Kaz and I searched the rooms. I was hoping for a bloodstained coat or gloves, some evidence that the gendarmes might have missed. Nothing. We went outside and searched in the rain, checking tree limbs, shrubs, and any hiding place we could think of. Nothing again.
Back inside, I nodded to Kaz as we approached Brackett, who sat in the waiting room, smoking one of the Nazionali cigarettes Kaz had given him.
“Okay, you’ve been a big help,” I said. “We ruled out a number of options.”
“Good for you. You could’ve gotten any of this from Inspector Cipriano; I gave him the same run-down. I’ve got to go,” he said, as if he had a ton of paperwork waiting.
“I need to ask something else,” I said. “Monsignor O’Flaherty mentioned that Bishop Zlatko might be leaving the Vatican soon. Do you know anything about that?” O’Flaherty had been about to explain that when the ruckus in the square started up.
“Sure. Cardinal Boetto is coming to Rome. He’s the archbishop of Genoa. Word is he’s got information about the deportation of Jews from Croatia.”
“And let me guess, Bishop Zlatko is involved,” I said.
“That’s the scuttlebutt. Boetto is very active in hiding Jews who make it to his door. They come from all over, and probably more than a few from Croatia. Boetto provides them with money and false identity papers all the time.”
“So Boetto would be glad to see Zlatko sent back?”
“He and others want the Pope to take a stand against the Croatian clergy participating in the Ustashi killings. Or a stronger one, at any rate. He’d be glad to have the Pontifical Commission act against Zlatko.”
“Now I understand why Zlatko is working against us,” I said. “It takes some pressure off him.”
“Yep, good politics on his part,” Brackett said, rising to leave.
“One more question,” I said, laying my hand on his arm as he walked by. “How would you describe your relationship with Bishop Zlatko?”
“Relationship? What the hell do you mean? He’s a right-wing Catholic Fascist and I’m a Protestant FDR Democrat. We’re hardly buddies.”
“Do you talk with him? You know, social chitchat.”
“I wouldn’t be rude, it’s not in the diplomat’s handbook. But I don’t seek him out for conversation, if that’s what you mean. And let go of me.” He shook off my hand.
“Share any interests? Skiing, any kind of sports?”
“Are you insane?” He looked to Kaz for support, uncertain of where this was going.
“It is just that we have heard of a strange conversation between you and the bishop,” Kaz said. “Something to do with boats. A rudder was mentioned. If you and he are not friendly, and share no common interests, why were you talking about rudders?”
“There are some things even wisenheimers like you aren’t cleared to know,” Brackett said, pushing past us. Cigarette jammed in his mouth, he grabbed his coat, flung it over his head for cover, and slammed the door behind him.
“Haven’t seen him that lively in a while,” I said.
“Wisenheimer?” Kaz asked.
“You know, I was six years old before I knew my name wasn’t wisenheimer, since my dad called me that so often. It’s an affectionate way of calling someone a smart aleck.”
“Our friend did not seem to have much affection for the question,” Kaz said.
“No, but it’s interesting that he gave up that information about Zlatko being here earlier. If they’re in cahoots, he probably wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“We should compare notes with Inspector Cipriano,” Kaz said.
“First things first,” I said. “Did you get civilian clothing for Abe? I want to get that squared away.”
“Not yet. Nini was about to show me where they keep donated clothes for refugees in Santa Marta. She said there would be suits, worn but serviceable.”
“Worn is good, it will look more authentic. Let’s get that done, and then you check with Cipriano.”
“What will you do?” Kaz asked as we stepped outside, where the rain had softened to a mist that floated through the gardens.
“Stay away from the gendarmes.” I didn’t want to chance getting tossed out of the Vatican or, worse yet, into a jail cell if things went against me. Or us, actually.
“The better part of valor is discretion, as Falstaff said.”
I knew Falstaff was from Shakespeare, but since all I recalled was the image of a fat drunk, I didn’t comment. That was Kaz’s territory, after all. Which encompassed just about anything taught in school.
We made it to Santa Marta a second before the rain let loose again, pelting down in heavy, thick drops. I laughed at the image of the Germans guarding the border in their sodden wool uniforms, but then thought about the Jews who had been taken, and the ones running scared in Rome, soaked to the bone, unsure of friend or foe, and the laugh died in my throat.
“Here,” Kaz said, opening the door to a long, narrow storeroom. Shirts were folded neatly on shelves, shoes lined up on the floor, and coats, suits, and trousers were hung at the far end. They were soft, well worn, laundered, and patched. Perfect. We found a brown three-piece that looked right for Abe, and Kaz found a once-white shirt not too frayed around the collar. I grabbed a tie, a bit loud for my taste, but it seemed a good fit for Abe. Kaz scrounged around in a box filled with undergarments, since we didn’t want Abe getting nabbed in case he had to expose his Air Corps BVDs for any reason.
“Billy,” Kaz said, his tone far too serious for rooting around in a box of used skivvies. “Look.” He dumped the contents of the box onto the floor. A crumpled ball of white, stained with the rusty red of long-dried blood, rolled against my shoe.
“It’s a surplice,” I said, picking it up and smoothing it out. I examined it, a white lacey garment worn by priests over the cassock. The right arm carried a thick stain, with a spray of red at the chest.
“No, actually it is a rochet,” Kaz said. “Similar, but the rochet is usually made of linen, as this is.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The cotton surplice is worn by the lower orders of clergy. The rochet is for prelates, bishops, and higher ranks.”
“Hmm. Either way, it makes a handy apron to keep blood off your clothes. You could wear this under a coat, where no one would notice, and get rid of it afterward.”
“Remember the coat hooks by the door at the radio tower? Anyone could have stepped outside, stabbed Soletto, and removed the rochet.”
“Or,” I said, “fold it up real tight and stick it in a coat pocket. Put it on, slip outside at the right moment, and do the deed.”
“It could have been anybody,” Kaz said. “We know how easy it is to steal things here. The rochet could have been taken from an unlocked room, the laundry, anywhere.” He looked for a garment tag, but there was nothing.
“Or it could belong to a bishop or a monsignor,” I said. “These aren’t for everyday wear, they’re worn at services. It was a cold night, remember, we were buttoned up tight. In the dark, there’d be no way to know if someone was wearing one.”
“Perhaps we are jumping to conclusions. It could be a priest with a bloody nose.”
“Then why hide it here?”
“Right. It makes no sense.”
“Give it to our friend Inspector Cipriano. Let him worry about it. I’ll get these clothes to Abe.”
The only thing that made sense to me was freeing Diana, and that was a long shot, but I had a better chance at that than at solving this case. Which should have made me happy, but all I did was worry as I carried Abe’s brown three-piece draped over my arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
