Original subtitles

Mr. Davenheim's back, madam.

Thank you, Walter.

I won't be needing the car over the weekend.

Thank you, Martha.

You look tired.

Darling, servants.

How was your meeting this morning?

Well, so-so.

They must refer back to Wall Street,

so it'll be a few days yet.

Oh, by the way, Lowen rang.

He said he would be catching the earlier train after all.

Ah.

I don't know why you agreed to see him, anyway.

You keep saying how much you detest the man.

It wasn't quite that easy.

He's a shark and is very slippery.

He's angling for a directorship at the bank

has been for months now.

But you'd sooner die.

Gerald Lowen, a seat on your own bank?

Oh, he wants to make life

as uncomfortable for me as he can,

and that would give him just the power base to set about it.

And unfortunately,

he does hold a bit of a trump card this time

5% stake in Cape Gold,

which he knows we're desperate to get hold of.

It puts him in a rather strong bargaining position, I'm afraid.

You all right?

Yes, I'm fine.

Well, maybe he's on the 4:45.

Could be here pretty shortly.

I really ought to go through one or two of these papers

before he gets here.

I'm sorry about all this.

Ah, look, I just want to catch the last post.

I think I'll take a wander into the village.

Lowen will be just getting in. I can meet him off the train.

Right.

Anyway, a spot of fresh air will do me good.

Mathew.

The girl was no longer

inside the chrysalis when it vanished.

There was the secret.

It baffled even Poirot for a full 10 seconds.

The key, of course, lies in the costume of the girl.

Inside, there is a sewn a network

of very fine steel wires.

Human beings are made of flesh and blood, no?

To make them vanish into the air, c'est impossible.

You think so.

I take it you haven't heard, then,

about the strange business of Mr. Mathew Davenheim.

We are talking about M. Davenheim

of Davenheim and Selmon.

Ah, the big banking firm.

Of which Mathew Davenheim was a senior partner

and a very wealthy man, too,

if his house is anything to go by.

Incidentally, my dear Chief Inspector,

you will have a little something to warm you before you leave?

Well, seeing as I'm not on duty.

Yes, it's a rare old puzzle, all told.

Friday afternoon, he told his wife

he was off to the village to post some letters,

Walks out the front gate,

hasn't been seen or heard of since.

Mm-hmm.

And at what time precisely did M. Davenheim leave?

We gather around 4:40.

He was expecting a business colleague

to arrive by train that afternoon

to talk over some financial deal or other.

A Mr. Gerald Lowen.

A gentleman to see Mr. Davenheim, madam.

Gerald Lowen.

How do you do?

Mr. Lowen.

You drove here, then. I didn't hear the car.

No, I came by train, but we were a little early,

so I thought I'd walk up from the station.

But my husband was walking down to meet you.

How maddening.

You must've passed each other in the lane.

I don't think so.

Oh, but you must have. He left here not five minutes --

Mrs. Davenheim, I couldn't possibly

have passed your husband.

The fact is, I didn't pass anybody.

There wasn't another soul in the lane all the way.

Please make yourself comfortable in here.

I'm sure he won't be very long.

Thank you.

Mrs. Davenheim showed Lowen into her husband's study,

and there he waited...

and waited...

and waited.

Well, over an hour goes by.

Still Davenheim doesn't return.

Gerald Lowen, his patience exhausted,

takes his leave.

This is the way your husband treats

important business clients, is it?

I'm -- I'm quite at a loss. I'm so sorry.

Yes.

I'm very sorry, too, Mrs. Davenheim.

Very sorry, indeed.

Inquiries are made throughout the village.

Nothing.

They've searched everywhere.

They've found nothing.

But I don't know who else to turn to.

For all intents and purposes,

Mathew Davenheim has vanished off the face of the earth.

I'll call you back. They've just come in.

Good evening.

It seems everyone saw Lowen.

Nobody saw Davenheim.

Lowen.

Why does that name ring a bell?

Certainement.

It is most obscure, my dear Chief Inspector.

Which gives me the great hopes of solving it.

I'm afraid I can't see it myself.

Ah, but I do not see, mon ami.

I shut my eyes and I think.

One must always seek the truth from within.

If you've told me that once,

you've told me a thousand times.

All right, then, Poirot.

Here's a challenge for you.

A fiver of my money that says

you can't solve this little mystery

without leaving the house.

We'll give you seven days.

