The Curse of the Pharaohs by Elizabeth Peters

padlock massive; yet I knew they would prove no lasting impediment to men who have been known to tunnel through solid rock in order to rob the dead. When the grille swung open we were confronted with the sealed doorway that had frustrated Lord Baskerville on the last day of his life. Nothing had been touched since that hour. The small hole opened by Armadale still gaped, the only break in the wall of stones.
    Lighting a candle, Emerson held it to the opening and we both looked in, bumping heads in our eagerness. I had known what to expect, and yet it was dampening to the spirits to behold a heap of rocky rubble that completely concealed whatever lay beyond.
    "So far, so good," Emerson remarked. "No one has attempted to enter since Baskerville's death. Frankly, I expected that our friends from Gurneh would have tried to break in long before this."
    "The fact that they have not makes me suspect that we have a long job ahead of us," I said. "Perhaps they are waiting for us to clear the passageway so they can get at the burial chamber without having to engage in boring manual labor."
    "You may be right. Though I hope you are wrong about the extent of clearance necessary; as a rule the rubble fill does not extend beyond the stairwell."
    "Belzoni mentions climbing over heaps of rubble when he entered Seti's tomb, in 1844," I reminded him.
    "The cases are hardly parallel. That tomb had been robbed and re-used for later burials. The debris Belzoni described ..."
    We were engaged in a delightfully animated archaeological discussion when there was an interruption. "Hello, down there," called a loud, cheery voice. "May I join you, or will you come up?"
    Turning, I beheld a form silhouetted against the bright rectangle of the opening at the head of the stairs. It was that of the tall personage I had noticed earlier, but I could not see it clearly until we had ascended the stairs—for Emerson promptly replied that we would come up. He was not anxious to have any stranger approach his new toy.
    The form revealed itself to be that of a very tall, very thin gentleman with a lean, humorous face and hair of that indeterminate shade which may be either fair or gray. His accent had already betrayed his nationality, and as soon as we emerged from the stairway he continued in the exuberant strain typical of the natives of our erstwhile colony. (I flatter myself that I reproduce the peculiarities of the American dialect quite accurately.)
    "Well, now, I declare, this is a real sure-enough pleasure. I don't need to ask who you are, do I? Let me introduce myself—Cyrus Vandergelt, New York, U.S.A.—at your service, ma'am, and yours, Professor Emerson."
    I recognized the name, as anyone familiar with Egyptology must have done. Mr. Vandergelt was the American equivalent of Lord Baskerville—enthusiastic amateur, wealthy patron of archaeology.
    "I knew you were in Luxor," Emerson remarked unenthusiastically, taking the hand Mr. Vandergelt had thrust at him. "But I did not expect to meet you so soon."
    "You probably wonder what I am doing here at this gol-durned hour," Vandergelt replied with a chuckle. "Well, folks, I am just like you—we are birds of a feather. It would take more than a little heat to keep me from what I mean to do."
    "And what is that?" I inquired.
    "Why, to meet you, sure enough. I figured you would get out here just the minute you arrived. And, ma'am, if you will permit me to say so, the sight of you would make any effort worthwhile. I am—I make no bones about it, ma'am, indeed I say it with pride—I am a most assiduous admirer of the ladies and a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness."
    It was impossible to take offense at his words, they displayed such irrepressible trans-Atlantic good humor and such excellent taste. I allowed my lips to relax into a smile.
    "Bah," said Emerson. "I know you by reputation, Vandergelt, and I know why you are here. You want to steal my tomb."
    Mr. Vandergelt grinned