The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [129]
Reader, Reader, the point of my discussion with Porchy is only this: this is all a necessary application of psychology and human emotion to the problem. I know that CCF is susceptible to pressure because he uses pressure in his daily dealings, and he understands, as a businessman, that value clarifies in the heat of competition. I will tell him the truth, not because I wish to replace him with Carnarvon (I certainly do not want any such thing; I prefer a financier far off in Boston to one stumbling about the site), but because he should know that I do not need to scrounge American pennies when I could be tossing Milord’s pounds all about. Especially now, when my work is halted for my reorganisation of men and money. Finneran forced me to accept his money, which I did as a gesture to my fiancée, so I will do him the kindness of continuing to accept it before accepting Carnarvon’s instead. These are human complications, which, Reader, invariably intrude on what should be pure science. I cable CCF accordingly, and return to Villa Trilipush.
Back from the post just now, and my barber being as good as his word, I found squatting outside my front door his cousin, Amr, my new second-in-command. A boy of sixteen, Amr will be an excellent headman, though he has much to learn. “Lord Carter,” he says to me, “I hope I am worthy.” We shall see, young Amr. [Correct opening epigraph and dedication to “Amr.”] I told him not to call me that, and I told him that the ancient Egyptians valued discretion highly, as would I, but that the ancient kings also dealt with indiscretion with the most unspeakable rigour. Arrange to meet tomorrow, and as a symbolic preliminary baksheesh, I give him a charming jack-in-the-box mummy.
The 29th of November, before I set off for Egypt to catch Paul Caldwell’s murderer, I practised my best speech and went to the house to say my farewells to the woman who was breaking my heart for sport. But Finneran answered the door. “Good,” he said to my great surprise. “I could use an ear.” Margaret was nowhere to be seen as her father walked me down the hall. He pushed me into his study and apologised gruffly for our previous meeting, when he’d shrieked at me in his nervousness.
“Now give me your advice, Ferrell. I wonder if you’ve seen more than I have,” he said, cracking his fingers, a sort of admission and apology and invitation to tell all, you’ll admit. Four days before, it seemed, Finneran had received a cable from Trilipush: the finds in the tomb were extraordinary, beyond wildest dreams, rooms and rooms, and Trilipush needed money to complete his work and pay his team, but otherwise victory was theirs. Up until this cable, Finneran had still been withholding payments except, he admitted, for one small sum he’d sent in a burst of hopefulness. But with this cable on the 25th he’d been ready to renew the money definitively and in full. And, sure enough, Finneran said, on the 26th, the newspapers were shouting of an incredible find in Egypt. Now, you can look that up yourself, Macy: the Press was bashing on and on about King Tutankhamun and an Englishman named Howard Carter, who was the chief of that expedition; it had nothing at all to do with Trilipush, but the coincidence was so strong (Trilipush’s cable had just come the day before), and Finneran (I later learnt) was in so much danger, that he just pathetically assumed and hoped that Tutankhamun was somehow related to his investment and Howard Carter was one of Trilipush’s men, some subforeman. “Honestly,” Finneran said, “all those pharaohs’ names sound alike, don’t they?” Finneran cabled on the 26th congratulating Trilipush and informing him that the wires of money were going