The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [174]
“Wait a moment—you believe I killed Paul Caldwell?” he asked, infuriating me, as he was several minutes behind the flow of my discourse.
“Don’t interrupt, Trilipush. You secured a job at Harvard by claiming to have attended Oxford, which you did not. Oh, you were there, I know, a sodomite socialite in Oxford’s shady little underworld, a scandalous influence on a circle of young inverts who continue to sing of you to this day, and you were living off of Marlowe’s money, paid to be his kept man, but you weren’t a student, received no degrees, earned no right to a post at Harvard. Arriving in Boston, looking around for an easy target, you pretended to love Margaret Finneran, but only to win her father’s money. With that money you set off for Egypt, having no intention of ever returning to Boston after you found your treasure, and you began to excavate in the precise spot where Paul Caldwell and Hugo Marlowe disappeared, a remarkable coincidence, you’ll agree. Well, soon thereafter, that same potential father-in-law, realising his error of judgement, acquiesces to his daughter’s wise, independent decision to break off your engagement. Maddened by this slight to your overweening criminal pride, suspecting that Finneran has understood your plan, and intending to make it impossible for him to pursue you and the gold, you attempt to ruin Finneran’s reputation with a series of slanderous cables. Instead, he boldly pursues you, finds you at your dig, where you and he make a corrupt bargain: the two of you divide up your ill-gotten gains into two large heaps. Finneran intends to secretly stash most of his in Maltese banks on his way home on the Cristoforo Colombo, apologetically bringing back to Boston only just enough to pay off his debts, but not enough to share the find’s true dividends with his double-crossed partners. In exchange for your silence at his treachery, and much to your sodomist relief, he will allow you to sail off to points unknown with a larger share of the gold than you are actually due, and he will tell Margaret to forget you, that you fell in love with an Egyptian girl. In reality, you will be off, most likely to refurbish dilapidated Trilipush Hall with your bloodstained Egyp-tian treasure, stolen from, in turn, Marlowe, Caldwell, and now J. P. O’Toole. Oh, no, I don’t believe for a moment you’re returning to Boston, Trilipush. Neither you nor Finneran could afford that.”
The effect was extraordinary, Macy. He sat, stock-still, staring fish-eyed at me as if I’d struck him a blow. That’s what the truth feels like to a liar, Macy. I understood everything at this moment, understood all there was to know of our Mr. Trilipush.
But here was our only weakness: without the bodies, what physical proof did I have? Nothing. So I quickly followed up my position of strength and made my move: if Trilipush refused to come with me at once to make his confession to the British or Australian consul, I had no choice but to have the local police use dogs to dig up the entire area to find Caldwell’s and Marlowe’s bodies. This alarmed him, and though he sputtered about damage to ancient tombs and whatnot, it was plain that his fear was more than scholarly. I had him. I knew it and he knew it. All that remained was the endgame. “Nothing lasts forever, Trilipush,” I concluded, leaning back.