Original subtitles

- Poirot!

- Ah!

Hastings!

Oh, mon ami.

- Get a couple of nice handbags out of this.

- I'll take care of that, thank you.

- Who is your friend, Hastings?

- Oh, this is Cedric.

He's a caiman.

I shot him on the Orinoco,

a few miles upstream from La Urbana.

We'd been in portage around white water all day,

and I was pretty exhausted.

I can tell you, it's some distance--

- Hastings.

- What's that, old chap?

- You must tell me the story

in full detail later.

I think these gentlemen wish to get home to bed.

- Oh, right.

So how have you been these last six months?

Busy?

- No, the little gray cells,

I fear they grow the rust.

When the date approached for your return,

I said to myself "Now something will arise."

We will hunt again together, we two.

- Sorry.

- But it must be no common affair, Hastings.

It must be something recherche, delicate, fine.

- Anyone would think you were ordering dinner at the Ritz.

Sorry.

Where are we going?

I thought we were going to my hotel first.

- There is no hotel, Hastings,

until you can reclaim your apartment,

you stay with Poirot.

- Oh, I say.

This superfine crime of yours hasn't turned up yet, I suppose.

- Pas encore.

At least, I am not sure.

- This is awfully decent of you, Poirot.

- Well, not at all, mon ami.

I need you where I can keep an eye on you,

to protect you from the beauties with the auburn hair, no?

- What did you mean just now when you said you weren't sure,

about the superfine crime?

- Ah.

Hastings...

Ah, Hastings, you've forgotten your crocodile.

I would rather its curious smell was confined to your bedroom.

- Oh.

Well, it was a present for you, actually, Poirot.

- For me, Hastings?

Oh, that is beautiful.

- I mean, if you don't like it...

- No, Hastings, it adds a certain je ne sais quoi,

do you not think?

- Well, I thought so.

The chap who stuffed it for me

said the smell would go away after about a month or so.

- Well, I like the smell, Hastings.

One feels braced.

It brings to London the jungle.

- Good.

For one awful moment,

I thought you might not like old Cedric.

- No.

- He's a caiman.

I shot him when we were still up in Venezuela--

- Hastings, it is a week since I received this letter.

What do you make of it?

- "Mr. Hercule Poirot,

"You fancy yourself, don't you,

"at solving mysteries that are too difficult

"for our poor, thickheaded British police?

"Let us see, Mr. Clever Poirot,

"just how clever you can be.

"Perhaps you'll find this nut too hard to crack.

"Look out for Andover on the 21st of the month.

Yours sincerely, A.B.C."

A.B.C.?

Typed, thick paper,

postmark London WC1.

- What is your opinion, Hastings?

- Some madman, I suppose.

- A madman is a very dangerous thing, my friend.

- Wait a minute.

Today's the 21st.

What have you done about it?

Did you go to Andover?

- Hastings, as always, the man of action, eh?

What is there to do?

There are no fingerprints.

No clues to the possible writer.

- Well, don't blame me

if there's a story in the papers tomorrow

about a whacking great robbery near Andover.

- What a comfort that would be.

- A comfort?

- It would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else.

- Of what?

- Of murder, my friend.

- Cream, crackers--yes.

Edwards' Desiccated Soup.

Yes.

Sausages?

I can't go carrying sausages around all afternoon.

No.

My desk isn't a blooming larder, Emily.

Supposing someone--

I'll do that, sir.

- Chief Inspector.

- Ah. Morning, Poirot.

Well, well, well.

If it isn't Captain Hastings,

back from his holidays in the wilds of whatchamacallit.

Sit down, sit down.

Looking well too.

Getting a bit thin on top, though, eh?

- Well, I don't know. I--

- You'll be rivaling Monsieur Poirot soon.

- Chief Inspector,

do you know that Captain Hastings

has brought me back as a present a crocodile?

- A caiman, actually.

I bagged him while we were still up in Venezuela.

We'd been in portage around white water all day, and--

- And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?

- Well, today is the 22nd, Chief Inspector.

- Yeah.

- You recall the anonymous letter.

- Oh, yes. Beware the 21st.

Andover, wasn't it, you mentioned?

- Oui.

- Just to keep you happy.

Get me Inspector Glen at Andover, will you?

We get these anonymous letters every day of the week.

People with nothing better to do

and a bit weak in the top story, right?

Hello, Dennis?

Japp.

How are you?

Now, listen.

Do you remember that anonymous letter I told you about?

Yeah.

Oh? Really?

Right.

Yes, I better.

Right-o.

- Well?

- Well, I don't suppose it means anything,

but an old woman who kept a tobacco and newspaper shop

in Andover was battered to death last night.

Glen says they think they can lay their hands

on the man who did it, though.

All the same, I'll pop down there and have a dekko.

- What was the name of the woman, Chief Inspector?

- Ascher. Mrs. Alice Ascher.

- No, I mean, the thing is,

there was no money taken out of the till.

So, I mean, one would expect

that they would have been after the money.

- Oh, Poirot. - Chief Inspector.

- This is Inspector Glen.

He's in charge of the case.

- How do you do?

- Looks pretty straightforward.

- The victim's Alice Ascher, 60 years old,

struck down behind her counter by a heavy blow to the head.

- And do you suspect the husband?

- We do.

We haven't been able to find anyone yet

who saw Ascher in the neighborhood,

but, of course, it's early days.

- Did Mr. Ascher live with his wife, Inspector?

- No, they separated some years ago.

Ascher's a German.

Used to be a waiter, but he took to drink.

- Well, perhaps you should look at this, Inspector.

- Famous anonymous letter, eh?

- The body was found in this corner, yes?

- Yes, laying sort of huddled.

- This doesn't read like Ascher.

I doubt if he's got the wits for it.

It's odd that the letter should mention

the 21st of the month, though.

Course, might be a coincidence.

- I do not like that kind of coincidence, Inspector.

- Nothing was missing from the shop.

- No, money in the till seems undisturbed.

No signs of robbery.

- Something has been added, perhaps.

- Added?

- An ABC railway guide?

She must have been looking up trains from Andover.

Or a customer.

- Fingerprints?

- Only Mrs. Ascher's, as far as we can tell, so far.

- My God, Hastings.

- Wedding picture.

- A beautiful woman, n'est pas?

- Yes.

Look at this room, Poirot.

All that's left of a life:

couple of broken china ornaments,

photograph,

new pair of stockings.

- Hastings.

Let us not become sentimental.

There is nothing more for us here.

Come.

- Dear, oh, dear.

- Something is amiss, Chief Inspector?

- I've been trying to get a list of people

who were seen coming in here.

- And no one's seen anybody?

- Oh, they've seen people, all right.

Three tall men with furtive walks,

four short men with black mustaches,

two men with beards,

three fat men,

one man with a peculiar hat,

and if I am to believe what they say,

every one of them had a sinister expression.

