“Information. The usual. He also hinted that by not turning me in for violating Vatican neutrality, he was helping the Allied cause. Sort of like Zlatko, who thought it was amusing when I told him. Blackmail and patriotism all rolled up in a nice, neat package. But the joke was on Soletto. Can’t say I was sorry to see him go.” Brackett raised his glass, drank, and then studied the remaining amber swirl. It required all his attention.
“Well, you’re certainly a brave man,” I said.
“Oh, it wasn’t so dangerous,” Brackett said. “Wait a minute, what do you mean?”
“Now that Soletto is dead, you’re the only one who knows the letter is a fake. Sure, you had to write it to protect your cover, but it puts you in a tough spot. Zlatko could get in a lot of trouble if you rescinded it.”
“You don’t mean Bishop Zlatko would harm me?”
“Not harm,” Kaz said. “Murder.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Brackett said, swallowing a slug of brandy and slamming down the glass. “He’s not a bad guy, really.” He poured another, determined to talk himself into believing that one.
We left the Governatorato, feeling a lot less sympathetic toward Brackett than when we arrived. Now we knew Zlatko had a motive for shutting up Soletto. Maybe Brackett did too, but he’d probably been halfway through a brandy bottle when Soletto took a knife to his heart.
“An odd man,” Kaz said. “Tragic, the way he took to being sealed in here. Even in a POW camp, you at least have your comrades. He is the only American here.”
“And not a Catholic, either,” I said. “FDR was sensitive about the anti-Catholic vote, so he made sure the diplomats posted here were Protestant. He was alone in many ways. Not surprising he leapt at the chance for excitement and a break from the bottle.”
“Are you sure he didn’t take up other hobbies, such as murder?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem the type.”
“You told me once that there was no type when it came to murder, that anyone could be a killer,” Kaz said. We stopped in front of a small church tucked under the shadow of Saint Peter’s grand dome. The facade was plain, a muted rusty color that needed attention. It looked like it could barely accommodate a small-scale South Boston wedding.
“Yeah, but it depends on the state they’re in. I’m sure Brackett could be pushed to murder, but it would have to be over something he cares about. The only thing that’s going to get him excited is a break from monotony or an unopened case of brandy. So right now, he’s not the type, he’s too morose and self-involved. Just like this little church could never be a basilica, Brackett may dance around the edges of spying and a bit of danger, but it’s not his world. He’s simply not a dangerous man.”
“Still,” Kaz said, “it is a pretty church. Ninth century, if I recall. Back when a man would kill at the slightest provocation.”
“Yeah, well maybe Corrigan insulted his alma mater. Let’s pay Inspector Cipriano a visit.”
The Gendarmerie Office was only a few steps away, and we found Cipriano in his office, holding a telephone and nodding. He occasionally opened his mouth as if to speak, but that was as far as it went. He gestured vaguely at chairs in front of his desk, then held the telephone away from his mouth as he struck a match and lit a cigarette. Fortunately, I’d never risen high enough in the ranks at the Boston PD to endure a call like that, but I’d seen plenty. Someone high up was shoveling a mountain of trouble down Cipriano’s way.
“Please, do not ask if I have found the missing rochet,” Cipriano said, hanging up the telephone with more emphasis than was necessary. “I have done nothing but listen to clergymen complain about being questioned.”
“No luck at all?” I asked.
“ Sfortuna. But I did find this,” he said, tossing a sheet of paper across his desk. The carbon copy of Brackett’s letter to Zlatko.
“We know about it,” Kaz said. “Brackett felt pressured by Bishop Zlatko.”
“The good bishop is practiced at pressure,” Cipriano said. “It was he who complained the loudest about my search. Keep the letter. Better yet, burn it. Signore Brackett does not deserve to get in trouble with his government because of a man like Zlatko.”
“That’s decent of you, Inspector.”
“Any chance to act decently these days should be grasped with vigore,” Cipriano said. “I was a Rome policeman before I joined the Vatican force. I left behind the hard choices that my colleagues had to make during the past years: serve the Fascists or suffer the consequences. I sat out the war, much like Signore Brackett, within these walls, tending to small matters. So I am glad to do one decent thing for him.”
“Nothing new on the knife?”
“All I have are more questions and a headache,” Cipriano said, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “For instance, I found something odd in the commissario ’s report about Severino Rossi, the refugee charged with Monsignor Corrigan’s murder.”
“What?”
“Correspondence with Regina Coeli, requesting that the prisoner not be turned over to the Tedeschi for transport. You know what transport means for Jews, yes?”
“Death camps,” Kaz said. “But why is that surprising? It is a case of murder. Wouldn’t Soletto and the Rome police want the suspect kept here?”
“The only police left serving in Rome are the worst of the Fascists,” Cipriano said. “Commissario Soletto himself said they would do us a favor by putting a bullet in Rossi’s head. They would be glad to oblige, too. Especially Pietro Koch and his gang. But the odd thing is that this request was made the day after the murder.”
“As if Soletto had thought things over and changed his mind,” I said.
“Yes, esattamente,” Cipriano said. “Why would he do that? He was not sympathetic to Jews. Or anyone.”
“Because Rossi had some value to him,” I said.
“Rossi knew who the real killer was?” Kaz suggested.
“He did not name anyone,” Cipriano said.
“You saw him yourself, that night?”
“Yes. It was early morning by the time I arrived. They were just taking him away. He seemed disoriented, perhaps in shock. One often sees this after a violent crime.”
“Did he say anything to the Swiss Guard who found him? He must have shaken Rossi awake, right?”
“He was not coherent. And it was not a Swiss Guard who found him,” Cipriano said.
“That’s what was in the report,” I said.
“Ah, the official report, from this office,” Cipriano said. “The one kept under lock and key.” He was enjoying himself.
“Well, we know how much good keys do around here,” I said. “Who found him, then?”
“Your American friend, Robert Brackett. His name was kept out of the written report.”
“Why?”
“Because Signore Brackett was returning from the bedroom of a lady. A married lady, at that. Her husband, one of the South American diplomats housed here, was elsewhere, likely sharing a different bedroom with another man’s wife. These diplomats, they have nothing to do all day, so they find much to do in darkness.”
“Have you interviewed her?”
“As delicately as possible, yes. They are quartered on the Via del Pellegrino, in the same building as L’Osservatore Romano, the Vatican newspaper. The times match, and Brackett found a Swiss Guard on duty and brought him to the scene. So the report-the one you could not have read-was correct in everything but Brackett’s presence.”
“Correct in all regards, except for the man who found the body.”
“Si,” Cipriano said, with only the slightest of shrugs to show his professional embarrassment. “I thought Soletto would have told you. What do you think Rossi might know?”
“If not the identity of the killer, then something worth keeping him alive,” I said. I decided not to mention that Remke was looking for Rossi. If he’d survived the last week or so, it made it more likely Remke could find him. But there was no reason to advertise the fact.
“Perhaps,” Cipriano said. “What have you been doing?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, Inspector, and telling you would only make your headache worse.”
