Original subtitles

There's very little I can do for him now, Mrs. Hill.

He's very weak.

Oh, dear.

Is there no hope?

I'm afraid not.

It's more a matter of hours rather than days now.

Doesn't Mr. Anthony have any relatives?

Just a brother -- Henry -- but they haven't spoken in 20 years.

No one else?

Well, yes, there's Mr. George, his nephew in London.

I expect he'd want to know.

First reaching for his hatchet,

which he's got near him, close by,

the noble fireman goes to fight --

No, no, hold on. Maestro, please.

Have you ever been a fireman?

No, but I've sat next to one.

And what's this "Jolly Laughing Cobbler Song" all about?

It's all about this cobbler who's always...

Sorry to drag you away, George, but there's a call for you.

Can't you take a message?

It's your uncle, old son.

I'm afraid he's in a bad way.

I see.

Thanks, Harry. I'll come right away.

You see, sir, when I'm singing this song, I'll be cobbling,

and I'll have a boot.

Oh, you'll get a boot, all right.

It was the doctor himself said I should call.

He's very bad, Mr. Lorrimer.

And I'm very grateful, Mrs. Hill.

This is very distressing.

But I can't travel to Brighton before Sunday, at the earliest.

He's at his last breath, Mr. Lorrimer.

Sunday might be too late.

Oh, Lord, I'm sorry.

There really is nothing I can do.

Well, what about Mr. Henry Gascoigne, sir?

Do you think I should try to reach him?

Uncle Henry?

Good God, no. He'd welcome the news.

No, when the time comes, I'll break it to him myself.

As you say, Mr. Lorrimer.

Till Sunday, then.

Goodbye.

Goodbye, Mrs. Hill.

Oh, dear.

And following Hendren's defeat

in the first Test at Trent Bridge,

the selectors made two changes.

R.E.S. Wyatt returned to captain's side,

and Bill Bowes was preferred to Mitchell.

Cricket -- the English enigma.

I know not of any other game

where even the players are unsure of the rules.

Thank you, Miss Lemon.

Aussies are one up already.

You can bet "The Don" will be looking for three figures

at the hallowed ground.

Hastings, I have no time for this Don

and his crusade at the hallowed ground.

I have a dinner engagement with my dentist.

Your dentist?

Positively morbid.

But you're always trying to avoid him.

Not at all.

Off duty, he's quite charming.

Besides, he likes to see the end product at work.

For England, Bowes and Farnes

will return to excellent figures, with 5 for 102...

You won't get any of your fancy French kickshaws here,

I'm afraid, Poirot,

just good, well-cooked English fare.

And I could ask for nothing more, Bonnington, my friend.

That's why I place myself in your hands, unreservedly.

-Yes? -Absolutement.

Yes, well -- Now, where's Molly?

Good evening, sir.

Ah, Molly.

Now, what speciality have you for us this evening?

You're in luck today, Mr. Bonnington.

There's your favorite --

roast turkey with chestnut stuffing

and fillet of sole to start.

Oh, excellent.

For both of us.

Now, here is a girl who knows exactly what I like, Poirot.

Well, I ought to know by now, sir, I'm sure.

Do people always have the same thing?

Mostly, sir, though I'll you something odd.

You see old Mr. Gascoigne sitting on his own over there?

I'd say he's been eating here

since the old queen died.

Henry Gascoigne -- painter of some sort, I'm told.

Well, he's at that table every Wednesday and Saturday evening,

never misses, except last week, he arrived on Monday.

Give me quite a turn.

Interesting deviation from habit.

I wonder what the reason was.

Well, I reckon he must have forgotten himself.

You know, he can't bear suet puddings or blackberries,

and I've never known him take thick soup.

Yet last Monday, do you know what he ordered?

Thick tomato soup, steak and kidney pudding,

and washed it all down with a blackberry crumble.

Ah, mon Dieu.

And he was back again on Wednesday, as usual,

his old self again.

Anyway, I mustn't stand here, gossiping.

She's a good girl, that.

And she knows a thing or two about food.

You know, I find that extraordinarily interesting.

What?

That old man's deviation from habit.

Oh, the change in diet, you mean.

Well, doctor's orders, I'd say.

It's common enough.

I think not,

unless, of course, he thinks the old man

would benefit from indigestion.

To my good friend, Hercule Poirot,

for whom life without mystery

would be like roast beef without the mustard.

