POIROT INVESTIGATES: Playbook 3 · The Million Dollar Bond Robbery, The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb, & The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan
Poirot Investigates Playbook 3 — The Million Dollar Bonds and the Egyptian Tomb
A Playbook Series Adaptation
Last Verified: 2026-09-16 | Adapted by: Kateule Sydney | Published by: E-cyclopedia Resources Hub
Summary: Two cases, one method. In the first, a million dollars in Liberty Bonds vanish from a locked trunk aboard a transatlantic liner, and Poirot discovers that the bonds were never on the ship at all. In the second, four deaths follow the opening of an Egyptian tomb, and the public attributes them to an ancient curse — until Poirot identifies a living murderer who has been using superstition as his camouflage. Both cases turn on the same principle: when a fact seems impossible, the explanation is not that the impossible occurred, but that an earlier fact was false.
Series Plan:
Source work: Poirot Investigates (1924) by Agatha Christie
Public domain status: Confirmed public domain in the United States. Published 1924; U.S. copyright expired.
Estimated source word count: Approximately 68,000 words across eleven stories
Target words per Playbook: ~7,500 (2 stories per Playbook)
Calculated number of Playbooks: 5 (eleven stories mapped across five installments)
Reference: Project Gutenberg eBook #61262 (Poirot Investigates, 1924)
Method: This post is an original adaptation of a verified public-domain source. Narrative events, characters, settings, and historical elements are derived from the source where applicable. The prose, dialogue, organization, pacing, framing, commentary, and presentation are newly written for this adaptation. No copyrighted modern translation or later adaptation has been reproduced.
Series Navigation:
← Playbook 2 — The Cheap Flat and the Hunter’s Lodge Mystery
Playbook 3 — The Million Dollar Bonds and the Egyptian Tomb (this post)
Previously in this series:
In Playbook 2, Poirot and Hastings investigated two cases. In the first, an improbably cheap flat in Montagu Mansions turned out to be the bait in a trap laid by an international spy named Elsa Hardt, who had taken the flat under the name of Robinson and filled it with the stolen naval plans sought by the American Secret Service. In the second, the shooting of a wealthy American at a Derbyshire shooting-box appeared to be the work of a black-bearded stranger. Poirot proved that the mysterious housekeeper who provided the widow’s alibi and the widow herself were one and the same woman in disguise, and that the murder had been planned by husband and wife together. Both cases ended with Poirot recovering what had been taken and, where the law permitted, handing the facts to the police.
Table of Contents — Playbook 3
Chapter I — The Million Dollar Bonds: A Fiancée’s Plea
Chapter II — The Million Dollar Bonds: The Liner and the Steward
Chapter III — The Egyptian Tomb: The Widow’s Fear
Chapter I — The Million Dollar Bonds: A Fiancée’s Plea
I had been reading the newspaper one morning and laid it aside with an exclamation.
“What a number of bond robberies there have been lately. Poirot, let us forsake the science of detection and take to crime instead.”
Poirot did not look up from the small volume he was studying. “You are on the get-rich-quick tack, my friend?”
“Look at this last coup. A million dollars in Liberty Bonds, which the London and Scottish Bank was sending to New York, disappeared in the most remarkable manner aboard the Olympia.”
“If it were not for the sea-sickness, and the difficulty of practising my usual method of health for longer than the crossing of the Channel, I should almost be tempted to voyage on one of those great liners myself.” He said this with a faraway look, as though the prospect were not entirely pleasant.
“Some of them must be perfect palaces — the swimming-baths, the lounges, the restaurants.”
“Yes, yes. And one would meet, no doubt, the elite of the criminal world. Ah, but that is a thought that appeals to me.”
The landlady interrupted us. A young lady was waiting to see Poirot. She handed over a card. It read: Miss Esmée Farquhar.
In another minute, one of the most charming girls I have ever seen entered the room. She was perhaps five-and-twenty, with large brown eyes and a graceful figure, and she was dressed with the composed elegance of a woman who knows she will be looked at and is not in the least troubled by the attention.
She sat down at Poirot’s invitation. “I am afraid it is a big problem I have brought you today. I dare say you have read about it in the papers. I am referring to the theft of Liberty Bonds on the Olympia.”
Poirot’s face must have shown his surprise, for she went on quickly. “You are asking yourself what I have to do with a grave institution like the London and Scottish Bank. In one sense nothing, in another sense everything. I am engaged to Mr. Philip Ridgeway.”