Of course, if it's beyond even your magical powers

Tr�s bien. Seven days, huh?

Provided the facts are placed before me

and that you will allow Hastings here to furnish me

with such information as I require,

the solution, it becomes inevitable.

I accept.

Good night, Poirot.

Thanks for the drink.

Like robbing a baby.

Now, that's the way to walk to the village, sir.

About five minutes on foot.

During which time,

he must've passed Lowen coming from the station.

Can I just ask, what's down there?

That takes you right into Brooklands,

a big motor-racing venue.

Uh, a little way down there is a boating lake.

Now, we've checked with the keeper.

He swears Davenheim never passed it up.

-Captain Hastings. -Chief Inspector.

I beg your pardon, sir?

What, uh, color were they, if you can remember?

Mr. Lowen's trousers, sir?

Well, I know it's a rather odd question,

but, uh, a rather odd person would like to know.

Kind of a light color, I suppose you'd say they were.

Light gray.

Very smartly turned out, he was,

apart from that stupid mustache.

It goes back a long way,

this rivalry between them.

Lowen lost out to my husband in a big deal

over some shipping-company shares.

Poor man was nearly wiped out.

That was a few years ago now,

but he's never stopped hounding Mathew ever since.

I believe he came here to barter

some South African stock or something

in exchange for a position on the bank.

Did a lot of business in South Africa,

did he, your husband?

He was over in Johannesburg all last winter.

Must've been three months.

He brought me back the most wonderful diamond earrings.

He always brought me back jewelry

of one kind or another whenever he went away.

Do you believe in a sixth sense, Chief Inspector?

I had it the day my mother died.

I had it again on Friday.

All day, the certain knowledge

that something like this was going to happen.

And now it has, hasn't it?

I wonder if I might have a word now with your maid.

I think I might have a word now with your mistress.

Chief Inspector.

Captain Hastings.

I'm surprised to see you still here, Mr. Poirot.

I thought you'd be out on the Davenheim case.

Ah, well, Miss Lemon,

the Chief Inspector Japp has bet me �5

that I cannot solve this mystery

without leaving my apartment,

and I accept his bet.

Oh, are you sure that was wise?

Perhaps not, Miss Lemon.

On reflection,

�10 would be a much rounder sum.

I just told all I know to that police inspector.

I ain't got time to tell that all again.

No, quite.

I can see you're a very busy man, Mr. Merritt.

Boatman's work's never done.

Yes.

On Friday afternoon, Mr. Merritt

Oh.

I remember it all plain enough.

Friday afternoon is one of my busiest times.

I remember looking at my watch that said 4:55.

A couple of vagrants come by

and this, uh, girl on a bike.

One of them was blind.

Ugly-looking pair, all told.

Looked as if they'd been drinking.

That were all that afternoon.

There weren't no one else come by.

I'd remember, wouldn't I?

Yes.

Well, I better be getting along.

Wouldn't want to keep you from all your work, Mr. Merritt.

Huh.

Don't you worry about that.

Soon as that paint's dry on that bench,

I'll be right up and giving that a second coat.

Ah. Light gray, you say, Hastings.

That may be significant.

I'd still like to know what the color of Lowen's trousers

has got to do with anything.

Surely that is obvious, Hastings.

M. Lowen says that he did not pass M. Davenheim

in the lane, oui?

Now, is he lying, Hastings,

or did he in fact kill M. Davenheim?

A messy scuffle in the country road,

a disposal of a body in a muddy field,

and still he manages to turn up at the house minutes later

so immaculately dressed.

Ah.

Seemed rather trivial.

No, Hastings.

Nothing is trivial in the matter of murder.

I commend also to your attention

the fact that before he leaves a room,

M. Davenheim puts onto the gramophone

a record of the "1812 Overture."

Well, that was highly significant, too, was it?

Well, we may as yet be on the wrong track,

but at least it is suggestive.

Track! That was it! Gerald Lowen.

Comment?

Gerald Lowen races a couple of Bugattis,

just beginning to make a name for himself on the circuit.

I bet it's the same chap.

Ah, the racing of the cars, huh?

Round and around in the circles.

Never will I understand the passion

for such a pointless pastime.

You've got to experience it, Poirot --

the sheer exhilaration.

Flying round by the seat of your pants.

Yes, well, Hastings,

perhaps you should try cleaning them first.

All right, lads, fan out.