- Does anyone claim to have seen this man, Ascher?

- Oh, no, nothing helpful like that.

- She never knew what hit her.

Struck in the back of the head.

- You can't believe

it's the same woman as in the photograph, can you?

- Well, yes, Hastings, you can see the line of the jaw,

the bones, the structure of the head.

Did she have any children?

- No.

But there's a niece.

Name of Mary Drower.

She's in service out near Overton.

Steady young woman, they say.

- The weapon hasn't been found, of course.

A weighted stick, club, something like that.

- Would there be needed much force to strike such a blow?

- Meaning, I suppose,

would a shaky old man of 70 like Ascher do it?

Perfectly possible,

given sufficient weight in the head of the weapon.

- I haven't done nothing!

It is a shame and a scandal to bring me here!

Let me go!

Schweinhund!

How dare you!

- Stop.

- I haven't done nothing.

- I'm not charging you with anything yet, Ascher,

and you're not obliged to say anything.

- I did not kill her.

It is all lies!

- You threatened to often enough.

- No, that was a joke.

- Take him away.

Detained on suspicion.

- I never did go near Alice.

I haven't done anything!

Let me go!

- You perceive, Hastings?

There is already one further point in the favor

of the innocence of Monsieur Ascher.

- Really? - Oh, yes.

If he had been abusing and threatening his wife,

she would have been facing him over the counter.

But instead, she had her back to her assailant.

Obviously, she is reaching for some tobacco

or cigarettes for a customer.

Ah.

I think it is you who are Mademoiselle Mary Drower.

Will you not sit down, mademoiselle?

- No, thank you, sir.

I daresay the mistress wouldn't mind,

but I'd rather not while she's out.

- You were fond of your aunt.

- Oh, it's terrible.

Poor Auntie. Such a hard life she'd had too.

She was always so good to me, Auntie was.

And all the trouble she had with that German devil.

It was awful, the things he used to say,

that he'd cut her throat and such like.

Swearing and cursing too.

It's dreadful to think, sir, what people come to.

- Mademoiselle, if you should need me at any time,

you will be sure to contact me, yes?

- Is there something queer going on, sir?

- Yes, my child.

Something queer is going on.

But later, you may be able to help me perhaps.

- Well, I'll do anything, sir.

It wasn't right, Auntie being killed.

- Well?

- I think that Monsieur Ascher

is a suspect most unlikely, Hastings.

- Ah.

What about the girl then?

- It is always possible, of course, but with what motive?

- I see what you mean.

If only he'd left a clue.

- Ah, the clue.

It is always the clue that attracts you, yes, Hastings?

Alas, our murderer, he did not smoke a cigarette exotique,

leave the ash on the floor,

and then step on the ash

with shoes that have nails of a pattern most curious.

He's most unobliging, our murderer.

But at least, mon ami, you have the railway guide:

The A.B.C.

Now there is a clue for you.

- You mean, you don't think he left it there by mistake?

- No, he left it on purpose.

The fingerprints tell us that.

- But, Poirot, there weren't any fingerprints on it.

- Exactemente, Hastings.

Our murderer, he is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark.

But in the very nature of things,

he cannot help to throw the light upon himself.

- What do you think, Poirot?

- Excellent, Hastings.

Most artistic. Well done.

- You don't think he's a bit overpowering?

We can find somewhere else for the fruit bowl.

What we could do--

- There's another letter, Hastings.

- Sorry?

- Another letter from A.B.C.

- "Dear Mr. Poirot,

"Well, the Andover business went with a swing, didn't it?

"First game to me, I think,

"but the fun's only just beginning.

"Let me draw your attention Bexhill-on-Sea.

"Date: the 25th inst.

"What a merry time we are having.

Yours sincerely, A.B.C."

Good God.

- I fear that the death of Madame Ascher

is only the beginning, Hastings.

- There's no doubt that the two letters

were typed on the same machine, I suppose.

- No, and we can fairly assume

that the writer was responsible for your murder in Andover.

Now we have definite warning of a second crime

scheduled to take place

in Superintendent Carter's county on the 25th,

the day after tomorrow

at Bexhill.

What steps do you think the Sussex police can take,

Superintendent Carter?

- Well, it's difficult.

There's not the least clue who the victim may be.

- It is possible that the surname of the intended victim

will begin with the letter B.

- That would be something.

- I suggest it as a possibility, no more.

It came to my mind when I read the signature "A.B.C."

on the first letter and again when I heard the name

of the unfortunate woman in Andover.

- You mean, first a Mrs. Ascher in Andover,

then someone beginning with B in Bexhill?

- Oui.

- Well, that's possible, I suppose.

I mean, we are dealing with a madman.

- But so far he hasn't given us any clue as to his motive.

- Does a madman have any motive?

- Perhaps he's gonna murder someone in every town

of the alphabet all the way from Andover to, uh...

- Zennor.

I've thought a lot about it, you see.

- Well, at least we can take some precautions.

Superintendent Carter,

perhaps it would be possible for your men

to make a special note of all the Bs in your area,

especially small shopkeepers,

and, naturally, keep tabs on all strangers as far as possible.

- Bexhill's a seaside resort, man.

It's the middle of the holiday season.

People are flooding in.

- So tomorrow's the big day.

Is it old women in tobacconist's shops, do you think?

- It does not seem likely, Hastings.

Shops, though, perhaps.

Which of us at some time or another has not felt aggrieved

by a shopkeeper?

- Good Lord, yes.

Well, at least we know it can't be Ascher now.

I mean, he's still in custody.

- But what about the girl, Hastings?

- Mary...whatsit, the maid?

No.

- Seats at all prices, ma'am.

Seats at all prices.

- I wouldn't give much for a murderer's chances

with all these men of yours around, Japp.

- He's as good as nabbed.

- The sanity of a town full of men

against the insanity of one man?

Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper.

- Hmm.

We don't need another one of those,

thank you very much.

- I am afraid, my friends.

I am very much afraid.

- Come on. Come on, boy.

- Hastings!

It has happened.

- But today is the 25th.

- The murder took place last night between 12:00 and 1:00.

Our homicidal joker's a man of his word.

If he says the 25th, then the 25th it is,

even if it's only by a few minutes.

- But we're quite sure this is the crime?

- An A.B.C. open at the trains to Bexhill

was found actually under the body.

- Do we know who is the dead girl, Chief Inspector?

- She's been identified as a Miss Elizabeth Barnard:

23 years of age,

worked as a waitress at the De La Warr Pavilion.

- Was she pretty?

There he goes again.

- That does not seem to you to be important, eh?

Mais pour une femme, it is of the first importance.

It often decides her destiny.

With what was the girl strangled, Chief Inspector?

- Her own belt.

- Ah, at last, we have a piece of evidence

that is very definite,

and it tells one something, does it not?

