The Vatican Rip l-5 Read online

  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.

  No two ways about it. I wandered on in a welter of relief. Even Arcellano would have to accept the obvious.

  It was coming up to Easter. I'd never seen so many Easter things in my life. Shop interiors were hung all about with chocolate Easter eggs done in scintillating coloured papers, each egg decorated in a spray effect for all the world like a grenadier's badge.

  And windows with a zillion chocolate shapes, chocolate baskets full of tiny eggs and little creatures doing their thing. You couldn't help but be fascinated. I saw one that I don't know to this day how it stayed upright, a giant floating dove cake in creams and puff pastry. Marvellous.

  Marvellous, that is, until I saw old Anna struggling in the grip of the proprietor, her hand pointing imploringly at me and screaming blue murder.

  'Nephew! Nephew! Enrico! He'll tell you the truth!'

  I looked round. The old bat meant me.

  Shoppers gathered instantly, volubly joining in and having a whale of a time explaining opinions.

  'Are you her nephew?' the proprietor demanded.

  'Yes! Yes!' Anna screamed, yelling it was all a misunderstanding which her nephew would account for. 'Enrico! Tell them!' Enrico, for Christ's sake?

  'It's your auntie!' people informed me. I was pushed at Anna. Faces were everywhere.

  A million voices were raised in tangled explanation as I looked about desperately for escape. And Anna was screeching and pleading, with the weary proprietor accusing Anna of stealing the things in her basket.

  'Poor old woman!' people cried.

  'Let my nephew explain!' Anna was bawling. She reached over and clutched at me. I could have strangled her.

  'Hush! Let the nephew explain!' everybody babbled.

  There was no way out. A horde of faces turned expectantly. I drew breath, trapped.

  The trouble was, everybody looked so bloody nice and interested. If they hadn't I'd have scarpered in a flash—and I'd have got away, too. Nobody scarpers like Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.

  'Yes?' the proprietor demanded.

  Italy abhors a silence, so I started. 'I'm so sorry,' I said to the proprietor, casting a loving glance on Anna. There was no doubt in my mind the sinful old devil had half the shop in her basket and, seeing me contentedly sipping coffee, had hit on the notion of using me for cover. 'Yes. I'm her nephew. Hello, Auntie,' I smiled.

  'There you are!' everybody exclaimed triumphantly. 'He is her nephew!' They told Anna I was her nephew, after all.

  'I've been looking for you, Auntie,' I announced loudly, quickly beginning to get the hang of Rome talk. This was one thing Maria hadn't taught me: use gestures and keep going. If everybody else talks louder, use a few more decibels yourself. The system of alternates used where I came from—saying your bit in turn—is regarded hereabouts as surrender.

  'You have?' Anna said, amazed despite herself.

  'For two whole days,' I lied, embracing her. 'And here you are!'

  'Ye
s! She is here!' the shoppers chorused.

  'My poor auntie,' I bawled into the din, eyes misty, 'has been expecting me for Easter and wanted to give me a present, but she is poor—'

  'Ah, how loving!'

  '—but,' I thundered, 'proud!'

  'Ah! How human!'

  I had some of them in tears. The proprietor was glancing exasperatedly about. A strolling policeman across the street was looking across. One more problem I could do without.

  'If there's any misunderstanding, I'll pay!' My yell gained instant approval, even scattered applause on the crowd fringes.

  'She stole—' the proprietor tried loudly.

  'How much?' I bawled louder over the hubbub. 'I'll pay, this very second!'

  The place was a riot of chatter. A couple of tearful old ladies and a well-dressed elderly man pressed forward offering bank notes.

  'Here! Take this, signor! For the old povera?

  'No!' I carolled. 'This lady is my responsibility! My honour demands—'

  'Such honesty!'

  The proprietor named a sum beyond my resources. Thankful for the racket, I flourished my handful of notes and, howling explanations that my dear old auntie was in any case slightly loony, grandly miscounted out a complicated sequence of notes. Old Anna looked murderous. The pandemonium reached deafening proportions as I wrung the proprietor's hand. Several of the shoppers embraced me tearfully.

