James Benn - Death

“And what exactly is this building?” Kaz asked, going along with the tour-guide routine.

“The Medieval Palace is where the secretary of state has his office, and other officials as well. One floor is living quarters, small apartments for those who live here permanently. Come, this way.”

We went up a marble staircase, the walls decorated with artwork, mostly paintings of high-level Holy Joes from the distant past. Cardinals, they looked like. Maybe this was the reward the also-rans got when they didn’t come out on top in a papal election. Not a bad spot for your portrait to spend the centuries. The ceiling gleamed with gold-leaf trim, a contrast to the jade-black marble at our feet. Back in Boston, I’d been impressed with the lobby at the Copley Plaza. Compared to this, it was a cheap flophouse. Bruzzone led us to a hallway on an upper floor. This section wasn’t as fancy, the floor tiled and walls empty of paintings. A slot by each door held an elegantly lettered name tag. We stopped at Corrigan.

“Here,” Bruzzone said, drawing an old brass key from his pocket and opening the door. “I have not been inside since the day of Edward’s death. No one else has, either.”

“I am surprised that Soletto did not have it searched,” Kaz said. “Even if he was sure of his suspect.”

“Monsignor Corrigan was a man of great faith and good works,” Bruzzone said, clearly offended. “Whatever the faults of Commissario Soletto, he knows that much. What do you expect to find? Evidence otherwise?”

“Not at all, Monsignor,” I said. “It is simply procedure.” For any decent cop, I wanted to add, but saw no percentage. I stood in the doorway, taking in the room. To the left was a narrow bed. One dresser against the wall. Straight ahead, a small table placed by the single window with a view of an interior courtyard. A sink and washstand in the corner. One bookshelf, crammed with books, magazines, and loose papers. A worn carpet covered most of the wood floor. A single easy chair was placed at an angle to take advantage of what view there was. An end table held more books and magazines. On top of the pile was a biography of Sir Thomas More, the bookmark at the very beginning. Beneath that was a Rex Stout novel, The League of Frightened Men. That bookmark was near the end. Had Corrigan been reading this the night he was killed? I tried to imagine him in the room, rising from his chair, perhaps covering the mystery with the weightier biography, a bit embarrassed by his nonreligious reading material, thinking he’d finish when he returned. Murder makes fools of us all.

“Okay,” I said. “Kaz, you check the bed, I’ll work from the other end. Monsignor, thank you for your help.”

“It was nothing. I will stay, if you don’t mind. To lock up afterward.”

“Sure,” I said. “Don’t touch anything.” Bruzzone hung back in the doorway, shaking his head, perhaps thinking it had been a bad idea to bring us here.

Kaz had already started methodically pulling the bedding apart. I began in the corner, going through the washstand, and worked my way out. I could sense Bruzzone’s disapproval, and I knew it wasn’t pleasant to watch us go through his pal’s stuff. It was a long shot, but we might find something that would tip us off to why Corrigan was killed, or maybe who he was meeting in the middle of the night at Death’s Door. If it wasn’t Severino Rossi.

There was a good chance it was, I had to admit. The war pushes people right to the edge. Some, like the mother with her two children, hang on right at the precipice, fingers dug into the slippery clay of life. Others, seeing only the certainty of death, lash out like a drowning man climbing on the back of his rescuer, desperate to grab a few seconds of breath and life. Was Severino Rossi drowning when he met Corrigan? From what I’d learned from Diana, there was no drowning man like a Jew on the run in Nazi-occupied Europe.

I replaced Corrigan’s toiletries, feeling Bruzzone’s eyes on my every move. I checked the bookshelf, fanning pages, looking for anything interesting. Nothing but scraps of paper floated to the floor, bookmarks and notes, hastily scrawled comments about the text. The detritus of a scholarly mind.

“Find anything, Kaz?” I asked, more out of boredom than anything. Searching a room is dreary business. The pieces of someone’s life after he’s died take on a weighted, lonely feel. As if a matchbox or a pencil were suddenly more important since it may have been the last thing the dead guy used, the warmth of his touch still fresh, clinging to the wood or paper. It ought to be the other way around. They’re junk now, ready to be swept away. Useless, and sadder than they should be.

“Nothing, Billy. The usual.” He was going through Corrigan’s clothes, checking pockets, socks, and the normal contents of a man’s dresser.

“How long do you expect to be?” Monsignor Bruzzone asked, leaning in the doorway.

“Not much longer, I’d say. We might have better luck at his office.”

“That may not be,” Bruzzone said. “His work was transferred to another monsignor. He went through all of Edward’s papers and cleaned out his desk. Feel free to look, but I doubt anything is left. We did not think there would be anything of importance regarding his murder.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

We kept at it, finding nothing. Corrigan did have a well-used street map of Rome, but there were no marks, no cryptic references to Rudder, the OSS, or a radio. Nothing but creases and folds, which showed that he must have carried it with him a lot. I stuck it in my pocket. You never know.

“I will return shortly, gentlemen,” Bruzzone said. “My own rooms are down the hall and I cannot watch this any longer. I know you must, but forgive me, seeing you handling Edward’s things is too much.” He shut the door, and we heard him walking down the corridor.

“Emotional fellow,” I said.

“Southern Europeans are more emotional,” Kaz said. “Or I should say, they show their emotions. The farther north, the more contained we are. For me, I should be glad to have you search my effects if I am murdered.”

“Good to know, Kaz. But try and leave a clue or two, will you? Corrigan wasn’t much help in that department.” I put the cushions back, coming up with one five-lira coin and a ticket stub from the Teatro Reale dell’Opera. “Let’s go and put the monsignor out of his misery.”

As I went to open the door, I noticed a coat hanging from one of two hooks. I’d missed it when the door was open. When I checked, I felt something small and hard in the inside pocket. I knew right away that this was something which didn’t belong in the Spartan room of a priest.

“Kaz, do you remember what was listed as Severino Rossi’s occupation on his passport?”

“Yes, he was a jeweler. Why?”

“This is why,” I said, holding what to my eye looked like a flawless two-carat diamond. I’d seen a few diamonds in my time on the force, and I knew quality because thieves knew quality. No self-respecting thief went for the cheap stuff.

“What is it worth?” Kaz asked.

“Maybe a thousand smackers or so. If Rossi was a jeweler, he may have had more. The question is, why did Corrigan have this one?”

“Are you done?” Bruzzone asked from the hallway. I slipped the diamond in my pocket and signaled Kaz to keep mum. No need to spread the word around.

“Yes, all done,” I said as we left the room, thinking that Bruzzone had left just in time to avoid disappointment. “You can lock up now.”

“You found nothing?”

“No, Monsignor. Thank you for helping, though. I know it was difficult.”

“Life is difficult, when we are tested. And these days, the Lord tests us constantly.” He inserted the key, the old lock resisted, grinding metal on metal until it gave way and the bolt fell into place.