Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘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, it causes my moustaches to become limp – but limp!’

‘Look at the Sphinx,’ I urged. ‘Even I can feel the mystery and the charm it exhales.’

Poirot looked at it discontentedly.

‘It has not the air happy,’ he declared. ‘How could it, half-buried in sand in that untidy fashion. Ah, this cursed sand!’

‘Come, now, there’s a lot of sand in Belgium,’ I reminded him, mindful of a holiday spent at Knocke-sur-mer in the midst of ‘Les dunes impeccables’ as the guide-book had phrased it.

‘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 the Virgin Mary and every Saint in the calendar. In the end, he descended ignominiously and finished the journey on a diminutive donkey. I must admit that a trotting camel is no joke for the amateur. I was stiff for several days.

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’m sorry that there was no one to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event occurred which completely disorganized our plans.’

Poirot paled. His hand, which had stolen to his clothes-brush, stayed its course.

‘Not another death?’ he breathed.

‘Yes.’

‘Sir Guy Willard?’ I cried.

‘No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr Schneider.’

‘And the cause?’ demanded Poirot.

‘Tetanus.’

I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were next?

‘Mon Dieu,’ said Poirot, in a very low voice, ‘I do not understand this. It is horrible. Tell me, monsieur, there is no doubt that it was tetanus?’

‘I believe not. But Dr Ames will tell you more than I can do.’

‘Ah, of course, you are not the doctor.’

‘My name is Tosswill.’

This, then, was the British expert described by Lady Willard as being a minor official at the British Museum. There was something at once grave and steadfast about him that took my fancy.

‘If you will come with me,’ continued Dr Tosswill. ‘I will take you to Sir Guy Willard. He was most anxious to be informed as soon as you should arrive.’

We were taken across the camp to a large tent. Dr Tosswill lifted up the flap and we entered. Three men were sitting inside.

‘Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings have arrived, Sir Guy,’ said Tosswill.

The youngest of the three men 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 isn’t – it can’t 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’m not for quitting myself.’

Poirot made one of those expressive grimaces of his.

‘Then, évidemment, 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 couldn’t 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,’ 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?’