“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.