C'est la v�rit�, mon ami.

Ah.

I see that bicuspid is still sensitive, Poirot.

We must take a look at that.

-Ah, no, no -- -It must be the heat.

What's that, Molly?

Old Mr. Gascoigne -- he's at it again --

steak-and-kidney pudding and blackberry crumble.

Hello!

Hello?

What's all the noise?

It's this milk.

It's been out here for three days.

Dirty old devil.

Hasn't had a bath since last Pancake Day, either.

Not a sound from inside.

He might have taken ill.

Oh, cold as ice.

Oh, poor love.

Must have taken a fall.

Here's a funny thing, Poirot.

Remember that old fellow we saw at Bishop's the other night,

the one that Molly remarked on, about how he'd changed his diet?

Ah, ah, try not to talk.

Well, I'm afraid he's eaten his last blackberry crumble.

The poor old chap's kicked the bucket.

It seems when he got home that night,

he fell down the stairs of his lodgings.

Yes, he's lived here as long as anybody can remember.

Kept himself to himself.

You never spoke?

Well, we'd pass in the street of an evening and say hello.

Except last week, I might have been a ghost.

He walked right past me and never said a word, he did.

Excuse me, madame.

Do you remember which day last week?

Who are you, anyway, asking all these questions?

Who's he?

He's not English, is he? Begging your pardon.

He's Hercule Poirot, private detective.

Madame.

Oh, yeah, well, they all say that, don't they?

You tell him it was last Saturday

that old Gascoigne passed me by in the street.

That was the last time I saw him alive.

Saturday!

Ah.

He was lying just here in his dressing gown and slippers.

Shabby old thing, it was.

Wouldn't surprise me

if he didn't trip over the cord or something.

Tripped over the cord.

Yes, thank you, madame.

And then you called the police?

Yes.

They just wrapped his body up in a blanket and carried it out.

Didn't pay much attention to anything else.

Poor old devil.

Did M. Gascoigne receive many visitors, madame?

Only his model.

He was an artist, you see.

Ah.

She's up there now.

Thank you, Mme. Mullen.

Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?

Who are you?

I am Hercule Poirot, a private investigator,

and my associate, Captain Hastings.

Morning.

Is there something here that requires an investigation?

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.

It's more a matter of professional curiosity.

That is all.

A small idea.

Perhaps you can help us, mademoiselle.

Is there any reason why I should?

Is there any reason why you should not?

My name is Dulcie Lang.

I was Henry Gascoigne's model.

What else do you want from me?

I don't know, but that is most helpful.

The bond between the artist and his model is legendary.

-Really? -Oh, yes.

But you would have noticed

if his behavior had been in any way unusual.

I doubt it.

A painter's behavior is always unusual.

They can never make up their mind

whether to commit suicide or give a party.

So, nothing out of the way about him.

No, no worse than any of them.

He had some odd arrangement with his agent, I believe --

Peter Makinson.

But you'd have to ask him about that.

An agent? So he was successful?

Oh, don't be misled by all this.

Henry wasn't a poor man, just mean.

Did he have a family?

Well, there was a nephew that he mentioned from time to time,

a music-hall man.

There was a brother, too, somewhere or other.

Anthony -- yes, Anthony.

But there'd been a falling-out between them.

He certainly never spoke of the man like a brother.

Here.

Remarkable likeness.

They could have been twins.

Yes, two pins in a pot.

This small idea of yours --

what is it?

Oh, it's simply a notion.

I saw M. Gascoigne on the evening of his death.

I was told that his behavior had recently been,

uh -- How do you say? -- uncharacteristic.

But more than that,

the mantle of life should fit

like a well-tailored suit of clothes, hmm?

But it did not hang so well on that old man in the restaurant.

You see, mademoiselle,

I cannot accept that the fall of M. Gascoigne was accidental.

Hardly the kind of woman to push an old man to his death, Poirot.

Ah, the auburn hair, mon ami, always the auburn hair.

No, I just find it really hard to believe. That's all.

Well, she did not seem to be unduly upset

by M. Gascoigne's untimely demise.

Well, why should she?

What about that brother -- Anthony?

Yes, we need to find the brother,

but also the artist's agent, Peter Makinson.

Thank you, driver.

This is where the future

of criminal investigation lies --

our new forensic division, the most advanced in the world.

