CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

THE AFTERNOON sun filtered into an elegant apartment not a quarter of a mile from the Vatican. Cardinal Tobin seldom drank anything but the wine of Communion and café espresso; back in Ulster, as a boy, he'd pulled his besotted father out of too many pubs, seen his father maim his mother too many times, dodged too many paternal roundhouse rights, ever to have anything but disgust for alcohol. ' But in the last months he'd found that he was taking wine when there was no Communion, and from time to time he'd had a martini, maybe two, if one of the other cardinals was drinking. And this last week, well, he didn't need anyone to drink with; at least two martinis was the rule before dinner, and sometimes three, instead of dinner.

Things were not going at all right with the Guardians and his plans. The wiry little man in gray slacks and black sweater paced up and down in his apartment. He paused by his desk, picked the martini up, and gulped it. He sat down, then, just as quickly, got up and paced again.

When was he going to get that call from McCue, telling him that the meddling Mr. Van Cleve was no longer a problem? Or the call from Melnick, assuring him that Taylor Phillips was no longer a threat?

Things here in Rome had been difficult enough, but he'd taken care of them rather brilliantly. Yes, in all modesty, since there could be no way to link him with those deaths... brilliantly. He'd dumped Bartolomeo's body in the woods near the spot where Patricio's corpse would be found. A mystery—two cardinals found murdered not far from a lonely country road— front-page stuff requiring an investigation, even while the Vatican was releasing the baloney about "natural causes.” Ha!

Already die newspapers were speculating that while the two clerics were being held up in their car by bandits, an off-duty police officer, Andrea di Grazia, chanced by and tried to in tervene, and all three were killed. There were holes in the story, but it didn't matter. He, Cardinal Tobin, was in no way involved; he was totally in the clear.

And it was good that Patrick had been eliminated. He'd gone as soft as an éclair lately, and didn't seem to understand what the Guardians were all about. He'd begun to worry about Patrick, about how far to trust him. A man like Patrick could be dangerous, very dangerous. Yes, that part had all worked out for the best.

As for Bartolomeo... poor, blind idiot, blundering around in matters that didn't concern him—

The phone rang and Tobin jumped. Good! At last, McCue or Melnick. He picked up the receiver eagerly.

"Yes?" he said.

A genial American voice said, "Cardinal Tobin? Hi, this is Ed Matthews, over at UPI."

"UPI?" repeated Tobin.

"Yes, the news service? As opposed to Associated Press?"

"Oh—oh, yes," said Tobin. "Newspapers."

"I happen to be in the neighborhood, and I wondered if I could come talk to you for a few minutes?"

"What, pray tell, about?"

"About a couple of things, Your Eminence. Like about the sad death of Cardinal Bartolomeo..."

Tobin felt a tightening in his stomach, "What about it?"

'There's a rumor that the Pope was going to appoint him Archbishop of New York. I'd like to check your ideas on that, and any thoughts you might have about who the replacement might be."

Tobin's stomach relaxed. He hated newsmen, but this was, not the time to antagonize them. In fact, he could use them right now.

The voice went on. "I'd only take up a few minutes of your time."

Tobin sighed. "All right, then. I am very busy, but come ahead. I am in

apartment 3A

. But no photographer!"

"No, sir."

In ten minutes, Jason, carrying a briefcase, rang the bell to the cardinal's apartment. Tobin opened the door.

"Matthews," said Jason as he stepped in. "Ed Matthews." He showed his press card and silently prayed that Tobin would not wish to examine it closely.

"Yes, yes, yes," said Tobin, his black salamander eyes taking in his caller in sharp, darting looks. "Welcome. Come into my office."

He led the way through the foyer to the small room off the living room, and took a seat behind his desk. It was barren except for the empty martini glass, a few letters, and a large brass cross-supported by a marble base.

"So, here we are." Tobin gave his best attempt at a jovial smile. ''How can I help you make the newspapers of the world more lurid?"  '

He pointed at a chair, and Jason sat down.