Keep your eyes open.

Oi! Chief Inspector!

Bring it in.

Oh, my God.

It's my husband's.

Might just as well admit it, Mr. Poirot,

you can't stand to being cooped up here on your own,

away from all the action.

Miss Lemon, it becomes denser by the minute, huh?

If his body had been discovered in the lake, eh, bien,

a simple murder problem or an intriguing suicide.

But his clothes and no M. Davenheim, huh?

Hmm.

We are dealing here, Miss Lemon, with a body of evidence

requiring the most skillful dissection.

Well, in that case, why don't you call off this stupid bet

and get out there, ferreting for yourself?

Get out there ferreting, Miss Lemon?

We are not hunting the jack rabbits.

This is a delicate exercise in the skill of --

Miss Lemon, the door, if you please.

Mr. Poirot!

Oui.

Morning, sir. Got a parrot for Mr. Poor-rot.

Ah, no, no, no, no. "Poirot."

It is pronounced "Poirot."

I beg your pardon, Governor.

I've got a Poirot for Mr. Poor-rot.

But I heard nothing from the Commander Wallace.

He promised me faithfully

he was going to clear it with you first.

It's just that he had to dash away to Scotland for a few days,

and there was no one else could look after it for him.

Anyway, be a bit of extra company for you

as you're stuck inside the office for a week.

You do like birds, don't you, Mr. Poirot?

Miss Lemon, small animals have no part to play in the home life

of a private detective from Belgium.

Hello.

Except, of course, as a source of nourishment.

Driver of Car 17

kindly report to the secretary of the meeting.

Excuse me. I'm looking for a Mr. Gerald Lowen.

Well, that was him.

He'll come back into the paddock next time around.

You're interested in the car?

I'll say. Never seen a Bugatti fly like that before.

-The best time we've ever done. -Really?

Yes, we can meet him by the shed.

So, you altered the fuel system.

Oh, yeah. We took out the dual-built drive 224.

Oh, mind your back, sir.

So, you raised the compression ratio.

Oh, yes, sir. Upgraded the supercharger, sir.

Brilliant. Bet you get a fantastic HP for your rev rate.

This is the gentleman who's interested in the car.

Captain Hastings. You're Gerald Lowen.

Hastings?

Well, you better take her for a spin.

Really?

That's terribly kind of you.

-Go on. -You sure?

Well, you want to get the whole picture.

-Well, of course. -Mr. Lowen.

Competitors are reminded that, to assist timekeepers,

correct numbers are to be displayed during practice.

I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Lowen,

but I'm from Scotland Yard.

I wonder if you wouldn't mind answering

a few questions.

Colonel Briton, Mr. Lowen.

This is the gentleman I was telling you about.

He's interested in buying the car.

Briton?

Hastings.

Hey, you!

Get out of that damn car!

Captain Hastings.

Chief Inspector.

I think the police have had

quite enough of my time, Chief Inspector.

Uh, just one moment, please, Mr. Lowen.

How many more times do you want me to tell you?

I didn't pass Davenheim in that lane.

Perhaps he fell down a rabbit hole.

And good riddance.

I gather he'd given you a bit of a hiding on the markets

once or twice, Mr. Lowen.

Scored a few major coups at your personal expense.

Davenheim's wealth was accumulated

at many people's expense.

I don't imagine I'm the only financier in the city

who bore him a grudge.

Well, you know what it's like.

Oh? What is it like, Mr. Lowen?

Dog-eat-dog in the city?

High-powered money men going for each other's throats?

Look, if you're suggesting that I killed Davenheim

and then tossed his damn clothes away into that lake

Clothes in the lake, Mr. Lowen?

I don't think we've officially announced that yet.

Well, must've heard it on the exchange.

Good God, you don't think

you can keep a thing like that secret, surely.

Thank you, Mr. Lowen.

Good day.

He sounds quite unbearably vain, this man, Hastings.

How did he know about the clothes in the lake?

In the city, they would know what we had for breakfast

if it was important

to the share prices.

Where does that leave us, then?

You think Davenheim's been kidnapped?

No. Where is the ransom note or the demand?

A murder, then?

Where is the corpse?

And what sort of murder is it

where the killer removes the clothes of his victim

and throws them into the lake?

Well, those two vagrants could've attacked him,

robbed him of his clothes,

then, panicking,

in case the clothes identified them as the man's killer,

tossed them into the water and made a run for it.

