The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [175]
He decided to stall. He insulted me, reasserted his innocence, told me he was armed. Finally, he negotiated: he promised he’d be on the boat to Cairo on Monday, I could confirm the reservation that instant. And he would force Finneran to join him in answering any questions I wanted in front of any magistrate I chose when they reached Cairo. I could even walk him off the boat in manacles, if I wished. “But for now, Mr. Ferrell, my wondrous nemesis, I have preparations to attend to for the great voyage.” He hobbled off, leaving me to pay for his drink. I was not concerned, as at once I signalled my Egyptian watchers to follow him, and they leapt into well-orchestrated action, spreading out, blending in, manoeuvring as I’d taught them. I went at once and booked myself on his boat to Cairo, and from there moved directly to the police station. The prospect of the police and dogs had visibly frightened him, and I meant to hold his feet to the fire. I’d no intention of letting him slide away in the coming forty-eight hours.
(Saturday, 30 December, 1922, continued)
I am back from my errands in town, my Margaret, and for the life of me I cannot understand why you and CCF did not show this lunatic the door at once. Thanks to his dust kicking, immediate clarification is now in order.
It happened thus: I hobbled over to the post, where nothing awaited me, but as I left, at least a half dozen little boys followed me out, their number growing as I walked down the street. Some of them pretended to hide and follow me secretly, but these were hardly serious efforts. Whenever I looked at them over my shoulder, they would giggle and stare at the sky or their feet. I wandered aimlessly for a while, and never with fewer than six or eight of the monkeys trailing behind. (They tried to follow me back to the tomb tonight, just now, but I simply gave them some of your father’s money to go away, imshee igaree, which they happily did, waving good-bye to me when I stepped onto the ferry. I hired one of them, however, to come back tomorrow to run last-minute errands for me and your father before our departure, post my papers to you for safekeeping, carry away a few things we do not need anymore.)
Finally, I stopped to rest and take a tea at my ahwa. The children retreated across the street, and a few minutes later I was assaulted at last by the great sleuth Ferrell. Something of a relief to see the dullard in the flesh, to put an end to this hovering phantom secreting a slimy ectoplasm of lies wherever he drifts. You know him: a small, orange man, peculiarly excited, unable to sit still, feverishly scribbling my every word, though I can read upside-down, and I often spoke slowly for him when he fell behind. In truth, I tried to help him with his various tasks. As you know, he is looking for a missing Australian soldier, this amateur archaeologist you mentioned, and he also had some vague business with your father. I tried my best to calm him down and help him. I told him CCF and I will meet him on the riverboat on Monday. And I told him again and again that I never knew this Aussie boy. But still he sat there, poking at me, nibbling his raw, red lips, and generally being disagreeable.
He is obsessed with the strangest, unrelated things, events having nothing to do with Atum-hadu, or even with me, as if, at this great moment in Egyptology, when I am on the verge of revealing my work to the world, I have suddenly been saddled with a deranged, babbling child spouting nonsense questions: Where is Marlowe? Missing, presumed dead. Where is Paul Caldwell? The same, though I did not know the name at first. Where were you when they vanished at Deir el Bahari? Stumbling back to Egypt from Turkey. Round and round he circled these simple facts. He was a bore, utterly without imagination, as most critics are. For make no mistake, he is a critic of the Trilipushian project, properly to be ignored. It is almost a dictate from heaven: ignore this man, Margaret, lest he confuse you, lest he confuse us all, lest he distract from what great