Poirot Investigates - Agatha Christie - 5

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In the case which I have recorded, Puerro's investigations have started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and have proceeded from thence by a process of logical deduction to the final triumphant unraveling. In the events I am now about to chronicle, a remarkable chain of circumstances led from the apparently trivial incidents which first attracted Puerro's attention, to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual case. I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald Parker. There had been perhaps about half a dozen people there besides my host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to do sooner or later, wherever Parker found himself, on the subject of house-hunting in London. Houses and flats were Parker's special hobby. Since the end of the war, he had occupied at least half a dozen different flats and mazes and nets. No sooner was he settled anywhere that he would light unexpectedly upon a new find and would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly always accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd business head, but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated him, and not a desire to make money at it. We listened to Parker for some time with the respect of the novice for the expert. Then it was our turn, and a perfect babble of tongues was let loose. Finally the floor was left to Mrs. Robinson, a charming little bride who was there with her husband. I'd never met them before, as Robinson was only a recent acquaintance of Parker's. Talking of flats, she said, have you heard of our piece of luck, Mr. Parker? We've got a flat, at last, in Montague Mansions. Oh, well, said Parker, I've always said there are plenty of flats at a price. Oh, yes, but this isn't at a price. It's dirt cheap, 80 pounds a year. But, uh, but Montague Mansions is just off Nightbridge, isn't it? Big, handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the same name stuck in the slums somewhere? No, it's the Nightbridge one, and that's what makes it so wonderful. Wonderful is a word. It's a blinking miracle. But there must be a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose. No premium. No premium? Oh, God, hold my head somebody, groaned Parker. But we've got to buy the furniture, continued Mrs. Robinson. Ah, Parker bristled up. I knew there was a catch. I've been looking for 50 pounds, and it's beautifully furnished. Well, I give up, said Parker. The present occupants must be lunatics with a taste for philanthropy. Mrs. Robinson was looking a little troubled. A little pucker appeared between her dainty browns. It is queer, isn't it? You don't think that the place is haunted? Well, never heard of a haunted flat, declared Parker decisively. No, Mrs. Robinson appeared far from convinced. But there were several things about it that struck me as...well, queer. For instance, I suggested. Ah, said Parker, our criminal expert's attention is aroused. Unburden yourself to him, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is a great unraveler of mysteries. I laughed, embarrassed, but not wholly displeased with the role thrust upon me. Oh, well, not really queer, Captain Hastings. But when we went to the agents, Stosser and Paul, we hadn't tried them before because they only have the expensive Mayfair flats, but we thought at any rate, well, it would do no harm. But everything they offered us was four and five hundred a year, or else huge premiums. And then, just as we were going, they mentioned that they had a flat at Eighty. But they doubted if it would be any good hour going there, because it had been on their book some time, and that they had sent so many people to see it that it was almost sure to be taken. Well, snapped up, as the clerk put it. Only people were so tiresome in not letting them know. And then they went on sending, and people get annoyed at being sent to a place that had perhaps been let some time. Mrs. Robinson paused for some much-needed breath, and then continued, We thanked him and said that we quite understood it would probably be no good, but that we should like and order all the same just in case. And we went there straight away in a taxi, for after all you never know. Number four was on the second floor. And just as we were waiting for the lift, Elsie Ferguson, who is a friend of mine, Captain Hastings, and they're looking for a flat, too, came hurrying down the stairs. Ahead of you for once, my dear, she said. But it's no good, it's already let. Well, that seemed to finish it, but, well, as John said, the place was very cheap. We could afford to give more, and perhaps if we offered a premium, a horrid thing to do, of course, and I feel quite ashamed of telling you, but you know what flat hunting is. I assured her that I was well aware that in the struggle for house-room, the baser side of human nature frequently triumphed over the higher, and that the well-known rule of dog-eat-dog always applied. So we went up, and would you believe it, the flat wasn't let at all. We were shown over it by the maid, and then we saw the mistress, and the thing was settled then and there, immediate possession and fifty pounds for the furniture. We signed the agreement next day, and we're to move in to-morrow. Mrs. Robinson paused triumphantly. And what about Mrs. Ferguson? asked Parker. Let's have your deductions, Hastings. Well, obvious, my dear Watson, I quoted lightly. She went to the wrong flat. Oh, Captain Hastings, how clever of you! cried Mrs. Robinson admiringly. I rather wished Poirot had been there. Sometimes I have the feeling that he rather underestimates my capabilities. The whole thing was rather amusing, and I propounded the thing as a mock problem to Poirot on the following morning. He seemed interested and questioned me rather narrowly as to the rents of flats in various localities. Hmm, a curious story, he said thoughtfully. Excuse me, Hastings, I must take a shot stroll. When he returned about an hour later, his eyes were gleaming with a peculiar excitement. He laid his stick on the table and brushed the nap of his hat with his usual tender care before he spoke. It is as well, mon ami, that we have no affairs of moment on hand. We can devote ourselves wholly to the present investigation. Well, what investigation are you talking about? There are remarkable cheapness of your friend Mrs. Robinson's new flat. Poirot, you're not serious. Oh, I am most serious. Figure to yourself, my friend, that the real rent of those flats is 350 pounds. I have just ascertained that from the landlord's agents. Yet this particular flat is being sublet at 80 pounds. Why? Well, there must be something wrong with it. Perhaps it's haunted, as Mrs. Robinson suggested. Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner. Ah, then again, how curious it is that our friend tells her the flat is a let, and when she goes up behold, it is not so at all. Yeah, but surely you agree with me that the other woman must have gone to the wrong flat. That's the only possible solution. You may or may not be right on that point, Hastings. The fact still remains that numerous other applicants were sent to see it, and yet in spite of this remarkable cheapness, it was still in the market when Mrs. Robinson arrived. Well, that shows that there must be something wrong about it. Mrs. Robinson did not seem to notice anything amiss. Very curious, is it not? Did she impress you as being a truthful woman, Hastings? Oh, she was a delightful creature. Oh, evidently, since she renders you incapable of replying to my question, describe her to me then. Well, she's tall and fair. Her hair is really a beautiful shade of urban. Ah, always you have had a portion for urban hair, ma Poirot, but continue. Well, blue eyes and a very nice complexion, and well, that's all I think. I concluded lamely. And her husband? Oh, well, he's quite a nice fellow, nothing starkling. Dark or fair? Oh, I don't know, betwixt and between, and well, just an ordinary sort of face. Poirot nodded. Yes, there are hundreds of these average men. And anyway, you bring more sympathy and appreciation to your description of women. Do you know anything about these people, and does Parker know them well? No, they're just recent acquaintances, I believe, but surely Poirot, you don't think for an instant that Poirot raised his hand. To do small, mon ami. Have I said that I think anything? All I say is it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light upon it except perhaps the lady's name. Eh, Hastings? Her name is Stella, I said stiffly, but I don't see that Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed to be amusing him vastly. And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous? But what on earth, and stars give light? Voila, now calm yourself, Hastings. Do not put on that air of ingenuity. Calm, we will go to Montagu-Manchin and make a few inquiries. I accompanied him, nothing loath. The mansions were a handsome block of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself. Oh, pardon, but could you tell me if I'm Mr. and Mrs. Robinson Rosadier? The porter was a man of few words, and apparently of a sour or suspicious disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out. Number 4, second floor. Oh, I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here? Six months. I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot's malicious grin. Impossible, I cried. You must be making a mistake. Six months. But are you sure? The lady, I mean, is tall and fair with reddish, gold hair, and— That's her, said the porter. Come in the Mickelmer's quarter they did, just six months ago. He appeared to lose interest in us and retreated slowly up the hall. I followed Poirot outside. Ev'ya, Hastings? My friend demanded slightly. Are you so sure now that delightful women always speak the truth? I did not reply. Poirot had steered his way into Brompton Road before I asked him what he was going to do and where we were going. To the house, Hastings says, I have a great desire to have a flat in Montagu, Manshawns, if I am not mistaken, several interesting things will take place there before long. We were fortunate in our quest. Number eight on the fourth floor was to be let furnished at ten guineas a week. Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside in the street again he silenced my protests. Oh, but I make money nowadays, huh? Why should I not indulge a whim? By the way, Hastings, have you a revolver? Yes, somewhere, I answered slightly thrilled. Do you think that you will need it? It is quite possible. The idea pleases you, I see. Always the spectacular and romantic appears to you. The following day saw us installed in our temporary home. The flat was pleasantly furnished. It occupied the same position in the building as that of the Robinsons, but was two floors higher. The day after our installation was a Sunday. In the afternoon Poirot left the front door ajar and summoned me hastily as a bang reverberated from somewhere below. Now look over the bannisters, huh? Are those your friends? No, do not let them see you. I craned my neck over the staircase. That's them, I declared, in an ungrammatical whisper. Good. Wait a while. About half an hour later a young woman emerged in brilliant and varied clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction Poirot tiptoed back into the flat. C'est ça? Atheur de muster and mistress? C'est maide. The flat should now be empty. What are we going to do? I asked uneasily. Poirot had trotted briskly into the scullery and was hauling at the rope of the coal lift. We are about to descend after the method of the dustbins. He explained cheerfully, no one will observe us. The Sunday concert, the Sunday afternoon out, and finally the Sunday nap after the Sunday dinner of England, the roast beef. All these will distract attention from the doings of Erkjulpoirot. Come, my friend. He stepped into the rough wooden contrivance and I followed him gingerly. Are we going to break into the flat? I asked eubiously. Poirot's answer was not too reassuring. Not precisely, today, he replied. Pulling on the rope we descended slowly till we reached the second floor. Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as he perceived that the wooden door into the scullery was open. You observe, never do they bolt these doors into daytime and yet any one could mount or descend as we have done. At night, yes, though not always then. And it is against that that we are going to make provision. That's the win. Call 1-800-GRANGER, visit granger.com or just stop by GRANGER for the ones who get it done. He had drawn some tools from his pocket as he spoke and at once set deftly to work, his object being to arrange the bolt so that it could be pulled back from the lift. The operation only occupied about three minutes. Then Poirot returned the tools to his pocket and we re-ascended once more to our own domain. On Monday, Poirot was out all day, but when he returned in the evening he flung himself into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Oh, Hastings, shall I recount to you a little history, a story after your own heart which will remind you of your favorite cinema? Go ahead, I laughed. I presume that it's a true story, not one of your efforts of fancy. Oh, no, no, no, no, it is true enough. Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard will vouch for his accuracy, since it was through his kind offices that he came to my ears. Now, listen, Hastings, a little over six months ago some important never plans were stolen from an American government department. They showed the position of some of the most important of our defenses and would be worth a considerable sum to any foreign government, that of Japan, for example. Now, suspicion fell upon a young man named Luigi Valdarno, an Italian bad-birth who was employed in a manner capacity in the department and who was missing at the same time as the papers. After Luigi Valdarno was asked if or not, he was found two days later on the east side in New York, shot dead, and the papers were not on him. Now, for some time past, Luigi Valdarno had been going about with a Miss Elsa Hart, a young concert singer who had recently appeared and who lived with a brother in an apartment in Washington. Nothing was known of the antecedents of Miss Elsa Hart, and she disappeared suddenly about the time of Valdarno's death. Now, there are reasons for believing that she was in reality an accomplished international spy who has done much nefarious work under various aliases. The American Secret Service, while doing their best to trace her, also kept an eye upon certain insignificant Japanese gentlemen living in Washington. They felt pretty certain that when Elsa Hart had covered her tracks efficiently, she would approach the gentlemen in question. One of them left suddenly for England a fortnight ago. On the face of it, therefore, it would seem that Elsa Hart is in England. Poirot paused, and then added softly. The official description of Elsa Hart is, height, five feet, seven inches, eyes, blue, hair, open, fair complexion, no straight, no special distinguishing marks. Mrs. Robinson, I gasped. Well, there is a chance of it anyhow, a man de Poirot. Also, I learned that a swathe man, a foreigner of some kind, was inquiring about the occupants of number four only this morning. Therefore, my name, I fear that you must forswear your beauty sleep tonight and join me in my old night vigil in that flat below. Armed with that excellent revolver of yours. Right, I cried with enthusiasm. When shall we start? The hour of midnight is both solemn and suitable. I have not seen nothing is likely to occur before then. At twelve o'clock, precisely, we crept cautiously into the co-lift and lowered ourselves to the second floor. Under Poirot's manipulation, the wooden door quickly swung inwards and we climbed into the flat. From the scullery, we passed into the kitchen where we established ourselves comfortably in two chairs, with the door into the hall, the jar. Now we have but to wait, so Poirot contentedly closing his eyes. To me, the waiting appeared endless. I was terrified of going to sleep, just when it seemed to me that I had been there about eight hours and had, as I found out afterwards, in reality, been exactly one hour and twenty minutes, a faint scratching sound came to my ears. Poirot's hand touched mine. I rose and together we moved carefully in the direction of the hall. The noise came from there. Poirot placed his lips to my ear. Outside the front door, they are cutting out the lock. When I give the word not before, fall upon him from behind and hold him fast and be careful, he will have a knife. Presently, there was a rending sound and a little circle of light appeared through the door. It was extinguished immediately and then the door was slowly opened. Poirot and I flattened ourselves against the wall. I heard a man's breathing as he passed us. Then he flashed on his torch and as he did so, Poirot hissed in my ear. And they... We sprang together. Poirot, with a quick movement, enveloped the intruder's head with a light woollen scarf whilst I pinioned his arms. The whole affair was quick and noiseless. I twisted a dagger from his hand and as Poirot brought down the scarf from his eyes whilst keeping it wound tightly round his mouth, I jerked up my revolver where he could see it and understand that resistance was useless. As he ceased to struggle, Poirot put his mouth close to his ear and began to whisper rapidly. After a minute, the man nodded. Then, in joining silence with a movement of the hand, Poirot led the way out of the flat and down the stairs. Our captive followed and I brought up the rear with the revolver. When we were out in the street, Poirot turned to me. There's a taxi waiting just around the corner. Give me the revolver. We shall not need it now. But look, if this fellow tries to escape, Poirot smiled. He will not. I returned in a minute with the waiting taxi. The scarf had been unwound from the stranger's face and I gave a start of surprise. He's not a jab. I ejaculated in a whisper to Poirot. Observation was always your strong point, these things. Nothing escapes you. No, the man is not a jab. He is an Italian. We got into the taxi and Poirot gave the driver an address in St. John's Wood. I was by now completely fogged. I didn't like to ask Poirot where we were going in front of our captive and strove in vain to obtain some light upon the proceedings. We alighted at the door of a small house standing back from the road. A returning wafer, a slightly drunk, was lurching along the pavement and almost collided with Poirot who said something sharply to him which I did not catch. All three of us went up the steps of the house. Poirot rang the bell and motioned us to stand a little aside. There was no answer and he rang again and then seized the knocker which he plied for some minutes vigorously. A light appeared suddenly above the fan light and the door opened cautiously a little way. What the devil do you want? A man's voice demanded harshly. I want a doctor, my wife, he's tick and ill. Well, there's no doctor here. The man prepared to shut the door but Poirot thrust his foot in a droidly. He became suddenly a perfect caricature of an infuriated Frenchman. Would you say there is no doctor? I will have the law of you. You must come. I will stay here and ring and knock all night. My dear sir, the door was opened again. The man, clad in a dress and gown and slippers, stepped forward to pacify Poirot with an uneasy glance around. I will call the police. Poirot prepared to descend the steps. No, no, no, no, don't do that for heaven's sake. The man dashed after him. With a neat push, Poirot sent him staggering down the steps. In another minute all three of us were inside the door