“And Mr. Ridgeway?”
“Was in charge of the bonds when they were stolen. Of course no blame can attach to him; it was not his fault. Nevertheless, he is half distraught over the matter, and his uncle insists that he must carelessly have mentioned having them in his possession. It is a terrible set-back in his career.”
“Who is his uncle?”
“Mr. Vavasour, joint general manager of the London and Scottish Bank.”
Poirot asked her to tell him the whole story. She did so with the clarity of a witness who has rehearsed the facts many times. The Bank had decided to send over a million dollars in Liberty Bonds to extend their credits in America. Mr. Vavasour had selected his nephew, who had occupied a position of trust for many years and who knew all the details of the Bank’s dealings in New York. The Olympia sailed from Liverpool on the twenty-third. The bonds were handed over to Philip on the morning of that day by the two joint general managers. They were counted, enclosed in a package, and sealed in his presence. He locked the package at once in his portmanteau.
“A portmanteau with an ordinary lock?”
“No, Mr. Shaw insisted on a special lock being fitted by Hubbs’s. Philip placed the package at the bottom of the trunk. It was stolen just a few hours before reaching New York. A rigorous search of the whole ship was made, but without result. The bonds seemed literally to have vanished into thin air.”
Poirot made a small grimace. “But they did not vanish absolutely, since they were sold in small parcels within half an hour of the docking of the Olympia. Well, undoubtedly the next thing is for me to see Mr. Ridgeway.”
“I was about to suggest that you should lunch with me at the Cheshire Cheese. Philip will be there. He does not yet know that I have been consulting you on his behalf.”
We drove there in a taxi. Mr. Philip Ridgeway was already waiting, and he looked up, somewhat surprised, as his fiancée arrived with two strangers. He was a nice-looking young fellow, tall and spruce, with a touch of greying hair at the temples, though he could not have been much over thirty.
Miss Farquhar introduced us. Ridgeway looked very astonished.
“Of course I have heard of you, Monsieur Poirot. But I had no idea that Esmée was thinking of consulting you about our trouble.”
“I was afraid you would not let me do it, Philip,” she said meekly.
“So you took care to be on the safe side. Well, I hope Monsieur Poirot will be able to throw some light on this extraordinary puzzle, for I confess frankly that I am nearly out of my mind with worry.”
His face looked drawn and haggard, and showed too clearly the strain under which he was labouring. We lunched, and over lunch Ridgeway told his story from the beginning. His account agreed in every particular with Miss Farquhar’s. When he had finished, Poirot took up the thread.
“What exactly led you to discover that the bonds had been stolen?”
Ridgeway laughed, rather bitterly. “The thing stared me in the face. I could not have missed it. My cabin trunk was half out from under the bunk, and all scratched and cut about where they had tried to force the lock.”
“But I understood that it had been opened with a key.”
“That is so. They tried to force it, but could not. In the end, they must have got it unlocked somehow or other.”
“Curious,” said Poirot, his eyes beginning to flicker with the green light I knew so well. “Very curious. They waste much time trying to prise it open, and then, sapristi, they find that they have the key all the time. For each of Hubbs’s locks is unique.”
“That is just why they could not have had the key. It never left me, day or night.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I can swear to it. And besides, if they had had the key, or a duplicate, why should they waste time trying to force an obviously unforceable lock?”
“Ah, there is exactly the question we are asking ourselves. I venture to prophesy that the solution, if we ever find it, will hinge on that curious fact. Now tell me one thing more. You are perfectly certain you did not leave the trunk unlocked?”
Ridgeway merely looked at him. Poirot gestured apologetically.
“Ah, but these things can happen, I assure you. Very well. The bonds were stolen from the trunk. What did the thief do with them? How did he manage to get ashore with them?”
“That is just it. How? Word was passed to the Customs authorities, and every soul that left the ship was gone over with a toothcomb.”
“And the bonds, I gather, made a bulky package?”
“Certainly they did. They could hardly have been hidden on board. And anyway, we know they were not, because they were offered for sale within half an hour of the Olympia’s arrival, long before I got the cables going and the numbers sent out. One broker swears he bought some of them even before the Olympia got in. But you cannot send bonds by wireless.”
“Not by wireless. But did any tug come alongside?”
“Only the official ones. And that was after the alarm was given, when everyone was on the look-out. I was watching out myself for their being passed over to someone that way. My God, Monsieur Poirot, this thing will drive me mad. People are beginning to say I stole them myself.”
