'Great,' I said bitterly. 'And women, I suppose?'
He grinned. 'I'm a married man with two young children. I can't give a bad example.'
He shook his head. 'No. Number two is the Vatican.'
'Jesus.'
'We're to be casual acquaintances, Lovejoy. I gave you a lift, a typical stranger at the airport confused on his first visit to the Big R. I showed you a good cheap trattoria.
You,' he explained with a flash of wry humour, 'are to express your gratitude by paying for the meal.'
'Grazie,' I said.
'Prego,' he answered politely.
So everybody was to be protected, except good old Lovejoy. Marcello was to be shielded from the arriving thief—me—and Arcellano was nowhere to be seen. He was therefore immune. Only Lovejoy was to remain exposed like a spare tool, having come to Rome for no obvious legitimate reason. I felt a twinge—well, actually a wholesome cramp—of unease.
'Can I not contact you?'
He hesitated, obviously feeling sympathy. 'If necessary. Learn my home phone number.
If you're desperate, you can leave a message. My wife is usually there. Just say you'll be at the trattoria. I'll know you'll mean here.'
'That casual?'
'Why not?' He seemed genuinely surprised but I'll bet I was more surprised than him by a mile. I'd never heard anything like this in my life. Normally crooks never divulge anything about their families. I tried to look as if I understood what the hell was going on.
'No reason. Just a bit more open than I'm used to.'
Piously he put his hand over his heart. 'Us honest Italians.'
We both laughed and I paid the bill.
At the third go I found a room in a fair-sized hotel about an hour later. Marcello had gone home, leaving me walking between the hotels and muttering his phone number to keep it in my thick skull.
My clothes I left in my suitcase. In my innocence I didn't expect to be staying very long.
I lay on the bed and thought of the rip.
* * *
Arcellano's story was somewhat porous. Of course, he'd no need to give me any story at all. Most crooks don't—and I'd no doubt Arcellano was a hood of the first order. His family had owned this enormous suite of antique furniture, made by the great Chippendale himself as an entire household set, alcoves built for every single wall piece and suchlike. I'd been fascinated, half wanting to believe his account of an aristocratic family, a heritage in a mansion… I'd asked him where.
'Mind your own business,' he'd said straight back, which was fair enough.
Came the war and all hell broke loose, belongings scattered, families in ruins.
Afterwards, Arcellano's family set about recovering the various pieces. All eighty pieces were found, except one. I quite understood his eagerness. Remember that most so-called 'Chippendale' pieces are conjectural, and in any case were made only by his workmen. A vast historic genuine documented set was worth a king's ransom. A vast but incomplete set was immeasureably diminished in value.
'My cousin,' he explained, 'visited the Vatican Museum last year. Recognized the missing table, the very one at which his uncle—my father—had been made a papal count.'
'Didn't you write and ask for it back?'
He let his wintry smile loose. 'You mean, simply walk in and say I want your priceless antique, please, Your Holiness?'
'Well,' I said lamely, 'you could explain.'
'Would you give it up?
Indignantly I burst out, 'Would I hell!' before I realized. Of course, nobody would. 'Are you certain it's the missing piece?'
'Positive.' He held up his gloved fist. 'Like I know my own hand.' That too was fair enough. The rent table made the difference between a mindboggling fortune and a more ordinary fortune.
I lay in my hotel room listening to Rome closing for the night. All the usual sounds: voices in the hotel corridors, cars going, somebody speaking to a friend on the pavement outside, an elevator whirring, a woman calling to a neighbour.
My trouble was I was beginning to feel lost and threatened, maybe even set up. This Marcello, for instance. Nice as pie. Trusting, even. I wondered if he had only given me an accomplice's phone number instead. It was all wrong, so bloody unlike any carry-on I'd ever known.
Okay, I admit it. Over the years I've done the odd rip, though honestly every time was a deserving case and none had done anybody any harm. I mean, nobody had starved or gone broke, nothing like that. Looking up at the ceiling of my room, I cheerfully absolved myself of any blame. You see, I'm not big on motive. To me there's simply no sense in sussing out why people do things. There's altogether too much talk about psychology and suchlike crap. It's all rubbish. What matters is what a person actually does, not what he thinks or dreams. Consequently I was happy to accept more or less everything Arcellano had told me, except it was pathetically obvious that Lovejoy Antiques, Inc—all one of me—were the entire rip. I was the whole sodding army of villains, including the man driving the getaway Jaguar and piloting the Boeing out to a Bermuda haven. Still, nothing could be easier than knocking a single piece off, and from a church at that. I'd done much, much harder things. And here all around was beautiful Rome, a place I had only read of in awe.
Ignorant nerk that I am, I went to sleep full of optimism.
CHAPTER 6
Rome is beautiful. Seen in the cool daylight of early spring it was exhilarating. Oh, the traffic and the noise were same as everywhere these days, but the place has a definite quality. From my hotel window you could see only the apartments opposite and a bit of the main road to the right with a shop or two, but new is interesting.
Breakfast proved two things: Maria's language also worked in the mornings, and breakfast was unlimited coffee and rolls and jam, not the ponderous eggs-and-bacon slammer I'd never been able to afford. All my life I'd been making horrible coffee. Here in Rome there were real flavours in the cup you'd never dream of. Coffee will catch on.
Only a few people were down for breakfast early as me. We all watched each other with that surreptitious scrutiny of new acquaintances reluctant to become committed. I finally plucked up the courage to ask a woman and her daughter, poring over a tourist map of the city, where they'd bought it. They lent it me for a quick glance. The street and our hotel were marked with an inked cross.
'Very near the Vatican,' I remarked with delight.
'This is why we stay here. Ten minutes' walk.'
'Are people allowed in?' Subtle old Lovejoy starting reconnaissance.
They laughed. 'Of course! It's usually quite crowded.'
'Is it best to go early?'
'You get to see the Sistine Chapel before it fills up with visitors.'
That sounded promising. Caroline, the daughter, was a solemn lass, Elsie the mother a good deal chirpier and eager to chat. I deflected their kind offer to show me round on my first day, saying perhaps another time when I'd found my feet. Two women could be useful camouflage.
The conversation cheered me. I was ecstatic at the thought of all those crowds because crowds are concealment. When a rip is on your mind it is space which is the enemy.
I knew nothing of the Vatican beyond the travel agents' window pictures of St Peter's great church, and vaguely supposed the Vatican and the church must be one and the same thing. Elsie prattled that of course the Vatican, being nominally an internationally recognized city state, had its own everything. Post office, stamps, currency and—
'Police?' I joked.
That threw Elsie. Her face wrinkled in doubt. 'They have the Swiss Guards,' Caroline offered. 'They wear a special uniform.'
I scraped up a dim memory of the fancifully-garbed elderly blokes somewhat resembling the yeoman warders, the so-called 'Beefeaters', of the Tower of London.
Well, I've been in the Tower often enough without paying, so a couple of geriatrics in fancy dress would hardly cause me to break step. They were probably failed cardinals.