The Case of the Purloined Pyramid

by Sean McLachlan

  “That’s true,” the dig director said. “He’s always been an eager one, and I wrote it off as simple animal curiosity. I didn’t realize he had a more sinister motive.”

  Augustus glanced at Moustafa. The man’s work had slowed almost to a halt, and he was obviously eavesdropping. No one else seemed to notice.

  At least no one European. One of the other workers said softly in Arabic, “What’s the matter, Moustafa?”

  “Quiet, I’m listening,” Moustafa whispered back.

  “This morning I came in before dawn to get the workmen ready,” Martin said, “and I discovered that the piece was missing. It was quite a large piece, and thus I noticed its absence immediately. It had been there the previous evening when I left so it must have been stolen at night.”

  “Where was it exactly?” Russell asked.

  “Sitting just there at the edge of the tent. It was far too big to put on the table.”

  “If it was so large, why do you say it was carried off?” the police commandant asked.

  “It must have been almost a hundred kilos, but that’s nothing for such a big fellow. I’ve seen him lift heavier stones than that without breaking a sweat. Oh, and he was the last to leave last night. Instead of heading back to the outskirts of Cairo where he lives, he was loitering around the village just over the hill. We saw him as we drove back to Cairo. So he was here after we left.”

  “What did the night watchman say?”

  “He has disappeared. No doubt our crooked foreman paid him to walk away.”

  “Couldn’t the watchman have taken it?”

  “He wasn’t nearly strong enough and showed no interest in our finds.”

  Augustus glanced at Moustafa, who was glowering at the group of Europeans. When Moustafa caught him looking, the antiquities dealer turned away.

  “Something about this doesn’t make any sense,” Augustus said. “Why would he take an inscription fragment? You have dozens lying around here, most of which are far more portable and easier to conceal. Plus, there are the other artifacts. Surely those would fetch a higher price.”

  “The better artifacts we lock up or take back to Cairo,” Dupris said. “You are correct that some of these hieroglyphic inscriptions are worth more, but you have to familiarize yourself with the African mind. It equates size and weight with value. Just look at the clunky jewelry that they burden their women with, and just look at the size of the women themselves! Grotesque things. Our foreman picked the biggest fragment because his simple mind decided that would be the most valuable.”

  Augustus didn’t look at Moustafa. He knew the expression he’d see.

  “What’s going on?” the Egyptian worker asked Moustafa in Arabic.

  “They’re claiming I stole something last night.”

  “You? Of all people! Besides, you were with us all night at Khayyam’s wedding.”

  “And they’re saying I paid Abdul to look the other way.”

  “Ridiculous. What happened to him anyway?”

  “He must have gone back to the Fayyum.”

  “Without saying goodbye?”

  “I guess someone really did pay him to look the other way, but not me.”

  Augustus focused on the European conversation once more. The police commandant was speaking.

  “So your evidence is that he is strong enough to carry it away, he showed interest in the inscribed pieces in general and this one in particular, and that he was here last night. So far, so good. But that’s not enough to convict him. We can certainly bring him in for questioning, but it would be best if we had something a bit more solid.”

  Martin nodded. “When Monsieur Dupris and I passed through the village yesterday evening, I noticed our foreman there. Monsieur Dupris did not. He was at the wheel and focusing on the road. You know how essential that is! I happened to glance in the rearview mirror and noticed the foreman get up from where he was sitting and head back toward the excavation site. You’ll notice he’s wearing a brand-new kaffiyeh today.”

  Everyone looked, and Moustafa did, indeed, have a brand-new kaffiyeh wrapped around his head.

  Russell nodded. “We’ll soon get to the bottom of this. Call him over.”

  Monsieur Dupris switched to English. “Moustafa, could you come over here a minute please?”

  The foreman put on an innocent face. “How may I help, sir?”

  Augustus noted that the foreman’s English was excellent, almost without an accent.