Well, the boatman said he saw nothing.

Then he spends most of his time asleep, anyway.

Bravo, Hastings.

You begin to use your little gray cells, huh?

Of course, your reasoning is fallacious in every respect.

Your common sneak thieves

are very rarely the murderers, Hastings.

And unless also he is a member of the magic circle

and has constructed a secret trapdoor somewhere in the lane,

how has he made the body

disappear?

And please do not fraternize with that creature.

I am still training him.

It's only a parrot.

I was talking to the parrot.

Ol' moneybags is still missing, then?

Except he's in Rio by now.

And you are certain that the lock,

it had been forced?

Nobody knows when.

Could've been like that since Friday.

Everything is gone, including the gems.

The gems?

All those expensive jewels he kept bringing back.

Cleaned out, the lot.

Ah, things are now moving in a very definite direction.

You cannot fail to see the thread.

All the same,

there are still certain litmus tests to be carried out

before we can be absolutely sure.

Ah, ah, ah. Where are you going?

Ah.

Oui.

Unless, of course, you've changed your mind and

Certainly not. A wager is a wager.

Hastings, you are not busy this afternoon?

Well

I want you to help me in a little experiment.

Well, I don't know why we're all standing around here talking

while he's out there going scot-free.

Well, we have questioned Mr. Lowen, madam,

but at the moment, we don't actually have any --

Excuse me.

Would you mind awfully if I went to get a glass of water?

Oh, please, let --

No, no, no, no. I'll go myself.

Well, the man was determined to ruin my husband.

We know that.

And he was on his own right there in the study for --

well, for well over an hour.

We don't know for sure

it was broken into on Friday afternoon.

I locked it up myself, Chief Inspector,

just as Mathew was returning home.

We couldn't have been burgled since then.

Why haven't any of the doors or windows been forced open?

It can only have been done by someone who was in this house.

It couldn't only have been done by Gerald Lowen.

Uh

Just, uh, conducting a little experiment

that, um

It's a wonder Japp didn't lock me up

for breaking and entering.

But, Hastings, you performed magnificently.

I don't see what it proves,

except that you need a strong hand to get that thing open.

Lowen isn't exactly a weakling.

Ah, our old friend M. Lowen, huh?

He has suffered so badly at the hands of M. Davenheim

that he vows to exact his revenge on the demon banker.

So, first, he kills his adversary,

then he turns up at the house in order to ransack the safe

and make off with the family jewels, huh?

It's the only explanation that fits.

Like the round hole into the square peg.

The opening of the safe door, Hastings.

How did he force open such a lock

without being overheard?

Hmm.

As you yourself so expertly demonstrated,

it is quite impossible.

Well you've only got three days to go.

This is quite tasty.

It is a recipe of my own, Hastings.

Oh, yeah?

Nut husks, bird seed, and a ground cuttlefish.

What do you think, then?

Is Davenheim dead or what?

I think, Hastings, that there is much more

to the disappearance of M. Davenheim

than at first appears.

But you tell me, mon ami. You are my eyes and ears.

What is our next move?

Brooklands.

And the final meeting of an exciting season

brings out the fastest of the speed cars,

with the biggest crews of the day doing the big race --

the Gold Star Handicap over a distance of 20 miles.

A keen crowd of enthusiastic spectators

takes advantage of the unusually mild autumn weather

to rally at the famous track.

The drivers go 'round and 'round and come out here,

or at least this one does.

But it's speed the crowd have come to see,

and Gerald Lowen, Number 3, obliges.

My God. He took that one a bit fine.

Lowen cut up Bera's Bugatti there on the inside

like nobody's business.

Man's certainly got a ruthless streak in him and no mistake.

Ah, ruthless -- remains to be seen.

We've had him under close surveillance for four days now,

hoping he might point us towards a body.

All he's pointed us towards so far

are cartels and carburetors.

Blimey.

Old Shuttleworth's got some juice in that arm for a mayor.

Must be averaging 1-4 something, at least.

Sorry, Japp?

Just thinking aloud.

Japp, look out!

Oi!

I'll take that.

Sergeant, cuff him.

Billy Kellet. My God, some people never give up.

Friend of yours, Sergeant?

It was only last week that we put him inside for three months.

Same game -- lifting wallets in the crowd.

Looks like mine was the first of the day.

Hello.

Well, now.

