Six

THE ADVENTURE OF THE EGYPTIAN TOMB

I have always considered that one of the most thrilling and dramatic of the many adventures I haveshared with Poirot was that of our investigation¹ into the strange series of deaths which followedupon the discovery and opening of the Tomb of King Men-her-Ra.

Hard upon the discovery of the Tomb of Tutankh-Amen by Lord Carnarvon, Sir John Willardand Mr.?Bleibner of New York, pursuing their excavations² not far from Cairo, in the vicinity of thePyramids of Gizeh, came unexpectedly on a series of funeral chambers³. The greatest interest wasaroused by their discovery. The Tomb appeared to be that of King Men-her-Ra, one of thoseshadowy kings of the Eighth Dynasty, when the Old Kingdom was falling to decay. Little wasknown about this period, and the discoveries were fully⁴ reported in the newspapers.

An event soon occurred which took a profound hold on the public mind. Sir John Willarddied quite suddenly of heart failure.

The more sensational⁵ newspapers immediately took the opportunity of reviving all the oldsuperstitious stories connected with the ill luck of certain Egyptian treasures. The unluckyMummy at the British Museum, that hoary⁷ old chestnut⁸, was dragged out with fresh zest⁹, wasquietly denied by the Museum, but nevertheless enjoyed all its usual vogue¹⁰.

A fortnight later Mr.?Bleibner died of acute blood poisoning, and a few days afterwards anephew of his shot himself in New York. The “Curse of Men-her-Ra” was the talk of the day, andthe magic power of dead-and-gone Egypt was exalted¹¹ to a fetish point.

It was then that Poirot received a brief note from Lady Willard, widow of the deadarchaeologist, asking him to go and see her at her house in Kensington Square. I accompaniedhim.

Lady Willard was a tall, thin woman, dressed in deep mourning. Her haggard face boreeloquent testimony¹² to her recent grief.

“It is kind of you to have come so promptly¹³, Monsieur Poirot.”

“I am at your service, Lady Willard. You wished to consult?me?”

“You are, I am aware, a detective, but it is not only as a detective that I wish to consult you.

You are a man of original views, I know, you have imagination, experience of the world; tell me,Monsieur Poirot, what are your views on the supernatural?”

Poirot hesitated for a moment before he replied. He seemed to be considering. Finally hesaid:

“Let us not misunderstand each other, Lady Willard. It is not a general question that you areasking me there. It has a personal application, has it not? You are referring obliquely¹⁴ to the deathof your late husband?”

“That is so,” she admitted.

“You want me to investigate the circumstances of his death?”

“I want you to ascertain¹⁵ for me exactly how much is newspaper chatter¹⁶, and how much maybe said to be founded on fact? Three deaths, Monsieur Poirot—each one explicable taken by itself,but taken together surely an almost unbelievable coincidence, and all within a month of theopening of the tomb! It may be mere¹⁷ superstition¹⁸, it may be some potent¹⁹ curse from the past thatoperates in ways undreamed of by modern science. The fact remains—three deaths! And I amafraid, Monsieur Poirot, horribly afraid. It may not yet be the end.”

“For whom do you fear?”

“For my son. When the news of my husband’s death came I was ill. My son, who has justcome down from Oxford²⁰, went out there. He brought the—the body home, but now he has goneout again, in spite of my prayers and entreaties²¹. He is so fascinated by the work that he intends totake his father’s place and carry on the system of excavations. You may think me a foolish,credulous woman, but, Monsieur Poirot, I am afraid. Supposing that the spirit of the dead King isnot yet appeased²²? Perhaps to you I seem to be talking nonsense—”

“No, indeed, Lady Willard,” said Poirot quickly. “I, too, believe in the force of superstition,one of the greatest forces the world has ever known.”

I looked at him in surprise. I should never have credited Poirot with being superstitious⁶. Butthe little man was obviously in earnest.

“What you really demand is that I shall protect your son? I will do my utmost to keep himfrom harm.”

“Yes, in the ordinary way, but against an occult influence?”

“In volumes of the Middle Ages, Lady Willard, you will find many ways of counteractingblack magic. Perhaps they knew more than we moderns with all our boasted science. Now let uscome to facts, that I may have guidance. Your husband had always been a devoted²³ Egyptologist,hadn’t he?”

“Yes, from his youth upwards²⁴. He was one of the greatest living authorities upon thesubject.”

“But Mr.?Bleibner, I understand, was more or less of an amateur?”

