Irritably I noticed I was being observed. My old woman was peering in at the window.
Her face was sad, her gaze fixed wistfully on the hot food through the glass, a right Orphan of the Storm. This pest was getting on my nerves. I fidgeted and ate determinedly, but her stare bored into my shoulders. I finally surrendered and gave her a jerk of my head. She came in like Jesse Owens.
I asked grudgingly, 'Which?'
'Con funghi,' she said, really quivering with delight.
Wise in the ways of the world, the pretty serving lass gave her a chunk big enough to feed a regiment. Blissfully the old lady tore into it, while I paid up and left. I was narked to find the irksome old biddy trotting beside me, gnawing her pizza plank.
'Grazie,' she burbled. 'The Vatican now?'
I started to cut across the Andrea Doria among the market stalls. 'Mind your own business.' We risked life and limb reaching the other side unscathed. That vast dark brown wall was in clear view down the side streets.
'The Vatican makes you so sad.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
She cackled a laugh. The market was already showing signs of winding up for the day.
Stallholders were beginning to box up their unsold stuff for loading. It was all so pleasant and good-humoured I almost forgot how bitter I felt. I took no notice and tried to shake her off by walking quicker. The old biddy simply trotted faster.
I'll say this for her, she was a spry old bird. She seemed to know a lot of the market people and sprayed greetings right and left as we hurried through to the flight of steps where the street ended. I sat for breath. She sat beside me, still chewing gummily on the shredded remains of her pizza slab.
'Going in this time?'
I eyed her. 'Maybe.'
'You didn't before. You walked round the walls to study the entrances. Never seen a stranger do that before. Except once.' She smiled at me. I had to smile back. The old dear was nothing more than a fly little chiseller, a wheeler scavenging on the fringes of the tourist crowds. Harmless. She went on, 'Three years ago.' Her eyes were merry as a fairground. 'They caught him before he'd got a mile.'
My throat dried. 'Caught him? You mean—?'
'Si, signor. A robber. A bad man.'
'What's that got to do with me?'
She nudged me. 'What's your game, signor? Tourist clipping? A con? A hideout?'
'Just looking,' I told her offhandedly, but worrying like mad. Was I that obvious?
'So young and foolish,' she said mischievously.
I rose in earnest then. I wasn't going to take that from anyone, the stupid old bag.
Anyway she was too shrewd for my liking. 'No.' I wagged a finger at her as she made ready to bustle after me. 'No more. You go your way. I go mine. Goodbye, old lady.'
'Anna.' She was enjoying herself.
'Goodbye, Anna.'
'Arrivederci.'
She was looking after me, smiling and shaking her head. The pizza was gone.
CHAPTER 7
Sickened, I stood looking àt it.
The Chippendale rent table, for such it was, stood almost half way down an immensely long gallery upstairs in the Vatican Museum. I checked its appearance against my memory of Arcellano's photo. It was the one all right. That didn't worry me, but its position worried me sick.
On its flat top stood a glass case containing a present from President Nixon to one of the Popes, a horrible ornithological Thing of white birds and ghastly synthetic grass. I reflected that President Nixon had a lot to answer for. Still, with any luck the Thing might get damaged when I did the rip, which would clearly be a major contribution to the world of art.
Hundreds of visitors were ambling about the Museum by now, a good sign. There were plenty of uniformed guards, which was really grotty, one at each angle and in every secluded room. This particular gallery was about twice as wide as the average living-room. It couldn't have been situated worse. No exit near by, no doors. The white library near one end of the gallery was a good hundred feet off. Okay, wall-cupboards stood against part of the opposite wall, and the protrusion of a rectangular wall-pillar created an open recess here and there, but that was all the cover there was. And the bloody windows gave me heartburn the instant I clapped eyes on them. Wherever you stood in this long corridor-gallery you felt like a tomato in a greenhouse. I'd never seen windows so wide and tall before, great rectangular things, beautiful but full of the chances of being seen exactly at the wrong time. To one side the windows overlooked a raised terrace, landscaped gardens, lawns and walks. To the other, one could see a small macadam road with a line of parked cars. Each car displayed an official-looking sticker on its windscreen. More open grassy swards, and that was it. Not a place to hide.
The gardens ran off to include a lovely villa and a spectacular little grotto complete with miniature waterfall, but too far away to be any use. The entire place was a miracle of design. Lovely, but ruinous to any rip, at least in the safe old Lovejoy style.
As I hung about pretending to be overawed by the Nixon gift—as indeed I was—parties of visitors came along the gallery. I'd never seen people move so fast in all my life.
Everybody simply stomped hurriedly past all the delectable antiques, for all the world as if on a route march. Most gave only a sweeping glance at the cased displays, further along, of early Christian burial artefacts and miniature votive statuary. Of course, this speed was very cheering. Except they would certainly notice, if that lovely antique table were missing and that Thing was left sitting there on the floor. You could hardly miss an aquarium full of white birds, especially if you fell over the damned thing. Simply nicking the rent table was definitely out.
A mixed party of Italians and Germans raced through. I could feel the floor vibrate and felt sad. Sad because the vibrations were small in amplitude, which meant a very substantial solid flooring. You feel these by rocking back on your heels as somebody walks past. And the lovely ceiling was an arched miracle of painting. Note that: the most difficult kind to penetrate from above. So no way in from above, through the windows, the walls, or through the floor. Gawd.
Miserably I tagged on to a group of Americans and plodded downstairs leaving Arcellano's beautiful table standing there.
The rip was impossible. Arcellano had had it. Now I had to tell him.
* * *
I phoned the number Marcello had given me. A young woman's voice came on, to the background of an infant's loud abuse. Pausing breathlessly to admonish the infant, which only made another sprog burst into discordant song, she told me Marcello was still on duty, and could she give him a message.
'On duty,' I said pleasantly, but not liking the phrase. 'Please tell him Lovejoy rang.'
'Right. I'll phone him at the station. Where can he reach you if he can't get away?'
That was a bit difficult. 'May I ring you again, in, say, an hour?'
'Yes. That will be fine.'
I kept listening after we said our goodbyes. I didn't like that word 'station', either. Her receiver went down without any special clicks full of ominous implications to an antique dealer like me. No special significance in the woman's voice, either, obviously just a young housewife doing multihanded domestic battle with her two riotous offspring.
Which in its way was as ominous as anything I had yet encountered since arriving in Rome.
I had bad news for Marcello. This rip needed Murph the Surf, not me. I cheered up and went out for a gander at the streets. It was high time other people started getting bad news, as well as me. Share and share alike, I always say.
* * *
You've never seen such neat shops as there are in Rome. I knew from Maria's relentless teaching that the shops shut for the afternoon and open again about four-thirty. They were just opening for their second rush.
I went down the Andrea Doria, a wide and pleasant street. You have to be an Olympic pole vaulter to get across safely but I made it. Two cups of caffè-latte with a cake columbe the size of a tram and I felt full of myself. Within one hour I'd be free of the rip, the whole bloody thing. I'd simply tell Marcello the Vatican was a fortress, protected by vigilant guards who were obviously wise in the ways of the horrible old world. Then, duty done, I would spend a few happy nights in this lovely city's museums and art galleries until my money ran out, then off home. What was impossible was impossible.