It won't be long

before the likes of you and me will be gone forever,

cast onto the scrap heap of life like so much... scrap.

And you think there is nothing to save us?

Not even all those little gray cells of yours.

Gascoigne, H.

We'll all be extinct, Poirot, dinosaurs.

Henry Gascoigne, 68 years of age, artist by profession.

What's your interest in this, Poirot?

Well, he was an acquaintance of a friend of mine,

and I merely wish to put his mind at rest.

Mm. Died from broken neck caused by fall down the stairs.

Apparently, he was a recluse, a bit of an eccentric.

None of the neighbors can remember seeing any visitors

that evening or the following morning.

That evening?

The estimated time of death

was at or around 9:30 p.m. on Saturday, June the 16th.

Remarkable.

Your forensic division is very precise, no?

Uh, well, no.

There was a letter in the old boy's dressing-gown pocket.

It was posted that morning in West 1

and arrived by the 9:30 delivery that evening.

He must have gone down to collect it

and fallen on his way back upstairs.

I see.

May I see this letter?

The pathologists still got it, with all Gascoigne's clothes.

Perhaps you remember who might have sent it.

No, I don't. It was harmless enough.

Of course.

Who was the pathologist, did you say?

I didn't.

You take it from me, Poirot -- this case is closed.

Yes, well, let us hope, Chief Inspector,

that the forensic sciences of which you are so proud,

will not replace every aspect of the detective's work.

Let us hope that camaraderie

will still play a significant role, hmm?

His name is Cutter.

Hmm.

I'd better telephone him to make sure he knows what to expect.

You see, Chief Inspector,

we are still very far from being the species extinct.

Au revoir, mon ami.

Strong-looking fellow, had years in him, I'd say --

still got his own teeth.

Gascoigne?

And the cause of death was a broken neck?

Yes.

Second and third vertebrae, here and here.

You will also notice extensive bruising

to the rib cage and to the arms and legs,

consistent with a steep, tumbling fall.

Down the stairs, yes.

Is it possible that M. Gascoigne

might have suffered a seizure of the heart

or perhaps that of the brain?

No, he simply slipped and fell.

I see.

I believe you were able to determine

the time of death with some accuracy.

Mm.

It is never an easy task

to ascertain the precise time of death.

Ah.

But this letter confirmed your medical evidence, huh?

Yes.

Gascoigne had been seen in a restaurant

at about 7:30 that evening.

Yes, I was there myself.

And this letter arrived with the 9:30 evening post?

Yes.

An examination of the contents of Gascoigne's stomach revealed

that he had eaten a light supper

two to three hours before his death.

So it all fits together nicely, no?

May I please borrow this letter, monsieur?

Well, I'm sure you can be entrusted

with its safekeeping, Mr. Poirot.

Of course.

Are you sitting down, Hastings?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Very good.

I'm coming.

Oh, fine, fine.

Now...

Hastings, this is a recipe of my mother --

rabbit...

cooked in the style of Li�ge.

Well, I bet it's better

than rabbit cooked in the style of Hastings.

Yes, that is quite funny, Hastings.

However, when you are grown up,

you will find that food

is not really the subject suitable for the humor.

There.

Smells delicious.

Bon.

The aroma is the most important ingredient in any dish.

No, no, no, Hastings.

Use your spoon.

That is the Li�ge way.

To use the knife is an insult to the cook.

It implies the meat is tough.

Ah.

You're not eating?

Oh, unfortunately, no.

My left bicuspid

is still causing me the considerable discomfort.

Ah.

Is it good, Hastings?

Please do not be stinting with your praise.

Oh, it's wonderful.

Mm.

It tastes more, um --

well, rabbity than any rabbit I've ever tasted.

That is the juniper berries.

Shall I give you some more sauce?

No, no, no. Not yet.

What was in that envelope they found in old Gascoigne's pocket?

Ah.

"You are invited to a preview of contemporary European paintings

recently acquired by the Farringdon Gallery."

Well, this may be both informative and pleasurable,

Hastings.

And it's tomorrow.

Hmm.

"Man Throwing a Stone at a Bird."

Really?

Which is which?

Joan Mir�, Hastings, an exponent of the surrealist vision.

A work inspired by the dream, no?

Yes, a man with a most individual imagination.

Is there some way I can help you gentlemen?

My name is Makinson.

Peter Makinson?