- I don't see what.

- I have broken the news to her parents,

but I thought I'd let them recover a bit

before questioning them.

- Right.

- There are other members of the family, yes?

- There's a sister. Typist in London.

She's been communicated with.

And there's a young man.

Girl was supposed to be out with him last night,

I gather.

- Any luck from the A.B.C. guide?

- No. No fingerprints.

Open at the page of Bexhill.

- Yes, that's our man, all right.

- Well, it must mean something.

Something to do with the trains

from Andover and Bexhill, perhaps.

- Yes, that is a point.

- This is most distressing, Chief Inspector,

most distressing.

How will it will affect our business,

I shudder to think.

- You'll have a boom, madam.

You won't be able to dish out the dainty teas quick enough.

- Really?

Oh.

How awful.

People are so awful.

- Mademoiselle Merrion,

how long had Mademoiselle Barnard

been working here?

- This was the second summer.

- She was pretty, yes?

- She was a nice, clean-looking girl.

- What time did she go off-duty last night?

- 8:00. We close at 8:00.

- Did she say what she was going to do after work?

- We were hardly on those sort of terms.

- Nobody came and called for her?

Nothing like that?

- Oh, no.

She had a young man, I believe,

Donald Fraser.

- Weren't you alarmed

when your daughter didn't come home last night?

- We didn't know she hadn't.

Mrs. Barnard and I go to bed early.

We never knew Betty hadn't come home

till the police officer came this morning.

- Was she in the habit of coming home late?

- You know what goes on nowadays, Inspector.

All the same, though, she was usually in by 11:00.

And she had this steady young fellow

she was sort of engaged to.

Donald Fraser, his name is.

It doesn't make any bloody sense.

- No, it doesn't.

- Excuse me, Monsieur Barnard.

Did Betty ever mention any connection with Andover?

Did she have there, perhaps, any friends?

- Andover?

No.

- I'd like to look over Miss Barnard's room, if I may.

There might be something, sir.

Letters, diary...

- All right. It's in here.

- Who are you?

- You're Miss Barnard.

- Yes, I'm Megan Barnard.

I suppose you belong to the police.

- Well, not exactly.

- Well, what are you?

- Well-- - Where's Mum and Dad?

- Your father's in there

showing the police your sister's bedroom,

and your mother's in there.

I wonder if--

- Are you following me?

What do you want?

- This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

- Mademoiselle Barnard.

- I don't see what Monsieur Hercule Poirot's doing

in our humble little crime.

- What you do not see, mademoiselle,

and what I do not see,

it would fill a volume,

but what is important

is something that will not be easy to find.

- What's that?

- The truth.

- I don't know about the truth.

I only know what I feel.

- But that is the most important thing we have, mademoiselle,

in the hunt for the murderer of your sister.

- All right.

It wasn't in Betty's nature to be fond of one person

and not be interested in anyone else.

And working in the De La Warr Pavilion,

she was always running up against nice-looking men.

- I understand, mademoiselle.

- Do you? Her boyfriend didn't.

She was really keen on him.

He couldn't see why she wanted to go out with other people.

Once or twice, they had flaming big rows about it.

Don was so violent. Betty was frightened.

- When was this?

- Last time was about a month ago.

They had an awful scene.

Don was all white and shaking.

Oh, there he is.

- Quick, mademoiselle, run and intercept him.

I wish to speak with him

before the estimable Chief Inspector Japp.

- Don?

- Did Mademoiselle Barnard tell you

where she was going last night?

- She told me she was going to St. Leonard's with a girlfriend.

- And did you believe her?

- Who are you anyway?

You don't belong to the police.

- No, monsieur.

I am better than the police.

- Tell him.

- I believed her when she said it.

But afterwards...

- What did you do?

- I don't know.

I lost my head.

I was convinced she was with some man.

I thought he might have taken her to Eastbourne in a car.

I went on there,

looked in the hotels and restaurants.

They must have thought I was mad.

I hung around cinemas, went on the pier.

In the end, I gave up and came back.

Not much of an alibi, is it?

- No, my friend.

Not much.

- Well, Donald Fraser certainly seemed to have

a perfectly good motive for the murder,

and opportunity.

- For killing Mademoiselle Betty Barnard, yes.

But what was the motive for killing Madame Ascher?

- Well, that we'll have to find out.

They're both women, of course.

- And what was the motive

for writing those letters to me, Hastings?

There's something about those letters,

something that bothers me.

- You've been very careful.

But you made one mistake.

It'll be the first time

that anyone has suggested you as the murderer.

You'll be watched.

You'll be questioned.

You'll be followed.

You'll give yourself away.

And they'll get you.

- I killed her, did I?

Accusing me, are you?

Why don't you run away, Mary?

You would if you can,

but you don't move, Mary.

Why?

- Because...

- Because you know I'm not the killer.

- Yes!

- That's where you're wrong.

I am the Dorset murderer.

I killed Lily James

and all the others,

and now I am going to kill you!

- We've kept the general public in the dark so far

about the A.B.C. link between these murders.

If we continue to keep them in the dark,

then we don't get any cooperation.

- But if you make it public, Chief Inspector,

you're playing the game of the murderer,

which is perhaps why he writes those letters:

for notoriety, publicity.

- Well, I think we should chance it.

Splash it about in the headlines.

- I did not say this before, Hastings,

because, well, perhaps it would have been mistaken

for self-importance,

a characteristic that I dislike more than any other.

- Oh, right.

Delicious soup, this.

- But it is possible

that our murderer is committing his crimes

because of a direct personal hatred against me,

Hercule Poirot.

- Because he writes the letters to you, you mean.

- Exactemente, Hastings.

Or perhaps the animosity of our murderer,

it is impersonal

and merely because I'm a foreigner.

- Yes.

Well, there are people like that.

- It is only the late post, Hastings.

- Yes, I know.

I was expecting Lillywhite's catalog.

I've been thinking of buying some new golf clubs.

I've still only got those old ones that belonged to my father.

Lord.

- What is it, Hastings?

- It's another one. Another A.B.C. letter.

Postmarked London WC1 again.

That's significant, you know, I'm sure it is.

- You open it, Hastings.

Quickly.

- "Dear Mr. Poirot,

"Not too good at these little criminal matters

"as you thought yourself, are you?

"Rather past your prime, perhaps.

"Let us see if you can do better this time.

"This time it's an easy one.

"Churston on the 29th.

"Do try and do something about it.

"It's a bit dull having it all my own way, you know.

"Good hunting.

Yours ever, A.B.C."

I wonder where Churston is.

- Hastings,

you do not realize?

Today is the 29th.

- What?

- When was that letter written?

- 26th.

- Mon Dieu.

Look, Hastings.

You did not notice the wrong address.

- "Monsieur Hercule Poirot,

"White Horse Mansions.