  I left the shop a hero, with my dear old auntie clinging to my arm. We walked, smiling and reunited, round the corner to a small alley and paused, carefully looking right and left to check we were unobserved. Then she clobbered me on the side of my head, hissing abuse.

  'Cretino!' she spat. 'Stopping them from giving us money—'

  All for equality, I clocked her back hard enough to glaze her eyes. She leaned against the wall, moaning.

  'You beast! She was obviously at death's door from my criminal assault.

  'Yeah, yeah,' I said calmly.

  Her basket was crammed with chocolate delicacies under the cover cloth. No wonder the proprietor was narked. Old Anna had practically nicked his entire shop, the evil old witch. I found her purse and riffled inside. Two hundred grotty lire.

  I flung the basket down. The old sod was falling about laughing at the expression on my face. I chucked the chocolate figures back, keeping a merry Easter rabbit out of spite.

  'Here,' she said, sobering up long enough. 'Got any further on your Vatican job?'

  'What Vatican job?'

  'I understand,' she said slyly. 'But I could help you.'

  'How?' I asked levelly, hating the old crab.

  'You're new to Rome. Your Italian's good but raw. Learned too fast, see? Come and live with me.'

  The old lunatic was off her nut. 'With you?'

  'Not like that, cretin. We'd be a good team. Do that shop act all over Rome.' She went all coy. 'I've extra space. My daughter's away studying. We'd be a great team, Enrico.'

  This was getting out of hand. Anyway, I had to phone Marcello to get myself off the hook. I unlatched her arm but I couldn't help smiling.

  'You're a scream,' I told her. 'Get lost, Granny.'

  She weighed me up. 'You're too dumb to be a good thief.'

  'I'm not a thief,' I corrected with asperity. 'That's you, remember?'

  'Better than you'll ever be,' she said, rather sad. 'I'm in the open market eight every morning if you need me.'

  I felt myself warm to the stupid old creature. In her own way she was courageous and vital, and for a senile geriatric she had startling eyes. I shook myself. When you get feelings like that it's time to cut out, so I did.

  Smiling to myself I thought, me? Need her? That was rich. 'Good luck, Anna.'

  'Keep it. You'll need it, Enrico,' she called after me. 'Arrivederci.'

  I was still smiling when I looked back from the intersection. She was trotting beside a small group of tourists, chattering eagerly and obviously in her element. I could hardly keep from laughing outright.

  With considerable relief I got through to an anxious Marcello from a payphone near the Julius Caesar Theatre.

  'Is everything all right, Lovejoy?'

  'Look, Marcello. The job's off. It can't be done.'

  Marcello sounded astonished. Gawd knows what kind of a build-up Arcellano had given me. He exclaimed, 'But there's no question of backing out, Lovejoy—'

  'Oh yes there is.' I was getting narked. The whole thing had gone wrong from the start.

  It was all based on misconception. And, for Christ's sake, I fumed to myself, one antique's not the whole world. 'I'm backing out right now. So Arcellano has a bee in his bonnet about an antique. Haven't we all?'

  Marcello's voice went funny. 'Arcellano?'

  'Yes. Tell him I can't do it. Nobody can.' I sailed on. 'Just pass the message on that Lovejoy resigns. Tell him to ask the SAS instead.'

  'Lovejoy! You know Arcellano?'

  I was too mad and too despondent to chat about things that were pathetically obvious.

  'See you, Marcello.'

  'Lovejoy!' He shouted so desperately loud the phone crackled. 'Lovejoy! Tomorrow morning! Six o'clock! The Colosseum! See me there—'

  'Nice knowing you,' I said, and put the receiver down.

  Everybody else has a thousand excellent ideas about your work. Ever noticed that?

  It was only when I was actually on the point of going for a quiet glass of wine that I realized my money was missing. Then I recollected how close Anna tended to walk with one, how trustingly she'd taken my arm—on the wallet side. The old bitch had dipped me, the evil old cow.

