Death's Door (18 page)

“That’s great, Kaz, but what about the keys?” Kaz was about the smartest guy I knew. That meant he knew a lot about everything, so sometimes it made it hard for him to focus on just one thing. Especially when a beautiful princess was leading the way.

“Yes, yes, the keys. We found the porter’s office in the Medieval Palace. He keeps copies of all the keys hung on the wall behind his desk. He also delivers mail within the building, takes messages, and runs other errands.”

“Not to mention he was sound asleep,” Nini said. “We could have robbed the poor man blind.”

“So anyone could have taken the keys to Corrigan’s room, and replaced them?”

“It would be easy,” Kaz said. “Within the Vatican, there has been little personal property or theft to worry about.”

“Nini,” I said, figuring Kaz had filled her in on everything by now, “have you heard anything about diamonds?”

“Other than wonder which Nazi swine stole mine? No. I am sure some of the refugees here have valuable jewels, simply because they are easy to carry and hide.”

“Can you think of any reason why Monsignor Corrigan would have one in his room?”

“One makes little sense. If a refugee had diamonds, he might give them to a trusted person to sell for food or identity papers. But
one? Let me see it.” I gave her the diamond, and she held it up to the light. “Very nice. I can see no flaws. One diamond like this would fetch a good price. A handful of these, a fortune.”

“Severino Rossi was a jeweler by trade,” Kaz said, apparently having forgotten to share that tidbit.

“Well, he certainly knew his diamonds. It is quite beautiful.”

“Had you met him?” I asked. “Helping Monsignor O’Flaherty, perhaps?”

“No, no one by that name. I do not know what he looked like, so I cannot say for certain.”

“Where have you been, Billy?” Kaz asked, as Nini studied the glittering diamond.

“Turns out Brackett was actually useful. He got me in to see Soletto. I had to go with an escort from the Pontifical Commission, Bishop Zlatko. A real piece of work.”

“Zlatko is pro-Nazi,” Nini said. “He is practically an agent of the Croatian puppet state.”

“He’s also not too fond of Serbs, Jews, Protestants, and the Eastern Orthodox Church. And probably a few others we didn’t get around to talking about.”

“You must be careful, both of you,” Nini said. “There are factions within the commission, and it is obvious that the pro-German side won out. Zlatko will report anything you learned.”

“Well, that won’t take long. Soletto clammed up, insisting he’d caught the right man. But why did the commission need to send Zlatko along? Soletto is pro-fascist, isn’t he? An informer to the secret police?”

“Things are more subtle here, I am afraid,” Nini said with a sigh. “Yes, Soletto has connections with the OVRA, the Fascist security force. But they are finished here, since Mussolini fell from power. The factions within the commission operate on another level. They act to steer the Pope one way or the other. To show favor to the Nazis, or the Allies, or to remain steadfastly neutral. All this is beyond a simple informer like Soletto.”

“I’m beginning to think we’re going to cause more trouble than
this investigation is worth,” I said. “So far, all I’m certain of is that Rossi didn’t do it, unless he’s the dumbest killer on record.” I told them about my parting shot to Soletto, hoping he’d think his partner in crime was holding out on him.

“If there is a partner in crime,” Kaz said. “Commissario Soletto may simply be doing his duty as best he can. Perhaps we are going about this backward, assuming he is in on it.”

Backward. Kaz was right. I had something backward. “Kaz, you hit it out of the park with that one.” They both looked at me with quizzical expressions. “Baseball. A home run. Anyway, we were puzzled as to why Corrigan dragged himself up the steps to the basilica.”

“The blood trail I told you about,” Kaz said to Nini, who nodded quickly.

“But we were looking at it backward. He didn’t crawl. The killer dragged him up the steps. The struggle took place below Death’s Door, but in order for it to come under Soletto’s jurisdiction, the killer had to place the body on the steps of the basilica, since Saint Peter’s Square itself comes under Italian authority. There was no reason to do that unless he could count on the chief gendarme to close the matter quickly. If the Gestapo or the Fascist police got involved, the whole thing could have spun out of control. This way, the killer was apprehended, declared guilty, and handed over to the Germans. Case closed.”

“Piotr, a home run, how wonderful!” Nini said, patting Kaz’s hand with hers. He blushed again.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Kaz said, waving away the compliment while thoroughly enjoying it. “Your remark about there being more diamonds may work if Soletto is overly greedy, or quick to anger at having been given a paltry payoff.”

