistance, as does the Holy Father today.”

He smiled and bobbed his head, letting me know he was ready to leave. A gentleman. He’d never raised his voice, never shown a glimpse of anger. But as we left, I knew that hatred simmered beneath that smooth skin and that soft voice, and a line had been drawn. I also had the feeling that I’d been interrogated, and that Zlatko had gotten a lot more out of the conversation than I had.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
HE
T
RIBUNAL
P
ALACE
that housed the Gendarmerie Corps was a squat, five-story structure that would have been at home in any city stateside—plain and unassuming, with a main entrance like any other police headquarters. A flag flapping in the breeze, guards at the door, and a handful of officers off to the side, smoking cigarettes and talking. They glanced at us, with that sideways look cops give when assessing a newcomer or a potential threat. Their eyes didn’t linger. Bishops were commonplace, and another harmless priest didn’t rate a second look.

If it weren’t for their fancy-pants uniforms, the Vatican gendarmes could have been cops anywhere. But they still wore a getup from the last century, with white pants and a black short coat, complete with gold epaulets and silver buttons. Napoleon would have felt right at home under one of their red-plumed hats. As a guard opened the door for Bishop Zlatko, I noted their sidearms were strictly twentieth century, .32-caliber Berettas in shiny, black leather holsters.

Soletto’s office was on the third floor. The walls along the corridor were hung with the portraits of generations of Vatican cops, mostly dressed in the same getup. The floor was marble, inlaid with the crossed-keys crest of the Holy See. A guard at the double doors to Soletto’s office opened them for Zlatko, with me in tow. Were we expected, or was the bishop a regular visitor? With Soletto
supposedly pro-fascist, and Zlatko friendly with the pro-Axis Croatian government, it made sense. The door shut behind us with a decisive, quiet sound, the kind that comes from centuries of craftsmanship, not the low-bid, thin sound of a Boston city government office.

Soletto had himself a big piece of real estate at the corner of the building, and I almost had to squint to make him out across the expanse of carpet. His desk was right in front of a window with a magnificent view of Saint Peter’s. The light shining in made it hard to focus on his features, and I could tell he knew it.

“Benvenuto, Vescovo,”
Soletto said as he rose to greet the bishop. They exchanged rapid-fire Italian as we walked to the chairs set in front of the massive desk. Polished walnut with a deep, dark color, it was probably an antique when the Boyles were still in Ireland. It held one telephone, an ornate model with gleaming brass, a blotter, a fountain pen, and one folder, which took up about a tenth of the space. The rest Soletto probably used to check his reflection. He was a stocky fellow, with wiry, graying hair. He had the look of a politician about him, that attention to grooming that marks a guy who wants the world to notice him. Since there wasn’t much ordinary criminal activity within the Holy See—no prostitutes, drinking, or gambling must do a lot to keep the crime rate down—I figured his job was mostly political, which maybe meant crooked too.

“My English, not good,” Soletto said.

“Il mio italiano non è perfetto,”
I said, trying to say the same thing back to him about my Italian. It was a practiced phrase, and got a laugh. Soletto opened a drawer, offered cigarettes, and he and Zlatko lit up. They were Echt Orients, a common German brand. Not a good start.

“Please thank the
commissario
for seeing me,” I said. “Any help he can provide will be greatly appreciated.”

Zlatko translated, and Soletto blew smoke in my face as he answered in staccato Italian.

“Commissario Soletto says he is seeing you as instructed by the Pontifical Commission,” Zlatko said. “He considers the investigation closed and the guilty party has been turned over to the proper
authorities. As you would be,” Zlatko added with a hint of apology in his voice, “if he had the authority to do so.”

“I understand,” I said. “I was a police officer myself before the war, and I would not stand for any hint of interference either.” I waited for that to get through, hoping for some brotherly solidarity.

“The
commissario
says you are still a spy now, and should be handed over to the Germans for violating the neutrality of the Holy See. He says that as a fellow officer of the law, you should understand his position.”

The Boyle charm was obviously failing. Zlatko gave a little shrug, as if to say,
What did you expect?

“Ask him what specific evidence he has against Severino Rossi, and if I may see it,” I said. I’d dropped the word “please.” That would show him.

As Zlatko spoke, Soletto turned to look out the window, admiring his view. From here, I could almost see where Rossi had been found among the colonnades.

“
È Ebreo
,” Soletto said. “
Con il sangue sulle sue mani
.”

“He is a Jew,” Zlatko said. “With blood on his hands.”

“Really? On his hands? I thought it was only on his clothes? Or are we talking metaphorically?”

“Do you really want me to ask him that question?”

“For laughs, yes.”

Zlatko did so, and Soletto answered angrily. “He says it makes no difference,” Zlatko said. “Rossi was covered in blood, Monsignor Corrigan was dead. It was enough for him. He suggests you take matters up with the Gestapo if you wish to learn more.”

“Does he know if Rossi is still alive?” As I spoke, I thought I saw a reaction on Soletto’s face. Did he understand English better than he let on? If so, what was it about the question that caused that quick blink, the look away, as if he had something to hide? Or something he didn’t want to face.

“He does not know,” Zlatko said when the translation was complete. “The Gestapo does not keep the Holy See informed on such matters.”

“One last question, then. Ask him why he thinks Monsignor Corrigan dragged himself up to the top step at Death’s Door.” Zlatko ran that by Soletto, but I’d seen his eye widen as soon as I said it. His English was maybe not as poor as he claimed.

“Where did you hear that?” Soletto growled, waving off Zlatko.