The agent of Henry Gascoigne?

Yes. What a tragic loss.

Ah.

I understand that your contractual agreement

with Henry Gascoigne

was an unusual one, monsieur.

Unusual?

Have you ever heard of an artist who wouldn't sell his paintings?

Wouldn't sell? You mean not at all?

Well, that must have made your work impossible.

Oh, I could sell the smaller pieces --

the sketches and watercolors.

But the oils were never to fall

into the hands of the Philistines --

his name for all collectors and dealers.

So no one actually owns a Gascoigne painting?

He made gifts of some -- gestures of friendship.

I have a small collection,

and Dulcie Lane, his model, has several works.

But he was a man of few friends.

And now, of course, after his death,

his paintings can be sold, hmm?

I imagine that would be so.

And you, monsieur --

you are free to sell your own collection, yes?

Look, what is all this about?

You're not a collector, are you?

No, monsieur.

I am Hercule Poirot, a private detective.

And I am investigating

the circumstances surrounding the death of Henry Gascoigne.

I see.

Perhaps we'd better talk about this in my office.

Gentlemen?

Thank you.

Ah, that is a picture by M. Gascoigne, is it not?

But not his usual model.

No, that was painted years before he met Dulcie Lang.

She is Charlotte Gascoigne, a rare beauty.

Ah.

His wife?

No, Charlotte was married to Anthony Gascoigne, his brother.

Ah.

There was, I understand, some ill feeling between them.

Yes.

Henry arrived here one day with this painting

and asked me to take it into safekeeping.

For what reason?

I don't think brother Anthony

was keen on the idea of his wife's naked body

being displayed in public.

You know, the way I see it, Poirot,

everyone stands to benefit from the old boy's death.

Indeed, mon ami.

His work was in demand, but unobtainable.

His death will create much attention.

Probably push the prices through the roof.

Yes.

Whoever is fortunate enough to own an original Gascoigne

can expect to feather their nest,

including Makinson and Mlle. Dulcie Lang.

Unbelievable.

No, no, no, mon ami.

Even the closest acquaintances could be tempted.

Well, they could have played for lunch.

Lunch?

England won the toss, went in to bat.

Sutcliffe and Hammond were back in the pavilion before lunch --

78 for 2 at the end of the opening session.

Chipperfield trapped them both.

Lunch!

Of course, Hastings. Lunch!

Don't you see?

See what, old man?

4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a crumble.

I think you mean "pie," don't you?

"But that's what they have done in all these cases.

An upstairs door found screwed up,

when things were at their height..."

-Miss Lemon? -Mr. Poirot.

"...and jewels with him before alarm could be raised."

-Raffles, Mr. Poirot. -Ah.

"Not so old as it looks," said Raffles...

Such a dashing figure.

...choosing the cigars and handing me mine.

Miss Lemon?

How did you get on with the music halls?

George Lorrimer is the manager of the Carlton Theater,

Bethnal Green.

Excellent work, Miss Lemon.

Miss Lemon, back to M. Raffles.

But Raffles only shook his head.

"I don't believe in that rope-ladder, Bunny,

except as a blind."

Hastings, tonight we must visit the theater.

What's all this about blackbirds, Poirot?

That Saturday evening,

Henry Gascoigne finished his meal with a blackbird,

or, rather, the blackberry crumble.

Now, the juice of the blackberry leaves a dark stain,

and yet the teeth of Henry Gascoigne

were not discolored.

I looked most particularly.

Oh, then, the waitress must have been mistake.

It's easily done, you know.

According to the pathologist,

Henry Gascoigne died two hours after eating a light meal.

Now, I do not consider soup,

followed by the steak and kidney pudding, to be the light meal.

But suppose that meal was not dinner, but lunch.

But the old boy was seen at the restaurant at 7:30.

You saw him.

Yes.

But that was not Henry Gascoigne.

That Saturday night, mon ami, I dined not with Henry Gascoigne,

but with his murderer.

Henry Gascoigne was already lying dead

at the foot of the stairs.

And the killer, disguised as the old man,

was able to leave the scene of the crime

without arousing suspicion.

Not quite.

He walked past the neighbor, Mrs. Mullen,

without so much as a "good day."

But why take the old boy's place at the restaurant?

To make it appear that Gascoigne was still alive.

So, the question is, "Who could imitate Henry Gascoigne?"