“Oh, quite. He was a very wealthy man who dabbled²⁵ freely in any subject that happened totake his fancy. My husband managed to interest him in Egyptology, and it was his money that wasso useful in financing the expedition.”

“And the nephew? What do you know of his tastes? Was he with the party at all?”

“I do not think so. In fact I never knew of his existence till I read of his death in the paper. Ido not think he and Mr.?Bleibner can have been at all intimate. He never spoke²⁶ of having anyrelations.”

“Who are the other members of the party?”

“Well, there’s Dr.?Tosswill, a minor²⁷ official connected with the British Museum;Mr.?Schneider of the Metropolitan²⁸ Museum in New York; a young American secretary; Dr.?Ames,who accompanies the expedition in his professional capacity; and Hassan, my husband’s devotednative servant.”

“Do you remember the name of the American secretary?”

“Harper, I think, but I cannot be sure. He had not been with Mr.?Bleibner very long, I know.

He was a very pleasant young fellow.”

“Thank you, Lady Willard.”

“If there is anything else—”

“For the moment, nothing. Leave it now in my hands, and be assured that I will do all that ishumanly possible to protect your?son.”

They were not exactly reassuring²⁹ words, and I observed Lady Willard wince³⁰ as he utteredthem. Yet, at the same time, the fact that he had not pooh-poohed her fears seemed in itself to be arelief to her.

For my part I had never before suspected that Poirot had so deep a vein³¹ of superstition in hisnature. I tackled him on the subject as we went homewards. His manner was grave and earnest.

“But yes, Hastings. I believe in these things. You must not underrate the force ofsuperstition.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Toujours pratique, the good Hastings! Eh bien, to begin with we are going to cable to NewYork for fuller details of young Mr.?Bleibner’s death.”

He duly sent off his cable. The reply was full and precise. Young Rupert Bleibner had been inlow water for several years. He had been a beachcomber and a remittance³² man in several SouthSea islands, but had returned to New York two years ago, where he had rapidly sunk lower andlower. The most significant thing, to my mind, was that he had recently managed to borrowenough money to take him to Egypt. “I’ve a good friend there I can borrow from,” he haddeclared. Here, however, his plans had gone awry³³. He had returned to New York cursing hisskinflint of an uncle who cared more for the bones of dead and gone kings than his own flesh andblood. It was during his sojourn³⁴ in Egypt that the death of Sir John Willard had occurred. Ruperthad plunged³⁵ once more into his life of dissipation in New York, and then, without warning, he hadcommitted suicide, leaving behind him a letter which contained some curious phrases. It seemedwritten in a sudden fit of remorse³⁶. He referred to himself as a leper and an outcast, and the letterended by declaring that such as he were better dead.

A shadowy theory leapt into my brain. I had never really believed in the vengeance³⁷ of a longdead Egyptian king. I saw here a more modern crime. Supposing this young man had decided³⁸ todo away with his uncle—preferably by poison. By mistake, Sir John Willard receives the fataldose. The young man returns to New York, haunted by his crime. The news of his uncle’s deathreaches him. He realizes how unnecessary his crime has been, and stricken with remorse takes hisown life.

I outlined my solution to Poirot. He was interested.

“It is ingenious what you have thought of there—decidedly it is ingenious. It may even betrue. But you leave out of count the fatal influence of the Tomb.”

I shrugged³⁹ my shoulders.

“You still think that has something to do with it?”

“So much so, mon ami, that we start for Egypt tomorrow.”

“What?” I cried, astonished.

“I have said it.” An expression of conscious heroism⁴⁰ spread over Poirot’s face. Then hegroaned. “But oh,” he lamented⁴¹, “the sea! The hateful sea!”

II

It was a week later. Beneath our feet was the golden sand of the desert. The hot sun poured downoverhead. Poirot, the picture of misery⁴², wilted⁴³ by my side. The little man was not a good traveller.

Our four days’ voyage from Marseilles had been one long agony to him. He had landed atAlexandria the wraith⁴⁴ of his former self, even his usual neatness had deserted⁴⁵ him. We had arrivedin Cairo and had driven out at once to the Mena House Hotel, right in the shadow of the Pyramids.

The charm of Egypt had laid hold of me. Not so Poirot. Dressed precisely⁴⁶ the same as inLondon, he carried a small clothes brush in his pocket and waged an unceasing war on the dustwhich accumulated on his dark apparel.