"Not known at White Horse Mansions.

"Not known at White Horse Court.

Try Whitehaven Mansions."

- Does even chance aid this madman?

C'est trop tard.

- You can't be sure of that.

- It's 10:20, Hastings.

- Churston, Devon.

Get in at 7:15, leaves Paddington at midnight.

- Any word from Churston yet?

- Not yet.

We've got men moving in from all over the area.

It's only a village.

Have you got the letter with you?

- Yes.

- White Horse Mansions.

Of all the blessed luck.

- With two letters, he gets the address right.

Why now does he get it wrong?

- Perhaps he did it on purpose.

- No, this fellow's got these barmy rules,

and I think he sticks to them.

- I know.

He drinks White Horse whiskey.

- C'est ingenieux ca!

He types the address,

and the bottle, it is in front of him.

- We've heard of psychology at Scotland Yard too, you know?

- Sir Carmichael always takes his after-dinner walk

along the cliff top, Miss Grey.

When he gets to the headland,

he turns right and comes up past the farm.

But he's always back by 10:00.

Always.

- It's after midnight now.

Suppose he's had an accident or something.

I'm going down to the cliff.

- I'll go to the other side of the field.

Perhaps he's started back.

Miss Grey! Over here!

- They've taken the body up to the house.

Blow to the back of the head, apparently.

Blunt instrument.

This should make people sit up

now that the newspapers are in the know.

Three murders within ten days.

The whole country will be looking for A.B.C. now.

- But what will they be looking for, Hastings?

- Well, a madman.

- And what does a madman look like?

- Well...

- Madame Ascher had no connection with Bexhill-on-Sea,

and Mademoiselle Betty Barnard

had no link with Andover that we can discover.

And we will find that neither apparently had anything to do

with Churston and Sir Carmichael Clarke.

On that, I would place a wager.

Hundreds of miles

and everything about their lives seems to separate them.

What is it that binds them together?

- But why?

I mean, what earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime,

even in the most diseased imagination?

- You go straight to the point, monsieur.

- Ah, Poirot, this is Mr. Franklin Clarke,

Sir Carmichael's brother.

- You have my condolences, Monsieur Clarke.

- Mr. Poirot, Captain Hastings.

- How do you do?

- Now let me have a few facts, would you, Mr. Clarke?

- Certainly.

- Your brother, I take it,

was in his usual health and spirit yesterday?

- Oh, yes, I should say.

He was quite his usual self.

- Not upset or worried at all?

- Excuse me, Chief Inspector.

I didn't say that.

To be upset and worried was my poor brother's normal condition.

- Oh?

- Well, I was shocked at the change in him

when I returned from the east recently.

His wife's illness preyed on his mind terribly.

- Illness?

- Oh, my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke,

is in very bad health.

Between ourselves,

she's suffering from an incurable cancer.

She can't live much longer.

- Sir Carmichael hadn't received

any unexpected or unpleasant letters?

- Not that I was aware of.

- He wasn't short of a bauble or two, was he?

- My brother was a very wealthy man.

- And in possession of a collection

that is extremely beautiful.

- Yes.

It's what he lived for, really.

- Have any strangers come to the house

asking for Sir Carmichael recently?

- The doctor says he's finished, sir.

- Thank you, Deveril.

Uh, Deveril, have any strangers

been inquiring for Sir Carmichael recently?

- No, sir.

- Ah, doctor, anything to tell us?

- Well, nothing we didn't know already.

Death instantaneous.

We've put him in the billiard room.

- I'll just go and have a word with Lady Clarke.

- Ah, this is Miss Thora Grey, gentlemen,

my brother's secretary.

- How do you do?

- I'll talk to you later, Miss Grey, if I may.

- Yes.

- Mademoiselle.

- I'll be in the library, if you want me.

- Hastings.

- It just doesn't stand to reason.

There must be a connection between these victims.

We just haven't found it yet.

- No.

We hit our heads against a stone brick.

There is no connection.

- There must be.

- I say no, Hastings.

There is no connection whatever between these people

except that their names begin

with certain letters of the alphabet.

We have searched the background

of the victims and of the suspects

for any other connection.

Hastings can find nothing.

Scotland Yard can find nothing.

Even I can find nothing.

No, we are wasting our time

because there is nothing to find.

- You mean those people

were complete strangers to the murderer?

- Pr�cisement, Hastings.

Chosen only because of his mania for the alphabet.

- Finished with that?

- Yes.

- Nasty business, eh?

- Yes, very.

- You never know with lunatics, do you?

They don't always look barmy.

Sometimes they can look just like you and me.

- Yes, I suppose they can.

- Now, sometimes it's the war or something,

and they've never been right since.

I don't hold with wars.

- I don't hold with plague and sleeping sickness

and famine and cancer, but they happen all the same.

- Ah, but war's preventable.

- Shh!

- Oh, I'm sorry, sir.

I expect you was in the war.

- Yes, yes. Yes, I was.

And it did...

unsettle me.

- They're all here. - Ah.

- What did you get? - Biscuits.

- Ah.

- And so we all are assembled, eh?

Let us begin with you, Mademoiselle Drower.

When were you last in contact with your aunt?

- I hadn't seen Auntie for a fortnight, sir.

I'd had a letter from her, though, two days previous.

- Ah, now these are just the sort of facts

which could provide a clue that is vital, eh?

Now, I believe that you all may have some information

that you are not aware that you have.

Did you keep that letter?

- No, sir, but I remember what it said.

She said the old devil had been 'round,

and she'd sent him off with a flea in his ear.

And she said she expected me over on the Wednesday--

that's my day out, sir--

and said we'd go to the pictures.

It was going to be my birthday, sir.

I'm sorry, sir.

I don't mean to be silly.

It's just the thought of her looking forward to our treat.

- It's always the little things that get one.

Especially anything like a treat or a present.

- Same thing happened when Betty died.

Mum had bought her some stockings as a present.

That very morning, in fact.

Poor mum.

Found her crying over them.

She kept saying, "I bought them for Betty,

and she never even saw them."

- Look, uh...

All of us here have an interest

in bringing the murderer to book.

Suppose we join forces to try and track the fellow down?

- I'm sure Mr. Poirot and the police are quite capable.

- Well, speaking for myself,

I am never too proud to accept a little help.

Mademoiselle Grey, when you return to Devon,

and you think back to the day

that Sir Carmichael Clarke was killed,

you may perhaps remember seeing around the village a stranger.

- No.

I know I didn't.

Anyway, I've left Churston for good.

- Now, Miss Grey kindly stayed on to help me clear things up,

but, naturally, she prefers a post in London.

- I see.

How is Lady Clarke?

- Oh, pretty bad.

By the way, Mr. Poirot,

I wonder if you could see a way to running down

and paying her a visit?

Before I left, she expressed a desire to see you.