“Is it the truth?”

“There was a struggle. Monsignor Corrigan, he bled everywhere.
Molto sangue
.” He shrugged at the sadness of it all.

“I saw a distinct trail of blood in the photographs. The ones your gendarmes took.”

“All you had to do was ask,” Soletto said, stretching out his arms. “We would have provided them to you. You cannot rely on someone who takes bribes.”

“I agree. Your English is very good, Commissario.”

“There are so many Englishmen here these days, one has the opportunity to practice,” Soletto said. “I would prefer to keep to Italian, but the
Inglesi
do not bother to learn it. You said that was your last question, yes?”

“You didn’t really answer it. Are you certain Monsignor Corrigan did not move from where he was left?”

“He could not have. His injuries were too severe.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said, rising from my chair. There was something Soletto was hiding, something that made him nervous. There was no reason he should be, nothing that I could pin on him. Rossi was dead or in the Regina Coeli. Case closed.

Or was it? I felt for the diamond that was in my pocket. It was a long shot, but if Soletto was in cahoots with the killer, then a wedge between them might do the trick.

“By the way, have you found any more diamonds?”

“Diamanti?”

“Yeah, like this one.” I held the sparkling gem up between my thumb and forefinger, letting it catch the light.

“More diamonds, you said?” Zlatko asked. “Where were the others?”

Soletto looked confused, his thick eyebrows knitted together.

“The killer—the real killer—hid them in the one place he knew was safe. Corrigan’s room. He must have gotten in after you had it searched, Commissario. Or did you miss that loose floorboard? A small fortune, maybe more, I’m not a jeweler.”

“Those diamonds are evidence!” Soletto bellowed, banging his fist on the table.

“But the case is closed, Commissario. You said so yourself. I will turn them over to the Pontifical Commission, as soon as my investigation is complete.
Buongiorno
.”

I walked out as calmly as I could. There was dead silence until I cleared the door, then more shouting and fist-banging, which told me our little chat had been worthwhile. I’d expected the cold shoulder, for a lot of reasons. A cop protecting his turf and pro-fascist tendencies were at the top of the list.

One thing I could always count on was greed. If there were more diamonds—and outside of a rich dame’s ring, they seldom traveled alone—then I’d bet that’s what the killer used to pay off Soletto. The phony line about more diamonds unaccounted for might lead Soletto to think the murderer was holding out on him. Or plant the idea he could squeeze him for more. Either way, my hope was that Soletto was now a loose cannon, rolling toward a killer who thought he was home free.

I made it outside without being arrested or shot, which was a relief. Now I had to find Kaz and see if he remembered to check on the keys, or if he’d spent the whole afternoon sightseeing with the princess. Then get a haircut, which might lead to information about Diana, although the connection was definitely lost on me.

I walked back to the scene of the crime to look at it again. I imagined it in the hours before dawn. Severino Rossi asleep, hidden behind one of the colonnades. Corrigan standing by the door, his killer close. They had to know each other, or at least the killer hadn’t seemed a threat. It would have been easy enough to yell out, to attract the attention of one of the Swiss Guard, if not a nearby German. Interesting, I thought. This area was close enough to the border line that one of the Krauts on patrol could have seen or heard something.
Too much of a long shot, I decided, so I’d go back over the little I knew for sure.

Corrigan is stabbed, several times, until the knife finds its fatal mark. He collapses, and falls just inside the Gendarmerie jurisdictional line. Or drags himself there. I thought about the blood. There’d been a lot of it, from multiple stab wounds. I could see the killer removing his coat and laying it on the sleeping Rossi, then stealing off into the night, leaving behind a dead monsignor and a sleeping fugitive Jew, covered in a blood-soaked coat.

A scapegoat if there ever was one.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I
FINALLY TRACKED
Kaz down. Not by finding him, but by asking where Princess Nini Pallavicini hung her hat, beret, or tiara. Being the keen investigator that I am, I cornered Kaz in no time. He and the princess were having tea. My first success at detection in the Vatican.

The princess was housed in the Hospice Santa Marta, not far from the German College. Nuns in steel-blue habits with giant white coifs that looked like sails gathering wind worked in the ground-floor refectory, preparing food for the refugees and families of diplomats who were housed there. Kaz and his princess were in a nearby sitting room, sipping tea from delicate china, while Mary, holding the baby Jesus, looked down on them from an ancient painting.

“Father Boyle, please join us,” she said.

“Thank you, Princess, but tea isn’t my drink. I need to talk with Kaz, if you don’t mind.”

“Please, call me Nini. ‘Princess’ is so tiresome, and Piotr has told me some remarkable stories about you. I feel we are already friends.”

“Okay, if you’ll call me Billy,” I said as I took a seat. “But don’t believe everything he says.”

“Then you are not General Eisenhower’s nephew, and not the great American detective, second only to Dick Tracy?” Nini let a playful smile dance across her lips while Kaz blushed.

“Dick Tracy’s only in the funny papers,” I said. “And the general
and I are distant cousins of some sort, but since he’s older, I call him uncle, although not in public. It’s not the kind of thing I spread around when I’m in a German-occupied city.” I gave Kaz a hard glare, but I wasn’t too worried about Nini blabbering to anyone. She looked like a dame who could take care of herself.

“I am sorry, Billy,” Kaz said. “It came out in conversation.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Did you manage to squeeze in any time to look into the matter we discussed, what with sightseeing and teatime?”

“Well, Nini did take a few minutes to show me the excavations in the necropolis under the basilica. Did you know they found what may be the bones of Saint Peter himself?”