Original subtitles

Isn't it a big bonfire?

Yes.

Hastings, my friend, tell me,

to blow up the English Parliament --

was it a sin or a noble deed?

Oh, it's no good asking me, old son.

I was never much of a one for politics.

Where's Mrs. Japp tonight, then?

She can't abide fireworks.

Ah, the noise disturbs

the delicate sensibilities of many ladies.

Maybe, maybe.

I think it's more

that she doesn't like to see people enjoying themselves.

Tell you what, though, what a good night for a murder, eh?

I mean, if somebody wanted to kill anybody,

nobody would know if it was a gunshot or a firework.

Mm.

But not so good, my friend,

if your chosen method is strangulation.

No, that's true. No.

Or poisoning, come to that.

Yes.

You're pulling my leg.

Yes, Hastings, we pull ever so gently the leg.

Well, I still think it's a jolly good night for a murder.

Anyway, I'm going to leave you here.

-This is where I garaged my car. -Ah.

Good night, Chief Inspector. Good night, Poirot.

Good night, Captain Hastings.

A demain.

Good night!

Steady on, lads.

You won't forget your dental appointment at 11:00,

will you, Mr. Poirot?

Hercule Poirot does not need to go to the dentist, Miss Lemon.

You've put it off once already.

My teeth are perfection.

It is sacrilege to tamper with them.

But why do we not do something constructive about my collars,

Miss Lemon, hmm?

That laundry is in the pay of my enemies.

Hercule Poirot's residence.

-Poirot, please. -Oh.

-Japp here. -Yes.

Chief Inspector Japp.

He's here.

Good morning, Chief Inspector Japp.

Here's a strange thing, Poirot.

You remember how we stopped

at the end of Bardsley Garden Mews last night,

where your friend Hastings keeps his car,

and Hastings was saying about how the sound of a shot

could be covered by the noise of a firework?

Yes.

Well, someone did it.

Really?

Not murder. It looks like suicide.

But they're not entirely happy about it.

Hmm.

I'll meet you there in one hour.

Cancel all my appointments for this morning, Miss Lemon.

But I've --

Good of you to spare the time, Poirot.

No, no, no, no, no, not at all.

But I hope you appreciate, my friend,

the urgent business I have had to cancel to be here.

-Oh, really? -Oh, yes.

The dead woman is a Mrs. Allen.

She shared the house with a friend,

Miss Plenderleith, who is a professional photographer

or something along those lines.

Miss Plenderleith was away in the country.

But when she came home this morning,

she finds her friend's door locked.

She knocks and calls but can't get any answer.

In the end, she gets really alarmed and calls the police.

10:45, our lads break the door down,

and there's Mrs. Allen lying in a heap on the floor,

shot through the head.

Right, Brett. What's the trouble?

Well, the position's all right.

If she'd shot herself,

she'd probably have slipped from the chair

into just that position.

But?

The prints on the gun, sir -- they're the problem.

Bit of a thumbprint and a forefinger,

and that's all.

Just what you'd get

from someone trying to press the dead woman's fingers on the gun

and not doing it very well.

Mm.

Gun in left hand, wound on the left side.

Presumably she was left-handed.

It looks as though she's holding the gun,

but, in fact, she isn't.

It's just sort of lying in her hand.

Anything else?

The window was closed and bolted,

and the door was locked.

We haven't been able to find the key.

What's this, then?

It might mean something.

Anything strike you?

I was looking at her watch.

Hmm.

Expensive, by the look of it.

Tuesday, November 5th.

How long she been dead?

She died at about 11:30 last night.

No sign of any note having been written.

No.

Seems to me all we've got to go on at the moment

is the missing key.

If the key was here, we wouldn't hesitate.

Suicide, we'd say.

This must be a terrible shock to you, Miss Plenderleith.

I still can't believe it.

We'll be as brief as possible.

Now, you've already told Inspector Jameson

how you found the body when you came in this morning.

You were away for the weekend, I take it.

Yes, since Friday noon.

Uh, pardon, mademoiselle.

When you found the door locked, you called the police.

Did it not occur to you that she might have gone away

and locked the door before leaving?

Why should she lock it?

In any case, she would have left a note for me.

And she did not leave any note?

Of course she didn't.

Ah.

Tell me about Mrs. Allen, Miss Plenderleith.

I met her abroad.

She was on her way back from India.

I was looking for someone to share a flat with me.

We decided we liked each other.

What about the husband?

Nothing to write home about, apparently.

He drank, I think.

Died a year or two after the marriage.

Do you know if Mrs. Allen was in any financial difficulties?

No, I'm sure she wasn't.

Did she have any particular man friend or men friends?

