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of our king we see the most intricate, delicate, erotic drawings of Atum-hadu’s amorous adventures, and figurines which, after the tomb was sealed, came to life to warm the king on his voyage to the underworld. And there, on a raised and ornate table, between gigantic statues of the gods Atum and Anubis, there it is: a complete copy of the Admonitions of Atum-hadu, the king’s writings, undeniably onymous at last, and on the walls, an even fuller description of the king’s life, of which it must be admitted—though the confession means we are now dragged kicking out of that entry arcade, past the blur of hieroglyphs, and returned here, to CCF’s drawing room—that we know very little for sure, and to feed my famished critics their paltry due: some have said Atum-hadu and his tomb are not only unknown but unknowable, as the king did not technically, literally, exist. Not true, of course, but daunting for the nervous investor or nervous explorer. Which is why neither of those types were invited here today.”

And there followed a page-by-page examination of the prospectus booklets: “Odds of Success.” “Who Was Atum-hadu?” “The Tomb Paradox, General.” “The Tomb Paradox, Atum-hadu’s Case.” “The Role of Erotic Poetry in Atum-hadu’s Court.” “Evidence for Tomb Placement and Contents.” “Estimated Market Value of Selected Prospective Items.” “Maps of Egypt and Deir el Bahari.” “Personal Collections.” Not all of the Partners were awake for every section of our talk (the dozing J. P. O’Toole’s golden pencil, finding itself left to its own devices on its notebook, drew a series of minimalist waterfalls), but at least one of them was attentive for any given topic.

“Let’s speak privately later, you and I and Heinzie, CC,” brogues O’Toole as he rises and stretches. Kovacs struggles to his feet, while Lathorp and Mitchell reach, as one man, towards the ottoman supporting the copy of Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt (Collins Amorous Literature, 1920).

“No need to fight for them, boys.” I reach for my briefcase. “I have complimentary copies for everyone.”

Sunset on the Bayview Nursing Home

Sydney, Australia

December 8, 1954

Mr. Macy—

I’m working as fast as I can now. You never know what tomorrow’s going to bring, if it brings anything at all. That’s lesson #1 in this residence. They took a fellow from my room this morning, all covered up nice and neat, with some bored-looking nephew spending a few of his precious minutes to sign for the body.

July 1922. Inspector S. George Dahlquist, an ambitious officer, was more than happy to share his fond recollections, tales of Red bombers and thieving circuses. He was able to answer a few of my remaining questions about Paul Caldwell’s Australian life, but not all: from the moment our boy walked out of the restaurant with his heart cracked in pieces by his icy Red lady love until Boyd Hoyt talent-spotted him emptying pockets in a market square, I had nothing on him—two to three years where he was out of my view. And then, 1916, he’s tiptoeing on sawdust, reaching up towards the row of tempting wallets above him in the dark when Inspector Dahlquist leaps from the shadows, grabs the boy’s wrist, and nearly breaks it.

Paul Caldwell’s at least twenty-three, knee-deep in elephant waste, sawdust, and the embraces of Emma Hoyt, when he’s arrested for picking the sparsely filled pockets of the audience while they sit in the semidark, their bums dangling over the backs of wooden benches, cheering for or against that evening’s penguin. Now, I know enough about how the police manage these things to know that Paul is likely shackled to a desk chair and then hit a bit and then given a large drink of water and then left a long while as the blood dries and then, when he needs a toilet quite badly indeed, in comes beefy Inspector Dahlquist, who says no one will vouch for Paul, Boyd Hoyt’s told the police he has no interest in Paul’s welfare, they might as well hang Paul high with a snapped neck as far as Hoyt’s concerned. “A skinny boy, your Mr. Caldwell, but he didn’t scare easy,” Dahlquist told me. “Eventually