“I don’t think he did. I think the killer planted it there, to draw suspicion away from himself and create confusion. I’d bet that the killer paid Soletto in diamonds to finger Rossi as the murderer and get rid of him quickly.”
“The blood,” big guy said. He was right with me.
“Yes, the blood. After the struggle, the killer dragged Corrigan up the steps, into your jurisdiction. And he learned something too.”
“What?” He said it with a lift of the brow that told me he’d already figured that one out.
“He made a mess of things stabbing Corrigan. But he finally found the spot. Up through the rib cage, into the heart. Just like the single thrust that killed Soletto, between the third and fourth ribs.”
“Commissario Soletto searched the monsignor’s room himself,” thin lips said. “But he did so without assistance.” He raised an eyebrow in the direction of his boss, who shrugged that most elegant of Italian shrugs, the one that says, Perhaps, yes, but we will never know, and sadly that is the way of the world.
“I told Soletto that I had found more diamonds,” I said.
They looked stunned. Thin lips looked to big guy, who rubbed his chin. “But that was not true,” he said.
“Right. I wanted Soletto to think the killer had held out on him.”
Some quick Italian went back and forth between them.
“It appears, then, that you are responsible, at least indirectly, for the commissario’s murder,” thin lips said, writing in his notebook. “You caused him to press the killer for more diamonds, if we are to believe your theory.”
“No. Greed caused him to do that. And fear probably caused Corrigan’s killer to take another life.”
“Fear of being blackmailed?”
“Maybe. Or fear of someone who would always know what he did.”
“Colpa,” said big guy. “Guilt.”
“Yes. Very Catholic, colpa.”
“Andiamo,” he said to thin lips, who closed his notebook and left the room. “Some things are best said to few people, eh? You think a priest is the killer?”
“I think it is a man with much to lose. There are others here, but refugees have already lost almost everything. My money is on someone who still has position and power. Otherwise, what would be the point?”
“Yes, many have taken sanctuary here. Also diplomats. Brackett. He is a little strange, yes?”
“I’ve heard that. But not strange enough to kill. I don’t think he’s the type.”
“I agree. He is — malinconico? ”
“Melancholy. And at times the opposite. I think he has been here too long.”
“Like the Germans, yes?” He dug out a pack of cigarettes from inside his uniform jacket and offered me one. I declined, but I was glad we were on friendlier terms now.
“Yeah, like them. You’ll be glad to see them go?”
“They and the Fascists with them. Italy is in ruins, all for what? Mussolini and his empire? Bah!”
“I take it you and Soletto didn’t agree on politics?”
“You must understand this about the Holy See. There are factions and factions within factions. Yet we all work here, in this same space. For the Church. For His Holiness. We fight among ourselves, but never with him. This is not like the world. Not like your world. You should not have come.”
“A murder was committed. A good man was killed.”
“Yes, a great loss. But so many people are dead. And now one more. For what? Nothing. The commissario did not bring justice, but he also did not threaten the Holy See.”
“And I do?”
“Yes, I think so. Before, all sides balance each other. Capisci? Now you come, and Soletto is dead. Bishop Zlatko speaks against you to the Pontificia Commissione. Maybe the Germans find out about you and come for you. More dead. I do not threaten; I warn. The commissione will act. You go.”
“How much time do I have?”
“They like to talk. So I give you one day, no longer.”
“Then I’d better hurry. May I see the body? Commissario Soletto?”
His narrowed eyes drilled into me as he ground out the cigarette with his heel. Then he stood, and pulled at his blue tunic, straightening it out. “Let us see if he helps you more dead than when he was alive. Come.”
We didn’t have to go far. The small morgue was down a dank hallway. An attendant wearing a leather apron was pouring a bucket of water over Soletto’s naked body, laid out on metal table. His clothes were stacked and folded on a nearby desk.
“Nothing unusual in his pockets,” my new friend said after speaking with the attendant and pawing through the stuff. He leaned over the wound, squinting in the light of the bare bulb above. “Look.”
It was pretty much as I thought. Between the third and fourth ribs, left center. He clearly duplicated the thrust that finally brought Corrigan down. No wild slashing this time, but one single wound straight to the heart. I felt the attendant’s eyes on me, and realized he was waiting for me to do something holy, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“That wasn’t a wide blade,” I said. The entrance wound was small, a clean cut. “But sharp.”
“Of course,” he said. “The misericorde. How stupid of me.”
“The what?”
“Let us collect your friends, quickly. I know where the murder weapon is. If it has been returned.”
I followed in his wake as he shouted orders that gendarmes jumped to obey. Doors slammed and men scattered as he moved upstairs. He introduced himself as Inspector Cipriano and still called me Father Boyle, even though he knew differently. Kaz and Abe appeared, and within seconds we were off, trailed by a couple of gendarmes, the first rays of dawn lighting our way. I really didn’t need Abe tagging along, but I didn’t want to cut him loose either. I had plans for the little crook.
“Where are we going?” I asked, gasping for breath. Cipriano was damn fast for a big guy.
“The barracks of the Swiss Guard. Arsenale,” he said, searching for the English word.
“Armory,” Kaz said, trotting along beside me.
“What’s a misericorde? ” I asked Cipriano.
“A kind of medieval stiletto, designed originally to dispatch badly wounded knights,” Kaz said. Of course he would know. “It is from the Latin misericordia, meaning mercy. A long, thin, sharp blade, made for going between the gaps of armor plate.”
“One was reported missing several weeks ago,” the inspector said. “The Swiss Guard keeps every weapon they ever had. One was gone from their collection of pugnali.”
“Daggers,” Kaz explained. Abe gave a little upturned hand gesture that the cops couldn’t see. Don’t blame me.
“Yes,” Cipriano said as we passed through the Medieval Palace, guards snapping to attention. “Then one day it was returned. I thought it was harmless at the time; perhaps one of the men misplaced it, or took it to wear.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That was right after Corrigan was killed.”
“I think so, yes. I am un idiota! ”
I knew what he was feeling. Sometimes the answer was right in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because you’d asked the wrong question. Not where was the knife, but why had someone put it back?
We entered a courtyard and Cipriano made for the far end marked by a castle tower, which I figured was the armory. There were more salutes and we were taken inside, guided by a Swiss Guard in gray battle dress. The vast room was low-ceilinged with several brick archways dividing the chamber. Rows of rifles were arranged alongside suits of armor, long swords, halberds, and crossbows. Machine guns shared space with pikes and medieval helmets. It looked like the guards hadn’t thrown anything out in five hundred years.
“There,” Cipriano said, pointing to a rack of knives, all long and thin. “Stilettos, rondels, misericorde. Yes, this is the one that was missing.” He tapped his finger on the pommel and spoke to the guard.
“May I?” I asked, my hand hovering over the knife.
“Yes, but hold it carefully. I doubt there will be fingerprints, but just in case. The guard says the armory is locked but there is no sentry. Anyone with a key and access to the barracks could have gotten in.”