- Mais certainement, Monsieur Clarke.

- Do you think their cooperation will lead to anything?

- It is possible.

You know, Hastings,

I cannot rid my mind

of the impression that something was said

this afternoon that was significant.

Ah, it is odd.

I cannot pin it down exactly.

But something passed through my mind

that reminded me of that which I had already seen

or heard or noted.

It will come to me.

Something is the matter, Hastings?

- Eh? No, no, no, no.

I was just thinking about D, as a matter of fact.

- For the next murder?

- Yes.

I mean, is he out there somewhere,

planning it?

Gives you the shivers just to think about it.

- "A.B.C. murders.

Captain Hastings speaks."

- Poirot, I--

- '"After third murder,

'"the brutal slaying of millionaire

'"Sir Carmichael Clarke,

"Monsieur Poirot takes grave view of situation,'

says Captain Hastings."

- Well--

- "Andover, Bexhill, Churston...

"Where will A.B.C. strike next?

'"Monsieur Poirot on eve of success,'

says Captain Hastings."

- Okay, Poirot, I didn't say all those things.

- I know, Hastings.

Often, between the spoken word and the written,

there is an astonishing gulf, n'est pas?

- I wouldn't like you to think that I--

- Do not worry yourself, mon ami.

In fact, these imbecilities, they might even help.

- How?

- Because if our murderer reads

what I am supposed to have said in the daily blood today,

he will lose all respect for me as an opponent.

But after another crime, we will know infinitely more.

Crime is revealing.

- Just a minute.

Lady Clarke.

Monsieur Poirot is here.

- Oh, yes.

Monsieur Poirot.

- Lady Clarke.

May I introduce my friend and associate Captain Hastings?

- How do you do?

So good of you both to come.

- Merci.

- It was about Car, wasn't it?

About Car's death?

You haven't caught him yet?

- Not yet.

- He must have been loitering 'round here that day.

- But no stranger came to the house that day.

- Who says so?

- Well, the servants say so, and Miss Grey said so.

- That girl is a liar.

- Oh, but--

- And, of course, Car thought the world of her.

He couldn't see it was only his money she was interested in.

Once I was out of the way...

- Lady Clarke,

why do you say that Mademoiselle Grey is a liar?

- Because she is.

She told you no strangers came to the house, didn't she?

- Yes.

- Very well then.

I saw her with my own eyes,

talking to a perfectly strange man,

out of this window.

- May I? - Please.

- Merci.

- At the garden gate.

- When was this, Lady Clarke?

- In the morning of the day Car died,

at about 11:00.

- What was he like, this man?

- Oh, an ordinary sort of man.

- No. Pardon.

A gentleman, a tradesman, perhaps?

- A shabby sort of person.

I...

I can't remember.

- That was an extraordinary story about Miss Grey

and the strange man.

- It is as I tell you, Hastings.

Always there is something to be discovered.

- But why did she lie and say she'd seen no one?

It's monstrous to suppose that a girl like that

should be in league with a madman.

- Which is why I do not suppose it.

- A good-looking girl has a hard time of it.

- Ah, Hastings.

Always you are full of the charitable feelings

to the young ladies who are beautiful, huh?

As for me, I am always full of the charitable feelings

to the old ladies that have the maladies.

- Mr. Poirot.

- Monsieur Fraser.

- I'm sorry. I've got to talk to you.

- Come up to the apartment, Monsieur Fraser.

- Mr. Poirot,

do you know anything about dreams?

- I do.

You have been dreaming?

- I keep dreaming the same dream.

I'm on the beach, looking for Betty,

and she's lost, and I've got to find her.

You see, I'm carrying her belt in my hand,

and then...

- Yes?

- She's there,

sitting on the sand.

I come up behind her.

I slip the belt 'round her neck,

and I pull

and pull.

- Go on.

- She's dead.

I've strangled her.

And then her head falls back,

and I see her face,

and it's Megan.

It's not Betty.

It's awful.

- Have your drink.

- I mean, I could have had a blackout.

- Poirot...

It's come,

the fourth letter.

- Read it, Hastings.

Quickly.

- "Mr. Hercule Poirot,

"Still no success.

"Fie! Fie!

"What are you and the police doing?

"Isn't this fun?

"And where shall we go next for honey?

"Poor Mr. Poirot.

"I'm quite sorry for you.

"We have a long way to go still.

"The next little incident will take place at Doncaster

"on the 9th of September.

So long, A.B.C."

- Perhaps our little band of helpers

will have something to do after all.

- Where does Mr. Poirot keep his cups?

- Uh, top cupboard, over there.

- Saucers?

- Uh, bottom cupboard, over there.

Everything's arranged in order of height.

- By George, Poirot.

This is a bit of a stewer.

Doncaster on the 9th?

- Oh. - I can get it.

- Thanks.

- What are you doing here?

- Ah.

- What is this, a convention?

- Good day, Chief Inspector.

- Maybe.

- We've formed an association of our own to deal with this,

a legion of interested parties.

- Oh, yes?

- But I rather fancy old A.B.C. has done for you again.

- Well, as a matter fact, Mr. Clarke,

I must beg to differ.

I mean, correct me if I'm wrong,

but the 9th isn't until Wednesday of next week, is it?

And that seems to give us plenty of time

to mount a publicity campaign in the press

and plenty of time

to warn the inhabitants of Doncaster,

particularly those whose names begin with the letter D.

- Well, it's easy to see you are not a sporting man,

Chief Inspector.

- If, however you--

What do you mean?

- Next Wednesday is the day

the St. Leger is being run at Doncaster.

- Oh.

- Yes, I was wondering about that.

- Tea, Chief Inspector?

- Merci.

- I mean, the whole of Doncaster is like a fairground.

- C'est ingenieux.

He has planned this most cleverly.

- It's my belief the murder will take place at the racecourse,

perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.

Thank you.

- Yes, well, of course, the St. Leger is a complication.

However...

I better get back to the Yard.

Thank you very much.

Everything's under control.

- We don't know anything about the murderer,

and that's the problem.

We've gone over everything we do know again and again.

We've talked--

- Not everything, monsieur.

For instance, Mademoiselle Grey here

has told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger

on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was killed.

- That's right; I didn't.

- But Lady Clarke tells us, mademoiselle,

that on that day, from her window,

she saw you standing at the garden gates

speaking to a strange man.

- Lady Clarke made a mistake.

I never spoke--

Oh.

Oh, I remember now. How stupid...

Oh, but it wasn't important.

Just one of those men who come around selling stockings.

You know, ex-army people.

They're very persistent,

but he was quite a harmless sort of person.

I suppose that's why I forgot about him.

Stockings.

Stockings.

Stockings. Stockings!

Ca vient! Stockings!

Stockings! That is the link.

Do you not remember, Hastings, Andover?

The room behind the little shop?