Mm-hmm.

I vote for the brother.

Well, Hastings, it would certainly take

a long stretch of the imagination

to see Miss Dulcie Lang in the white wig and the whiskers.

Steady on, Poirot.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

Next class, same time tomorrow.

Oh, Mr. Robinson, could I have a word with you, please?

Ah, the detectives with the small idea.

Please, mademoiselle, forgive this intrusion.

Oh, not at all, gentlemen.

As you have already seen for yourselves,

I have nothing to hide.

No, no, we were up in the gallery.

Miss Lang, I am now completely convinced

that the death of Henry Gascoigne

was deliberately arranged

and by someone he knew well.

Am I a suspect?

I understand Henry Gascoigne gave you a number of paintings.

Yes, four life studies.

So you are aware, no doubt, of their value?

Yes, I've had a number of generous offers.

Well, you could be a wealthy woman, Miss Lang.

You think I'd part with them at any price?

Miss Lang, one final question.

Henry Gascoigne's twin brother, Anthony --

do you know where he might be found?

No, I don't.

Perhaps you should ask the nephew.

Ah, thank you, Miss Lang.

And now, ladies and gentlemen,

it gives me great pleasure to introduce Mr. Tommy Pinner!

Well, who better to masquerade as the old man

than his twin brother?

Yes, the idea seems most attractive, mon ami.

I'll give you just one more chance.

What else can you do?

Oh, I'll sing you songs!

It's called "Dinah Come and Hold My Hand."

Dinah, come and hold your hand?

-Yes, sir. -It sounds pathetic.

And when it's over,

Dinah comes out and holds my hand!

-Does she? -Yes, sir, and that's the end.

It certainly is.

It's awful, atrocious.

-Atrocious, sir? -Yes.

Ohh.

And the fireman, sir?

Oh, that -- worse still.

Ohh, but, sir --

Well, what now?

Do you want a sword swallower?

Ohh!

Good house, bad house, good house.

On the house.

They love you.

Yeah, we got time for a quick one.

Yeah.

Come in.

M. George Lorrimer?

No, actually, I'm Harry Clarke, George's assistant.

He's not here tonight.

Ah.

Can you tell me where I might find him this evening, monsieur?

Well, I'm afraid not.

He's out of town, in Brighton,

attending to his uncle's funeral arrangements.

In Brighton?

Yes, is there something wrong?

No, no.

C'est difficile, monsieur.

You see, we were led to believe

that Henry Gascoigne would not be buried until next week

and, then, here in London.

Henry?

You've got the wrong chappie.

George was talking about his Uncle Anthony -- died last week.

Anthony?

Yes. The funeral's tomorrow.

We therefore commit his body to the ground,

earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

dust to dust.

A quiet affair, is it not, Hastings?

With both the brothers dead,

there aren't many Gascoignes left to pay their respects.

Not too many suspects left, either, hein?

I'm Lorrimer, George Lorrimer, Anthony's nephew.

Captain Hastings.

Hercule Poirot, monsieur.

Poirot? The name is familiar.

Should I know you?

Oh, perhaps Henry Gascoigne

might have mentioned me in passing.

Ah, you knew Uncle Henry.

I was an acquaintance, but many years ago.

I only heard of the double tragedy last evening,

and I felt the need to express my condolences to Mrs. Gascoigne

and to yourself in person, monsieur.

I'm sorry? Mrs. Gascoigne?

Yes, the wife of Anthony.

Oh, you mean Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper.

She looked after him for years.

Then Mme. Gascoigne...

Dead, yes.

10 years now.

Marked the beginning of the end for old Anthony.

He became a virtual recluse.

But listen -- I'm being terribly impolite.

Why don't you both come back to the house?

Oh, oh, there's no wake, you understand.

But I'm sure Mrs. Hill

will provide us with some refreshment.

An offer that is most generous, monsieur.

We accept.

The least I can do.

Thank you.

Anyway, I'd like to hear about you and Henry.

Henry's passion for painting

once lit the small fires of my own imagination,

but, alas, my talent as a painter

was not as great as my ambition.

May I be of some assistance, Mrs. Hill?

I can manage very well, thank you, sir.

Have a seat.

Thank you.

Mr. Hastings.

Merci.

And the two brothers?

They were twins?

Yes, not identical, but they bore a great resemblance.

Ah.

And also they had together the great rapport, no?