and it was pushed to and bolted. Quick in here. Poirot led the way into the nearest room, switching on the light as he did so. And you, behind the curtain. Si, senor. Said the Italian and slid rapidly behind the full folds of rose-colored velvet which draped the embrasure of the window. Not a minute too soon. Just as he disappeared from view, a woman rushed into the room. She was tall with reddish hair and held a scarlet kimono round her slender form. Where is my husband? She cried with a quick frightened glance. Who are you? Poirot stepped forward with a bow. It is to be hoped that your husband will not suffer from a chill. I observed that he had slippers on his feet and that his dressing-gown was a warm one. Who are you and what are you doing in my house? It is true that none of us has a pleasure of your acquaintance, madame. It is especially to be regretted as one of our number has come specially from New York in order to meet you. The curtains parted and the Italian stepped out. To my horror, I observed that he was brandishing my revolver which Poirot must doubtless have put down inadvertently in the cab. The woman gave a piercing scream and turned to fly but Poirot was standing in front of the closed door. Let me by! she shrieked. He'll murder me! Who was it? That croaked Luigi Valdano. Asked the Italian horsely, brandishing the weapon and sweeping each one of us with it. We dared not move. My God! Poirot, this is awful! What shall we do? I cried. You will oblige me by refraining from talking so much, Hastings. I can assure you that our friend will not shoot until I give the word. You sure that, huh? said the Italian, leering unpleasantly. It was more than I was but the woman turned to Poirot like a flash. What is it you want? Poirot bowed. I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hart's intelligence by telling her. With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat which served as a cover for the telephone. They're stretched in the lining of that. Ah, clever! murmured Poirot appreciatively. He stood aside from the door. Good evening, madam. I will detain your friend from New York whilst you make your getaway. What a fool! wrought the big Italian and raising the revolver, he fired point blank at the woman's retreating figure just as I flung myself upon him. But the weapon merely clicked harmlessly and Poirot's voice rose in mild reproof. Never will you trust your old friend, Hastings. I do not care for my friends to carry loaded pistols about with them and never would I permit a mere acquaintance to do so. No, no, mon ami. This to the Italian who was swearing hoarsely. Poirot continued to address him in a tone of mild reproof. See now what I have done for you. I have saved you from being hanged and do not think that our beautiful lady will escape. No, no, the house is watched back and front. Straight into the arms of the police they will go. Is not that a beautiful and consoling thought? Hmm. Oh yes, you may leave the room now, but be careful. Be very careful. I am. He is gone. And my friend Hastings looks at me with eyes of reproach, but it's also simple. It was clear from the first that out of several hundred probably applicants for number four Montague mansions, only the Robinson's were considered suitable. Why? What was there that singled them out from the rest at practically a glance? Their appearance? Possibly, but it was not so unusual. Their name then? But there's nothing unusual about the name of Robinson, I cry. It's quite a common name. Ah, surprise, Steve, but exactly. That was the point. As the heart and the husband or brother or whatever he really is, come from New York and take a flat in the name of Mrs. Robinson. Suddenly they learn that one of these secret societies, the mafia or the Cameroon, to which Douglas Luigi Valdano belonged, is on their track. So what did they do? They hit on a scheme of transparent simplicity. Evidently, they knew that their pursuers were not personally acquainted with either of them. But then can be simpler. They offer the flat at an absurdly low rental. Of the thousands of young couples in London looking for flats, they cannot fail to be several Robinson. It is only a matter of waiting. If you will look at the name of Robinson in the telephone directory, you will realize that a fair-haired Mrs. Robinson was pretty sure to come along sooner or later, and then what will happen? The Avenger arrives. He knows the name. He knows the address. He strikes. All is over. Vengeance is satisfied. And Miss Elsa Hart has escaped by the skin of her teeth once more. Oh, by the way, Hastings, you must present me to the real Mrs. Robinson, the delightful and truthful creature. What will they think when they find their flat has been broken in two? We must hurry back. Ah, that sounds like the good inspector's job and his friends arriving. A mighty two-sounded on the knocker. Look, how do you know this address, I asked as I follow Poirot out into the hall? Oh, of course you had the first Mrs. Robinson followed when she left the other flat. Alabama, Hastings, you use your graces at last. Now, for a little surprise for Jab. Softly unbolting the door, he stuck the cat's head round the edge and ejaculated, a piercing, meow. The Scotland Yard Inspector, who was standing outside with another man, jumped in spite of himself. Oh, God, it's only Monsue Poirot at one of his little jokes, he exclaimed, as Poirot's head followed that of the cat. Let us in, Monsieur. You have our friends safe and sound? Oh, yes, we've got the birds all right, but they hadn't got the goods with them. Ah, I see, so you can to search. Well, I am about to depart with Hastings, but I should like to give you a little lecture upon the history and habits of the domestic cat. Oh, for the Lord's sake, if you can completely bar me. The cat, the claim poirot, was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. It is still regarded as a symbol of good luck if a black cat crosses your path. Ah, this cat crossed your path tonight, Jap. To speak of the interior of any animal or any person is not, I know, considered polite in England, but the interior of this cat is perfectly delicate. I refer to the lining. With a sudden grunt, the second man seized the cat from Poirot's hand. Oh, I forgot to introduce you, said Jap. Mr. Poirot, this is Mr. Burt of the United States Secret Service. The Americans' trained fingers had felt what he was looking for. He held out his hand, and for a moment speech failed him. Then he rose to the occasion. Pleased to meet you, said Mr. Burt. The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb. I have always considered