CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kaz and I were hunkered down in the shadows of a grove of conifers, between the Governatorato and the gardener’s place. It gave us a clear view of the route between the cottage and Santa Marta. It would have been easier-not to mention warmer-to grab the thief indoors, but there was no place to hide where he wouldn’t spot us. We’d donned heavy coats, scarves, and gloves, but there was a cold, damp wind blowing and I would have been tempted to call it a night, except that I wanted this guy for my own reasons.
I’d filled Kaz in on my conversation with O’Flaherty and Rino Messina. He didn’t like much of what I had to say, especially the part where I told him I didn’t want him tagging along on my little jaunt through the Regina Coeli. He told me he hadn’t spotted anyone suspicious, but John May had come up with a carton of canned salmon, which he delivered to Nini in the refectory with enough secrecy to insure that only a practiced eye would catch what was going on. His timing had been perfect: right after dinner, when it was too late to serve the salmon, but when most people were still sitting at the tables. Smart guy.
It was nearing midnight, and I figured we didn’t have long to wait. Electricity was rationed, and the power had been off for hours. Vatican City didn’t boast much of a nightlife.
“We’re doing great on the case of the purloined rations,” I whispered to Kaz. “And I caught a break on getting to Diana. I wonder if we’re going to get anywhere with Corrigan’s murder.”
“For all we know, the murderer could have left the Vatican,” Kaz said.
“If that’s true, we’re dead in the water,” I said.
“Look, there!” Kaz whispered as he tugged on my sleeve and pointed to a figure moving from the direction of the Governatorato, but too distant to be heading to the gardener’s place. “Perhaps he will loop around, to see if anyone is watching.”
“Maybe,” I said, but it didn’t add up. The Vatican Gardens at night wasn’t exactly a high-crime area. In the light of the half-moon, I could make out the dark form, but there was no way to tell who he was or how he was dressed. He cut through a line of shrubs and disappeared. The only thing in that direction was the Vatican radio tower.
“Probably late for work at the station,” Kaz said. “I hope he did not scare off our man.” Frost plumed from his mouth as he spoke and the cold settled into our bones as we waited, watching the house and the approaches around it. Then we saw him. He kept to the shadows without drawing attention to himself. He didn’t dart about but walked confidently, carrying a sack slung over his shoulder, with the jaunty air of someone out for a midnight stroll. A guy used to nighttime getaways. He was headed straight for the cottage. I nodded to Kaz and we made our move.
“Hold it,” I said as I ran in front of him. Kaz grabbed the sack and held the guy’s arm as I took stock of our catch. He wore a US Army Air Force sheepskin-lined leather flight jacket with sergeant’s stripes. “What are you doing out so late, flyboy?”
“What’s it to you, padre? ” He stuck out his jaw defiantly as he spoke in a thick New York accent out of a Dead End Kids movie. “Hey, gimme that back.” He made a lunge for Kaz, who was opening the cloth sack.
“Easy, sarge,” I said as I grabbed a wrist and twisted it behind his back. “What’s in there, Kaz?”
“Youse ain’t no priests,” he said. “What’s your game?”
“Ah, the good sergeant must have been fishing, Billy. He has a nice supply of salmon in here. And a can of condensed milk.”
“I got that fair and square, and the milk is for the kids,” he said, grabbing at the bag with his free hand.
“Yeah, fair and square with some help from the picks you made for yourself in the basement. What’s your name, sarge?”
“Abe. Who the hell are you?”
“That’s a long story, Abe. Full name and outfit.”
“Abe Seidman, Ninety-eighth Bomb Group. My B-17 got shot down over Viterbo coupla weeks ago. One other guy made it out, but I never hooked up with him. Made my way here and snuck in past them Swiss Guards.” His eyes darted about as I let go of his arm, so I grabbed it again to keep him from bolting.
“How’d you manage that?”
“I had a ratty overcoat I picked up to hide the flight jacket, but it wouldn’t get me far. So I clocked this Kraut walking alone down the street, with these knuckle-dusters.” With his free hand he drew out brass knuckles, fitting them onto his hand. “I took his boots, long coat, and cap and walked in like a tourist. No way I was going to let those Nazi shits nab me. I’m Jewish, says so right on my dog tags. Look, I still got the bastard’s boots.” I didn’t look down to check, but kept my eyes on the lethal brass knuckles.
“Listen, Abe, I’m going to let your wrist go, but after you put those away. Then we talk, okay?” I watched him for some sign of resistance. He had a strong jaw, wide mouth, and dark eyes that darted between Kaz and me, assessing the situation.
“Okay, but I still want to know who you guys are and what the hell you’re up to.”
“Fair enough,” I said, easing up on my grip as Abe stashed his weapon. Bells began to toll the midnight hour from the basilica and all the other nearby churches. They were loud but soothing, the kind of sound that makes you think all is right with the world. But then, a shriek ripped through the night, followed by a louder, terrible scream.
“What the hell,” said Abe. “Over there.” He pointed to the radio tower.
“Come on,” I said. “Abe, stay with us. It’s a small place, we’ll find you if you hoof it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, taking off ahead of us, leaving the sack with Kaz. We sprinted to catch up, making our way up the hill where the stone tower stood with the tall antennae reaching into the night sky.
We could have saved our breath.
Dark shadows and moonlight played across the body as the wind flogged the branches of the evergreens overhead. Beneath them, yards from the door to the radio tower, Commissario Filberto Soletto lay on his back, mouth open in surprise, or perhaps horror. Soletto’s jacket was open, his white shirt stained red. I had the terrible feeling that I had sent him here on a mission of greed, determined to get a larger share of diamonds.
“That’s a helluva way for a bull to end up,” Abe said. “Took a shiv to the heart.”
“How do you know he’s a cop?” I asked. “He’s not in uniform.”
“Pays to case any joint you’re going to spend time in, don’t it? His name is Soletto, head cop around here. I heard he’s on the take with the Fascist police, so I made it a habit to steer clear. Can’t be too careful, there’s a war on, ya know?”
“What do we do now, Billy?” Kaz asked. Damn good question, too.
Before I could suggest hightailing it, a nearby door opened and several figures emerged. There was no light, even from inside, because of the blackout.
“La santa madre di Dio,” a voice said, the speaker almost stumbling on the body as others from behind pushed forward. It was Monsignor Bruzzone, eyeing us uncertainly. “Who did this?”
“No idea,” I said. “Didn’t you hear the screams?” It seemed they should have made it to the body before us, given the distance we had to cross.
“No, we were in a soundproof room, doing the broadcast.” This voice came from Robert Brackett, who stepped closer and knelt beside the body.
“What broadcast?” I asked, wondering about Brackett’s mental state after what Nini had told us. He must have been in one of his good moods to be out this late.
“Vatican Radio broadcasts the names of POWs we get from the Red Cross, to let relatives know they are alive,” Bruzzone explained. “Tonight it was Americans. We always hand over the list to the ranking diplomat when it is over.”
“Monsignor, I suggest you call in the gendarmes. They’ll have a lot of questions.”
“I can only imagine,” he said as he retreated into the building.
Brackett reached out to check Soletto’s pulse, but then thought better of it. Dead was dead.
“What is this?” A sharp voice broke through the night air. Bishop Zlatko appeared on the path, carrying a briefcase.