


I have always considered that one of the most thrilling and dramatic
of the many adventures I have 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 Men-her-Ra.

Hard upon the discovery of the Tomb of Tut-ankh-Amen by Lord
Carnarvon, Sir John Willard and Mr. Bleibner of New York, pursuing
their excavations not far from Cairo, in the vicinity of the
Pyramids of Gizeh, came unexpectedly on a series of funeral
chambers. The greatest interest was aroused by their discovery.
The Tomb appeared to be that of King Men-her-Ra, 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 Willard 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. Bleibner died of acute blood poisoning, and
a few days afterwards a nephew of his shot himself in New York.
The “Curse of Men-her-Ra” 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 Willard,
widow of the dead archaeologist, asking him to go and see her at
her house in Kensington Square. I accompanied him.

Lady Willard 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, 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 he said:

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

“That is so,” she admitted.

“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, Monsieur 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, 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 just come down from Oxford, went out there. He
brought the—the body home, but now he has gone out again, in spite
of my prayers and entreaties. He is so fascinated by the work that
he intends to take 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 is not yet appeased? 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 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, 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,
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. Bleibner, 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.”

“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, I do not think he and Mr. Bleibner
can have been at all intimate. He never spoke of having any
relations.”

“Who are the other members of the party?”

“Well, there is Dr. Tosswill, a minor official connected with the
British Museum; Mr. Schneider 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.
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 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 pooh-poohed her fears seemed in itself to be a relief to
her.

For my part I had 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, Hastings. I believe in these things. You must not
underrate the force of superstition.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“_Toujours pratique_, the good Hastings! _Eh bien_, to begin with
we are going to cable to New York 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 in low water for several years. He had
been a beach-comber 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’ve 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 skinflint 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 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 had never really believed
in the vengeance of a long dead Egyptian king. 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 Poirot. He was interested.

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

I shrugged my shoulders.

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

“So much so, _mon ami_, that we start for Egypt to-morrow.”

“What?” I cried, astonished.

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


  •   •   •   •   •   •   •


It was a week later. Beneath our feet was the golden sand of the
desert. The hot sun poured down overhead. Poirot, the picture of
misery, wilted 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 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 Mena House Hotel, right in the
shadow of the Pyramids.

The charm of Egypt had laid hold of me. Not so Poirot. 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. “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
outrages 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 exhales.”

Poirot looked at it discontentedly.

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

“Come, now, there’s a lot of sand in Belgium,” I reminded him,
mindful of a holiday spent at Knocke-sur-mer in the midst of “_les
dunes impeccables_” as the guide-book had phrased it.

“Not in Brussels,” declared Poirot. He gazed at the Pyramids
thoughtfully. “It is true that they, at least, are of a 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 Poirot 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 sunburnt man with
a grey beard, in white clothes and wearing a helmet, came to meet
us.

“Monsieur Poirot 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.”

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 blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil,
subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing
I were the next?

“_Mon Dieu_,” said Poirot, in a very low voice, “I do not understand
this. It is horrible. Tell me, 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 the British Museum. There was something
at once grave and steadfast about him that took my fancy.

“If you will come with me,” continued Dr. Tosswill, “I will take
you to Sir Guy 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. 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 certain impulsiveness in his manner which reminded
me of his mother. He was not nearly so sunburnt as the others, and
that fact, coupled with a certain haggardness round the eyes, made
him look older than 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 a touch of greying 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. Tosswill followed him. We were left alone with Sir Guy and
Dr. Ames.

“Please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Poirot,” said
Willard. “We are utterly dumbfounded 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 belied the
words. I saw that Poirot was 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 your mind 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 expressive grimaces of his.

“Then, _évidemment_, we must find out just how we stand. When did
Mr. Schneider’s death take 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’re getting at. But it was a
clear case of tetanus.”

“Did you not inject anti-serum?”

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

“Had you the anti-serum with you?”

“No. We procured 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 plumb certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which
became poisoned, and septicæmia set in. 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, 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 denote disrespect to the spirit of Men-her-Ra?”

The doctor gazed at Poirot in astonishment.

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

“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, _monsieur le docteur_?”