Over the back of the chair, a pair of new silk stockings?

- Well, yes, but--

- Now I remember what it was

that aroused my attention two days ago.

It was you, mademoiselle.

You spoke of your mother who wept

because, on the very day of the murder,

she had just bought for your sister

a pair of new silk stockings.

- Yes. Yes, she did.

She said something about feeling sorry

for those wretched men who go around selling door-to-door.

- Describe this man.

- I can't. I don't...

He had glasses, I think, and a shabby overcoat.

- Mieux que ca, mademoiselle.

- He stooped.

I don't know.

I hardly looked at him.

He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.

- Ah!

In those few words, mademoiselle,

lies the whole secret of these murders.

He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.

Oh, yes, there is no doubt about it.

You have just described the murderer.

- I was wondering, Mr. Cust, if you'd finished your...

You all right, Mr. Cust?

- I just feel a bit out of sorts.

- Oh, I'm sorry.

You won't be going away today then?

- Oh, yes.

I have to go.

I'm going to Cheltenham.

- Oh, that's nice.

Cheltenham's nice.

Got some nice shops.

Terrible, the news nowadays, isn't it?

Nothing but this murder business.

Gives me the creeps.

I don't read it. - No.

- Doncaster, he says his next murder's gonna be,

if you please, and tomorrow.

If I lived in Doncaster and my name began with a D,

I'd take the first train out, I would.

For all the hundreds of police they say they're drafting in...

Mr. Cust, you do look bad.

Really, now, you oughtn't to go traveling today.

- It is necessary, Mrs. Marbury.

When I undertake to do a thing,

I follow it through.

- Oh, well.

If you say so, Mr. Cust.

- What a fool I was!

I've let you all down.

I never really looked at him.

Even if I saw him again,

I probably wouldn't recognize him.

- Now, now, petite

Do not upset yourself.

So far, the luck, it has been on the side of the murderer, yes,

but sooner or later, I believe it must turn

and be on our side.

In fact, I believe that it has turned.

The clue of the stockings is the beginning.

- Doncaster. Doncaster.

This is Doncaster.

- Brought your private army along, I see, Poirot.

- Chief Inspector Japp, my dear friend,

we did not know that you were on this train.

- Why, you tossed down that as much,

what's going on down among the workers, I suppose.

- Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Barnard

will be patrolling the area around the grandstand,

and Monsieur Fraser will be by the parade ring.

- It seems to me highly problematical

that we can do anything of practical value.

- Don't be defeatist, Donald.

- Our weapon is our knowledge, Monsieur Fraser.

But, remember, it may be a knowledge

we do not know that we possess.

Eh, bien.

That is all we can do for this evening.

I bid you all good night.

- Good night, Poirot.

- Good night, Hastings.

- Good night. - Good night.

- Look here, Mr. Poirot.

When you went down to Churston last week,

did my sister-in-law sort of, well--

I mean, did she hint at all?

- Comment?

Did Lady Clarke hint at what?

- Well, you see, Thora...

Miss Grey is a rather good-looking girl.

- Perhaps, yes.

Please, seat yourself.

- As my brother always said,

she was the best secretary he ever had,

but it was all perfectly straight and above-board.

- But of course.

- But my sister-in-law got it into her head

to be, well, jealous, I suppose.

Anyway, after Car's death,

when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on,

Charlotte cut up rough.

- Cut up?

- Rough.

- Oh.

- Well, women really are devils, Mr. Poirot.

- Please, Monsieur Clarke,

remember that Lady Clarke is ill and in great pain.

- I know.

I keep telling myself that.

Still I didn't want you to get a false impression of Thora

from anything my sister-in-law may have said.

- Oh.

I can assure you, Monsieur Clarke,

that Poirot never permits himself to get false impressions

from anything anyone says.

- Good man.

Good man.

Good night, Mr. Poirot.

- Good night, Monsieur Clarke.

I cannot impress upon you enough to let your instincts rule.

If you should see anyone

who fits the description of the stocking salesman,

you must report to the police but immediately.

Even if you see someone who looks familiar

but you cannot quite place,

even that is of significance.

- He'll never attempt it now

with a racecourse full of police.

The man would have to be mad.

- Unfortunately, he is mad.

- In my opinion,

the obsession of the murderer is so strong

that he must attempt to carry out what he promises.

Failure to do so would be to admit defeat,

and that, his insane egoism would never permit.

Ah, Mademoiselle Grey.

- I'm sorry. - No matter.

You are only 4 1/2 minutes late.

Eh, bien.

It is time for you to take your places.

I wish you good luck.

- What about you, Poirot?

- No, Hastings.

My force, it is in my brains, not in my feet.

We will meet at 3:00 as arranged.

- Very well.

- 32 yards,

with winning prize money this year of 10,000 pounds...

The strongly fancied Rogue Scotland,

owned by Lord Astor,

in company with Fearless Fox ridden by F. Smith,

and Back on the Rails ridden by Gordon Richards.

And here comes the winner of this year's derby,

the great half--in the colors of his Royal Highness...

And they're off!

His Grace leads very smartly on the inside.

His Grace settled now in midfield.

Flying Fox tucked away on the inside...

He's making it by two legs to one...

- Hastings! Hastings!

Excuse me. Hastings!

- It's all right. Everyone's in position.

- No, no, no, Hastings, you do not understand.

Look at the crowds.

- Well, yes, I know. It's jammed everywhere.

It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.

- Yes, Hastings, yes!

Where is the best place for a man to hide himself?

- In a crowd of other men?

- Yes, Hastings, and where's the best place to conceal a murder?

- A murder? I don't know.

Among a lot of other murders, I suppose.

- Pr�cisement, Hastings.

At Churston, I said that the victims were chosen

in a manner that was haphazard,

selected only because of their initials, yes?

I was wrong, Hastings.

All of the victims are haphazard, yes, except for one.

This monster is committing a series of murders

in order to draw away our attention

from one murder in particular.

- Excuse me.

Excuse me.

- Now then, sir.

Show's over.

I think he's ill.

Hey, we better, erm...

By Hank, that looks like blood!

- Look what's under his seat.

- It's an A.B.C.

- What time?

Right, I'll be right over.

- Eh, I've washed already in cold.

Eh, I cut my hand.

- You all right, sir?

- Just tell us what happened, please, Mr. Downes.

- There's a woman to see you, sir.

Says it's urgent.

- When was this?

- Oh, about 4:15.

- Well, that's three hours ago.

- Well, I didn't think of it at the time.

Not until I'd heard there'd been another murder.

But he said he'd cut his hand.

- If you please, madam, can you describe this man?

- Well, he's tall, and he stoops,

and he wears glasses.

- And his clothes?

- A dark suit and overcoat and an homburg hat.

A bit shabby-looking.

- Looks like blood, sir.

- Get it analyzed.