“And my boots,” he wailed⁴⁷. “Regard them, Hastings. My boots, of the neat patent leather,usually so smart and shining. See, the sand is inside them, which is painful, and outside them,which outrages⁴⁸ the eyesight. Also the heat, it causes my moustaches to become limp—but limp!”

“Look at the Sphinx,” I urged. “Even I can feel the mystery and the charm it exhales⁴⁹.”

Poirot looked at it discontentedly.

“It has not the air happy,” he declared. “How could it, half-buried in sand in that untidyfashion. Ah, this cursed sand!”

“Come, now, there’s a lot of sand in Belgium,” I reminded him, mindful of a holiday spent atKnocke-sur-mer in the midst of “Les dunes⁵⁰ impeccables” as the guidebook had phrased it.

“Not in Brussels,” declared Poirot. He gazed at the Pyramids thoughtfully. “It is true thatthey, at least, are of a shape solid and geometrical, but their surface is of an unevenness⁵¹ mostunpleasing. And the palm trees I like them not. Not even do they plant them in rows!”

I cut short his lamentations, by suggesting that we should start for the camp. We were to ridethere on camels, and the beasts were patiently kneeling, waiting for us to mount, in charge ofseveral picturesque⁵² boys headed by a voluble dragoman.

I pass over the spectacle of Poirot on a camel. He started by groans⁵³ and lamentations andended by shrieks⁵⁴, gesticulations and invocations to the Virgin⁵⁵ Mary and every Saint in thecalendar. In the end, he descended⁵⁶ ignominiously⁵⁷ and finished the journey on a diminutivedonkey. I must admit that a trotting⁵⁸ camel is no joke for the amateur. I was stiff for several days.

At last we neared the scene of the excavations. A sunburnt man with a grey beard, in whiteclothes and wearing a helmet, came to meet us.

“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings? We received your cable. I’m sorry that there was noone to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event occurred which completely disorganized ourplans.”

Poirot paled. His hand, which had stolen to his clothes brush, stayed its course.

“Not another death?” he breathed.

“Yes.”

“Sir Guy Willard?” I cried.

“No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr.

Schneider.”

“And the cause?” demanded Poirot.

“Tetanus.”

I blanched⁵⁹. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. Ahorrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were next?

“Mon Dieu,” said Poirot, in a very low voice, “I do not understand this. It is horrible. Tellme, monsieur, there is no doubt that it was tetanus?”

“I believe not. But Dr.?Ames will tell you more than I can do.”

“Ah, of course, you are not the doctor.”

“My name is Tosswill.”

This, then, was the British expert described by Lady Willard as being a minor official at theBritish Museum. There was something at once grave and steadfast⁶⁰ about him that took my fancy.

“If you will come with me,” continued Dr.?Tosswill. “I will take you to Sir Guy Willard. Hewas most anxious to be informed as soon as you should arrive.”

We were taken across the camp to a large tent. Dr.?Tosswill lifted up the flap and we entered.

Three men were sitting inside.

“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings have arrived, Sir Guy,” said Tosswill.

The youngest of the three men jumped up and came forward to greet us. There was a certainimpulsiveness in his manner which reminded me of his mother. He was not nearly so sunburnt asthe others, and that fact, coupled with a certain haggardness round the eyes, made him look olderthan his twenty-two years. He was clearly endeavouring to bear up under a severe mental strain.

He introduced his two companions, Dr.?Ames, a capable-looking man of thirty-odd, with atouch of greying hair at the temples, and Mr.?Harper, the secretary, a pleasant lean young manwearing the national insignia of horn-rimmed spectacles.

After a few minutes’ desultory⁶¹ conversation the latter went out, and Dr.?Tosswill followedhim. We were left alone with Sir Guy and Dr.?Ames.

“Please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Poirot,” said Willard. “We are utterlydumbfounded at this strange series of disasters, but it isn’t—it can’t be, anything but coincidence.”

There was a nervousness about his manner which rather belied⁶² the words. I saw that Poirotwas studying him keenly.

“Your heart is really in this work, Sir Guy?”

“Rather. No matter what happens, or what comes of it, the work is going on. Make up yourmind to that.”

Poirot wheeled round on the other.

“What have you to say to that, monsieur le docteur?”

“Well,” drawled the doctor, “I’m not for quitting myself.”

Poirot made one of those expressive⁶³ grimaces⁶⁴ of his.

“Then, évidemment, we must find out just how we stand. When did Mr.?Schneider’s deathtake place?”

“Three days ago.”