Rapport? No, not at all.

They hadn't spoken in 20 years.

Sacr�.

Well, what could have caused such disharmony?

Well, years ago, Charlotte was Henry's model.

But that's too light a word.

She was more his inspiration.

Ah -- the muse.

And then along came Anthony and stole the girl's heart.

He whisked her away, leaving his brother a broken man.

Ah.

And the wounds from such a battle run deep.

Well, their differences are well and truly buried now.

They both had a good innings.

Mm.

Up stumps and back to the pavilion.

If you'll excuse the expression.

Oh, yes.

A most distressing time for you, madame.

Nursemaid and companion, I was,

cook and cleaner all those years.

And then he goes just like that,

not a thank-you for all my trouble,

not a penny by way of remembrance.

Not even a small legacy in the will for your services?

There was no will.

Paper? Paper, sir?

Get your flags here.

I expect it all goes to him, the next of kin.

His right, I suppose, though he doesn't deserve any of it.

Wouldn't come to see his uncle when he was at his last breath.

Thank you so much.

Flags! Get your flags here!

Mrs. Hill, could you please tell me --

exactly when did M. Anthony Gascoigne pass away?

1:00 in the afternoon, last Friday.

There was just me and him at the end.

I told Mr. George --

Mr. Lorrimer, that is -- that there wasn't much time.

But it was the Sunday before he arrived.

By tea on the second day, the Aussies are 63, without loss,

chasing England's first inning's total of 440.

Leyland made 109 and Ames 120.

You know, that's the first time a keeper's made a century

in a Test.

I wonder if the weather will hold there.

Hastings. The crickets.

It occupies too many of your little gray cells.

Mrs. Hill, thank you so much for giving us of your time.

Would you like us now to walk you back to the house?

No, thank you, sir.

I just want to sit and listen to the band for a bit.

Well, that was quite a yarn you were spinning back there,

old man -- the fires of artistic endeavor?

I nearly blushed.

Ah, Hastings, you do not understand the finer feelings.

But you were lying.

No, no, no, Hastings.

I did not want to cause M. Lorrimer further grief

with the revelation that one of his uncles had been murdered.

And by posing as an acquaintance of Henry Gascoigne,

my inquiries appeared no more than innocent curiosity.

Well, it certainly puts paid to my theory, anyway.

Ah, yes, you expected more from this brotherly intrigue.

Le crime passionnel, hein?

No, no, no, mon ami.

We have been running up the wrong tree.

Twice every week,

Henry Gascoigne walked from his house here

to the Bishop's Chophouse.

So he was a man of routine.

There would be no variation.

Now, that Saturday evening,

after the imposter had pushed Henry Gascoigne to his death,

he would have followed this route

as a matter of course.

Hastings, where of an evening

can a man be seen to enter a place as one character

and emerge as another completely different character?

Well, he could use a boarding house or a hotel.

Without arousing the slightest suspicion?

After the masquerade at the restaurant,

he'd need to abandon his disguise.

He would want to change back into his own clothes in a hurry

and secure his alibi, hmm?

Discretion would be the problem.

I think I have seen the answer, mon ami.

Well, if you're expecting a show or something, governor,

you've come to the wrong shop.

I can assure you, monsieur, that I am in the right shop.

Oh, don't you come the old acid with me, squire.

I'm sorry -- "the old...?"

Or I'll make sure...

No, no, no, no, no, I do not think so.

And if I mistake not, that beret you are wearing

would suit better a man of an artistic calling.

What's going here?

You are aware, are you not, that the withholding of evidence

that might lead to the conviction of a known criminal

is a most serious offense?

What evidence?

The yellow neckerchief worn by a man wanted for questioning

in connection with the murder of Henry Gascoigne.

There will also be the corduroy jacket with the trousers,

a waistcoat with the berets,

and a cane in a dark wood.

All that was just lying there, wasn't it?

I was gonna throw them out,

thought I'd make a few bob with it down the line.

You have been diligent and honest, sir.

I trust that this will compensate

for the few bob you might have made.

Well, Dulcie Lang was sitting for a life class

from 1:00 until 5:00 on Saturday afternoon,

so we can eliminate her.

Oh, yes, Miss Lang is innocent.

He is running in now --

one, two, three, four, and his arm goes over.

Oh, Darling staggers back with his right foot.

Makinson, too, I'm afraid.