  “Do you know anything about a missing inscription?” Russell asked.

  “A missing inscription?” Moustafa looked around. “Something has gone missing?”

  “Yes, and Abdul the night watchman has gone missing too,” Dupris said.

  “He has? I thought he was sick.”

  “No, he’s gone,” Dupris snapped, his tone hardening. “As you well know. You paid him to leave while you stole the inscription.”

  Moustafa narrowed his eyes. “I did not.”

  “You asked for a raise last week, and I refused. Is this your way of getting back at me?” Dupris asked.

  “I asked for a raise because I have a family to support.”

  “Don’t you all. And what about your new kaffiyeh?”

  “Are only Europeans allowed to have nice things?”

  “It was you! Don’t deny it!” Martin said, pointing his bandaged hand at the Soudanese.

  Augustus clamped down on Martin’s wrist with an iron grip and used his other hand to unwind the bandage. The little archaeologist protested and struggled, but he couldn’t come close to matching the Englishman’s strength. Martin clenched his hand, but Augustus forced the fingers open to reveal a livid rope burn on the palm.

  “An accident with a shovel, eh? More likely the rope slipped when you were tying that stone onto the back of a donkey. It wasn’t Moustafa at all. It was you! And you paid Abdul to leave his post and never return.”

  “What? That’s a lie!” the archaeologist sputtered.

  Dupris’s face darkened. He studied the rope burn and then turned to his assistant.

  “Cavell, I know you have gambling debts . . .”

  “This is insane! I would never steal from you! It was Moustafa. He’s been acting suspiciously. You said so yourself. Didn’t you catch him in your tent once?”

  Dupris looked uncertain. “That’s true.”

  Augustus turned to the foreman. “I admit I can’t explain that. Why did you enter Monsieur Dupris’s tent?”

  “To study his books on hieroglyphics,” Moustafa replied.

  Dupris, Martin, and Russell all burst out laughing.

  Moustafa snarled and moved toward the table.

  Russell whipped out a pistol. “Easy there, boy.”

  Moustafa gave him a contemptuous look and picked up a fragment containing a cartouche.

  “This is the cartouche of the pharaoh Khafre,” he said and put it down. He picked up another fragment and read. “‘To the glory of Amun, he riseth in the east, overlooking the lands of . . .’ And the inscription breaks off.” He put the inscription down and picked up another. “‘In the fifth year of the pharaoh’s reign, he sent trading boats to Lebanon for cedar, carrying with them gold and . . .’ I don’t know this word. Can you translate it for me, Monsieur Dupris?”

  The Europeans all stared at the foreman, stunned. Dupris blinked, examined the inscription, and replied, “Ah, that’s the sign for turquoise.”

  Moustafa looked surprised. “I thought there were two circles on the upper right register for turquoise.”

  “Um, no. That’s true in New Kingdom hieratic, but this is the older form.”

  “I see. Thank you for the language lesson, Monsieur Dupris. I wouldn’t make such mistakes if I had regular access to books.”

  All eyes turned to Martin, who blurted out, “So the ape reads hieroglyphics. What of it? All that shows is that he knew what he was stealing!”

  “He was with the other workmen at a wedding last night when the theft occurred,�
�� Augustus said.

  “How could you possibly know that?” Dupris asked.

  Moustafa looked equally mystified.

  “They were speaking about it while Moustafa eavesdropped on our conversation. He understands French. I suppose no one else here is fluent in Arabic? No? I didn’t think so. And before you ask, no, they were not making up an alibi. Your foreman is innocent.”

  All eyes turned to Martin once more. The little Frenchman slumped.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur Dupris. It was my gambling debts, as you say, and a woman in Cairo. My creditors were hounding me, and I had to do something. A collector showed interest in that particular piece and offered me a good price.”

  Dupris shook his head in disappointment. “Cavell, pack your things and get out.”

  Moustafa looked from Russell to Dupris to Cavell Martin and then back at the police commandant.