“But you also were searched on landing, were you not?” Poirot asked gently.
“Yes.” The young man stared at him, puzzled. Poirot smiled enigmatically.
“You do not catch my meaning, I see. Now I should like to make a few inquiries at the Bank.”
Ridgeway produced a card and scribbled a few words on it. “Send this in, and my uncle will see you at once.”
Chapter II — The Million Dollar Bonds: The Liner and the Steward
We started out for Threadneedle Street and the head office of the London and Scottish Bank. On production of Ridgeway’s card, we were led through the labyrinth of counters and desks, and up to a small office on the first floor where the joint general managers received us. They were two grave gentlemen who had grown grey in the service of the Bank. Mr. Vavasour had a short white beard; Mr. Shaw was clean shaven.
“I understand you are strictly a private inquiry agent?” said Mr. Vavasour. “Quite so. We have, of course, placed ourselves in the hands of Scotland Yard. Inspector McNeil has charge of the case. A very able officer, I believe.”
“I am sure of it,” said Poirot politely. “You will permit a few questions, on your nephew’s behalf? About this lock. Who ordered it from Hubbs’s?”
“I ordered it myself,” said Mr. Shaw. “I would not trust any clerk in the matter. As to the keys, Mr. Ridgeway had one, and the other two are held by my colleague and myself.”
“And no clerk has had access to them?”
Mr. Shaw turned inquiringly to Mr. Vavasour. “I think I am correct in saying that they have remained in the safe where we placed them on the twenty-third,” said Mr. Vavasour. “My colleague was unfortunately taken ill a fortnight ago. In fact, on the very day that Philip left us. He has only just recovered.”
“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, my friend. 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…”
“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, my friend, he would find life very uncongenial there. As to why I wait — the case is perfectly clear to me, but for the benefit of others less gifted by the good God — 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 would give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself, just for once. You are 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.
On Tuesday we took the train to Liverpool. Poirot had obstinately refused to explain his suspicions, and had contented himself with expressing surprise that I was not, as he put it, equally on top of the situation. I disdained to argue and entrenched my curiosity behind a rampart of pretended indifference.
Once aboard the great 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 twenty-third.
“An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses. A great invalid, who hardly moved out of his cabin.”
The description appeared to tally with one Mr. Ventnor, who had occupied cabin C 24, next to that of Philip Ridgeway. I could not understand how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor’s existence and personal appearance, but 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 is 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 threw up my hands in despair.
When we were in the train, speeding back towards London, Poirot wrote busily for a few minutes and sealed 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 do not think — you cannot —”
“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. Everyone 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, which is 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 could not 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 twenty-third. 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 of 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. The bonds are mailed to a confederate in New York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in. But someone 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. He pretends to force the lock in an obvious manner, so as to draw immediate attention to the theft. He 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. In fine, 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.
Chapter III — The Egyptian Tomb: The Widow’s Fear
I have always considered that one of the most dramatic of the many adventures I have shared with Poirot was our investigation into the strange series of deaths which followed upon the discovery and opening of the Tomb of King Men-her-Ra.
Shortly after the discovery of the Tomb of Tut-ankh-Amen, 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 upon 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 revived all the old superstitious stories connected with the ill luck of certain Egyptian treasures. The unlucky mummy at the British Museum was dragged out with fresh zest, was quietly denied by the Museum, and nevertheless enjoyed all its usual vogue.
A fortnight later Mr. Bleibner died of acute blood poisoning. 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 call upon 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.
“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. He seemed to be considering. Finally he said: “Let us not misunderstand each other. It is not a general question 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.”
“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 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 I am afraid. Supposing that the spirit of the dead King is not yet appeased?”
“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. Your husband had always been a devoted Egyptologist, had he not?”
“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 him?”
“I do not think he was with the party at all. In fact, I never knew of his existence until 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. He had not been with Mr. Bleibner very long. He was a very pleasant young fellow.”
Poirot thanked her and took his leave. 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. To begin with, we are going to cable to New York for fuller details of young Mr. Bleibner’s death.”
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 before, where he had rapidly sunk lower and lower. The most significant thing was that he had recently managed to borrow enough money to take him to Egypt. “I have 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 for 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 saw here a more modern crime than the vengeance of a long-dead Egyptian king. 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 realizes how unnecessary his crime has been, and, stricken with remorse, takes his own life.
I outlined my solution to Poirot. He was interested.
