Noir Mystery Set in 1960: Commissioner Lucia Marini Investigates the Theft of Sacred Relics between the Milan Cathedral, Lombard Abbeys, and the Mines of Schilpario — Amid Suspense, Pursuits, and Betrayals

by Marco Arezio

The dust that followed the explosion mingled with the acrid stench of spent batteries; tunnel “Beta” trembled like the throat of a wounded beast. Lucia felt the air with her left hand, Beretta in the other, while the echo of falling debris rolled through the side corridors. Beside her, Ettore Riva coughed, bracing himself against the jagged wall. A little farther ahead, Fausto muttered curses like an Adriatic sailor, fiddling with the portable radio: static, silence, then Giuliano’s distorted voice—“…main entrance collapsed, looking for another way in…”—which faded like a blown bulb.

“Three vents to the north, two to the west, one drainage shaft to the south,” Lucia recited silently, recalling the blueprints she had studied the night before. She pointed to a crack in the wall. “Behind that is the old ventilation shaft. If the ceiling hasn’t completely caved in, we can climb up to shaft number four.”

Climbing was an act of faith. The shaft, barely wide enough for one man, slick with moss, required arm-strength and precarious footholds. Riva struggled, still clutching his notebook as if it were a sacred relic. Halfway up, a metallic sound echoed above them, the snap of a shutter. Lucia shoved Riva aside; a bullet ricocheted off an iron beam, sparking and spraying rock fragments.

From above, a flashlight revealed the pockmarked face of Ernesto “Black Gold” Varoli. His grin split his face like an old scar. “Welcome to my kingdom, Commissioner.” He brushed the trigger of a Mauser C96. “Too bad it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

Lucia sprang into action. The shot fired, but she rolled left; she felt the bullet’s hiss graze her chignon and returned fire—twice. The second bullet shattered Varoli’s lamp, plunging everything into darkness. The ex-miner screamed and retreated but dropped a carbide torch; its flame revealed a large storage chamber filled with lead-sealed crates. On the largest, a blue ink label glinted: “Holy Nail – Milan.”

“Fausto, cover our exit!” Lucia shouted as she leaped into the chamber. The young officer, gun drawn, fired toward the ceiling to distract the shooter. Varoli fled through a service passage. Riva, panting, reached Lucia. “They’re all here… the Holy Nail, the Chalice of Chiaravalle, the crown… you see?”

“We get them out dead or alive,” she replied, tapping on the crates to check for damage. One smaller crate, pried open, was empty. At its base, a handwritten note read: “The main attraction never needs a guard.” Lucia thought of the Iron Crown. Where had it really gone?

From the corridor came a scream: Fausto. Lucia and Riva sprang into action just in time to see the officer facing two shadowy figures armed with pickaxes. Three seconds of iron clashing with steel followed, then a dull thud: Fausto brought one of the attackers down with an elbow to the nose; the other fled.

Lucia resisted the urge to chase him. She had to choose: capture the man or save the treasures. “Back to the chamber—we recover the cargo and exit through the shaft.” But behind them, the man with the broken nose activated a timed detonator planted in the ceiling. Tick, tick, tick...

An explosion rocked the gallery; the torchlight died, the blast wave sucked the air from their lungs. Dust, shards, thunder. When Lucia opened her eyes, she saw the ceiling had collapsed: a two-meter-high block of gneiss now blocked the way back to the chamber. The crates with the relics were on the other side.

“Varoli wants to bury us here,” Riva coughed. “But why not destroy the pieces first? He keeps them intact… Maybe he’s not working alone. Maybe he’s just the laborer of a buyer who wants them perfect for resale.”

Fausto sized up the crack above the landslide. “There’s room to crawl through. I could pass and push the crates from the other side.”

Lucia grabbed his arm. “No. You go to the surface, call for reinforcements, secure the exit of shaft four. If the Crown isn’t here, they’ll at least try to make that disappear. Riva and I will look for an interior passage.”

Fausto obeyed reluctantly, slithering through the gap like a lizard. Once he was gone, the darkness thickened. Riva lit a match; the flickering flame revealed a side corridor sloping down at forty degrees. “This leads to level -2, it used to connect to the hydrographic network. We might surface in an external stream.”

They descended with difficulty; water seeped through red bricks, forming blades of icy liquid. Despite the cold, Lucia felt a flash of rage: the gang had anticipated every path, every delay; they were being herded like pawns. After a hundred meters, they found an emergency storeroom: cement sacks, coils of wire, two cans of explosives. On the floor, a valve radio connected to a battery.

Lucia turned the dial: static, then a raspy voice uttered a nickname: “…Cardinal, you’re late. The buyer arrives at eleven. Bring the Crown to the pass. The other items are expendable.” Hiss, silence.

Riva clenched his fists. “So Migliavacca had an active role. He was supposed to take the Crown last—because it’s worth more than the rest.”

