Poirot Investigates, Agatha Christie [best black authors TXT] 📗

“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