[adapted]

by
Agatha Christie

I have always thought that one of the most exciting and dramatic adventures I had with Poirot was when we looked into the strange deaths that happened after the discovery and opening of the Tomb of King Men-her-Ra.

Soon after the discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamun by Lord Carnarvon, Sir John Willard and Mr. Bleibner of New York were working on their dig not far from Cairo, near the Pyramids of Giza. They unexpectedly found a group of funeral rooms. Their discovery caused great interest. The Tomb seemed to belong to King Men-her-Ra, one of the unknown kings of the Eighth Dynasty, a time when the Old Kingdom of Egypt was falling apart. Not much was known about this time, so the newspapers wrote a lot about what was found.

Then something happened that really caught the public’s attention. Sir John Willard died very suddenly from heart failure.

The more dramatic newspapers quickly used the chance to bring back all the old stories about bad luck linked to Egyptian treasures. The story of the unlucky Mummy at the British Museum, an old tale told many times before, was brought back with new excitement. The Museum denied it again, but people still enjoyed talking about it.

Two weeks later, Mr. Bleibner died from serious blood poisoning, and a few days after that, his nephew shot himself in New York. People began talking a lot about “The Curse of Men-her-Ra,” and the power of ancient Egypt was talked about as if it were real magic.

That was when Poirot got a short note from Lady Willard, the wife of the dead archaeologist, asking him to come and see her at her house in Kensington Square. I went with him.

Lady Willard was a tall, thin woman, dressed in deep black clothes. Her tired and worn-out face clearly showed how sad she was.

“It is kind of you to come so quickly, Monsieur Poirot.”

“I am here to help you, Lady Willard. You wanted to speak with me?”

“I know you are a detective, but I don’t just want to talk to you as a detective. I know you have special ways of thinking. You have imagination, and you know a lot about the world. Tell me, Monsieur Poirot, what do you think about the supernatural?”

Poirot waited a moment before he answered. He looked like he was thinking carefully. Finally, he said:

“Let’s be clear with each other, Lady Willard. You are not asking me a general question. You are thinking about something personal, aren’t you? You are talking in a roundabout way about your husband’s death?”

“Yes, that’s true,” she said.

“You want me to look into how he died?”

“I want you to find out for me how much of what the newspapers say is just talk, and how much might be true. Three deaths, Monsieur Poirot—each one can be explained by itself, but all three happening together seems like too much of a coincidence. And all within one month of opening the tomb! Maybe it’s just an old belief, maybe it’s some strong curse from the past working in ways modern science can’t understand. But the fact is—three deaths! And I am afraid, Monsieur Poirot, terribly afraid. I don’t think it’s over yet.”

“For whom are you afraid?”

“For my son. When I heard that my husband had died, I was sick. My son, who had just finished his studies at Oxford, went out there. He brought the body home—but now he has gone back again, even though I begged him not to. He is so interested in the work that he wants to take his father’s place and continue the digging. You may think I’m a foolish, easily scared woman, but Monsieur Poirot, I am truly afraid. What if the spirit of the dead King is still angry? Maybe you think I’m talking nonsense—”

“No, not at all, Lady Willard,” said Poirot quickly. “I also believe in the power of superstition. It is one of the strongest forces the world has ever known.”

I looked at him in surprise. I never would have thought that Poirot believed in superstitions. But the little man clearly meant what he said.

“What you really want is for me to protect your son?
I will do my best to keep him safe.”

“Yes, in a normal way—but what about against something magical or mysterious?”

“In books from the Middle Ages, Lady Willard, you will find many ways to stop black magic. Maybe they knew more than we do now, even with all our modern science. Now, let’s talk about facts, so I can be better guided. Your husband had always loved the study of Egypt, hadn’t he?”

“Yes, ever since he was young. He was one of the top experts in the world.”

“But Mr. Bleibner, I’ve heard, was more like an amateur?”

“Oh, yes, very much so. He was a very rich man who liked to get involved in anything that seemed interesting to him. My husband got him interested in Egyptology, and his money was a great help in paying for the trip and the work.”

