Poirot Investigates
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 inquiries 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 entrenched 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!
VI
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 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