Death's Door (11 page)

“It was for Monsignor Corrigan,” Brackett said. “He wasn’t the type to shy away from things.”

The maid came in with a tray of bread, butter, marmalade, and cheeses, setting it down next to the coffee. As she arranged the dishes, Brackett stared silently out his window, relighting his pipe. Not a man of danger himself. He gestured for us to help ourselves, and I didn’t hesitate.

“What sort of things?” I asked, grabbing a plate.

“Some priests do their job, others have a calling. Corrigan had a calling. I guess you could say he didn’t let common sense get in the way of helping people, even if it wasn’t his business. I always thought he would be more at home working in a soup kitchen, rubbing elbows with tramps.”

“He was a lawyer in the Holy Office,” Kaz said. “How did he get into trouble helping people?”

“You’ve had experience with lawyers, no doubt,” Brackett said, permitting himself the slightest of smiles. “He volunteered for a mission to prisoner-of-war camps last year. Italian and German camps, up north. Mostly British prisoners. They collected letters for relatives, worked with the Red Cross, delivered blankets, that sort of thing.”

“Seems like he did what he was supposed to do,” I said.

“Perhaps, but he and another priest were recalled. Apparently they were working too hard at it. The bishop in charge of the visits liked to stay in fine hotels, maybe visit one camp a day, then have a nice meal with a good local wine. Corrigan went to two or three camps a day, then came back to Rome to read out the names of POWs on the Vatican Radio.”

“Was he sending out messages?”

“No, only names, so families would know where their loved ones were. Maybe he made the bishop look bad, or maybe the Nazis didn’t like news bulletins about prisoners. Someone put the pressure on, Corrigan got his hand slapped and went back to his legal work.”

“Who could tell us more about that?”

“Another monsignor, name of Renato Bruzzone, also in the Holy Office. He and Corrigan worked together and got in the same hot water. Might have been something to it, since after Italy surrendered, and the POW camps were left unguarded, a lot of British prisoners came here, making a beeline for neutral territory,” Brackett said, frowning as if he disapproved. More mouths to feed. “Also Monsignor O’Flaherty in the Holy Office. A loose cannon, that one. I’d stay away from him if I were you.”

I resisted the urge to tell him I was damn glad he
wasn’t
me. “The escaped prisoners were given sanctuary?”

“Yes, but very quickly the Swiss Guard was given orders to bar their entry. Again, a question of not antagonizing the Germans. Now they turn them away quietly.” He made it sound as if they were granting a favor to his allies and countrymen seeking refuge. Beggars on the street to him.

“How many made it in?”

“Dozens, perhaps. It’s one of those well-known secrets no one talks about.”

“For fear of offending our enemy,” Kaz said.

“You would do well to remember our enemy is not the enemy of our host. Antagonize Vatican officials and you could find yourselves tossed out on the streets of Rome.”

“Yes,” Kaz said, with a glance out the window, and back to Brackett, who blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “A terrible fate, indeed.”

“Have the Germans arrested any priests recently?” I asked. “Or nuns?”

“Not on Vatican territory, no. In Rome they arrest whomever they please. Or shoot them. Hardly the thing we can keep track of from within these walls.”

“No rumors? Gossip about priests or nuns gone missing?”

He frowned. “Missing? As in murdered?”

“No, as in taken by the Gestapo.”

“You’d have to inquire at the Regina Coeli,” Brackett said. “For your sake, I hope the opportunity does not arise.”

“Thanks for the concern,” I said. “Can you get a message out in the diplomatic pouch for us?”

“No. While we are permitted to use the Vatican courier to Switzerland, we cannot send any coded messages, and nothing on military matters. The Germans would be certain to invade if they knew the diplomatic courier was used for Allied espionage.”

“Well, somebody had to send out a message about Corrigan, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

“Quite,” Brackett said wistfully. “But the death of an American citizen, even if he also held a Vatican passport, was a legitimate item for comment. Who acted upon that information is another matter. In any case, your association with the OSS makes it all the more important that you not violate the neutrality of our hosts.”

“Is there any way we can talk with Soletto?”

“It may not be wise, or useful, but I can ask. He’s not entirely sympathetic to the Allied cause, but that may change, the closer our tanks get. Won’t be too soon for me.”