How very interesting.

What is it?

Hello?

Ah, Poirot.

Haven't caught you at a bad moment, I hope.

Believe me, my dear Chief Inspector Japp,

if you had caught me at a bad moment,

I should certainly have told you.

Just thought you'd like to hear the news.

We found the signet ring of Mathew Davenheim.

What's the matter, then, Kellet?

Three months inside last time not enough for you?

Get homesick for prison, did we?

See the charming houseguests we get in here?

They never learn, of course, his type.

Must have an appetite for prison food.

I'll ask you once more, Kellet.

Where did you get this ring?

The wrong answer,

and your next port of call could be the gallows, laddie.

Well

I was with me mate Frankie -- Frankie Marsh, you know.

And we was going down the racetrack,

down Brooklands.

Ooh!

Hey, lady! You want to be careful on that bike, miss!

I come back on me own about 7:00,

and I'd had a little bit of a drink, you know?

So I sits down by the side of the road for a little rest.

I was just about dozing off when I heard this sound...

of something dropping into the leaves by the side.

That's when I saw it.

So this is his story?

Word for word.

"Someone had thrown the ring over the hedge.

"I looks up and sees this geezer walking away.

"Knobby gent with a light gray suit

and a poncy mustache."

Hmm.

I can't help it.

So, tell me, my dear Chief Inspector

do you not find it the most remarkable coincidence

that the man who stole your wallet

should also turn out to be

the most important witness

in the case of our M. Davenheim?

Rather an unfortunate coincidence

from his point of view.

Yes, but sometimes the most simple coincidence

is not all that she appears.

You do follow my train of reasoning?

No.

Good.

And since there is at stake �5,

you would not wish me to elaborate further.

And, of course, he denies all knowledge.

Still, we're planning to test Kellet's story

with an identity parade.

Can't be ruled out that he's telling the truth.

No, but I find it improbable

that having removed the ring

from off the finger of his victim,

M. Lowen should suddenly decide to toss it away into the ditch.

Of course, he

One has to ask, though,

why bother to remove the ring at all?

Valuable piece of merchandise.

Not easy to pawn, though.

Surely far too easy to recognize.

That's probably why he took it off.

Ah.

What is it, Poirot?

Don't tell me you've sorted it all out.

Perhaps.

But first, I will need the answer to two questions.

What was in the bathroom cabinet of M. Davenheim

on the day that he disappeared?

And did he and his wife sleep together

or in their separate bedchambers?

A gentleman to see you, madam.

I'm most dreadfully sorry

to trouble you again, Mrs. Davenheim.

Yes, Captain Hastings.

I'm back, Mr. Poirot.

God, that's a devil of a day out there.

You can hardly see your hand in front of your face.

How true, Miss Lemon.

There are days when none of us

can see the hand in front of our face

when even I, Hercule Poirot, cannot see

what is staring plainly at me between the eyes.

I think you've lost me again.

Mais certainement, Miss Lemon.

It's very easy to lose a person, eh?

Sometimes because you do not know

who it is you are trying to find.

Analysis and synthesis, Miss Lemon.

There lies the key to the art of deduction.

To strip apart the evidence

detail by detail

to its barest essentials

until, miraculously, all the pieces,

they just fall into place,

and we have the complete picture

of everything that happened.

Ah, Hastings. What news do you have for me?

The mystery, it is solved, yes?

You know, Poirot, I sometimes wonder

if you don't set me these little tasks just to find out

how much embarrassment I can take in any one day.

The facts, Hastings.

This is of critical importance.

Charlotte and Mathew Davenheim

have occupied separate bedrooms since the spring.

Ah.

And it is now the middle of October.

Bon. And the bathroom cabinet?

You sure want to hear all this?

Hastings, do you think I play the games?

Two toothbrushes, one hairbrush, one pot of skin cream,

one bottle of liver pills, one tube of toothpaste,

one shaving brush, one packet of razor blades,

one bottle of sleeping pills, one nasal spray,

one bottle of eye drops --

Thank you, Hastings. I have heard enough.

-There's another two pages. -The evidence, it is complete.

Now, Hastings, Miss Lemon, I trust you have no monies

deposited in the bank of Davenheim and Selmon?

None.

-No? -Nor me. Why?

Because I should advise you to withdraw it all, mon ami,

before it is too late.

You think there's trouble looming?