“You are sure it was tetanus?”

“Dead sure.”

“It couldn’t have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?”

“No, Monsieur Poirot, I see what you are getting at. But it was a clear case of tetanus.”

“Did you not inject antiserum?”

“Certainly we did,” said the doctor dryly. “Every conceivable thing that could be done wastried.”

“Had you the antiserum with you?”

“No. We procured⁶⁵ it from Cairo.”

“Have there been any other cases of tetanus in the camp?”

“No, not one.”

“Are you certain that the death of Mr.?Bleibner was not due to tetanus?”

“Absolutely plumb⁶⁶ certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which became poisoned, andsepticaemia set in. It sounds pretty much the same to a layman⁶⁷, I dare say, but the two things areentirely different.”

“Then we have four deaths—all totally dissimilar, one heart failure, one blood poisoning, onesuicide and one tetanus.”

“Exactly, Monsieur Poirot.”

“Are you certain that there is nothing which might link the four together?”

“I don’t quite understand you?”

“I will put it plainly. Was any act committed by those four men which might seem to denotedisrespect to the spirit of Men-her-Ra?”

The doctor gazed at Poirot in astonishment⁶⁸.

“You’re talking through your hat, Monsieur Poirot. Surely you’ve not been guyed intobelieving all that fool talk?”

“Absolute nonsense,” muttered Willard angrily.

Poirot remained placidly⁷⁰ immovable, blinking a little out of his green cat’s eyes.

“So you do not believe it, monsieur le docteur?”

“No, sir, I do not,” declared the doctor emphatically. “I am a scientific man, and I believeonly what science teaches.”

“Was there no science then in Ancient Egypt?” asked Poirot softly. He did not wait for areply, and indeed Dr.?Ames seemed rather at a loss for the moment. “No, no, do not answer me,but tell me this. What do the native workmen think?”

“I guess,” said Dr.?Ames, “that, where white folk lose their heads, natives aren’t going to befar behind. I’ll admit that they’re getting what you might call scared—but they’ve no cause to be.”

“I wonder,” said Poirot noncommittally.

Sir Guy leant forward.

“Surely,” he cried incredulously, “you cannot believe in—oh, but the thing’s absurd! You canknow nothing of Ancient Egypt if you think that.”

For answer Poirot produced a little book from his pocket—an ancient tattered⁷¹ volume. As heheld it out I saw its title, The Magic of the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Then, wheeling round, hestrode out of the tent. The doctor stared at me.

“What is his little idea?”

The phrase, so familiar on Poirot’s lips, made me smile as it came from another.

“I don’t know exactly,” I confessed. “He’s got some plan of exorcizing the evil spirits, Ibelieve.”

I went in search of Poirot, and found him talking to the lean-faced young man who had beenthe late Mr.?Bleibner’s secretary.

“No,” Mr.?Harper was saying, “I’ve only been six months with the expedition. Yes, I knewMr.?Bleibner’s affairs pretty well.”

“Can you recount to me anything concerning his nephew?”

“He turned up here one day, not a bad-looking fellow. I’d never met him before, but some ofthe others had—Ames, I think, and Schneider. The old man wasn’t at all pleased to see him. Theywere at it in no time, hammer and tongs⁷². ‘Not a cent,’ the old man shouted. ‘Not one cent now orwhen I’m dead. I intend to leave my money to the furtherance of my life’s work. I’ve been talkingit over with Mr.?Schneider today.’ And a bit more of the same. Young Bleibner lit out for Cairoright away.”

“Was he in perfectly⁷³ good health at the time?”

“The old man?”

“No, the young one.”

“I believe he did mention there was something wrong with him. But it couldn’t have beenanything serious, or I should have remembered.”

“One thing more, has Mr.?Bleibner left a will?”

“So far as we know, he has not.”

“Are you remaining with the expedition, Mr.?Harper?”

“No, sir, I am not. I’m for New York as soon as I can square up things here. You may laughif you like, but I’m not going to be this blasted Men-her-Ra’s next victim. He’ll get me if I stophere.”

The young man wiped the perspiration⁷⁴ from his brow.

Poirot turned away. Over his shoulder he said with a peculiar⁷⁵ smile:

“Remember, he got one of his victims in New York.”

“Oh, hell!” said Mr.?Harper forcibly.

“That young man is nervous,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “He is on the edge, but absolutely onthe edge.”