Lucia thought quickly: the Vivione Pass was ten kilometers away; with a light off-roader, they could reach the ghost customs post at Drenchia in forty minutes, then slip into Switzerland. “We can’t wait for reinforcements. We’re going ourselves.”

They found a service staircase spiraling up to an old surface building: a mining tools warehouse. Outside, Giuliaoa was waiting, pale but on her feet; behind her, the Fiat 615 truck growled with its engine running. “Fausto went to block the lower road. Said you needed me.”

“Why’d he leave you? And Varoli?” Lucia asked.

“Fled with a black IMZ-Ural sidecar, heading north.”

Wasting no time, Lucia jumped into the 615’s driver seat. The truck climbed the provincial road. Low clouds raced above, needles of fog pricking the metal. In Lucia’s mind, a mosaic took shape: Varoli and Migliavacca hand in hand, the Swiss buyer closing the auction, and the Crown as the final trophy. But one mystery remained: the mole.

There were no certainties—until a metallic click sounded: Riva’s pistol pressed against Giuliano’s temple. “Stop, Lucia. Don’t go further.”

The truck swerved, grazing the guardrail that overlooked the Dezzo stream. Lucia gripped the wheel, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. “Ettore, what the hell are you doing?”

“Preventing a massacre. Don’t you get it? The buyer doesn’t want victims, just the goods. If you and the boy get in the way, they’ll blow up the entire valley. I saw it happen in Ethiopia, and I won’t see it again.” Riva’s neck veins bulged. “I deliver the Crown, get my share, and you return to Milan as a wounded hero. No one will know.”

Giuliano, frozen under the barrel, whispered, “You sold me out from day one, Inspector?”

“I didn’t sell you, kid. I chose survival.”

Lucia slowed down. Three hundred meters ahead, the road curved into a blind bend. As she spoke, she searched with her foot for the emergency brake. “Ettore, you’re not a killer. Put the gun down.”

“I’m a realist. And you’re a dreamer.”

It was then that the left side of the truck exploded with sparks: a Sten gun fired from the woods. Lucia jerked the wheel; Riva lost balance, Giuliano elbowed him, the gun flew and landed under the seat. Lucia floored the gas; the 615 guzzled fuel and shot uphill.

Behind them, a black Alfa Romeo 6C burst out of the woods. At the wheel: the Cardinal himself, top hat pulled low over his eyes. Beside him, “Black Gold” Varoli wielded the Sten gun.

“Down!” Lucia shouted, yanking the handbrake. The truck skidded in a cloud of gravel, tires screeching. The Alfa tried to avoid the collision, but the curve sliced through like a blade: the sedan skidded, slammed into the guardrail, and bounced. The Cardinal lost control and plunged into a ravine thick with fir trees. A roar, then silence.

Lucia drove on. Riva, bleeding from a scratch, regained consciousness and muttered, “I… I just wanted…”

“Shut up,” Giuliano growled, pointing his Beretta at him. “One more word and I’ll hogtie you.”

The road kept climbing, until the ghostly peaks of the Vivione Pass came into view. The pass was a narrow corridor between walls of old snow and rocks veined with orange lichens. At the rest area, two American GMC trucks were idling, engines humming low. In front of them stood a tall man in a camel coat, pristine Panama hat, leather gloves: the buyer. Behind frosted sunglasses, his pale eyes smiled without creasing his face.

A man was unloading a cylindrical container from a green Jeep, wrapped in blue waxed canvas: the Iron Crown. Fausto stood nearby, hands tied, forced to witness the handoff. Lucia’s stomach turned—he’d been caught on the road down below.

The buyer spoke in refined, academic Italian. “Commissioner, the honor is mine. Do you have the other items with you?” He gave a nod; three mercenaries raised their FN rifles.

Lucia knew all she had were shadows: the relics were still behind the gneiss wall. But maybe she could turn the tables by bluffing. “They’re here,” she lied. “Hidden in the truck.”

The buyer raised an eyebrow. “Let’s verify.”

Giuliano exchanged a look with Lucia: six men in total—five soldiers, one buyer, one driver. Three against six. Riva was incapacitated, Fausto a prisoner. The odds didn’t add up. Then, a crackling radio transmission echoed from one of the GMCs. “This is Sierra: traffic on the Seriana, multiple patrols en route, ETA five minutes.” Reinforcements—clearly Fausto had managed to alert them before falling into the trap.

The buyer hissed Swiss curses under his breath. “Our time is short. Load the crown. I’ll take care of the Italians.”

But they never got the chance. Overhead, the engine of a Piper L-4 training plane sputtered to life—property of a local aeronautics club, now acting as civilian scout. The pilot, warned by the Third Carabinieri Regiment, flew low like a giant mosquito. Panic among the mercenaries.

