Exceptional tale of the curse that accompanies the opening of a forbidden tomb in the Egyptian Valley of the Kings. First one guy dies of a heart attack, then another dies of septicemia, then a third young Yalie in New York shoots himself in the head, and so on. I love these tales, and for some reason Agatha Christie's exotic settings seemed to prompt a more engaging plot than usual. Maybe the pith helmets had something to do with it. There is some sort of rivalry between the Americans who are funding the project and represent the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the Brits doing the supervision, who represent the British Museum.
The young fellow in New York, the one who offs himself after his return from Egypt, is described as an excellent golfer -- so he should never have killed himself. "Playing the golf is no reason NOT to commit suicide," observes Poirot, and Hastings replies, "You just don't understand golf." The suicide was squiring around a woman named Melanie Weiss, a cognomen that can be trotted backward into time until it turns into "Black White." The props are impressive. Egyptian art often is denigrated because, after all, the next big wash of sculpture and painting was Greek, with its sinuous beauty. But the Egyptians had their own appealing style. I'm no art historian but the Egyptians made what seem to me some of the finest cat statues in the world. (They referred to cats generically as "mau." I wonder where the name came from.) And the human statues were lifelike enough that individuals could be recognized and some of their physical quirks analyzed by pathologists. And those eyes! Those staring EYES! Anyway, they have more grace than some cubistic babe with one eye and three breasts.
And these archaeologists ought to be spanked, especially the head honcho who orders the sealed tomb smashed open. He's modeled after Lord Carnarvon and his sidekick, Howard Carter, who in 1922 opened the tomb of Tutankhamun, after which he died of a mosquito bite that led to blood poisoning that culminated in pneumonia. When they poked a hole through the entrance to King Tut's tomb, a whoosh of air blew out of it. That air was some three thousand years old and had been breathed by the Egyptians who built and decorated the tomb. Any information it contained -- pollen or bacteria -- were lost to science. The archaeologists then carted off most of the gold and treasure. Poirot himself brings back a cat statue that had been buried in the sarcophagus and gives it as a present to Miss Lemon. They couldn't do it today.
But that has nothing to do with Dame Agatha's story, which is tightly written and sensible. I'm beginning to figure out how Poirot solves his cases. One of the victims is invariably rich. All you have to do is trace the line of inheritance, sometimes through three or four parties, to find last in line for the pelf. Cui bono, as the lawyers say.
The young fellow in New York, the one who offs himself after his return from Egypt, is described as an excellent golfer -- so he should never have killed himself. "Playing the golf is no reason NOT to commit suicide," observes Poirot, and Hastings replies, "You just don't understand golf." The suicide was squiring around a woman named Melanie Weiss, a cognomen that can be trotted backward into time until it turns into "Black White." The props are impressive. Egyptian art often is denigrated because, after all, the next big wash of sculpture and painting was Greek, with its sinuous beauty. But the Egyptians had their own appealing style. I'm no art historian but the Egyptians made what seem to me some of the finest cat statues in the world. (They referred to cats generically as "mau." I wonder where the name came from.) And the human statues were lifelike enough that individuals could be recognized and some of their physical quirks analyzed by pathologists. And those eyes! Those staring EYES! Anyway, they have more grace than some cubistic babe with one eye and three breasts.
And these archaeologists ought to be spanked, especially the head honcho who orders the sealed tomb smashed open. He's modeled after Lord Carnarvon and his sidekick, Howard Carter, who in 1922 opened the tomb of Tutankhamun, after which he died of a mosquito bite that led to blood poisoning that culminated in pneumonia. When they poked a hole through the entrance to King Tut's tomb, a whoosh of air blew out of it. That air was some three thousand years old and had been breathed by the Egyptians who built and decorated the tomb. Any information it contained -- pollen or bacteria -- were lost to science. The archaeologists then carted off most of the gold and treasure. Poirot himself brings back a cat statue that had been buried in the sarcophagus and gives it as a present to Miss Lemon. They couldn't do it today.
But that has nothing to do with Dame Agatha's story, which is tightly written and sensible. I'm beginning to figure out how Poirot solves his cases. One of the victims is invariably rich. All you have to do is trace the line of inheritance, sometimes through three or four parties, to find last in line for the pelf. Cui bono, as the lawyers say.