  “What? You’re not going to arrest him?”

  Russell looked to Dupris. “If you don’t press charges . . .”

  Dupris shook his head. “It’s enough that he’s ruined. His career is over.”

  “I’m so sorry, Monsieur Dupris,” Martin pleaded. “Since it was a stray find and not associated with the mastaba I didn’t think its loss would be so important.”

  “Oh, but the loss of my honor wasn’t important, either, you son of a dog!” Moustafa bellowed. “I have a wife and five children to feed, and you were going to let me rot in prison for your misdeeds!”

  Martin shrugged. Moustafa rounded on Dupris.

  “And you were going to let the police take me away without a shred of evidence! It was Martin’s word against mine, and that was good enough for you!”

  Dupris put out his hands in a calming gesture. “There, there, Moustafa. It’s all over now. Why don’t you go back to work?”

  “Work? Work for you? Bah!”

  Moustafa threw his hands in the air and stormed off. They watched him go. The foreman made it only about ten yards before he stopped abruptly, nodded as if he had decided something, and spun back to face them.

  He then launched into a tirade against Dupris in French of a fluency worthy of a graduate of the Sorbonne.

  The content, however, was more worthy of a sailor from Marseilles. For sheer ferocity, variety, and creativity, that seedy French port had probably not heard the like for at least a generation. Indeed, upon hearing it, many a French sailor might repent of his ways and take up missionary work in the Congo.

  Everyone stared at him, dumbfounded.

  Augustus shook out of it first and glanced at Sir Russell. The policeman could have Moustafa arrested for swearing at an officer, but he looked so shocked it appeared to have slipped his mind. Dupris had gone pale, Cavell Martin was shaking with a mixture of rage and terror, and the Egyptian workmen had made themselves scarce.

  Moustafa, after detailing the foulness of Dupris’s heritage back for seven generations, finished off his litany with, “I will never work for such an uneducated fool as you ever again! I am too good for the likes of you!”

  With that, he stormed off. Augustus followed him, leaving Dupris sputtering incoherently.

  Moustafa glanced over his shoulder and saw Augustus catching up to him.

  “None of that was meant for you.”

  “I know.”

  “Thank you for getting me free.”

  They continued over the dunes. Behind them, they could hear angry shouting in French.

  “Dupris is a fool,” Augustus said. “Did you really mean that part about the baboon’s backside?”

  “I meant every word,” Moustafa said, kicking a rock out of his way.

  “Why did you hide the fact that you could speak French?”

  “It wasn’t required for the job, and it was interesting to hear how they speak when they think I can’t understand.”

  “Then you have shown remarkable restraint. I’m amazed you haven’t called him the ‘illegitimate offspring of an Alexandrian syphilitic whore and a rabid, three-legged mongoose’ before today. I’m also impressed that you can read hieroglyphs.”

  “Better than that fool.”

  They passed in front of a line of tourists grinning at something. A squawk told Augustus that he and Moustafa had just gotten into someone’s picture frame.

  “Where did you learn?” Augustus asked.

  “French I learned in Khartoum. Hieroglyphs I learned as a night watchman at the French mission there. They had a library, and since no one else was around, I could read to my heart’s content. I have been refreshing my learning by sneaking looks at Dupris’s books. That flatulent emission of a baboon’s rectum was telling the truth about that much. I did sneak into his tent on a number of occasions, but I never carried away anything but knowledge.”

  “I suppose you need a job.”

  “You are a master of stating the obvious.”

  “Steady now, or I might not hire you.”

  Moustafa looked at him in surprise. “Hire me?”

  Augustus produced a card.

  “Sir Augustus Wall, dealer in antiquities, 12 Ibn al-Nafis Street,” Moustafa read aloud.

  “You read English too. Good. I need a guard and an appraiser. I didn’t think I’d get both in one man. What did Dupris pay you?”