“And the nephew? What do you know about what he liked? Was he part of the group at all?”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I didn’t even know he existed until I read about his death in the newspaper. I don’t think he and Mr. Bleibner were close at all. Mr. Bleibner never talked about having any family.”

“Who else was in the group?”

“Well, there’s Dr. Tosswill, a small official connected to the British Museum; Mr. Schneider from the Metropolitan Museum in New York; a young American secretary; Dr. Ames, who came with the group as their doctor; and Hassan, my husband’s loyal native servant.”

“Do you remember the name of the American secretary?”

“Harper, I think, but I’m not sure. I know he hadn’t been working for Mr. Bleibner very long. He seemed like a very nice young man.”

“Thank you, Lady Willard.”

“If there’s anything else—?”

“For now, nothing. Please leave it to me, and know that I will do everything I can to keep your son safe.”

These words didn’t sound very comforting, and I saw Lady Willard flinch when he said them. But at the same time, the fact that he didn’t laugh at her fears seemed to calm her a little.

As for me, I had never guessed before that Poirot believed in superstitions so strongly. I asked him about it as we walked home. He looked serious and calm.

“But yes, Hastings. I believe in these things. You must not think superstition has no power.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Always practical—you, good Hastings! Very well, first we are going to send a telegram to New York to get more details about young Mr. Bleibner’s death.”

He sent the telegram. The answer came back clearly and with lots of details. Young Rupert Bleibner had been struggling for years. He had lived as a beach-comber and a remittance man (a man who is paid to stay away) on several islands in the South Seas, but had come back to New York two years ago, where his life got worse and worse. The most important detail, in my opinion, was that he had recently borrowed enough money to go to Egypt. “I have a good friend there who can help me,” he had said. But things did not go as planned. He returned to New York angry at his uncle, calling him a stingy old man who cared more about the bones of dead kings than his own family. It was during Rupert’s stay in Egypt that Sir John Willard died. Rupert went back to his wild lifestyle in New York, and then, without warning, killed himself. He left behind a letter with strange and emotional words. It sounded like he wrote it during a sudden feeling of guilt. He called himself a leper (a person who is hated and avoided) and an outcast, and ended the letter by saying that people like him were better off dead.

A dark idea jumped into my mind. I had never truly believed in the revenge of a long-dead Egyptian king. I saw this as a modern crime. What if this young man had planned to kill his uncle—maybe by using poison? But by accident, Sir John Willard got the poison instead. The young man went back to New York, haunted by what he had done. When he heard his uncle was dead, he realized his crime had been for nothing. Full of guilt, he killed himself.

I told Poirot my theory. He was interested.

“That is clever—very clever what you’ve thought of,” he said. “It might even be true. But you are forgetting about the deadly power of the Tomb.”

I shrugged.

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

“I believe in it so much, mon ami (my friend), that we are going to Egypt tomorrow.”

“What?” I shouted, surprised.

“I have said it.” A proud look came over Poirot’s face, like he had done something brave. Then he groaned. “But oh,” he moaned, “the sea! I hate the sea!”

It was a week later. Under our feet was the golden sand of the desert. The hot sun was shining strongly above us. Poirot, looking very unhappy, was drooping beside me. The little man did not travel well. Our four-day trip by ship from Marseilles had been full of pain for him. When we landed at Alexandria, he was like a ghost of his usual self—even his usual neat and tidy look was gone. We reached Cairo and drove straight to the Mena House Hotel, right next to the Pyramids.

I was already feeling the magic of Egypt. But not Poirot. He dressed exactly as he did in London, carried a small clothes-brush in his pocket, and kept brushing off the dust that gathered on his dark suit.

“And my boots,” he cried. “Look at them, Hastings. My smart, shiny leather boots! The sand is inside them—it hurts my feet. And it’s on the outside too—it hurts my eyes! And the heat—it makes my moustaches droop. They are so soft now—limp!”

“Look at the Sphinx,” I said. “Even I can feel its mystery and beauty.”

Poirot looked at it with dislike.

“It does not look happy,” he said. “How could it be? It is half-covered in sand and looks messy. Ah, this awful sand!”