I glanced at Poirot curiously⁷⁶, but his enigmatical smile told me nothing. In company with SirGuy Willard and Dr.?Tosswill we were taken round the excavations. The principal finds had beenremoved to Cairo, but some of the tomb furniture was extremely interesting. The enthusiasm ofthe young baronet was obvious, but I fancied that I detected a shade of nervousness in his manneras though he could not quite escape from the feeling of menace in the air. As we entered the tentwhich had been assigned to us, for a wash before joining the evening meal, a tall dark figure inwhite robes stood aside to let us pass with a graceful⁷⁷ gesture and a murmured greeting in Arabic.

Poirot stopped.

“You are Hassan, the late Sir John Willard’s servant?”

“I served my Lord Sir John, now I serve his son.” He took a step nearer to us and lowered hisvoice. “You are a wise one, they say, learned in dealing⁷⁸ with evil spirits. Let the young masterdepart from here. There is evil in the air around us.”

And with an abrupt⁷⁹ gesture, not waiting for a reply, he strode away.

“Evil in the air,” muttered Poirot. “Yes, I feel it.”

Our meal was hardly a cheerful one. The floor was left to Dr.?Tosswill, who discoursed⁸⁰ atlength upon Egyptian antiquities⁸¹. Just as we were preparing to retire to rest, Sir Guy caught Poirotby the arm and pointed⁸². A shadowy figure was moving amidst the tents. It was no human one: Irecognized distinctly the dog-headed figure I had seen carved on the walls of the tomb.

My blood froze at the sight.

“Mon Dieu!?” murmured Poirot, crossing himself vigorously. “Anubis, the jackal-headed, thegod of departing souls.”

“Someone is hoaxing⁸³ us,” cried Dr.?Tosswill, rising indignantly to his feet.

“It went into your tent, Harper,” muttered Sir Guy, his face dreadfully pale.

“No,” said Poirot, shaking his head, “into that of Dr.?Ames.”

The doctor stared at him incredulously; then, repeating Dr.?Tosswill’s words, he cried:

“Someone is hoaxing us. Come, we’ll soon catch the fellow.”

He dashed energetically in pursuit of the shadowy apparition⁸⁵. I followed him, but, search aswe would, we could find no trace of any living soul having passed that way. We returned,somewhat disturbed in mind, to find Poirot taking energetic measures, in his own way, to ensurehis personal safety. He was busily surrounding our tent with various diagrams and inscriptionswhich he was drawing in the sand. I recognized the five-pointed star or Pentagon many timesrepeated. As was his wont⁸⁶, Poirot was at the same time delivering an impromptu⁸⁷ lecture onwitchcraft and magic in general, White magic as opposed to Black, with various references to theKa and the Book of the Dead thrown in.

It appeared to excite the liveliest contempt in Dr.?Tosswill, who drew me aside, literallysnorting with rage.

“Balderdash, sir,” he exclaimed angrily. “Pure balderdash. The man’s an imposter. Hedoesn’t know the difference between the superstitions⁸⁹ of the Middle Ages and the beliefs ofAncient Egypt. Never have I heard such a hotchpotch of ignorance andcredulity.”

I calmed the excited expert, and joined Poirot in the tent. My little friend was beamingcheerfully.

“We can now sleep in peace,” he declared happily. “And I can do with some sleep. My head,it aches abominably⁹⁰. Ah, for a good tisane!?”

As though in answer to prayer, the flap of the tent was lifted and Hassan appeared, bearing asteaming cup which he offered to Poirot. It proved to be camomile tea, a beverage⁹¹ of which he isinordinately fond. Having thanked Hassan and refused his offer of another cup for myself, wewere left alone once more. I stood at the door of the tent some time after undressing, looking outover the desert.

“A wonderful place,” I said aloud, “and a wonderful work. I can feel the fascination⁹². Thisdesert life, this probing into the heart of a vanished civilization. Surely, Poirot, you, too, must feelthe charm?”

I got no answer, and I turned, a little annoyed. My annoyance⁹³ was quickly changed toconcern. Poirot was lying back across the rude couch, his face horribly convulsed. Beside him wasthe empty cup. I rushed to his side, then dashed out and across the camp to Dr.?Ames’s tent.

“Dr.?Ames!” I cried. “Come at once.”

“What’s the matter?” said the doctor, appearing in pyjamas⁹⁴.

“My friend. He’s ill. Dying. The camomile tea. Don’t let Hassan leave the camp.”

Like a flash the doctor ran to our tent. Poirot was lying as I left?him.