that one of the most thrilling and dramatic of the many adventures I've shared with Poirot was that of our investigation into the strange series of deaths which followed upon the discovery and opening of the Tomb of King Menera. Hard upon the discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamen by Lord Canavan, Sir John Willand and Mr. Blydener of New York, pursuing their excavations not far from Cairo in the vicinity of the pyramids of Gize, came unexpectedly on a series of funeral chambers. The greatest interest was aroused by their discovery. The tomb appeared to be that of King Menera, one of those shadowy kings of the Eighth Dynasty, when the Old Kingdom was falling to decay. Little was known about this period, and the discoveries were fully reported in the newspapers. An event soon occurred which took a profound hold on the public mind. Sir John Willand died quite suddenly of heart failure. The more sensational newspapers immediately took the opportunity of reviving all the old superstitious stories connected with the ill luck of certain Egyptian treasures. The unlucky mummy at the British Museum, that hoary old chestnut, was dragged out with fresh zest, was quietly denied by the museum, but nevertheless enjoyed all its usual vogue. A fortnight later, Mr. Blydener died of acute blood poisoning, and a few days afterwards a nephew of his shot himself in New York. The curse of Menera was the talk of the day, and the magic power of dead and gone Egypt was exalted to a fetish point. It was then that Poirot received a brief note from Lady Willand, widow of the dead archaeologist, asking him to go and see her at her house in Kensington Square. I accompanied him. Lady Willand was a tall, thin woman, dressed in deep mourning. Her haggard face bore eloquent testimony to her recent grief. It is kind of you to have come so promptly, Mr. Poirot. I am at your service, Lady Willand. You wished to consult me, eh? You are, I am aware, a detective. But it's not only as a detective that I wish to consult you. You're a man of original views, I know. You have imagination, experience of the world. Tell me, Mr. Poirot, what are your views on the supernatural? Poirot hesitated for a moment before he replied. He seemed to be considering. Finally he said, let us not misunderstand each other, Lady Willand. It is not a general question that you are asking me here. It is a personal application, is it not? You are referring obliquely to the death of your late husband. That is so, she admitted. And you want me to investigate the circumstances of his death? I want you to ascertain for me exactly how much is newspaper chatter and how much may be said to be founded on fact. Three deaths, Mr. Poirot, each one explicable, taken by itself, but taken together, surely an almost unbelievable coincidence and all within a month of the opening of the tomb. It may be mere superstition. It may be some potent curse from the past that operates in ways undreamed of by modern science. The fact remains, three deaths, and I am afraid, Mr. 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 just come down from Oxford, went out there. He brought the body home. But now he's gone out again in spite of my prayers and entreaties. He's so fascinated by the work that he intends to take his father's place and carry on the system of excavations. Now you may think me a foolish, credulous woman, but, Mr. Poirot, I am afraid. Supposing that the spirit of the dead king is not yet appeased. Perhaps to you I seem to be talking nonsense, but— 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 superstitious, but the little man was obviously in earnest. What you really demand is that I shall protect your son? I will do my utmost to keep him from harm. Yes, be in the ordinary way, but against an occult influence? In volumes of the Middle Ages, Lady Willard, you will find many ways of counteracting black magic. Perhaps they knew more than we moderns with all our boasted science. Now let us come to facts, so that I may have guidance. Your husband had always been a devoted Egyptologist, hadn't he? Yes, from his youth upwards he was one of the greatest living authorities upon the subject. But Mr. Blackner, I understand, was more or less of an amateur. Oh, quite! He was a very wealthy man who dabbled freely in any subject that happened to take his fancy. My husband managed to interest him in Egyptology. And it was his money that was so useful in financing the expedition. Hmm. In the nephew, what do you know of his tastes? Was he with the party at all? I don't think so. In fact, I never knew of his existence till I read of his death in the paper. I don't think he and Mr. Blackner can have been at all intimate, where he never spoke of having any relations. Who are the other members of the party? Well, there's Dr. Tosquill, a minor official connected with the British Museum, Mr. Snyder of the Metropolitan Museum in New York, a young American secretary, Dr. Ames, who accompanies the expedition in his professional capacity, and Hassan, my husband's devoted native servant. Do you remember the name of the American secretary? Harper, I think, but I cannot be sure. He had not been with Mr. Blackner very long, I know. He was a very pleasant young fellow. Thank you, Lady Willard. If there's anything else, for the moment, nothing. Leave it now in my hands, and be assured that I will do all that is humanly possible to protect your son. They were not exactly reassuring words, and I observed Lady Willard wince as he uttered them. Yet, at the same time, the fact that he had not poo-pooed her fears seemed in itself to be a relief to her. Now, for my part, I'd never before suspected that Poirot had so deep a vein of superstition in his nature. I tackled him on the subject as we went homewards. His manner was grave and earnest, but yes, as things. I believe in his things. You must not underrate the force of superstition. What are we going to do about it? Always practice the goodest things. They're going to begin with we are going to cable New York for fuller details of young Mr. Blackner's death. He duly sent off his cable. The reply was full and precise. Young Rupert Blydenham had been in low water for several years. He had been a beachcomber and a remittance man in several South Sea islands, but had returned to New York two years ago where he had rapidly sunk lower and lower. The most significant thing to my mind was that he had recently managed to borrow enough money to take him to Egypt. I have a good friend there I can borrow from, he had declared. Here, however, his plans had gone awry. He had returned to New York cursing his skin-flint