"Severe bronchitis is no joke to a man of my age," said Mr Shaw ruefully. "But I am afraid Mr Vavasour has suffered from the hard work entailed by my absence, especially with this unexpected worry coming on top of everything."
Poirot asked a few more questions. I judged that he was endeavouring to gauge the exact amount of intimacy between uncle and nephew. Mr Vavasour's answers were brief and punctilious. His nephew was a trusted official of the Bank, and had no debts or money difficulties that he knew of. He had been entrusted with similar missions in the past. Finally we were politely bowed out.
"I am disappointed," said Poirot, as we emerged into the street.
"You hoped to discover more? They are such stodgy old men."
"It is not their stodginess which disappoints me, mon ami. I do not expect to find in a Bank manager a 'keen financier with an eagle glance' as your favourite works of fiction put it. No, I am disappointed in the case – it is too easy!"
"Easy?"
"Yes, do you not find it almost childishly simple?"
"You know who stole the bonds?"
"I do."
"But then – we must – why -"
"Do not confuse and fluster yourself, Hastings. We are not going to do anything at present."
"But why? What are you waiting for?"
"For the Olympia. She is due on her return trip from New York on Tuesday."
"But if you know who stole the bonds, why wait? He may escape."
"To a South Sea island where there is no extradition? No, mon ami, he would find life very uncongenial there. As to why I wait – eh bien, to the intelligence of Hercule Poirot the case is perfectly clear, but for the benefit of others, not so greatly gifted by the good God – the Inspector McNeil, for instance – it would be as well to make a few enquiries to establish the facts. One must have consideration for those less gifted than oneself."
"Good Lord, Poirot! Do you know, I'd give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself – just for once. You're so confoundedly conceited!"
"Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, I observe that there are times when you almost detest me! Alas, I suffer the penalties of greatness!"
The little man puffed out his chest, and sighed so comically that I was forced to laugh.
Tuesday saw us speeding to Liverpool in a first-class carriage of the L. N. W. R. Poirot had obstinately refused to enlighten me as to his suspicions – or certainties. He contented himself with expressing surprise that I, too, was not equally au fait with the situation. I disdained to argue, and intrenched my curiosity behind a rampart of pretended indifference.
Once arrived at the quay alongside which lay the big transatlantic liner, Poirot became brisk and alert. Our proceedings consisted in interviewing four successive stewards and inquiring after a friend of Poirot's who had crossed to New York on the 23rd.
"An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses. A great invalid, hardly moved out of his cabin."
The description appeared to tally with one Mr Ventnor who had occupied the cabin C 24 which was next to that of Philip Ridgeway. Although unable to see how Poirot had deduced Mr Ventnor's existence and personal appearance, I was keenly excited.
"Tell me," I cried, "was this gentleman one of the first to land when you got to New York?"
The steward shook his head.
"No, indeed, sir, he was one of the last off the boat."
I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure.
"It's all very well," I remarked heatedly, "but that last answer must have damped your precious theory, grin as you please!"
"As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary, the coping-stone of my theory."
I flung up my hands in despair.
"I give it up."
When we were in the train, speeding towards London, Poirot wrote busily for a few minutes, sealing up the result in an envelope.
"This is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard in passing, and then to the Rendezvous Restaurant, where I have asked Miss Esmée Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with us."
"What about Ridgeway?"
"What about him?" asked Poirot with a twinkle.
"Why, you surely don't think – you can't -"
"The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a matter of fact I did think. If Ridgeway had been the thief – which was perfectly possible – the case would have been charming; a piece of neat methodical work."
"But not so charming for Miss Farquhar."
"Possibly you are right. Therefore all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us review the case. I can see that you are dying to do so. The sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes, as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air. We will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practicable at the present stage of science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Every one asserts the incredibility of its being smuggled ashore -"
"Yes, but we know -"
"You may know, Hastings. I do not. I take the view that, since it seemed incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain: it was hidden on board – also rather difficult – or it was thrown overboard."
"With a cork on it, do you mean?"
"Without a cork."
I stared.
"But if the bonds were thrown overboard, they couldn't have been sold in New York."
"I admire your logical mind, Hastings. The bonds were sold in New York, therefore they were not thrown overboard. You see where that leads us?"
"Where we were when we started."
"Jamais de la vie! If the package was thrown overboard, and the bonds were sold in New York, the package could not have contained the bonds. Is there any evidence that the package did contain the bonds? Remember, Mr Ridgeway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in London."
"Yes, but then -"
Poirot waved an impatient hand.
"Permit me to continue. The last moment that the bonds are seen as bonds is in the office of the London and Scottish Bank on the morning of the 23rd. They reappear in New York half an hour after the Olympia gets in, and according to one man, whom nobody listens to, actually before she gets in. Supposing then, that they have never been on the Olympia at all! Is there any other way they could get to New York? Yes. The Gigantic leaves Southampton on the same day as the Olympia, and she holds the record for the Atlantic. Mailed by the Gigantic, the bonds would be in New York the day before the Olympia arrived. All is clear, the case begins to explain itself. The sealed packet is only a dummy, and the moment of its substitution must be in the office in the Bank. It would be an easy matter for any of the three men present to have prepared a duplicate package which could be substituted for the genuine one. Très bien, the bonds are mailed to a confederate in New York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in, but some one must travel on the Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of the robbery."
"But why?"
"Because if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy, suspicion flies at once to London. No, the man on board in the cabin next door does his work, pretends to force the lock in an obvious manner so as to draw immediate attention to the theft, really unlocks the trunk with a duplicate key, throws the package overboard and waits until the last to leave the boat. Naturally he wears glasses to conceal his eyes, and is an invalid since he does not want to run the risk of meeting Ridgeway. He steps ashore in New York and returns by the first boat available."
"But who – which was he?"
"The man who had a duplicate key, the man who ordered the lock, the man who has not been severely ill with bronchitis at his home in the country – enfin, that 'stodgy' old man, Mr Shaw! There are criminals in high places sometimes, my friend. Ah, here we are. Mademoiselle, I have succeeded! You permit?"
And, beaming, Poirot kissed the astonished girl lightly on either cheek!
>
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EGYPTIAN TOMB
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 Tutankh-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 received the fatal dose. The young man returns to New York, haunted by his crime. The news of his uncle's death reaches him. He realises how unnecessary his crime has been, and stricken with remorse takes his own life.
I outlined my solutions 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 far Egypt tomorrow."
"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!"
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