She was engaged to be married again,

if that answers your question.

What's the name of the man she was engaged to?

Oh, my God. I haven't told Charles.

Who is Charles, miss?

The man Barbara was engaged to --

Charles Laverton West.

He's M.P. for someplace in Hampshire.

I should have phoned him.

We'll go 'round and see him.

But there would be no quarrel between them,

as far as you know?

I'd be very surprised.

Barbara wasn't the quarreling kind.

What is your own opinion

of M. Laverton West, mademoiselle?

He's young, ambitious, a good public speaker,

means to get on in the world.

And on the debit side?

Well, in my opinion, he's commonplace and rather pompous.

Those are not very serious faults, mademoiselle.

Oh. You don't think so?

Well, they might be to you, but to Mrs. Allen... no.

She would not notice them.

You were fond of your friend?

Yes, very.

I know this must be upsetting for you,

Miss Plenderleith,

but there are just one or two more questions

I'd like to ask you.

Mrs. Allen was left-handed, wasn't she?

Left-handed?

No, I don't think so.

No, I'm sure she wasn't.

Really?

You see, Mrs. Allen was shot in the left temple,

and the gun was in her left hand.

Didn't you notice that when you found the body?

No, I didn't.

It was so horrible.

I didn't notice anything.

That's understandable, miss, but it seems highly unlikely

that a normally right-handed person

would shoot themselves left-handed.

Have you ever seen this before?

No.

It's not yours, nor Mrs. Allen's?

It's not the kind of thing normally worn by our sex, is it?

Oh, so, you recognize it.

I don't recognize it. I recognize what it is, though.

It's half of a man's cuff link.

Hastings!

Once we've got this filter screwed down good...

Hastings?

...and tight,

we can put the new oil in,

and she will run like a well-oiled clock.

Hastings?

Hello?

What are you doing, Hastings?

Well, I thought I'd just do some work on the car.

But you were to ask questions, Hastings,

to sound out local opinion.

Oh, I've done that. Freddie?

Freddie's helping with the oil filter.

That'll hold her. Should be tight for now.

We'll put the spanner to it, then put in a new gasket.

Right. This is Mr. Poirot.

How are you, gov?

I'm Fred Hogg. You can call me Freddie.

Hello, Freddie.

Freddie's got the goods.

Did you see something last night?

Well, Mrs. Allen -- she went to the post box about 6:00.

About half-9:00, though, a car pulled up.

Standard Swallow Saloon.

Rubbish, really, but it looked smart.

A man got out.

He was about -- about 45, well set up.

Military-looking gent.

You've seen him before?

Yeah, a couple of times.

Dark blue overcoat, toothbrush mustache.

He was in there for about an hour.

I saw them come out together.

So you saw him leave?

I don't miss much, gov.

Then you heard what they said, of course.

Yeah, he said, "Think it over and let me know,"

and she said something and then he said, "So long."

And the way they talked -- they were friendly, yes?

Can't always tell with toffs, can you,

but they seemed all right.

You didn't hear what Mrs. Allen said?

Nah, she was sort of 'round behind the door.

Now, look here, my boy,

I want you to answer my next question very carefully.

If you don't know the answer or can't remember, you just say so.

That clear?

Ask the question.

Which of them shut the door -- Mrs. Allen or the gentleman?

I think the lady did.

No, she never. It was him.

He pulled it to with a big bang

and then got into the car really quick.

Ah.

Here you are, my boy.

You seem a bright kind of shaver.

Here's sixpence for you.

Oh, that's very kind of you, sir,

but you couldn't see a way to making it a shilling,

could you?

Go on. Clear off.

Chief Inspector Japp and Mr. Poirot, sir.

Good day, gentlemen.

To what do I owe this pleasure?

No great pleasure, sir, I'm afraid.

Oh?

We've brought some bad news.

Go on.

It's about Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Barbara Allen.

What about her?

Get on with it, man.

She's dead, sir.

Dead?

I don't believe it.

What's happened?

Apparently suicide, sir.

Was there anything worrying Mrs. Allen, do you know?

No, not a thing. We were engaged to be married.

Yes, quite so.

I can't believe it.

Dead?

How?

Shot, sir.

Shot?

Good God, I hope the newspapers haven't got ahold of this.

I couldn't say, sir.

I wonder if I could just ask --

Hello?

Ah, yes. Yes, thank you.

I'll hold on. It's the prime minister.

I will have some questions, sir.

Just make an appointment with my secretary at the house.

Yes, I'm still here.

Very good, sir. We'll do that.

I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.

Pardon, monsieur.

Allow me to express my deepest sympathy at your loss.

Yes, right, thank you.

Um, stiff upper lip, you know. That's the British way.

