James Benn - Death

“Dangerous for whom?” Kaz asked.

“The Pope, directly, and the war effort, indirectly. The last thing we need is the OSS running loose in the Vatican. If the Nazis catch on, they’d have the perfect excuse to invade, which would take about two minutes. They’d claim they were protecting the Pope, or were forced into it by the presence of enemy agents.”

“We are not the OSS,” I said.

“Tell that to the Nazis when they march in here. You’re doing Donovan’s bidding. So keep a low profile, a damned low profile.”

“What does your boss say about all this? Does he feel the same way?”

“He’s instructed me to keep both of you at arm’s length from him. He doesn’t want to meet you or have anything to do with you, in case he needs to deny your presence here.”

“Wonderful. Who exactly sent for us anyway?”

“No idea,” Brackett said, pulling at a thread on the sleeve of his coat. “But I’d wager half of Vatican City knows you’re here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The Vatican is like a small town, filled with people attuned to nuance. They notice everything. Plus, you’ve got scores of diplomats and their families crammed in these hundred damn acres. All the countries that declared war on Italy and Germany, from France to the smallest South American tin-pot dictatorship. Secretaries, wives, children, servants. People who were used to Roman cafes and fine restaurants, the opera, the wine country. All cooped up in a city not exactly known for its nightlife. What do you think they do? They walk in the gardens, watch each other, and gossip.”

“Does anyone ever leave?”

“The Germans guard the border along the entrance to Saint Paul’s. There’s a white line that they patrol. Worshippers can come and go, and sometimes people blend in with the crowd. But if they’re found out, it means internment, in surroundings less pleasant.”

“What about over the wall?” Kaz asked.

“It’s been done, I’m sure, but I think most have turned inward. We get decent food, and money can buy good liquor on the black market. As time passes, the allure of the outside world, the risk of it all, lessens. And with the food shortages, cafe society is not what it used to be. People have adapted. Changed.” Brackett went silent, his gaze wandering to the gardens, and I wondered what changes he’d endured.

“Who do you think killed Father Corrigan?” I asked, to bring him out of his daydream.

“It’s Monsignor Corrigan,” he said, sitting up straight, his face flushed red. What sort of thoughts had conjured up embarrassment? “You don’t call a monsignor the same thing you’d call a common priest.”

“You and the monsignor were friends?” Kaz asked.

“Of course we were. There aren’t that many Americans among the Roman Curia, and we both enjoyed a change of pace from our respective vocations.”

“I was an altar boy, Mr. Brackett, but my knowledge of church structure ends there. What exactly is the Curia?”

“The administrative apparatus of the Church in Rome,” Kaz said, “it includes foreign relations and all the congregations, yes?”

“Correct,” Brackett said, sounding more comfortable talking to Kaz. Most people did, which is why we’re such a good team. “The Holy See-that’s basically the same thing as the Vatican-has its own secretary of state, who governs for the Pope. There is a separate structure for the Vatican City State. Police and military functions, that sort of thing.”

“Did Monsignor Corrigan have any run-ins with Filberto Soletto, head of the police?” I asked.

“Soletto? No, why would he?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “It’s why I asked. How about you? Do you know Soletto?”

“This place is one hundred and eight acres. It takes up less than one-fifth of a square mile. His office is a stone’s throw away. Of course I know Soletto. How could I not?” Brackett crossed his legs, fidgeting with the crease of his trousers. The sole of his shoe was worn down, and I could see where his socks had been darned. It was evidently a life of genteel deprivation.

“How is his investigation going?”

“He’s decided that a Jew on the run killed Corrigan. Don’t ask me why, but he’s stuck on that idea.”

“Maybe because someone powerful told him to be?”

“That would have to be a cardinal, at least. I doubt it.”

“Oh yeah, those guys got where they are by being sweet and gentle, I forgot.”

“Listen, Boyle, that kind of talk won’t go well here, no matter how true,” Brackett said, sucking at his pipe. The tobacco smelled bad, harsh with the faint odor of burning leaves.

“Back in Boston, you know what Archbishop O’Connell’s nickname is?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Politicians call him Number One, last I heard. You’re right, politics here can be bare-knuckle, but everything is done quietly, covered up with flowery language and lace robes. Don’t suggest involvement in murder without proof, and think it through even if you have proof. You’ll stay out of trouble that way.” The voice of experience?

“Did Soletto have a specific suspect, or was it any Jew on the run?” I asked.

“Oh, he caught the fellow,” Brackett said. “Found him hiding somewhere in the Bernini colonnades. Had blood on his coat, I think.”

“Where is he now?”

“Handed over to the Italian police. Likely dead by now.”

“I had no idea the Vatican was a dangerous place,” Kaz said, encouraging Brackett to say more.

“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.”