“It is ingenious, what you have thought of there. 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, my friend, that we start for Egypt tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I have said it.” An expression of conscious heroism spread over Poirot’s face. Then he groaned. “But, oh, the sea. The hateful sea.”
Chapter IV — The Egyptian Tomb: The Curse and the Camomile
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. He had landed at Alexandria the ghost of his former self, and 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 causes my moustaches to become limp.”
“Look at the Sphinx. Even I can feel the mystery and the charm it exhales.”
Poirot looked at it discontentedly. “It has not the air happy. How could it, half-buried in sand in that untidy fashion. Ah, this cursed sand.”
“Come, now, there is a lot of sand in Belgium,” I reminded him, mindful of a holiday spent at Knocke-sur-mer.
“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.”
I cut short his lamentations by suggesting that we should start for the camp. We were to ride there on camels, and the beasts were patiently kneeling, waiting for us to mount, in charge of several picturesque boys headed by a voluble dragoman.
I pass over the spectacle of Poirot on a camel. He started by groans and lamentations and ended by shrieks, gesticulations, and invocations to every Saint in the calendar. In the end, he descended ignominiously and finished the journey on a diminutive donkey.
At last we neared the scene of the excavations. A sunburnt man with a grey beard, in white clothes and wearing a helmet, came to meet us.
“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings? We received your cable. I am sorry that there was no one to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event occurred which completely disorganised our plans.”
Poirot paled. “Not another death?”
“Yes.”
“Sir Guy Willard?”
“No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr. Schneider.”
“And the cause?”
“Tetanus.”
I felt a wave of horror sweep over me. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were the next?
“Tell me,” said Poirot in a low voice, “there is no doubt that it was tetanus?”
“I believe not. But Dr. Ames will tell you more than I can. My name is Tosswill.”
This, then, was the British expert described by Lady Willard as a minor official at the British Museum. There was something at once grave and steadfast about him that took my fancy. He led us across the camp to a large tent where three men were sitting.
The youngest jumped up and came forward to greet us. There was a certain impulsiveness in his manner which reminded me of his mother. He was not nearly so sunburnt as the others, and that fact, coupled with a certain haggardness round the eyes, made him look older than his twenty-two years. He was clearly endeavouring to bear up under a severe mental strain. He introduced his two companions, Dr. Ames, a capable-looking man of thirty-odd, with a touch of greying hair at the temples, and Mr. Harper, the secretary, a pleasant lean young man wearing the national insignia of horn-rimmed spectacles.
After a few minutes’ desultory conversation, the latter went out, and Dr. Tosswill followed him. We were left alone with Sir Guy and Dr. Ames.
“Please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Poirot,” said Willard. “We are utterly dumbfounded at this strange series of disasters, but it is not, it cannot be, anything but coincidence.”
There was a nervousness about his manner which rather belied the words. I saw that Poirot was studying him keenly.
“Your heart is really in this work, Sir Guy?”
“Rather. No matter what happens, or what comes of it, the work is going on. Make up your mind to that.”
Poirot wheeled round on the other. “What have you to say to that, monsieur le docteur?”
“Well,” drawled the doctor, “I am not for quitting myself.”
Poirot made one of those expressive grimaces of his. “Then, evidently, we must find out just how we stand. When did Mr. Schneider’s death take place?”
“Three days ago.”
“You are sure it was tetanus?”
“Dead sure.”
“It could not have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?”
“No, Monsieur Poirot. I see what you are getting at. But it was a clear case of tetanus.”
“Did you not inject anti-serum?”
“Certainly we did. 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 certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which became poisoned, and septicaemia set in. It sounds pretty much the same to a layman, I daresay, 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 do not 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 are talking through your hat, Monsieur Poirot. Surely you have not been taken in by 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. 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. “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 are not going to be far behind. I will admit they are getting what you might call scared. But they have no cause to be.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot non-committally.
Sir Guy leaned forward. “Surely you cannot believe in…”
For answer, Poirot produced a little book from his pocket, an ancient tattered volume. 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 do not know exactly,” I confessed. “He has some plan of exorcising 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 have 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. A not-bad-looking fellow. I had never met him before, but some of the others had. Ames, I think, and Schneider. The old man was not 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 am dead. I intend to leave my money to the furtherance of my life’s work.’ 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 could not 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 am for New York as soon as I can square up things here. You may laugh if you like, but I am not going to be this blasted old Men-her-Ra’s next victim. He will 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.”
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 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 recognised 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.”
