relief, though I'd rehearsed this a million times. The polygonal rent table top was now reinforced.
The cafeteria table's steel legs themselves and my added cross-strut came apart once the screws and clasps were undone, which only shows what modem rubbish stuff is nowadays. I had long ago dissected away the thin formica layer back in Adriana's workshop. Now I simply pulled it off and leaned it against the wall behind some stacked chairs.
That gave me the cafeteria table's rectangular chipboard top. One of my most difficult pieces of work had been cutting the rectangle into four so that it could become an elongated cube. The tubular steel legs would hold it rigid enough to carry practically any weight. They already had screwholes, made three days ago with a noisy electric drill. I'd veneered the exterior, of course, but the travelling had done it no good and I wasted time worrying about the shine. Anyway, the top central spot would be covered by that monstrous case of stuffed doves. The pedestal's lock keyhole was phoney but looked good.
The real rent table upstairs had a base plinth as deep as the drawers—always a good sign in an antique of this kind, because the plinths got deeper as fashions changed, the narrower the plinth, the earlier your antique. This place of honour was reserved for the last bit of chipboard which I screwed along the base. It was only stained African white wood and the colour was too dark compared with the thing upstairs, but it was the best I could do.
The metal X-shaped strut I placed across the centre of the polygon. By now the adhesive was setting well. I turned the huge wooden polygon the right way up and screwed it to the strut through the six holes I'd stencilled there. Solid and lovely.
Sweating badly in that confined airless room, I found my jacket and carefully removed the six tiny circles of Andaman veneer from the top pocket. I'd pencilled a number on the underside of each to show which screw-hole it came from. A touch of synthetic glue, and the shiny screws were covered precisely by the matching veneer.
I was having to hurry now. The false drawer fronts were the weak spots. If people fingered underneath the edge of my table, nosey sods, they would realize the game instantly, because there'd be only a sharp edge instead of a lovely smooth underface.
I'd have to risk that. Once the rip was over they could laugh their heads off at my folding copy—because a million miles off I'd be laughing too.
The drawer fronts had come fitted easily between the undersurface of the cafeteria table's top and the folded polygonal section, being only veneered three-ply. My pieces of quartered doweling rods came in handy now to hold the drawer facades completely rigid. It had to be glued, though my heart ached for a small brass hammer and a supply of fixing pins. I hate doing a job by halves.
So, in total silence, I completed the table margin with rotten modern adhesives and stood the polygonal top on its facade of drawers to set firm.
Looking at it, I was quite proud. It looked really great, even in the harsh beam of a krypton torch. Once the gleaming top was plonked on the pedestal it would be indistinguishable from the real thing, unless you looked underneath or pulled it to bits.
The only good thing you could say about it was that it was twice as sound as the jerry-built modern crap they sell nowadays.
I must have taken about an hour. I was on schedule.
Time.
CHAPTER 24
The Vatican places great faith—charmingly quaint, really— in the reliability of mankind.
As I say, it takes all sorts. There are the pilot lights at each of the corridor intersections, set high by each of the main doorways.
They indicate the security time clocks where the patrolling guards clock in. No hidden infra-red sensitor beams, unless you include the sets indiscreetly built into the walls near the Viale Vaticano entrance and between the Cappella Sistina and St Peter's itself.
You mustn't know about them because they're secret. And the secret cameras which connect with the screen- outs in the security room which I mentioned can be seen quite clearly from the galleries. They're not quite archaic, but striving hard for obsolescence.
They're about as secret as Mount Palomar. Anna had mapped out the camera blind spots, and I had them by heart. Anna had reported that there were more magic rays to trap unwary burglars at St Anne's Gate. Big deal. That's the trouble with museums.
They're crazy about entrances.
Nervous as a cat, I locked the store-room door with a horrible loud click and walked in silence up the stairs to Signora Faranada's office. There were two risks: a wandering guard, and some unexpectedly simple alarm system like a bell on a door.
The office door came apart at a waggle of my comb. The top filing-cabinet drawer was locked, but they all have that fatal flaw of a spring-loaded catch, and old Joe Bramah showed civilization the way round that in the 1880s, so I hardly paused. The box inside was unlocked, and held the set of master keys the manageress had used earlier in the day. I was worried about the light from my pencil-torch and did all I could to shield it.
The trouble was, I was going into places where windows would be a constant risk. The Vatican has more windows than a mill.
Outside the signora's office a narrow corridor ran about ten yards to end at a door. The fourth key worked. With my hand clutching the rest of the bunch to avoid jingling, I turned the lock. My stupid heart was banging loud enough to wake the dead as I pulled the door open and waited a second for the alarms and sirens to sound off. Dead silence. A brief dizziness swirled in me. God knows how long I'd held my breath.
Unsteadily I clung to the door a moment to recover and had to close my eyes for about a fortnight until the nausea passed.
I stepped out nervously. I knew where I was. To understand the layout of the Vatican Museum you have to think of a huge letter H, except that now with the new wing it has a double crosspiece with the great library