“He is both,” Nini said. “And I would not count on much from Mr. Brackett. That man is depressed much of the time. We don’t see him for weeks, then suddenly he appears, full of ideas and schemes. None of them amount to much. Be careful of both men, they can lead only to trouble.”

“We are forewarned,” Kaz said gallantly. “Billy, Nini has a problem to discuss with us. She needs our help.”

“It must be serious,” I said, keeping to myself the thought that if Kaz could have handled it, he would have fallen over himself to impress his princess.

“You know we have hundreds of Jews, POWs, antifascists, and even some German deserters hidden within the Vatican,” Nini began. “Monsignor O’Flaherty also has placed hundreds of others, mostly escaped British POWs, in hiding places throughout Rome.”

“Yes. A huge undertaking,” I said.

“Especially feeding all of them. We give money to families in Rome to buy what extra food they can, but here within the Vatican walls, everything has to be carefully hoarded and distributed fairly. The bombings have disrupted food deliveries, and there is little to be had in the markets when we can get to them.”

“Billy,” Kaz said, “someone is stealing food, here in this building. From a locked room.”

“Who keeps the keys here?” Given what Kaz had found in the palace, any number of people could have helped themselves.

“Sister Louise and I have the only keys to the storeroom. In better times, this building is a dormitory for religious visitors. Since so many people pass through, they keep things well guarded.”

“How many people know about the storeroom?” I asked.

“It is not a secret, but we don’t announce it either. All the sisters and those who help gather the food know of it. It is in the basement, and most residents have no reason to go down there.”

“How much is missing?”

“I noticed it three weeks ago,” the princess said. “At first only a few things, and I thought perhaps I miscounted. But every few days, more things went missing. A tin of jam or a bit of cheese. I was worried that one of our helpers was taking them, but I couldn’t believe it. We all work so hard to bring the food in, and there is never enough.” Her hand went up to her mouth, and for a brief moment the stress of danger and responsibility was etched on her face.

“Nini does not think it is one of her people,” Kaz said. “The
thefts last week were worse, more food taken, the best delicacies. Meat, cheese, tins of fish.”

“The meat and fish are carefully doled out, so everyone gets proper nutrition,” Nini said. “It could become serious.”

“And you find the room locked every time?”

“Yes, there is no trace of forced entry.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Show us.”

Nini led us downstairs, into a small basement room filled with discarded furniture covered in dust and cobwebs. A workbench ran along one wall, with old tools and wood shavings scattered over it. One bare bulb lit the scene, dimly illuminating a single stout wooden door. Nini reached for her key, but I raised my hand.

“Wait,” I said. “Do you have a flashlight, or a match?”

“What?” she said.

“A torch,” Kaz supplied. “Torcia.”

“No, but I do have a lighter.” She flicked it on as I knelt to study the lock. It was an old one, probably from the past century.

“It’s a lever tumbler lock,” I said, squinting to make out the marks around it in the faint glow. The light went out as it got too hot for Nini to hold, and Kaz took it from her.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the scrapes around the lock. “It’s been picked.”

“Those little scratches?” Kaz said. “They could be from missing the keyhole in the dark. That door has probably been there for hundreds of years.”

“Yeah, but this lock wasn’t invented until the end of the eighteenth century. In any case, when you miss with a key, it does leave a mark, but a small ding, not a long scratch like these.”

“What are they from?” Nini asked, leaning in as Kaz had to let the lighter go out.

“Lock-picking tools.”

“Who would have tools like that in the Vatican?” Kaz said.

“Anyone who knows how to use them would know how to make them,” I said, walking over to the workbench. I rummaged around until I came up with a length of thick, heavy wire. An awl. A hacksaw,
and pieces of scrap metal. “Everything a knowledgeable lock picker would need. Or locksmith, the only difference being in how the knowledge is used.”

“The thief made his own tools, here?” Kaz asked.

“Well, I doubt he came with them. All he needed for that lock was a tension wrench and a pick. It’s not a simple lock, but for someone who knows what he’s doing, it wouldn’t take long. Quicker each time.”

“So he simply pops down here whenever he’s hungry,” Kaz said. “Selfish of him.”

“So likely not a locksmith,” I said. “Most likely a B&E guy who never got caught.”

“Breaking and entering,” Kaz said, for Nini’s benefit.