We talked some more, Brackett telling us again not to ruffle feathers. He said he had a meeting to attend, and I wondered what they would discuss. The war? Or the difficulties of getting decent tobacco? He made his apologies, and left us to wait for John May
to return. We ate the rest of Brackett’s food, in the hope it might give him the feeling of contributing to the war effort.

“That was an interesting conversation,” I said, licking the last of the jam from my fingers. “Did you notice that he never answered my question when I asked who he thought killed Corrigan?”

“Perhaps he considered it undiplomatic,” Kaz said.

“Eight hundred days within one hundred acres,” I said, as I stood to look at the view.

“Some have been in POW camps longer,” Kaz said. “And they don’t have pretty maids serving them coffee.”

“There was another interesting comment,” I said. “He said he felt guilty.”

“Vaguely guilty,” Kaz corrected me.

“Even more interesting,” I said. “He couldn’t even fully admit it to himself. I have a feeling it wouldn’t take much to push our Mr. Brackett over the edge.”

“I think he is as worn and frayed as his suit,” Kaz said. “It would be interesting to pull some threads and see what lies underneath.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“G
ENTLEMEN, FOLLOW ME
please,” John May said. He’d returned with two new plain, black overcoats. They weren’t as nice as his, but he didn’t strike me as the vow-of-poverty type. He led us out of the Governatorato and into the gardens. Even in winter, the grounds were stunning. Thick green grass, evergreens, broad-leaved plants and palms created a sense of warmth and peace. The dome of Saint Peter’s drifted above the landscape, like the moon on a summer night. We passed a plain two-story house, set within the lawns like a small jewel, so odd in its everyday simplicity. A wiry, gray-haired man with a thick mustache leaned on his rake and nodded a greeting to May.

“Buongiorno, Pietro,”
May said in response. “The Vatican gardener. Excuse me, I must have a word with him.”

Kaz and I admired the gardens as May talked with Pietro. The smell of fresh manure drifted up from the flowerbeds. Palm trees rustled their fronds in the light breeze. Eight hundred days is a long time, but this beat any slammer I’d ever had to cool my heels in.

“Pietro is a lucky man,” Kaz said. “He lives in beauty that he tends with his own hands, and may leave when he wishes.”

“And he has a beautiful wife,” I said, watching as the curtains parted on the top floor, just below the orange-tiled roof. Lace gave way to a cascade of dark hair, large brown eyes, and translucent skin. She saw us looking, and hastily snapped the curtains shut.

“Or daughter,” Kaz said, smiling. “I may return to ask him how he keeps the bougainvillea in bloom.”

“Beware the farmer’s daughter,” I said, and noticed the quizzical look on Kaz’s face. I’d have to explain that one to him later.

Pietro reached into a wheelbarrow and gave May a burlap sack. May glanced around before slipping his hand in his pocket and then shaking hands with Pietro as he took his leave.

“Fine fellow, Pietro. He has a cousin with a farm in Cerqueto, brings in the manure for the gardens,” May said.

“That’s not what you have in the bag, is it?” I said, sniffing the air.

“Hardly,” May said. “There’s a false bottom in the manure cart. The Germans don’t bother an old farmer with a cart full of ripe cow droppings, so it’s an excellent way to bring food in. A fine cut of lamb today, with potatoes, carrots, and a pecorino cheese.”

“Why all the bother?” I asked. “The train we came in on was full of food.”

“Three boxcars of supplies won’t last a week here. There are thousands dependent on the Holy See to feed them. Everything has to be brought in—water, electricity, food, and fuel. The only natural resource here is prayer, and that does little to fill the belly. The food brought in by train is basic stuff, and Sir D’Arcy requires a level of dining to befit his status here.”

“So you deal in the black market,” Kaz said.

“Please, such a horrid term. I prefer to think of it as cutting out the middleman. It’s much more efficient to purchase food directly from the farmer who cultivates it, don’t you think?”

“That sounds reasonable,” Kaz said. “Pietro and his wife must enjoy the fresh food from his cousin, no doubt.”

