“And then told him to shoot himself?”
“No. The killer shot him, then put his hand around the weapon and fired a second round into the ground to get those powder burns on it.”
“Good thinking, Billy. Now bring that boy over here. The lad who found the body.”
The kid was maybe twelve or thirteen. He was gangly, shivering in the cold wind.
“You touch the body?” Dad asked him.
“Wouldn’t touch a dead guy,” he said, staring at the ground.
“Don’t blame you,” Dad said. “You’re a good lad, I can tell. Some folks would have rolled him over and taken his wallet. You did the right thing.” Dad clapped him on his bony shoulder, but didn’t let go. He pulled him closer and patted him down, producing a pack of Raleighs from his jacket pocket, Sir Walter himself staring at us. “The lighter, boy.”
“It was on the ground, honest,” he stammered as he dug a Zippo out of his pants pocket. “The smokes too. I figured nobody’d want ’em anyway.”
“Were there butts on the ground?”
“Yeah, two. I cleaned ’em up so no one would take notice of the missing pack.”
“You’re too young to smoke, kid. I ought to tell your folks,” Dad said. He let the kid beg and promise never to take anything again before telling him to shove off.
“You had a good theory, Billy,” Dad said as we both looked out toward the harbor. “But Walt Hogan here, he worked across the way. Owned one of them warehouses. So he did have his last smoke here, looking out at something that was important to him.”
“Why’d he kill himself?” I asked, as we walked out of the park, past rows of narrow houses.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe money problems, maybe trouble with the law we don’t know about yet. We’ll find out. What’s important to remember, aside from not trusting whoever finds the body, is that there are more reasons for killing than you can shake a stick at. Makes little difference if it’s your own death or another’s.”
“Is hope a reason?” I asked.
Before Dad could answer, the front door of a house opened and Severino Rossi stepped out. He opened his mouth to speak, and then I awoke with a sharp gasp, only to see Kaz shutting the door in our darkened room. Somewhere along the line I’d fallen asleep again, and Rossi had found his way back into my dream.
“What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” Kaz said. He pulled the blackout curtains tight and lit a lamp. “Did I wake you?”
“Yeah,” I said, planting my feet on the floor and untying my shoelaces. “I was dreaming about a case my dad took me on. Turned out to be a suicide. But Severino Rossi was there too. It was all mixed up. Rossi was about to say something when you came in.”
“About the suicide?”
“I don’t know. I’d just asked my father if hope was a reason for killing. Loss of hope, I meant.”
“Was it an actual case?” Kaz asked, kicking off his shoes.
“It was. Guy was a warehouse owner named Walter Hogan. Dad found out later that he’d gambled away the company payroll. Then he borrowed from a shyster, and lost all that on the horses. He was going to get the broken-leg treatment, lose his business, and betray the people who worked for him.”
“It sounds like hope had passed Mr. Hogan by long before he pulled the trigger,” Kaz said.
“I don’t think so. He probably had hope up until the last race, which could have won him everything back. That’s the thing about hope. The thought of it bucks you up for one more try.”
“Like Colonel Remke,” Kaz said.
“And maybe our killer. If only you’d stayed out later, Rossi might have told me. How was your walk with Nini?”
“It was raining, Billy. We went to her room after supper.”
“Kaz, are you blushing?”
“No, not at all. It is warm in here.”
“These rooms haven’t been warm since August. Imagine, a baron and a princess. They could make a movie about you two.”
“Who would play me, do you think?” Kaz asked, kicking off his shoes.
“Jimmy Cagney,” I said, knowing that would please Kaz. He was really more of a Leslie Howard type, but he’d been shot down last year over the Bay of Biscay, so I didn’t mention him. “Did Nini know anything about Genoa? Or were you too preoccupied to ask?”
“Duty comes first,” Kaz said, hanging up his cassock. “She did say that Monsignor Montini channeled a good deal of money to Cardinal Boetto in Genoa. Boetto works with a Jewish relief agency, the Delegazione Assistenza Emigranti Ebrei. The cardinal, along with a group of priests, nuns, and lay people, help them with funds, forged documents, and smuggling routes into Switzerland.”
“And Corrigan, Bruzzone, and O’Flaherty were the go-betweens?”
“Yes, until a few months ago. The Gestapo raided the cardinal’s offices but found nothing. They left him alone, but are hunting several of his aides, who have gone into hiding. Nini said our three monsignors had all left Genoa moments ahead of a roundup.”
“Which is basically what Bruzzone told us,” I said. “That’s why he didn’t leave the Vatican for so long.”
“Nini thought that he was overcautious,” Kaz said. “Corrigan went into Rome often and was not picked up. O’Flaherty only stopped recently, since his activities here have attracted so much attention. Even so, he continues to go over the wall at night, in disguise.”
“Maybe Bruzzone simply lost his nerve. Hard to blame the guy.”
“We should ask him more about that,” Kaz said, turning off the light. “But now I have to sleep. I am exhausted.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
Kaz threw a shoe at me, missing by a mile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
We had an escort of six Swiss Guards the next morning, surrounding Monsignor O’Flaherty, who had a firm grip on the briefcase that held the documents from Remke. Monsignor Bruzzone was along as well. O’Flaherty had told us over an early breakfast that he’d shown the documents to Montini the night before, and that we were sure to get a favorable hearing.
We crossed Saint Peter’s Square, the sky a dense gray that matched both the damp paving stones and the uniforms of our escort. Passing between a pair of guards at the Bernini colonnades, we entered the Cortile di San Damaso, a small courtyard within the Apostolic Palace, where Swiss Guard stood at attention at the entrance to the Pope’s personal quarters. We went the other way, entering the Medieval Palace under an archway just as heavy raindrops began to splatter the ground.
O’Flaherty led us into a room that was a riot of color compared to the dreary day outside. It was huge, probably forty by sixty feet. The floor was white marble with the papal crest inlaid in gold. The walls were papered in yellow and white, topped off by ornate moldings with angels tucked into the corners. Couches and chairs were arranged around three sides, all done up with some florid chintz of yellow flowers and vines. It looked like a vision of what a classy whorehouse back home might aspire to, except for Bishop Zlatko, who stood sour-faced, looking everywhere but in our direction.
We sat, facing an empty table. The door opened and a thin man in his forties strode in and sat alone at the center. His hair was thinning, and his eyes were hooded by heavy brows, his forehead wrinkled in worry.
“I think it will be easiest if we all confer in English,” he said, speaking slowly but precisely. “I am Monsignor Giovanni Montini, Minister of Ordinary Affairs for the Secretariat of State. I have asked the good Bishop Krunoslav Zlatko to attend to us. Bishop, I understand you had lodged a complaint about our visitors, but it is now withdrawn. Is that correct?” Montini nodded in our direction, but his eyes were on Zlatko.
“Yes, Monsignor,” Zlatko said, rising from his chair. It must have irritated him to have to defer to a mere monsignor. But among the Roman Curia, a monsignor could have the Pope’s ear while a dozen bishops cooled their heels in the palace hallway. “I was concerned for the safety of His Holiness and our neutral status. But I have conversed with these two young men on several occasions, and I believe their intentions are honorable. I would only counsel discretion on their part.” In other words, we’d worked a deal and he had something that would insure my silence.