  Apart from a few coins I was broke.

  CHAPTER 8

  Next morning I escaped from the hotel—into the worst day of my life.

  Usually I'm a night owl. I'm up early too, which is just another way of saying I'm hardly a ball of fire once the day is actually under way. With the extra stimulus of wanting to escape without paying I was tiptoeing out by five o'clock.

  The previous evening I had laughingly made several deliberate errors of direction down the corridors. This way I learned there was a separate exit, a kind of alleyway leading to a subterranean car park. Once out of the hotel it would be simple to hitch-hike to the airport. With luck I'd be in the air by late afternoon.

  I left my crummy suitcase and my few frayed belongings. The spring weather was not overpowering, so I wore two shirts and carried spare socks in my pocket. My small canvas satchel thing came too. This I stuffed with other belongings—a dictionary, an antiques notebook, passport, air ticket, underpants and singlet—and glided out into the corridor.

  There is always noise in hotels, but until five that morning I'd no idea how much. It's a wonder anybody kips at all. Flitting down the stairs, I nearly infarcted whenever the lift banged or hotel staff conversed on the landings. In fact at one stage, pausing in the lift alcove while my heart hammered and my breathing wouldn't start up again, I seriously contemplated nipping down to Elsie's room on the third floor, and throwing myself on her mercy, so to speak, but common sense won. A woman finding a man at a disadvantage can be very friendly company. Be destitute, and that same woman becomes utterly merciless. So I crept on and made it safely out into the street after only seven or eight more infarcts.

  Left across the Via Campanella. The great somnolent Vatican stared reproachfully down at me as I marched along the quiet streets. Cheerfully I gave it two fingers, meaning Arcellano and his daft scheme.

  The bus I caught from the Piazza del Risorgimento was one of the first out. Rome was waking sleepily. A few cars were already abroad, their drivers wearing the non-toxic air of the early motorist rediscovering the freedom of the roads. In an hour they knew it would be hell. Smiling, I got off the bus as soon as I saw an open nosh bar, and with my last groat had coffee. I'd escaped from the hotel, possibly from Arcellano and his rip. I felt really great.

  It's funny how your mind plays tricks. I was honestly listening to two blokes conversing about last nigh
t's football match and noshing away when I noticed where I was. I was astonished. No, I mean it. Until then I honestly thought I'd chosen a bus at random, simply got the first one leaving the bus station in order to get clear away. But there, illuminated by the slanting sunlight against the blue sky, was the great silent mass of the Colosseum, the early sun slit by its cavities into beams that stencilled its darkness and only made its prodigious stony bulk loom even more. Almost across the blinking road, for heaven's sake. Can you imagine?

  I swallowed nervously. Ever since I'd arrived in Rome events had ganged up on me.

  You must have had that same feeling, when no matter how you plan you finish up having no real choice. There was a girl serving.

  'Have you the time, please?' I asked.

  'Nearly six, signor.'

  Six. Marcello's hour, the time he said to meet him at the Colosseum. I hadn't taken all that much notice of what he'd said—being more concerned with getting my own resignation in. Until this chance bus journey, I honestly hadn't the slightest intention of meeting Marcello. That is God's truth. And if old Anna had not pinched my money… See what I mean, about events? I want to get this clearly understood, because the deaths weren't my doing—well, anyhow not my responsibility. If I'd had my way I would have been back in my crummy East Anglian cottage instead of walking towards the curved stone storeys of the Colosseum.

  There was hardly anyone about. An ice-cream van arriving, a police car dozing, an almost empty bus wheeling round and a couple of little kids waiting for the day's tourist action to begin. One early car half-heartedly tried to run me down. The city had hardly begun to wake.

  The Colosseum's real name is the Teatro Flaviano. It stands at a big intersection of the San Gregorio and the road leading to the Forum. From the outside it has the appearance of a huge gutted edifice still in its undressed fawn-coloured stone. In its heyday it held as many as fifty thousand spectators and is beautifully planned. Believe it or not, it had enough exits and enough room for its audience—an architectural miracle.