of an uncle who cared more for the bones of dead and gone kings than his own flesh and blood. It was during his sojourn in Egypt that the death of Sir John Willard had occurred. Rupert had plunged once more into his life of dissipation in New York and then without warning he had committed suicide, leaving behind him a letter which contained some curious phrases. It seemed written in a sudden fit of remorse. He referred to himself as a leper and an outcast and the letter ended by declaring that such as he were better dead. A shadowy theory leapt into my brain. I'd never really believed in the vengeance of a long-dead Egyptian king, but I saw here a more modern crime. Supposing this young man had decided to do away with his uncle preferably by poison. By mistake Sir John Willard receives the fatal dose. The young man returns to New York haunted by his crime. The news of his uncle's death reaches him. He realizes how unnecessary his crime has been and stricken with remorse takes his own life. I outlined my solution to Pouirot. He was interested. It is ingenious what you have thought of there. Decidedly it is ingenious. It may even be true, but you count not the fatal influence of the tomb. I shrugged my shoulders. You still think that has something to do with it? So much so money me that we start for Egypt tomorrow. What? I cried astonished. I have said it. An expression of conscious heroism spread over Pouirot's face. Then he groaned, but oh the sea, oh the head full sea. It was a week later. Beneath our feet was the golden sand of the desert. The hot sun poured down overhead. Pouirot, the picture of misery wilted by my side. The little man was not a good traveler. Our four days voyage from Marseilles had been one long agony to him. He had landed at Alexandria, the wraith of his former self. Even his usual neatness had deserted him. We had arrived in Cairo and had driven out at once to the Menor House Hotel, right in the shadow of the pyramids. The charm of Egypt had laid hold of me. Not so, Pouirot. Dressed precisely the same as in London, he carried a small clothes brush in his pocket and waged an unceasing war on the dust which accumulated on his dark apparel. And my boots, he wailed, raccadze mess things. 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 outrageous the sight. Oh, so they eat, it causes my mustaches to become limp. But limp? But look at the sphinx, I urged. Even I can feel the mystery and charm it exhales. Pouirot looked at it discontentedly. No, it is not the air happy, he declared. How could it have buried in the sand in that anti-deficient? Ah, oh, the discursant sand. Oh, come now, there's a lot of sand in Belgium, I reminded him. Mindful of a holiday spent at Noxumea in the midst of Les Dune Impeccable, as the guidebook had phrased it. Not in Brussels, declared Pouirot. He gazed at the pyramids thoughtfully. It is true that they at least are of shape solid and geometrical, but their surface is of an unevenness most unpleasing. 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 ride there on camels and the beasts were patiently kneeling waiting for us to mount. In charge of several picturesque boys headed by a voluble dragoman. I pass over the spectacle of Pouirot on a camel. He started by groans and lamentations and ended by shrieks, gesticulations, and invocations to the Virgin Mary and every saint in the calendar. In the end he descended ignominiously and finished the journey on a diminutive donkey. I must admit that a trotting camel is no joke for the amateur. I was stiff for several days. At last we neared the scene of the excavations. A sunburned man with a grey beard in white clothes and wearing a helmet came to meet us. Mr. Pouirot and Captain Hastings, we received your cable. I'm sorry that there was no one to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event occurred which completely disorganized our plans. Pouirot paled. His hand which had stolen to his clothesbrush stayed its course. Not another death, he breathed. Yes. S-Sagai Willard, I cried. No, Captain Hastings, my American colleague, Mr. Schneider. And the cause demanded Pouirot. Tetanus, I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were next. Monde d'eux, said Pouirot in a very low voice. I do not understand this, it is horrible. Tell me, monsieur, there is no doubt that it was Tetanus, eh? Well, I believe not, but Dr. Ames will tell you more than I can do. Ah, of course you are not a doctor. No, my name is Tosville. This then was the British expert described by Lady Willard as being a minor official at the British Museum. There was something at once grave and steadfast about him that took my fancy. If you'll come with me, continued Dr. Tosville, I will take you to S-Sagai Willard. He was most anxious to be informed as soon as you should arrive. We were taken across the camp to a large tent. Dr. Tosville lifted up the flap and we entered. Three men were sitting inside. Monsieur Pouirot and Captain Hastings have arrived, S-Sagai, said Tosville. The youngest of the three jumped up and came forward to greet us. There was a certain impulsiveness in his manner which reminded me of his mother. He was not nearly, say, sunburnt as the others, and that fact coupled with a certain hackadness round the eyes made him look older than his 22 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 a touch of graying hair at the temples, and Mr. Harper, the secretary, a pleasant, lean young man wearing the national insignia of horn-rimmed spectacles. After a few minutes' desultory conversation, the latter went out and Dr. Tosville followed him. We were left alone with S-Sagai and Dr. Ames. But please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Pouirot, said Willard. We're utterly dumbfounded at this strange series of disasters, but it isn't what it can't be anything but coincidence. With plenty of time left on the clock, so your team always gets the win. Call 1-800-GRANGER, visit granger.com or just stop by GRANGER for the ones who get it done. Well, I'm not recording myself. No, it was a clear case of tetanus. Did you not inject antiserum? Oh, certainly we did, said the doctor dryly. Every conceivable thing that could be done was tried. Had you the antiserum with you? No, we procured it from Caro. Have there been any other cases of tetanus in the camp? No, not one. So, you're certain that the death of Mr. Blaibner was not due to tetanus? Absolutely, Blum certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which became poisoned and sepulchemia set in. Now, it sounds pretty much the same to a layman, I dare say, but the two things are entirely