Lucia drew her pistol, fired twice at a spotlight; the beam went dark. At the same time, Giuliana struck the joint of one GMC truck with a stolen rifle. Fausto, agile, rolled aside and knocked the crown’s crate to the ground. The buyer cursed; a mercenary tried to shield him, but Lucia stepped forward, ice in her eyes. “It’s over. Drop your weapons.”

Out of nowhere—a gunshot. A bullet tore through Riva’s shoulder, as he stepped in front of Lucia in a final gesture of redemption. Riva collapsed; the mercenaries froze. Then came the wail of police sirens, breaking the alpine silence. The buyer threw the crown into the snow, raised his hands, and smiled like a gambler who knows he still holds chips for another game.

The Vivione Pass was suddenly flooded with blue lights, sirens painting the snow with strange cobalt hues. Riva, pale, was loaded into an ambulance; he clutched Lucia’s hand. “Forgive me… I broke my oath, but not our friendship…” She whispered hoarsely, “Don’t speak. Just breathe.”

Meanwhile, the carabinieri handcuffed the mercenaries. They found an encrypted radio, and in the buyer’s notebook: Swiss bank coordinates, lists of clients from Lyon to Montevideo. But the Cardinal was missing. His 6C wasn’t in the ravine; oil tracks showed he had managed to restart the engine and flee—perhaps to Milan, perhaps elsewhere.

The loot wasn’t safe yet: the gneiss block had to be removed—drills were needed. Every minute counted; if an accomplice managed to bypass the roadblocks and retrieve the relics, all would be lost.

Lucia didn’t wait for orders. In agreement with Captain Simeoni, she organized a convoy: mechanical shovels, a generator, ten combat engineers. By 2:00 a.m. on Monday, September 12, they had returned to shaft Beta. The mines looked like the smoking mouths of an underground god. The engineers placed microgelatin charges at key points, meant to crack the rock and shift the collapse without damaging the sacred crates.

Lucia, impatient, entered with the first two men into the lingering dust. The cold bit at her nape; her lamp revealed red streaks in the stone. When the block moved with a groan, the commissioner saw the chamber: the crates were intact, the Holy Nail glowing like an ember in its glass porthole, the Chalice of Chiaravalle wrapped in linen, the Colleoni reliquary as still as a Christian pharaoh’s sarcophagus.

She closed her eyes briefly, offered silent thanks, and ordered an immediate on-site inventory. She sealed the crates with temporary stamps. At 4:47 a.m., the loot was hauled out on wooden stretchers, wrapped in military blankets. The dawn hadn’t yet broken, but the valley’s darkness seemed to lighten all the same.

September 16, 1960 – Milan.

The Duomo wore a faded blue sky, the air smelled of fresh newspapers and bus exhaust. On the high altar, behind a cordon of law enforcement, Lucia placed the Holy Nail’s reliquary in its niche; a ray of sunlight lit it like a spark of amber. Cameras clicked, the crowd prayed.

Outside, the bells rang in celebration. Yet it wasn’t time to rejoice just yet: in a back room at police headquarters, Migliavacca sat, hands clasped, forehead beaded with sweat.

Lucia entered alone. She set the crown, housed in a wooden box, on the metal table. “You recognize it, don’t you? And you know that if the Church finds even a chip on it, the blame will fall squarely on you.”

The Cardinal swallowed. “It was just business… Art belongs to whoever can pay.”

“No. Sacred art is not merchandise. It’s the memory of peoples. And of thieves like you.”

Migliavacca, cocky until a day before, crumbled: he gave names, warehouse addresses in Basel, customs accomplices, even a corrupt official in the Ministry. Enough to launch an international operation that, over the following years, would lead to 23 arrests and the recovery of 30 stolen relics across Europe.

Riva, from his hospital bed, wrote a resignation letter and declared himself ready to testify. The mole was no longer in hiding. Fausto received a formal commendation; Giuliano was promoted to inspector. Varoli, captured near Lugano a week later, chose silence over betrayal.

The buyer’s real identity: Henri-André de Mérinville, a Geneva antiques dealer, tried in Switzerland: sentenced to three years with parole and expelled from the Order of Art Merchants. The press dubbed him “the elegant ghost of the black market.”

September 20.

While Lucia closed the file with a red stamp reading “RESOLVED,” Milan whistled with the locomotive of progress. On the Navigli, people talked of the Olympics; at the Pirelli plant, new tires were being tested; at La Scala, La Gioconda was in rehearsal. And the commissioner, astride her Moto Guzzi Isabella, watched tram number 2 roll through Porta Genova.

She didn’t feel triumph—only gratitude: for the lives saved, for history returned to its rightful place. She looked up at the Madonnina—where the Holy Nail rested, invisible to most—and thought that sometimes, solving a mystery simply means keeping the dark from swallowing the yellow of hope.

Then she started the engine. The city had more shadows and more light to chase—and she, Lucia Marini, was ready to follow them all, as long as the law had breath and love to carry on.

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