Read Online The Vatican Rip by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page A

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 at it.
    The Chippendale rent table, for such it was, stood almost halfway 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 corridorgallery 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