The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [112]
Late in the afternoon of the 18th, today, Ahmed returned with three of the men. Their apologies were profuse, and they were delighted to see the outline of Door C. The injured man had required care, Ahmed had stayed at the villa until the cats had arrived and taken nourishment, and then Ahmed and the men had obtained, on their own inspiration, tools they thought would be helpful in “our shared task.” To wit: two massive sledgehammers. I was touched by their efforts, but I could not help but laugh at their expressions when I asked them the elementary question: what would happen to the treasures just on the other side of Door C, if we were to use their door-smashing technique?
And so I left Ahmed and one other man to stand watch for the night while I relied on the other two to help me back to Villa Trilipush, hoping, with every jarring, bone-shredding step of the cruel donkey, that I would soon travel to my site with easy candour in full daylight, blessed by the buffoons in charge, the Hyksos of modern times, who drive men to such necessary deception.
Villa Trilipush, at least, did not disappoint: a hot bath, a drink or two, new bandages on a foot which is now far too large to fit into a boot, and I bring this journal up to date.
Later now. My man has returned from the post, where a letter and cable awaited me. Cable: CCF congratulating me and alerting me that he has authorised credit transfer and requesting I send him immediately a catalogue of the finds, “esp. items of private, personal interest.” The letter was from the Luxor bank, confirming CCF’s cable: a credit to my account from the USA had been made two days ago, on Thursday the 16th—an amount only one-eighth, to the disastrous piastre, of the expected and painstakingly agreed-upon monthly payment under a Preliminary Team Budget, and twenty-five days late for good measure. After my recent expenses and extended promises, CCF’s octro-deposit registers as scarcely more than the faint aroma of funds.
It is a staggering betrayal. I would like to credit him with some sort of logic, some reason, but of course he has none. Does he mean to make up the difference at the next scheduled wire, 22 November? I spend an anxious time trying to untangle his thoughts, which were perhaps—it must be at least considered—corrupted by the sinister Ferrell. CCF is obviously under the sway of a dark influence. I have means to force his cooperation, of course, but that is not at all how I would wish for this partnership to function. Why is he doing this to me? I search in vain for a reason to explain why my wretched, skinflint Master of Largesse has not lived up to his limited requirements, and has instead probably slithered off to some Boston gin palace to burn Atum-hadu’s necessary finances on bootleg alcohol and flappers in the company of his hoodlum chums and Scandinavian concubine.
My loyal man is still outside waiting for my orders. I send him back to the post with my considered reply to CCF: HAVE OPENED SECOND GLORIOUS CHAMBER DESPITE SHAMEFUL PENURY. NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR PETTINESS, WITH YOUR SPECIALISED COLLECTION AT STAKE. Much needed rest. I will sleep like the dead, and tomorrow charge back into battle, with whatever weapons remain. I will not be deterred.
Sunday, 19 November, 1922
3.55 A.M.—Wrote too soon. No sleep, but the foot is