“Extraordinary,” cried Ames. “Looks like a seizure—or—what did you say about somethinghe drank?” He picked up the empty cup.

“Only I did not drink it!” said a placid⁶⁹ voice.

We turned in amazement⁹⁵. Poirot was sitting up on the bed. He was smiling.

“No,” he said gently. “I did not drink it. While my good friend Hastings was apostrophizingthe night, I took the opportunity of pouring it, not down my throat, but into a little bottle. Thatlittle bottle will go to the analytical⁹⁶ chemist. No”—as the doctor made a sudden movement—“as asensible man, you will understand that violence will be of no avail. During Hastings’ absence tofetch you, I have had time to put the bottle in safe keeping. Ah, quick, Hastings, hold him!”

I misunderstood Poirot’s anxiety. Eager to save my friend, I flung myself in front of him. Butthe doctor’s swift movement had another meaning. His hand went to his mouth, a smell of bitteralmonds filled the air, and he swayed forward and fell.

“Another victim,” said Poirot gravely, “but the last. Perhaps it is the best way. He has threedeaths on his head.”

“Dr.?Ames?” I cried, stupefied. “But I thought you believed in some occult influence?”

“You misunderstood me, Hastings. What I meant was that I believe in the terrific force ofsuperstition. Once get it firmly established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you mightalmost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is theinstinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race. I suspected from the first that a man wastaking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine, with the death of Sir JohnWillard. A fury of superstition arose at once. As far as I could see, nobody could derive⁹⁷ anyparticular profit from Sir John’s death. Mr.?Bleibner was a different case. He was a man of greatwealth. The information I received from New York contained several suggestive points. To beginwith, young Bleibner was reported to have said he had a good friend in Egypt from whom hecould borrow. It was tacitly understood that he meant his uncle, but it seemed to me that in thatcase he would have said so outright⁹⁸. The words suggest some boon⁹⁹ companion of his own.

Another thing, he scraped up enough money to take him to Egypt, his uncle refused outright toadvance him a penny, yet he was able to pay the return passage to New York. Someone must havelent him the money.”

“All that was very thin,” I objected.

“But there was more. Hastings, there occur often enough words spoken metaphorically¹⁰⁰ whichare taken literally⁸⁸. The opposite can happen too. In this case, words which were meant literallywere taken metaphorically. Young Bleibner wrote plainly enough: ‘I am a leper,’ but nobodyrealized that he shot himself because he believed that he contracted the dread⁸⁴ disease of leprosy.”

“What?” I ejaculated.

“It was the clever invention of a diabolical¹⁰¹ mind. Young Bleibner was suffering from someminor skin trouble; he had lived in the South Sea Islands, where the disease is common enough.

Ames was a former friend of his, and a well-known medical man, he would never dream ofdoubting his word. When I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Harper andDr.?Ames, but I soon realized that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed¹⁰² thecrimes, and I learn from Harper that he was previously¹⁰³ acquainted with young Bleibner. Doubtlessthe latter at some time or another had made a will or had insured his life in favour of the doctor.

The latter saw his chance of acquiring wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate¹⁰⁴ Mr.?Bleibner withthe deadly germs. Then the nephew, overcome with despair at the dread news his friend hadconveyed to him, shot himself. Mr.?Bleibner, whatever his intentions, had made no will. Hisfortune would pass to his nephew and from him to the doctor.”

“And Mr.?Schneider?”

“We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may have suspectedsomething, or, again, the doctor may have thought that a further death motiveless¹⁰⁵ and purposelesswould strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychologicalfact, Hastings. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime, theperformance of it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis yousaw tonight was Hassan dressed up by my orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor.

But it would take more than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he was not entirelytaken in by my pretences¹⁰⁶ of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceivehim. I suspected that he would endeavour to make me the next victim. Ah, but in spite of la mermaudite, the heat abominable¹⁰⁷, and the annoyances¹⁰⁸ of the sand, the little grey cells stillfunctioned!”

Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises¹⁰⁹. Young Bleibner, some years ago, in a fit ofdrunken merriment, had made a jocular will, leaving “my cigarette case you admire so much andeverything else of which I die possessed¹¹⁰ which will be principally debts to my good friend RobertAmes who once saved my life from drowning.”

The case was hushed up as far as possible, and, to this day, people talk of the remarkableseries of deaths in connection with the Tomb of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeanceof a bygone king upon the desecrators of his tomb—a belief which, as Poirot pointed out to me, iscontrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.

 

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