“His wife died last year. He keeps to himself these days. He has some laborers who work in the gardens, but they don’t live here. He’s a nice chap, but shy, likes to be left alone. His cousin provides for us quite nicely. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“What do you mean?” I asked as Kaz and I exchanged raised eyebrows, both of us thinking that Pietro had good reason to value his privacy.

“You will be dining with Sir D’Arcy tonight,” May said, as we left the gardens behind and approached a long, narrow building, three stories high, taking up a full city block. “Stay close to me, we’re going inside. Don’t worry about the Germans.”

Before I could tell him I always worried about the Germans, May was chatting with one of the Vatican police guarding a side entrance. They shook hands, and I noticed the gendarme stuffing a pack of cigarettes into his pocket before opening the door and ushering us through.

“What exactly is it that you do for the British ambassador?” Kaz asked, clearly impressed.

“I am Sir D’Arcy’s butler,” May said, as if it should be obvious.

“Of course,” Kaz said, his continental background kicking in. He was a baron, after all. “That explains everything except why it was you who met the train.”

“All things in good time, gentlemen,” May said, opening the door to a wide passageway. “No English for a while, if you please.”

We stepped into the corridor, the vaulted ceilings glittering with gold leaf and brightly painted decorations. Closer to the ground, the colors were more gray-green, as German soldiers strolled past us, studying the frescoes that lined the walls. Maps. They were all maps of the Mediterranean. Italy, Sicily, North Africa. Medieval maps, but they showed the same lands and seaways we were fighting over. Not for the first time, I saw.

I brushed past two Germans pointing at a map of Sicily, surrounded by cobalt-blue waters and ships of the line in full sail. Their fingers traced lines in the air, and I understood they were talking about their days in Sicily, charting their withdrawal across the Strait of Messina. Had we shot at each other? Had I killed some of their pals, or they mine? For the moment they were tourists, unarmed, off duty. I had a strange desire to join them, to move my finger along the coast, into the interior, and see if our lines intersected.

“Padre, bitte?”
One of them said, holding up a camera in that universal request to have a photograph taken. I nodded, trying for serene. The two of them posed in front of the Sicily fresco, arms
around each other’s shoulders. I took the picture, hoping one of them might show his grandchildren this snapshot one day.

May shot me a look and I caught up with him. I didn’t see any reason to worry within these walls, especially not from a couple of privates gawking at the artwork. We left the museum building and walked along a roadway, passing a round tower that looked like it belonged on a castle. May took us under an arch in a narrow wall, and then we were there.

Saint Peter’s Square. Magnificent colonnades circled the piazza, with a view of the Tiber River one way and the façade of Saint Peter’s Basilica the other. Between them, a white line was painted on the stones, marking the border between the neutral Vatican and occupied Rome. German paratroopers guarded the line, their eyes searching those who approached. These guys were not off duty. Helmeted and heavily armed, they stopped and questioned several people approaching the square, eventually letting them all through. I noticed that people strolled out easily; it was those who wanted to enter who came under scrutiny.

“I thought you might want to see the scene of the crime,” May said. “As well as be cautioned not to get too close to the line. I wouldn’t put it past the Jerries to snatch a fellow if he came within arm’s reach.”

“All right, take us to Death’s Door,” I said, feeling a bit melodramatic as I said it.

The portico was gleaming white marble, the floor inlaid with the crests of Popes who had the clout to get the top billing. The central three doors were bronze, flanked by two plain oak doors, the Door of Death on the far left side.

“He was found here,” May said. “On the top step at the base of the door. The Swiss Guard who came across him at first thought he was an escaped POW or refugee sleeping under the cover of the portico. When he got close enough, he saw the cassock. And the blood.”

“Was the weapon found?”

“No. Soletto had the trash cans searched, but nothing was discovered. He was certain he had his man, so the search was halfhearted.”

“We were told that Corrigan had been stabbed between the ribs,” Kaz said. “It that the case?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” May said. “He was stabbed a number of times. The killer finally thrust one into the heart.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I have friends among the Swiss Guard. I do them favors from time to time, and they repay the kindness. Sir D’Arcy likes to be well informed.”

“The duty of any good butler,” Kaz said.

“One aims to please,” May said, his mischievousness showing for a brief second.