"Well, Your Eminence," said Jason, "there's a rumor floating around over at UPI that you might be the next Archbishop of New York."

"How terribly interesting," said Tobin. "Any other rumors?"

"Yes," said Jason. "There was also some comment made on the coincidence of those three dead men being found fairly near your country place in Calese. And one of them, the policeman, was rumored to have said he was going to call on you that night."

"Interesting rumors," mused Tobin. "I heard a good one myself just a few minutes ago."

"Yes?"

"I called UPI and they never heard of Ed Matthews. The rumor is that you are Jason Van Cleve."

"Not totally inaccurate, Cardinal," said Jason, dropping the geniality. "And I am sorry to disappoint you with my aliveness. I can't say the same for the spook you sent to kill me."

"I will tell you the truth—"

"Don't break any habits for me," said Jason.

Tobin gave a grunting laugh. "What wild imaginations you writers have. Me, send someone to kill you? What will you think up next?"

"No, what will you think up next? I'm going to the police now and tell them about everything—Lascaris, Phillips Taylor, Jonny's kidnapping, and—"

"And of course you'll tell them about the objects in here," he said as he opened a drawer and pulled out Lascaris's briefcase, the handcuffs still dangling from it. '

"Of course. And I have the negatives of those photos in here." He patted his own briefcase.

Tobin asked, "And Constantine, does he not have the originals?"

"At this point he has nothing, except tenure in the next world."

He is dead.

"Yes, and the scrolls burned."

Tobin's face broke into a genuine smile, "You have done well, Van Cleve! You've done our work for us, like a proper Guardian!"

"I've done no work for you. I was only interested in finding out the truth."

 "How noble," said Tobin, leaning forward. "And now you plan to tell the police everything."       '

"Yes," said Jason.

"No," said Tobin in a steely tone.

Jason was looking into the barrel of a pistol that Tqbin had been holding in his lap.

"There is an unsightly bulge in your breast pocket," said Tobin. "Kindly remove it and drop it to the floor."

Jason extracted the pistol and dropped it.

"Now stand up, Mr. Van Cleve."

Jason got to his feet.

"Before you shoot me, I have a request."

"If it is a modest one."

"Let me see how Lascaris's photos compare with what I saw of Constantine's originals."

'The seeker after truth to the end, eh, Mr. Van Cleve?" He hesitated, then clicked open the briefcase, turned it around, and shoved it toward Jason with the barrel of his pistol. "I too would like to know if there are any major differences."

Jason took out a handful of the photos and began to riffle slowly through them. He stopped at one.

"Well..." he said thoughtfully as he held it closer to his face.

"Yes. You found something?"

"This sort of changes things," Jason said, pointing to the bottom of the photograph. "Look here!"

He leaned over the desk to show Tobin, who craned his neck forward.

"You see that sentence?" Jason said, and at the same time he flung the photos and papers into Tobin's face. The pistol went off, but not before Jason had grabbed the brass crucifix by its marble base and swung it. One of the sharp arms of the cross-caught Tobin on the right temple, slamming him out of his chair. He crashed into the wall and then fell back and lay still on the floor. His eyes were open and glazed, as blood pumped from the deep wound in his head.

Jason dropped the cross. It clattered on the floor. Panting, he lurched over to the phone to call the police. He lifted up the receiver... then put it down again. He knew what he had to do first. And fast before he changed his mind.

He gathered up the scattered papers and photos and put them in a big metal wastepaper basket. There were some more left in Lascaris's briefcase, as well as the tape and film stolen from his stateroom. He threw them in too. He opened his own briefcase and took out the negatives he'd taken from the burning camera shop in Izmir, and tossed them in. Then he put a lighted match to the lot and went back to the phone and dialed the police.

To the detective who answered the phone, he merely gave the address and said tersely, "Cardinal Tobin has been killed."

He hung up. Then, as he watched the flames cast weird shadows around the room, he lit a cigarette and dialed the number of the Hudson residence, where Taylor was reunited with her sister and her son.