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.