“Someone 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: “Someone is hoaxing us. Come, we will 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 recognised the five-pointed star 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. Pure balderdash. The man is an impostor. He does not 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 for 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 civilisation. 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 is the matter?” said the doctor, appearing in pyjamas.
“My friend. He is ill. Dying. The camomile tea. Do not 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. 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 apostrophising 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.”
Chapter V — The Egyptian Tomb: The Doctor’s Confession
“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. Someone 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 realised that he shot himself because he believed that he had contracted the dread disease of leprosy.”
“What?”
“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 his, and a well-known medical man. He would never dream of doubting his word. When I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Harper and Dr. Ames, but I soon realised that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the crimes. And I learned from Harper that he was previously acquainted with young Bleibner. Doubtless the latter at some time or another had made a will, or had insured his life, in favour of the doctor. The latter saw his chance of acquiring wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate Mr. Bleibner with the deadly germs. Then the nephew, overcome with despair at the dread news his friend had conveyed to him, shot himself. Mr. Bleibner, whatever his intentions, had made no will. His fortune would pass to his nephew, and from him to the doctor.”
“And Mr. Schneider?”
“We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may have suspected something. Or, again, the doctor may have thought that a further death, motiveless and purposeless, would strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychological fact, Hastings. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime. The performance of it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw tonight was Hassan, dressed up by my orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take more than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he was not entirely taken in by my pretences of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavour to make me the next victim. Ah, but in spite of the sea, the heat, and the annoyances of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned.”
Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner, some years before, in a fit of drunken merriment, had made a jocular will, leaving “my cigarette case you admire so much and everything else of which I die possessed, which will be principally debts, to my good friend Robert Ames, who once saved my life from drowning.”
The case was hushed up as far as possible. And to this day, people talk of the remarkable series of deaths in connection with the Tomb of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone king upon the desecrators of his tomb. It is a belief which, as Poirot pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.
Historical Context — The Tutankhamun Discovery and the Curse in the Public Mind
The discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb by Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon in November 1922 dominated newspaper coverage around the world, and it did so in a way that shaped public imagination for years afterwards. When Lord Carnarvon died of an infected mosquito bite in April 1923, the newspapers immediately seized on the connection between the death and the opening of the tomb. Over the following decade, a dozen or more people connected with the excavation were reported to have died under supposedly mysterious circumstances, and the phrase “the curse of the pharaohs” entered the language. Christie wrote “The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb” in 1924, less than two years after Carter’s discovery and less than a year after Carnarvon’s death, when the story was still in the newspaper headlines. Her version of the tale is a direct response to the public’s appetite for the supernatural explanation, and a quiet correction of it. In the story, Poirot repeatedly notes that the belief in a curse is contrary to actual Egyptian belief. Ancient Egyptian funerary texts do not invoke curses on tomb-robbers. The “curse” was a modern invention, and the real threat came from a very modern murderer.
Original Value — Poirot and the Uses of Superstition
In both cases in this Playbook, Poirot does something that Sherlock Holmes rarely does: he treats the beliefs of the people around him as part of the evidence. In “The Million Dollar Bond Robbery,” he builds his solution by questioning the assumptions of the bank’s managers and the shipping stewards, not by examining the physical evidence of the trunk. In “The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb,” he exploits the public’s willingness to believe in a curse precisely so that he can test who benefits from that belief. The murderer in each case is someone who has read the room correctly and acted on that reading. What Poirot does is read the room one level deeper: he asks not just what people believe, but what someone might want them to believe. This is a distinctive approach in detective fiction of the period, and it anticipates the emphasis on narrative and perception that would become central to the genre in the following decades. Christie, writing in 1924, was already moving past the puzzle-box model of the previous generation of detective fiction and toward a mode that treated the psychology of belief as the substance of the mystery itself.
Continue the Series
Playbook 4 — The Kidnapped Prime Minister and Other Cases — publishes next. Poirot is called upon in the middle of international political tension to recover a vanished statesman, and the remaining cases in the collection take him from the drawing rooms of London to the racecourses of the English countryside. In each, the solution will turn on the smallest of details — the kind of detail that only Poirot, and perhaps one or two of his readers, will have noticed.
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References
Project Gutenberg — Poirot Investigates, eBook #61262
Project Gutenberg — Public domain and copyright FAQ
Internet Archive — Historical editions of Poirot Investigates
Adapted from the Original work by Agatha Christie
Public domain (1924) · This adaptation follows the playbook series format
E-cyclopedia Resources Hub — Public domain adaptations and literary reference