'Here, love. Buy a pizza.'
'You bastard. That's my money.'
So much for Carlo, I thought. 'It's not. It's mine.'
'Have you killed him?'
'Carlo? No. He'll just not play the tuba for a week or two.'
She was just drawing breath for a scream when I grabbed her and stifled it.
'Listen, you octogenarian conner,' I gritted. I'm as hard as nails with geriatrics. 'I've lost my passport and air ticket, been dipped by you, been forced from my comfortable hotel, had a friend killed, got stranded, and got jumped by your threepenny nerk who's too cockhanded to blow his own nose. I've had enough, hear? Enough.'
I released her and took off. I'd reached the end of the alley by the time she started screaming. Like a fool, I had assumed the old devil would only be able to manage a senile mumble but she put up a wail like the QE 2. Bloody hell, I thought, and in sudden panic hurtled along a few zigzaggy alleys until I came out into the Piazza Navona, a place I recognized from the famous pictures in the little guidebook I'd owned until this morning. I subsided in a chair on the pavement outside a restaurant to get my breath.
Well, somehow I'd messed up the chances of having Anna as a potential ally, but at least I had a bit of my own money back. In any case she was a doubtful quantity, and her sidekick Carlo scored a definite minus. I hoped I was better off, but didn't feel it.
* * *
I celebrated my recovered wealth with a quick nosh and a glass or two of white wine, and felt much better. It was that which gave me courage to ring Marcello's number. My hand was shaking.
'Hello?' A man's voice, with that practised flintiness from a lifetime of encountering misery. A copper.
In the background a woman's awful keening was just audible, some bird realizing she was alone now with two kids in a hostile world. I put the receiver down quickly in case calls were being traced. I desperately needed to ask who Marcello had contacted between the last time we'd spoken and six o'clock this morning when he'd been flung to his death in the Colosseum.
I could guess, though. The one person Marcello and I had in common was Arcellano, the hoodlum with enough aggro to waste a bloke like Marcello simply as a warning to me. Well, I felt warned all right.
Settling up with the waiter, there was no longer any doubt in my mind. Arcellano wanted the rip attempted. And by me. After what I'd seen of the Vatican I knew bloody well there was no way anybody on earth could pull it off. A million to one I'd be collared in the act, which must also be what Arcellano wanted—seeing he'd done me over, threatened murder and then finally committed that ultimate atrocity. God knows what I'd done to deserve all this.
But deep within me as I waited for my change there smouldered the small beginnings of a fire which I recognized with dismay.
If I tried the rip and got nicked, at least I'd know what the hell Arcellano really was up to. But what if I pulled it off? I'd not only know—I'd have Arcellano nailed. I'd have the priceless antique he wanted. Either way I could call the tune and make the bastard dance. The only way to reach Arcellano was pull the Vatican rip.
It was the thought of nailing Arcellano that did it, made me walk on air. I couldn't think of nailing a nicer bloke.
I'd do the rip all right.
CHAPTER 10
To stay in Rome I needed to immerse myself safely among a mob of workers. What better work than antiques?
I found myself drifting instinctively among the narrow alleys not far from the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, near where I'd had the dust-up with Carlo, and sniffing appreciatively at the luscious pong of mahogany being planed, mixed with the glues and varnishes which antique restorers use.
By now it was getting on for eight o'clock. Most shops were shutting along the Corso—
so named by reason of the horse races held down those streets in ancient days. Lovely shops, handsome people, and antique shops every few yards. I felt good. My spirits were soaring under the influence of the grub and the wine. In my innocence I believed I'd seen the last of that ridiculous old woman. Vaguely at the back of my mind was the problem of where she'd intended leading me when I'd met her at the Ponte Sant'
Angelo, but I suppressed the worry. Antiques do that—leave me senseless.
So, when I saw a small mixed gaggie of tourists trooping into a small antique shop near the Vecchio I was in among them like a flash. It looked just about right for me. The tourists seemed a pleasant, talkative crew. They were being impressed by the elegant proprietress who was holding forth on the merits of her abundant antiques. She was gorgeous in her stylish fawn twin-set and pearl choker, and knowledgeable with it. I listened with some interest but more amusement as she delivered her spiel. With luck I'd be in here.
'Silver,' she was saying about a lovely tray. 'Even after the Bunker Hunt fiasco, genuine hallmarked silver is the greatest investment you could hope for.'
Well, yes, I thought, but be careful, folks.
'It's really beautiful,' an attractive blue-rinsed woman exclaimed.
'What period?' her husband asked. He was a benign portly gent in executive rimless specs and looked worth a groat or two.
'George the Third. A London maker called Edward Jay.' The woman noticed me. She obviously hated me on sight. Well, I'm no sartorial model. I never look well dressed, and what with the recent carry-ons I suppose she thought me a right scruff. As long as the other customers were there she could hardly sling me out.
'It weighs heavy, George,' the tourist said. 'And so old.'