different. Then we have four deaths, all totally dissimilar. One heart failure, one blood poisoning, one suicide, and one tetanus. Exactly, Mr. Poirot. Are you certain that there is nothing which might link the four together? Well, no, I don't quite understand you. Well, I would put it plainly. Was any act committed by those four men which might seem to denote disrespect to the spirit of Menera? The doctor gazed at Poirot in astonishment. You're talking through your hat, Mr. Poirot. Surely you've not been guided into believing all that full talk. It is absolute nonsense, muttered Willard angrily. Poirot remained placidly immovable, blinking a little out of his green cat's eyes. So, you do not believe it, Mr. le Docteur? No, sir, I do not, declared the doctor emphatically, and a scientific man. And I believe only what science teaches. Was there no science then in ancient Egypt? Asked Poirot softly. He did not wait for a reply, and indeed Dr. Ames seemed rather at a loss for the moment. Oh, no, no, no, no, do not answer me. But tell me this, what do the native workmen think? Well, I guess, said Dr. Ames, that where white folk lose their heads, natives aren't going to be far behind. I'll admit that they are getting what you might call scared, but they have no cause to be. I wonder, said Poirot non-committally. Segui lent forward. Surely he cried incredulously. You can't believe in—oh! But the thing's absurd. You can know nothing of ancient Egypt if you think that. For answer, Poirot produced a little book from his pocket, an ancient tattered volume. As he held it out, I saw its title, The Magic of the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Then, wheeling round, he strode out of the tent. The doctor stared at me. Why, it's 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 exercising the evil spirits, I believe. I went in search of Poirot and found him talking to the lean-faced young man who had been the late Mr. Blybner's secretary. No, Mr. Harper was saying. I've only been six months with the expedition. Yes, I knew Mr. Blybner's affair is pretty well. And can you recount to me anything concerning his nephew? Well, he turned up here one day, not a bad-looking fellow. I never met him before, but some of the others had. Ames, I think, and Schneider. The old man wasn't at all pleased to see him. They were at it in no time, hammer and tongs. Not a cent, the old man shouted. Not one cent now or when I'm dead. I intend to leave my money to the furtherance of my life's work. I've been talking it over with Mr. Schneider today. And, you know, a bit more of the same. Young Blybner let out for Cairo right away. And was he in perfectly good health at the time? What, the old man? No, the young one. Well, I believe he did mention there was something wrong with him, but it couldn't have been anything serious or I should have remembered. Oh, no, one thing more. Has Mr. Blybner left a will? So far as we know, he has not. Are you remaining with the expedition, Mr. Harper? No, sir, I'm not. I'm from New York as soon as I can square up things here. Now you may laugh if you like, but I'm not going to be this blasted menoras next victim. He'll get me if I stop here. The young man wiped the perspiration from his brow. Cairo turned away. Over his shoulder he said with a peculiar smile. Remember, he got one of his victims in New York? Oh, hell, said Mr. Harper forcibly. That young man is no us, said Cairo thoughtfully. He is on the edge, but absolutely on the edge. I glanced at Cairo curiously, but his enigmatic smile told me nothing. In company with Sir Guy Willard and Dr. Tozwell, we were taken round the excavations. The principal finds had been removed to Cairo, but some of the tomb furniture was extremely interesting. The enthusiasm of the young baronet was obvious, but I fancied that I detected a shade of nervousness in his manner, as though he couldn't quite escape from the feeling of menace in the air. As we entered the tent, which had been assigned to us for a wash before joining the evening meal, a tall dark figure in white robes stood aside to let us pass with a graceful gesture and a murmured greeting in Arabic. Cairo stopped. You are Assain, the late Sir John Willard servant? I served my Lord Sir John, now I serve his son. He took a step nearer to us and lowered his voice. You are a wise one, they say, learned in dealing with evil spirits. Let the young master depart from here. There is evil in the air around us. And with an abrupt gesture, not waiting for a reply, he strode away. Evil in the air, muttered Cairo. Yes, I feel it. Our meal was hardly a cheerful one. The floor was left to Dr. Toswell, who discoursed at length upon Egyptian antiquities. Just as we were preparing to retire to rest, a guy called Cairo by the arm and pointed. A shadowy figure was moving amidst the tents. It was no human one. I recognized distinctly the dog-headed figure I had seen carved on the walls of the tomb. My blood froze at the sight. Mourn, dieu! murmured Cairo, crossing himself vigorously. A new piss, the jacalated, the god of departing souls. Look, someone's hoaxing us, cried Dr. Toswell, rising indignantly to his feet. Look, it went into your tent, Harper, muttered Cairo, his face dreadfully pale. No, said Cairo, shaking his head, into that of Dr. Imms. The doctor stared at him incredulously. Then, repeating Dr. Toswell's words, he cried, Someone is hoaxing us. Come, we'll soon catch the fellow. He dashed energetically in pursuit of the shadowy apparition. I followed him, but search as we would, we could find no trace of any living soul having passed that way. We returned, somewhat disturbed in mind, to find Cairo taking energetic measures in his own way to ensure his personal safety. He was busily surrounding our tent with various diagrams and inscriptions which he was drawing in the sand. I recognized the five-pointed star, or Pentagon, many times repeated. As his won't, Cairo was at the same time delivering an impromptu lecture on witchcraft and magic in general. White magic as opposed to black, with various references to the car and the book of the dead thrown in. It appeared to excite the liveliest contempt in Dr. Toswell, who drew me aside literally snorting with rage. Bald a dash, sir, he exclaimed angrily. Pure bald a dash, the man's an impostor. He doesn't know the difference between the superstitions of the Middle Ages and the beliefs of ancient Egypt. Never have I heard such a hot pot of ignorance and credulity. I calmed the excited expert and joined Cairo in the tent. My little friend was beaming cheerfully. We can now sleep in peace, he declared happily, and I can though