The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [137]
The evening before, Finneran did as I’d advised and sent the cable breaking off Margaret and Trilipush’s engagement. Today, Trilipush had responded, and with some heat. That did puzzle me, I have to say, as I didn’t think Trilipush would’ve cared one way or the other at this point, since he’d taken what he wanted from the family and Margaret could therefore hold no further interest for him, and I was ready to catch her in her fall, but Trilipush’s plans were evidently deeper than I could see, and he didn’t seem to like losing his fiancée one bit. No, in response, he’d cabled not Finneran or Margaret but O’Toole, and the Irishman had ominously sent that cable round for Finneran to read and sweat over. Trilipush’s cable read: O’TOOLE. CONGRATULATIONS ON OUR MUTUAL GOOD FORTUNE. I ASSUME FINNERAN HAS SHARED WITH YOU ESTIMATES OF THE FINAL FINANCIAL PAYOFF. HANDSOME RETURNS FOR US ALL. O’Toole had scribbled at the bottom of the cable in pencil: “Good news indeed, CC. Do come around with an accounting.”
Trilipush knew just where to shoot. “He’s trying to get me killed,” moaned Finneran, showing me the ominous cable. “I just broke the news to O’Toole yesterday that the expedition was a bust.” Trilipush wasn’t finished: an hour earlier, a reporter from one of the scandal sheets had rung Finneran’s doorbell. “Can you imagine?” Finneran shouted as he told me the story. “A scribbler from the Boston Mercury came by because they got an anonymous cable saying I’m a collector of filthy art and I want to talk about it to the Press. He’s playing games with my reputation in my city. I am gonna crush his neck,” he roared, spilling his liquor on his desk. “And the cardinal’s office telephoned. The cardinal. Of Boston. My cardinal. A prince of the Church. His office had received a disturbing cable, they said, probably a vicious joke, they said!”
I listened politely; displays like this are nothing to me, Macy. I’m a professional and I’d seen it all before. But in this case, I was also involved. “Has anyone told Margaret yet?” I asked, getting back to the important issues. Finneran’s anger melted away, and he slumped into his chair. “She’s a wreck. I told her he used her, us, been playing her for my money. She was out all night. Inge has her upstairs now. What am I going to do?” he muttered, running his hands through his hair, picking at his collar. I didn’t pity him much, Macy. He’d been warned often enough, but he hadn’t wanted to hear it. He’d wanted social standing and easy gold to pay off his debts to very bad men, but he got himself a confidence trickster instead, lost his reputation and his daughter’s happiness in the bargain. Nothing I could do for him.
He looked at his watch, took up pen and paper to write, waved me out of the room. I left him chewing on the nib, shaking his head, still in the stage where a doomed man hopes he might only be dreaming.
I walked upstairs in the Finneran mansion for the first time. Talking to Margaret was impossible; Inge had her quite asleep. “She was hysterical,” said the Viking. “She is adjusting to some new medications.” Inge allowed me into the room to see her, but there was no budging Margaret. I can’t even imagine what Inge’d given her. The ministering devils of Sunset on the Bayview give some of the rowdy ones here something strong, too, a horse tranquillizer, I think, when the old fools realise too clearly that they’ve been parked here to die and they raise a stink about it, or when the nutters start screaming like they’re invading Turkey again. It must have been something strong like that in your poor aunt’s case, because it was all she could do to push the air out her nose.
I sat next to her bed, waiting for her to come around, her rrrrrare Tibetan spaniels snoozing in a heap on a little white-and-green sofa across from the bed. Hours passed, and the last November sun set early. I went downstairs to check on the man of the house, but amazing: he was gone, hadn’t thought anything of leaving me in his