- Poirot, we found it.

We found the name in the register.

- What is it? - Look.

- A.B. Case.

- Or is it Cash?

- Well, It's A.B.C. anyway.

- Case, Cast...

- And a London address: 17 Market Street, Southwark.

- There's a suitcase under the bed, sir.

- Get it out, and let's have a look.

Stockings. Silk stockings.

You were right, Poirot.

- Something else here, sir, right at the back.

It's a knife.

- Don't touch it.

Get the bed out.

- It was funny, though.

The way he said good-bye,

as if he'd never see us again.

Told me he was going to Cheltenham.

Poor Mr. Cust.

I can't believe it.

Terrible, the news nowadays, isn't it?

Nothing but this murder business.

Gives me the creeps, it does.

- You'll be watched.

You'll be questioned.

You'll be followed.

You've been very careful.

- But you never know with lunatics.

Nasty business, eh?

- Your fate, it's written.

It's written in your hand.

You've got to admit,

most celebrated man in England.

I die on the gallows.

- I killed Lily James,

and now I am going to kill-- Kill!

Kill!

- So that's that. Committed for trial.

- Chief Inspector, what is your opinion of Monsieur Cust?

- That he's playing a very crafty game.

He's an epileptic, the doctors tell me.

- But is it possible for a man to commit a crime

without being aware of it?

- Well, he might try that line of defense

if it wasn't for the letters.

They show premeditation.

- And of those letters, we still have no explanation whatsoever.

Until I have a reason for those letters being written to me,

I will not feel that this case is solved.

There's a Mr. Strange waiting in your office, sir.

He says it's urgent.

- Chief Inspector Japp.

- That's me.

- It's about that Bexhill murder.

- He swears by all that's blue

that he met Cust in the Royal George Hotel

in Eastbourne on the evening of August the 24th,

that they had dinner together,

and then played dominoes until well after midnight.

- And if he is telling the truth,

Monsieur Cust could not have been on the beach at Bexhill

between 12:00 and 1:00,

strangling Mademoiselle Betty Barnard.

- Listen, he did the Andover murder.

He did the Churston murder.

He did the Doncaster murder.

He must have done the Bexhill murder.

- Why?

I don't know why.

Because he's barmy, that's why.

- Excuse me, Monsieur Cust.

For they shall be comforted.

- I am Hercule Poirot.

- Oh, yes.

- I am the man to whom you wrote those letters.

- I never wrote to you.

I told them over and over again.

- If you did not write those letters, Monsieur Cust,

who did?

- I don't know.

They're all against me.

They always have been.

- Even when you were a child?

- No.

But my mother was ambitious.

She gave me these ridiculous names.

Alexander Bonaparte...

Cust.

She had some absurd notion

that I would cut a figure in the world.

And what do I end up as?

A door-to-door stocking salesman.

- You are aware, are you not...

that the firm who you say employed you denied the fact?

- Yes.

But I've got their letters to me,

giving the instructions as to what places to go

and a list of people upon whom to call.

- But all of the letters,

they were typed on the machine found in your room.

- The typewriter was sent to me by the firm

at the beginning of my job.

- But the letters were sent after you received the machine.

So it looks, does it not,

as though you typed them

and then posted them to yourself?

- Yes, I know. I know.

But I couldn't have done the second murder, though, could I?

The Bexhill one.

I was playing dominoes in Eastbourne, wasn't I?

- It is a game that is very absorbing,

is it not, Monsieur Cust?

- Oh, there's a lot of play in it, a lot of play.

When I was a clerk in the city,

we used to play every lunch hour.

You'd be surprised the way

total strangers can come together

over a game of dominoes.

- Oh?

- Yes.

I remember one person in particular.

We just got talking over a cup of coffee

and started dominoes.

I've not been able to forget something that he told me.

- What did he say?

- Talking about your fate being written in your hand.

Told me some amazing things.

Said I was going to be

the most celebrated man in England before I died.

But that...

- Yes?

- "It almost looks as though

you're going to die on the gallows."

That's it.

Laughed afterwards.

Said it was only a joke.

But I suffer quite badly from my head, do you know?

I mean, there are times when I don't...

I don't seem to remember what I've done.

- But you do know that you committed the murders.

- Yes.

Yes, I do know that.

- And I am right, am I not,

that you do not know why you committed them?

- No.

No, I don't.

- I'm not having that dream anymore.

- No.

All that will disappear with time.

- I don't want to forget Betty, though.

- No.

We won't forget her.

- Here he is.

- About ruddy time too.

I don't know what this is in aid of, Poirot.

The case is over, done with, finished.

- That is true, Chief Inspector.

The man, Cust, he is in prison.

There will be no more killings. Finished.

But, you see, I know nothing.

And there is also one small fact that is vexing.

Monsieur Cust has an alibi for the night of the crime

that he is alleged to have committed on this beach.

From the beginning,

I have felt that there was something wrong

with those letters that I received.

And there was.

I had assumed that they were written by a madman.

Mais non.

They were written by a sane man pretending to be mad.

When do you notice least a pin?

- Shh!

Don't clatter so, Millie.

- When it is in a pincushion.

When do you notice least an individual murder?

When it is one of a series of related murders.

- Hold on a minute. Hold on.

Cust did the murders.

He was caught red-handed, more or less.

Blood on his coat, knife under his bed.

He even admits to the murders.

What more do you want?

- When I first saw Monsieur Cust, Chief Inspector,

I knew he was not guilty.

For such a plan, Monsieur Cust had neither the cunning,

the daring, nor, may I add, the brains.

The murderer must have flirted with Mademoiselle Betty Barnard.

Somehow he got her to remove her belt

with which she was strangled.

You have seen Monsieur Cust.

Can you imagine Monsieur Cust, as you English say,

getting off with a pretty young girl?

Monsieur Cust making the click?

- Mr. Poirot, please.

- All along,

I was aware of a dual personality of the murderer.

Now I see wherein it consisted.

Two people were involved.

The real murderer: cunning, resourceful, and daring.

And the pseudo murderer:

stupid, vacillating, and above all,

suggestible.

The murderer had been considering

already several schemes

when a chance meeting with Monsieur Cust produced an idea.

His epileptic seizures, his headaches,

indeed the whole shrinking personality of Monsieur Cust

made him, for the murderer, an ideal tool.

Perhaps his very name of Alexander Bonaparte Cust

gave to the murderer the idea of the murders alphabetical.

The arrangements were excellent.

Some letters were sent to Monsieur Cust,

as if from a well-known wholesaler,

offering him employment on salary and commission.

In fact, the plans were so well laid down beforehand

by the murderer

that the letters that were subsequently sent to me

had already been typed.

And afterwards, the typewriter that was used for the purpose

was sent to Monsieur Cust, allegedly to use for business.

The preliminary plans completed,

the murder then set to work.

