The Last Séance. Agatha ChristieЧитать онлайн книгу.
with the expedition, Mr Harper?’
‘No, sir, I am not. I’m for New York as soon as I can square up things here. You may laugh if you like, but I’m not going to be this blasted Men-her-Ra’s next victim. He’ll 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.’
I glanced at Poirot curiously, but his enigmatical smile told me nothing. 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 to us 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 recognized distinctly the dog-headed figure I had seen carved on the walls of the tomb.
My blood 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’ll 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 recognized the five-pointed star or Pentagon 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,’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘Pure balderdash. The man’s an imposter. He doesn’t 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 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 civilization. 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’s the matter?’ said the doctor, appearing in pyjamas.
‘My friend. He’s ill. Dying. The camomile tea. Don’t 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—or—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 apostrophizing 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’ 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.’
‘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.