“No, sir, I do not,” declared the doctor emphatically. “I am 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. “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 be far behind. I’ll admit that they’re
getting what you might call scared—but they’ve no cause to be.”

“I wonder,” said Poirot non-committally.

Sir Guy leant forward.

“Surely,” he cried incredulously, “you cannot 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.

“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, I believe.”

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

“No,” Mr. Harper was saying, “I’ve only been six months with the
expedition. Yes, I knew Mr. 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 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 to-day.’ And a bit more of the same. Young
Bleibner lit out for Cairo right away.”

“Was he in perfectly 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 been anything 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 laugh if you like, but I’m not going to be
this blasted old Men-her-Ra’s next victim. He’ll get me if I stop
here.”

The young man wiped the perspiration from his brow.

Poirot 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 nervous,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “He is on
the edge, but absolutely on the edge.”

I glanced at Poirot curiously, but his enigmatical smile told me
nothing. In company with Sir Guy Willard and Dr. Tosswill 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 could
not 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. 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 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 Poirot. “Yes, I feel it.”

Our meal was hardly a cheerful one. The floor was left to Dr.
Tosswill, who discoursed at length upon Egyptian antiquities. Just
as we were preparing to retire to rest, Sir Guy caught Poirot 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 literally froze at the sight.

“_Mon Dieu!_” murmured Poirot, crossing himself vigorously. “Anubis,
the jackal-headed, the god of departing souls.”

“Some one is hoaxing 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 the Dr. Ames.”

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

“Some one 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 Poirot 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 was his wont, Poirot 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 Ka and the Book of the Dead thrown in.

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

“Balderdash, sir,” he exclaimed angrily. “Pure balderdash. 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 hotch-potch of ignorance and credulity.”

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

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

As though in answer to prayer, the flap of the tent was lifted and
Hassan appeared, bearing a steaming cup which he offered to Poirot.
It proved to be camomile tea, a beverage of which he is inordinately
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.

“A 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, Poirot, you, too, must feel
the charm?”

I got no answer, and I turned, a little annoyed. My annoyance was
quickly changed to concern. Poirot 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’s tent.

“Dr. Ames!” I cried. “Come at once.”

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

“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 something he drank?” He picked up the empty cup.

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

We turned in amazement. 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 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’ brief absence to
fetch 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. 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 Poirot gravely, “but the last. Perhaps it
is the best way. He has three deaths 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 of superstition. Once get it firmly
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 Sir John Willard. A fury of superstition
arose at once. As far as I could see, nobody could derive any
particular profit from Sir John’s death. Mr. Bleibner was a
different case. He was a man of great wealth. The information I
received from New York contained several suggestive points. To
begin with, young Bleibner was reported to have said he had a good
friend in Egypt from whom he could borrow. It 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 boon companion
of his own. Another thing, he scraped up enough money to take him
to Egypt, his uncle refused outright to advance him a penny, yet
he was able to pay the return passage to New York. Some one must
have lent him the money.”

“All that was very thin,” I objected.

“But there was more. Hastings, 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 Bleibner wrote plainly enough: ‘I am
a leper,’ but nobody realized that he shot himself because he
believed that he had contracted the dread disease of leprosy.”

“What?” I ejaculated.

“It was the clever invention of a diabolical mind. Young Bleibner
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 Harper and Dr. Ames, but I soon realized that only
the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the crimes, and I
learnt from Harper that he was previously acquainted with young
Bleibner. Doubtless the 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 inoculate
Mr. Bleibner with the deadly germs. Then the nephew, overcome with
despair at the dread news his friend had conveyed to him, shot
himself. Mr. Bleibner, 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 Bleibner too, remember, and may
have suspected something, or, again, the doctor may have thought
that a further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen
the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an
interesting psychological fact, Hastings. 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 to-night 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 pretences of belief in the occult.
The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected
that he would endeavour to make me the next victim. Ah, but in
spite of _la mer maudite_, the heat abominable, and the annoyances
of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned!”

Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner,
some years ago, in a fit of drunken merriment, 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 deaths in connection with the Tomb
of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone
king upon the desecrators of his tomb—a belief which, as Poirot
pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.




  VII

  The 