A list of potential clients in Andover

is sent to Monsieur Cust,

and he is instructed to go there on August the 21st.

Monsieur Cust does as he is directed.

And later that day, Madam Ascher,

she is murdered most brutally.

- A few days later,

he is instructed to go to Bexhill-on-Sea,

and on that particular list of clients is Madam Barnard.

That night,

Mademoiselle Betty Barnard is strangled with her own belt

on the beach.

- At Churston, Lady Clarke observes

Mademoiselle Grey talking with Monsieur Cust,

and Sir Carmichael Clarke, he also dies.

- Three crimes,

and Monsieur Cust is at the scene of each one of them.

So...

I was then forced back to the simple question:

Cui bono?

Who stood to gain anything from even one of the murders?

Madam Ascher had no money,

so therefore, you, Mademoiselle Drower,

had nothing to gain from the death of your aunt.

Mademoiselle Betty Barnard?

Eh, bien.

She was not rich

and lived on the no doubt niggardly salary

paid to her by the De La Warr Pavilion.

Sir Carmichael Clarke now...

Well, as the newspapers endlessly informed us,

Sir Carmichael Clarke was a millionaire many times over.

- What are you suggesting?

- Persons suffering from epilepsy, Mademoiselle Grey,

often have blanks when they cannot remember

what they have just done.

Monsieur Cust suffered from these.

He was also nervous, highly neurotic,

and extremely suggestible.

The Andover crime meant to him at first nothing.

The Bexhill crime?

Well, he was there at about the same time.

And then came Churston.

So when he receives instructions to go to Doncaster,

knowing as he does

that the next A.B.C. murder will take place in that city,

he loses his nerve.

He begins to imagine that his landlady

is looking at him in a manner most suspicious,

and he tells her that he is going to Cheltenham.

- Just as you say, Mr. Cust.

- And this is where the understanding

of the personality of Monsieur Cust

by the murderer pays dividends.

In spite of every inner voice

telling Monsieur Cust not to go to Doncaster,

nevertheless, he goes.

Why does he go?

Because it is his duty.

Monsieur Cust goes to a cinema.

And when the film comes to an end,

he starts to leave.

But while his back is turned,

There occurs the stabbing of the fourth victim.

- Excuse me.

- By killing four people,

our murderer hoped to disguise

the one murder with a real motive.

that of your brother, Sir Carmichael Clarke.

- But who is this murderer you keep talking about?

You're not implying it's me?

Well, I couldn't have killed that fellow in the cinema.

I was at the racecourse with the rest of you.

- Indeed you were, Monsieur Clarke.

And the murderer stayed in place at the racecourse

until the crowds began to gather.

Soon it would be impossible

to check on the movements of anyone,

and our murderer, he quietly slips away.

In the letter that Monsieur Cust received

from his soit disant employer,

he is instructed at which hotel to stay,

so there is no difficulty in picking him up.

Our murderer follows Monsieur Cust to the cinema,

and in the darkness,

he cold-bloodedly takes his opportunity.

And when the program comes to an end,

and Monsieur Cust is leaving,

he does not realize that the person he passes in the aisle

also slips into his pocket a knife.

- This is rot!

I've never heard such out-and-out rot!

- No, Monsieur Clarke,

you were safe enough

and almost certain to inherit the wealth of your brother

as long as no one suspected you.

But as soon as you were suspected,

the proofs, they were easy to find.

- Proofs?

You haven't got any proofs.

What proofs?

- Your fingerprints, Monsieur Clarke.

They were discovered on the typewriter

that was sent to Monsieur Cust.

The typewriter, which, if you were innocent,

you could never have handled.

- You little...

jackanapes!

- There he is!

Come on. After him!

Wilkinson!

Get him!

- Well, that's that, I suppose.

- Can't believe it.

I just can't believe it.

- He was afraid, Mademoiselle Grey.

He was afraid that while the cancer took care of Lady Clarke,

his brother, Sir Carmichael,

might have turned his attentions towards you,

might even perhaps have married you.

Then his hopes of inheritance, it would be lost forever.

By killing his brother,

Monsieur Franklin Clarke ensures

that when the cancer finally overcomes Lady Clarke,

the family fortune, it will be his.

- Mr. Poirot...

I understand why he wrote all those letters,

because without them,

the murders wouldn't have seemed connected.

What I don't understand is why he wrote them to you.

Why not to Scotland Yard?

- Because, mon ami, you could not even arrange

for a letter addressed to Scotland Yard to go astray.

Even the least-well-oriented postman would know

where to deliver it.

- It was the very essence of the plan of Monsieur Clarke

that the third letter, it should go astray.

The police were not to be told about the one murder

with the real motive until it was safely over.

Alas, it had nothing to do with my undoubted fame.

No.

Merely, he needed a private address.

- It was the fingerprint on the typewriter

that really clinched things, of course.

- Ah, the fingerprints, yes.

They are useful.

I put that in to please you, Hastings.

- You mean it wasn't true?

- Not in the least, mon ami.

- Good Lord.

Well, if you don't want it on the sideboard,

where do you want it?

- It's the smell, Hastings.

It does not seem to fade.

- Oh, it's early days yet, Poirot.

I gave him a bit of a spray with some cologne yesterday.

- Whose cologne, Hastings?

- Well, it was, um...

I'll just...

Hello, Chief Inspector.

- Captain Hastings.

Morning, Poirot.

I brought someone to see you.

- Monsieur Cust!

- I just had to come and say thank you, Mr. Poirot.

You are a very great man.

- Oh, he knows that.

- Thank you very much, Monsieur Cust.

Oh!

Merci!

- If it hadn't been for you...

Thank you.

Do you know a newspaper has offered me 100 pound--

100 pound--

for a brief account of my life and experiences.

- Oh.

Do not accept, Monsieur Cust.

You must stand firm.

You must say to them that your price is now 500 pounds.

- Do you think so?

- Mais certainement!

Do you not realize, Monsieur Cust,

that today, you are the most famous man in England?

- You're right.

You're absolutely right.

Famous.

Hmm.

Well, I must say the money will be most agreeable.

I shall take a short holiday, and...

I say.

What a creature!

- Do you like it?

- It's magnificent.

- I shot it, as a matter of fact.

- You shot it?

- Yes, when I was in South America.

- Oh, I should like to hear that story.

- Oh?

Right. Well.

Sit down, Mr. Cust.

It was when I was up in Venezuela.

We were a few miles upstream of La Urbana,

which is actually one of the hottest places in the world.

The humidity was absolutely unbearable.

We'd been in portage around white water all day.

I was pretty exhausted, I can tell you.

And suddenly, we rounded a bend in the river

and came upon the most extraordinary sight.

Just down below the rapids was a native canoe

obviously in some kind of trouble,

and I suddenly realized that they were being pursued

by something rather horrid.