“Luckily he hasn’t taken much, but what he has was the best of it,” she said.

“You said the amounts increased recently,” I said. “Would that have included a whole salami?”

“Yes,” Nini said. “Even Dick Tracy couldn’t have figured that out. How did you know?”

“A guess,” I said.

“A deduction,” Kaz corrected.

Back upstairs, we sat around as the sisters cleared the tea tray. I was getting hungry, and didn’t argue when they returned with bread, a bit of cheese, olives, and wine. Deducing is hard work.

“What next?” Kaz asked.

“We wait. And watch.”

“Who?”

“The gardener’s house,” I said in a low voice, putting a finger to my lips.

“That young girl?” Kaz said in disbelief.

“That young girl, who this morning held a bag of salami and other goodies. I didn’t think anything of it until Nini mentioned how rationed the meat was.”

“Rosana? She has two young children. How could she …?” Nini stopped herself, then said, “Aha.”

“Yeah. We may have a love-struck thief. Or one who is trying to impress her.”

“There are enough women here among the diplomat families who would give everything for that food. Some enthusiastically. But Rosana has been through a great deal. I don’t see her in that light.”

“How long has she been here?” I asked.

“Almost two weeks. She came in with the Sunday crowds, and asked a passing priest for help. Luckily he was a friend of Monsignor Corrigan. We were so full up, we had to put her and the children in the gardener’s cottage. She has been cooking and cleaning for him, and I think he likes the company.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in the north. She’s Jewish, and when her husband was taken she decided to make her way to Rome. She had false papers, but they were not very good. It’s a miracle she made it. Should I ask her who gave her the food?”

“No,” I said. “She may want to protect him. Kaz, why don’t you watch the gardener’s place. Nini, do you have any food you could bring in, something to tempt him with?”

“No, but I’m sure John May can raid the ambassador’s pantry for a good cause. I will get something tonight and bring it through the refectory when everyone is eating.” She picked up a wineglass, her small hand as delicate as the crystal.

“Perfect. Kaz, you find a spot tonight and keep watch. Be careful, and come get me once you spot this guy. Remember, he’s a professional criminal, so we don’t know what to expect.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“According to Monsignor O’Flaherty, I’m going to visit him and get a haircut.”

“Oh, you’ll like Rino. A charming man,” Nini said.

“You know him?” I asked.

“Yes, Rino Messina is one of us. He gives haircuts to the refugees and is a courier for the monsignor. He’s also a very good businessman.”

“How so?”

“He got the contract to provide barbering services at the Regina Coeli prison. Twice a month he spends a full day there. Rino gives the guards a trim, free of charge. He has the run of the place. You and he should find much to talk about.”

“Has he seen …?” I stopped and looked at Kaz.

“Yes, Billy, I told Nina about Sister Justina.”

“Has he seen her?” I asked. Hoped. Begged.

“Yes, after she was first taken in a roundup. She was not harmed.”

“But that was a while ago.”

“Yes. We have had no word since then. Which is not always bad news,” she hastened to add. “Relatives are always notified when a prisoner dies in custody. There is hope, Billy.” She let her hand rest on my arm, as I tried to find any hope in the fact that Diana was alive but lost in the depths of a Gestapo prison.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

K
AZ AND
I had dinner in the refectory. Nini served food alongside the nuns and we both took small portions, not wanting to appear greedy after they’d already fed us lunch. It wasn’t much. Pasta with a bit of olive oil, garlic, and turnips. It filled the belly, but I found myself getting even angrier at the thief who deprived these people of something extra.

At the long tables, families sat together, parents and children speaking Spanish and Portuguese, languages of the latest nations whose diplomats had sought refuge here. A group of Italian men sat together, looking dejected, eating in silence. Some were dressed in worn suits, others in uniform. After the fall of Mussolini, some Italian troops fought against the Germans when they entered Rome. It was a brave stand, but not well planned. These men were the lucky survivors. The rest of the gathered diners were escaped POWs, their uniforms cleaned and mended, but showing the wear and tear from months or years of captivity. It was easy to spot the newest POWs. Their uniforms were in better shape and they still had muscle on their bones. The others, especially the Eighth Army veterans of North Africa, were thin and gaunt, their light desert khaki shirts barely held together. There were a lot of Brits, with a sprinkling of Americans, mostly airmen who’d been shot down over Italy.