  “Twenty-five piastres a day, and that oozing of a beggar’s gangrenous toe still owes me for two weeks.”

  “I’ll pay you double, and you will have free access to my library. An educated employee is a valuable employee. I must warn you that the job may not always be a safe one.”

  Moustafa waved the card. “This is not the best of neighborhoods in which to store valuable antiquities.”

  “I wanted to live far from Europeans.”

  Moustafa cocked his head. “And still sell antiquities to them?”

  Augustus ignored the question. “You’ll take care of some of the day-to-day contact. I won’t be able to avoid dealing with them at some point, though.”

  “They will not buy from a black face.”

  “No, so I’ll be out front as much as I’m needed. But you must promise not to make up stories about my customers’ grandmothers performing unnatural acts on diseased donkeys.”

  “I will control myself if they show me the proper respect,” Moustafa said with a grin.

  Augustus grinned back. “That’s the best I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?”

  Moustafa grew serious. “Yes.”

  The Englishman offered his hand. Moustafa looked at it with surprise for a second and then took it.

  “When can I start?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was Moustafa’s first day of work, and Mr. Wall was showing him around the main floor of the house. Moustafa looked at all the artifacts and felt his heart swell at the thought of working in such a place. His new boss had mentioned a library too. He couldn’t wait to look through that!

  “This is quite a collection you have, Mr. Wall. It is like a room in the Cairo Museum.”

  “Thank you. I’ve spent quite a lot of time and money building it up.”

  The Soudanese stopped in front of the giant statue of the crocodile-headed god.

  “Sobek, god of the Nile,” he said.

  “Yes, he’s my favorite among the ancient Egyptian deities.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s ugly. He’s the ugliest god in the ancient world. Oh, and they had some ugly ones—Bes, Anubis, and then all the Babylonian demons, but this one is the ugliest. What a foul creature to look upon. I love him.”

  Moustafa’s gaze rested for a moment on his new boss’s mask. The Englishman looked like he was about to say something more and changed his mind. Moustafa went over and examined a shelf full of statuettes. He picked up a few and put them down, nodding appreciatively and making a few comments, then stopped and pulled an ebony statuette of Horus off the shelf. He studied the inscription for a moment, frowning.

  “Quite a rare piece considering the style,” Augustus said. “It should fetc
h a fair price from a discerning collector.”

  “The inscription is perfect,” Moustafa observed. “Whoever did this knows his work. Where did you get this?”

  “From a wholesaler here in Cairo when I was visiting last year. I’ll be teaching you more about the business end of things as we go along.”

  “Well, you must have visited in the summer or autumn of last year because you couldn’t have bought it before then.”

  “As a matter of fact, you’re right. But whatever do you mean?”

  Moustafa waggled the statuette in his hand. “Monsieur Dupris uncovered this himself in the last week of the spring excavation of 1918.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Moustafa nodded. “Quite sure. The carving and inscription are identical.”

  “You mean to say Dupris sold it on the black market? For all his failings, I would have never thought—”

  “He did not sell it. It sits in the Institut d’Égypte storage room. This is a forgery.”

  “A forgery? Nonsense! How can you tell?”

  “Everything is the same except for one detail. See this chip on the base? That wasn’t on the original, and there was another chip on the thigh that is missing from this one.”

  Augustus leaned forward and peered at the statuette. “Are you certain?”

  Moustafa felt insulted. “Ask Monsieur Dupris if you do not believe me.”

  ***

  Augustus decided not to ask Dupris because it would involve an entire trip out to Giza and suffering through a conversation with the archaeologist, so instead he went directly to the Institut d’Égypte. Once there, he came up against the formidable brick wall of Gallic bureaucracy. The objects hadn’t yet been cataloged, the institute’s director claimed, and thus it was “impossible” for him to show them to “the public.” Augustus led the director to believe that Dupris had invited him to examine the artifacts. This failed to make an impression, and Augustus got the hint that he was expected to leave.