with some sleep my head it aches abominably. Ah! for a good design. As though in answer to prayer, the flap of the tent was lifted and Hassan appeared bearing a steaming cup which he offered to Cairo. It proved to be Camomile T, a beverage of which he is inaudibly fond. Having thanked Hassan and refused his offer of another cup for myself, we were left alone once more. I stood at the door of the tent some time after undressing, looking out over the desert. If you work in university maintenance, Granger considers you an MVP. Because your playbook ensures your arena is always ready for tip-off, and Granger is your trusted partner. Offering the products you need, all in one place, from HVAC and plumbing supplies to lighting and more, and all delivered with plenty of time left on the clock, so your team always gets the win. Call 1-800-GRANGER, visit Granger.com or just stop by, Granger, for the ones who get it done. Wow! Wonderful place, I said aloud, and a wonderful work. I can feel the fascination. This desert life, this probing into the heart of a vanished civilization. Surely, Cuaro, you too must feel the charm. I got no answer, and I turned a little annoyed. My annoyance was quickly changed to concern. Cuaro was lying back across the rude couch. His face horribly convulsed. Beside him was the empty cup. I rushed to his side, then dashed out and across the camp to Dr. Ames' tent. Dr. Ames, I cried, come at once. Oh, what's the matter? said the doctor, appearing in pyjamas. My friend, he's ill, dying. The chamomile tea. Don't let Hasan leave the camp. Like a flash, the doctor ran to our tent. Cuaro was lying as I left him. Extraordinary! cried Ames. Looks like a seizure, or— What did you say about something he drank? he picked up the empty cup. Only I did not drink it, said a placid voice. We turned in amazement. Cuaro was sitting up on the bed. He was smiling. No, he said gently, I did not drink it. While my good friend Hastings was apostrophizing the night, I took the opportunity of pouring it, not down my throat, but into a little bottle. That little bottle will go to the analytical chemist. No, as the doctor made a sudden movement, as a sensible man you will understand that violence will be of no avail. During Hastings' absence to fetch you, I have had time to put the bottle in self-keeping. At no quick Hastings! Hold him! I misunderstood Cuaro's anxiety. Eager to save my friend, I flung myself in front of him. But the doctor's swift movement had another meaning. His hand went to his mouth. A smell of bitter almonds filled the air, and he swayed forward and fell. Another victim, said Cuaro gravely. But the last. Perhaps it is the best way. He has three deaths on his head. Well, 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 of superstition. Once Kettit family established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse. So strongly is the instinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race. I suspected from the first that a man was taking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine, with the death of Sejean Willard. A fury of superstition arose at once. As far as I could see, nobody could arrive any particular profit from Sejean's death. Mr. Blydener was a different case. He was a man of great wealth. The information I received from New York contains several subjective points to begin with. Young Blydener was reported to have said he had a good friend in Egypt from whom he could borrow. He was tacitly understood that he meant his uncle, but it seemed to me that, in that case, he would have said so outright. The words suggest some boom companion of his own. Another thing, he scraped up enough money to take him to Egypt. His uncle refused our right to advance him a penny, yet he was able to pay the return passage to New York. Someone must have lent him the money. All that was very thin, I objected. Ah, but there was more. As things, there occur often enough words spoken metaphorically which are taken literally. The opposite can happen too. In this case, words which were meant literally were taken metaphorically. Young Blydener wrote plainly enough, I am a leper. But nobody realized he shot himself because he believed that he had contracted a dread disease of leprosy. What, I ejaculated. It was the clever invention of a diabolical mind. Young Blydener was suffering from some minor 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 of doubting his word. When I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Upper and Dr. Ames, but I soon realized that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the crimes, and I learned from Upper that he was previously acquainted with young Blydener. Douglas, the latter, at some time or another, had made a will or had ensured his life in favor of the doctor. The latter saw his chance of acquiring wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate Mr. Blydener with the deadly germs. Then the nephew overcome with despair the dread news his friend had conveyed to him shot himself. Mr. Blydener, whatever his intentions, had made no will. His fortune would pass to his nephew and from him to the doctor. And Mr. Schneider? We cannot be sure. He knew young Blydener too, remember, and may have suspected something, or again the doctor may have thought that the further death, motive-less and purposeless, would strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I would tell you an interesting psychological fact, as things. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime. The performance of it grows upon him, hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw 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 entirely taken in by my pretentious belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavor to make me the next victim. Ah, but in spite of la mermodite, the heat abominable, and the annoyances of the sand, their little graisseurs still functioned. Wopuaro proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Blydener some years ago, in a fit of drunken menament, had made a jocular will, leaving my cigarette case you admire so much and everything else of which I die possessed, which will be principally debts to my good friend Robert Ames, who once saved my life from drowning. The case was hushed up as far as possible, and to this day people talk of the remarkable series of debts in connection with the tomb of Menherar as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone king upon the desecraters of his tomb. A belief which, as Pouaro pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought. 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