I expect a big crash within the next few days, Miss Lemon,

perhaps sooner, huh?

So, if you please, a note to the Chief Inspector Japp.

Advise you to withdraw any monies

deposited with the firm in question.

Ah, still he will not comprehend.

I'm not sure I comprehend.

Hastings, as I told you at the start,

once all the facts were placed before me,

the solution, it becomes inevitable.

All right, how did you know?

Or are you going to tell me it was all done with mirrors?

You will permit me, my dear Chief Inspector,

one moment longer of the suspense.

I have, as I promised,

solved this mystery without leaving my apartment.

Well, so you say, but I'm still pretty much in the dark.

Very well.

I will simply draw your attention to three details

which, taken together, are really quite conclusive.

One, what is significant about the period of time

that M. Davenheim spent during the winter in Johannesburg?

Two, why had he and his wife not been sleeping together

in the same bed chamber from that moment on?

And three, what was in the bathroom cabinet

belonging to M. Davenheim which should never have been there?

Hmm?

I give up.

I give up. I give up.

I give up.

Chief Inspector,

this afternoon, you are staging the identity parade

for the scoundrel Kellet to point out M. Lowen.

I think you will find the results really,

yes, quite surprising.

You will not object if I leave the confines of my apartment

to witness the conclusion of our wager.

All right, Sergeant.

In your own time, if you would, man.

This is him.

He threw the ring into the ditch.

Why, you miserable old fool.

You filthy little liar!

You killed Davenheim!

And now you're gonna swing for it!

You grubby, filthy little tick!

Take him away!

So, now, what'd you make of that, Poirot?

I'd say Lowen's as good as shot himself.

On the contrary, my dear Chief Inspector.

A mere moment of the hotheaded rage.

M. Gerald Lowen could not be more innocent

in this whole bizarre affair.

Couldn't he?

Well, then perhaps it's about time

you explain to us what the hell is going on.

Ah.

Mrs. Charlotte Davenheim, sir.

M. Poirot.

-Madame. -I came as soon as I could.

Well, what is it?

If you found anything out, then for God's sake, please!

Oh!

Stop him.

All right, then, Kellet. So what's all this about?

Or perhaps I should ask you that question.

Mais certainement, my dear Chief Inspector.

I think that this charade has gone on quite long enough.

Has it not?

Gentlemen, may I present to you

the missing merchant banker Mathew Davenheim.

Damn you

you Belgian.

Take him to the cell.

From the start, I was intrigued

by M. Davenheim buying of the priceless jewelry for his wife.

For years, you see,

he had been embezzling vast sums of money from his own bank,

draining it to death, as we have seen,

and converting the spoils into the gems

which he stores in the safe.

So he'd always planned to abscond with them

right from the very start.

Having first very cleverly prearranged

with his hated archrival in the city, M. Gerald Lowen,

to be at his house on that day

so that he would become the chief suspect

in this unfortunate affair.

So Davenheim had already forced his own safe open

before he left the house that day.

Using the good M. Tchaikovsky as his accomplice.

Cunningly, he uses the cannon fire in the music

to mask any sound that would've alerted his wife.

Having made it look as if the safe has been broken into,

he steals his own money and jewels

because he believes he has found for himself,

until all has blown over, the most perfect place to hide.

In prison.

You see, during the winter,

when he was supposedly in Johannesburg,

M. Davenheim was, in fact,

creating the character of Billy Kellet,

spending the three months in jail.

He returns to the racetrack to steal the wallet,

knowing he will be caught and put once again behind bars.

And no one will suspect a thing.

Of course, he always meant

for you to find in his pocket the ring

so he could use it to further incriminate M. Gerald Lowen.

And the contents of the bathroom cabinet?

The razor blades, Hastings.

When resuming his identity,

M. Davenheim was forced to wear the false beard.

To share the same bed chamber as his wife

would certainly lead to detection.

In fact, he was still shaving from time to time

in order to become Billy Kellet again.

Hi.

Just so no one can say I'm not a man to honor my word.

Ah.

Mon pauvre chef, huh?

Like robbing a baby.

Robbing a baby.

However, it is small remuneration

for the seven days in forced confinement to my own home

having to listen to the nonstop demented squawks

and the screechings.

Hmm.

Mais, madame et messieurs,

I want you to observe something very closely.

Hello.

Ah, well.

At least it was worth a try.

Worth a try. Worth a try.