He was in Paris.

That brings us back to square one.

No, no, mon ami, far from it.

We are about to make our final move.

Kindly ask Miss Lemon to get me the Chief Inspector Japp

on the telephone.

He's hit the ball this time.

Oh, Darling -- it's good.

The ball's in the air, and Sutcliffe's taken it.

Simple catch, and Darling is out for naught.

That's Verity's third wicket of the morning.

Australia now 204 for 4.

Afternoon, Freddie.

Hello, sir.

Ah, M. Lorrimer, I'm so glad.

Please to come up here.

Poirot? What's going on?

Who are your friends?

Captain Hastings of course you know.

And this is Chief Inspector Japp from Scotland Yard.

We have reason to believe, Mr. Lorrimer,

that your uncle's death was not an accident.

Not an accident?

Please.

This clothing was part of the assassin's disguise.

It was discarded close to the Bishop's Chophouse

after he had masqueraded as your uncle following the murder.

These strands of white hair are from the wig, sir.

The darker hairs would be the guilty party's.

They should be an easy match.

Wigs?

Masquerade?

Yes, a devious finale to a most sinister plot, monsieur.

You see, that Saturday evening,

after he had pushed Henry Gascoigne to his death,

the assassin searched through the correspondence on his desk.

He retrieved this envelope,

which he had sent the day before.

Now, what could be more innocent

than an invitation to an art gallery, eh?

However, he had one last artistic task to perform.

But he was not a skilled craftsman.

Regarde.

He changed the postmark from the 15th to the 16th...

...and smudged the mark on the blotter

to further conceal the forgery.

He placed the envelope in your uncle's dressing-gown pocket,

and then, disguised as the old man,

he took his place at the Bishop's Chophouse.

And so it appeared that Henry Gascoigne

had fallen to his death that Saturday evening -- oh, yes --

but after the 9:30 post had been delivered.

Whoever could do such a thing?

Oh, well, at first I suspected his colleagues,

but they all had the solid alibis.

And then naturally I turned my attention towards his family.

But Anthony was dead.

It appeared that you were the only living relative,

and of course you were.

And where were you when your uncle was murdered, monsieur?

Where was I?

Well, I-I'd have been here at the theater

for the second performance.

Of course.

Ah, yes, but that would have been a Saturday evening,

Mr. Lorrimer.

Neither the staff nor the artists here

can remember seeing you on that Saturday afternoon.

At which time, I would say,

you were attending to some business, yes?

Yes.

The murder of your uncle.

You think I killed Henry?

Well, this is madness.

I had no quarrel with him.

After Anthony's death,

Henry was the only living relative to stand between you

and the Gascoigne estate.

This is a lie! A damned lie!

Ah.

We have acquired a sample of typeface

from the typewriter in your office, monsieur.

I am certain that it will be the perfect match

with the address on the envelope --

the signature of the murderer.

So, it was the musical act that made you suspect Lorrimer.

Well, it was a very good impression of an old man,

and Lorrimer must have seen it many times.

Indeed.

And Lorrimer had been ready for many weeks.

When Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper,

telephoned with word of Anthony's imminent death,

Lorrimer knew that all of Anthony's money

will go to Henry Gascoigne because there was no will.

But why on earth would Lorrimer masquerade as old Gascoigne

on the previous Monday night?

Dress rehearsal --

had to be sure of the disguise on the night.

He nearly got away with it.

Yes, but you cannot play Othello

simply by blacking your face, eh?

You have to think like a Moorish general.

Lorrimer's performance was fatally flawed.

Hastings, suddenly you look very pale.

Are you feeling unwell?

The Test, Poirot. Extraordinary!

Listen -- "Verity takes 14 wickets for 70 runs

on a day when England bowled out Australia twice

to win the second Test."

Six wickets in the last hour.

And after the weekend rains, you are surprised, mon ami?

Australians are used to hard pitches.

The Lord's wickets would have been decidedly sticky, no?

So it's not a day for the stroke play.

No, it's a day for the art of spin bowling.

And Hedley Verity is the greatest exponent alive,

bowling left arm, the leg breakers to the right-handers.

He would have them marching

through the long room in no time, eh?

He has flight variation, the chinaman,

and the most deadly quick of all that dips into a Yorker.

Oh, yes.

On such a day, M. Verity would consider,

what, 14 for 70, a fair hole.