Magnifique.

By the way, sir, was Mrs. Allen left-handed?

Left-handed?

No, I don't think so.

Can't say I ever --

No, she was right-handed, I'm sure.

Ah, Prime Minister.

No, not at all, Prime Minister.

Yes.

Yes, everything's ready for you.

What a stuffed fish.

No, not a stuffed fish. A boiled owl.

As you say, Japp.

More concerned about the newspapers

than his fianc�e being dead.

The Plenderleith girl was quite right about him.

Mind you, he's a good-looking chap.

Might go down well with some women.

Perhaps, but it would not do, I think,

for them to have a sense of humor.

The important thing is,

everyone seems agreed that Mrs. Allen was right-handed.

Yes.

Of course, one must not jump to conclusions, mon ami.

Never mind about jumping to conclusions, Poirot.

This is a murder we're dealing with.

To the Bulldog Breed Laundry --

Dear sirs...

once again...

I am obliged...

to communicate to you...

the dissatisfaction I have...

...for your starching...

of my collars.

I refer...

to my instructions...

of the 2nd of March, 1935,

and subsequent letters.

And you look them up in the file, Miss Lemon,

and enumerate them.

All of them, Mr. Poirot?

All of them, Miss Lemon.

It has become serious.

The trouble is, Mr. Poirot,

they just don't understand the letters.

Why not?

They're Chinese, Mr. Poirot.

The Bulldog Breed Laundry is Chinese?

Yes, Mr. Poirot.

What is the world coming to, Miss Lemon?

I'm sure I couldn't say, sir,

but when the boy brings your laundry back,

he brings the letters back, too, for me to explain to him.

And you do?

No.

Why not?

I don't speak Chinese.

So, what do you say to him?

Well, I -- I say, "Him collar no velly good, starchy."

I show him the collars and say it.

Hastings, my friend,

you spent some years in China, did you not?

Oh, absolutely. Fine fellows, fine fellows.

Did you ever have any trouble with your laundry?

Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.

And what did you say to them?

Well, I said, "Him collar no velly good, starchy."

That's where I got it from, sir.

I asked the captain, knowing he'd been in the East.

But, Hastings, my collars, they do not get any better.

No, mine didn't, either, now I come to think about it.

Miss Lemon.

Why don't you get yourself some turned-down collars, Poirot?

They're much more the thing, you know.

"The thing," Hastings?

Do you think Poirot concerns himself with mere "thingness"?

-Uh, no, no. -No.

No, I-I-I see that, Poirot.

The turned-down collar

is the first symptom of decay of the gray cells.

It's Chief Inspector Japp, Mr. Poirot.

Well, she's out of it.

Good morning, Chief Inspector Japp.

Yes, well, good morning.

Now, who is out of it?

Plenderleith.

She was playing bridge in Essex up till midnight.

We've got to give up any idea

of her being concerned in the business.

A disappointment, Japp?

You are still convinced we are dealing here with a murder?

No doubts about it.

Something I've been meaning to ask you, Poirot.

Hmm?

What was that you were sniffing at in the room

when we first examined the body?

Sniff, sniff, sniff.

-You got a cold, have you? -No.

I always thought

the little gray cells were in your brain.

Don't tell me your nose cells

are superior to everyone else's, too.

By no means.

It was merely cigarette smoke.

I didn't smell cigarette smoke.

No more did I, my friend.

There were nine cigarette ends in the ashtray,

six of them gaspers, three Turkish.

Exactly.

Your wonderful nose cells knew that without looking, I suppose.

I assure you my nose does not enter into the matter.

My nose registered nothing.

But the brain cells registered a lot?

Well, there were certain indications.

Did you not think so?

Now, am I wrong,

or are we going to talk further

with the beautiful Miss Plenderleith?

Yes.

You know, there was something missing from that room,

Chief Inspector...

but also something added, I think.

You know what's worrying me, Poirot?

Yes.

"Yes"? What do you mean, "yes"?

I saw you looking

at Mrs. Allen's checkbook stubs yesterday.

You're too clever for your own good, you are, Poirot.

And you noticed, as I did,

that Mrs. Allen drew out �200 in cash from her bank

on Monday morning.

And three months ago, on the 6th of August, another �200.

-Truly? -Truly.

And there's no �200 in this house that my lads could find.

I'm afraid, Miss Plenderleith,

that we are no longer treating this as a case of suicide.

Not suicide?

You see, being as how your friend

was in no way, shape, or form

likely to commit suicide,

we have to consider the alternative -- murder.

Murder?

Are you sure?

How horrible.

Horrible, perhaps, mademoiselle, but impossible?

I suppose it's possible.

And if there was a murder, there would have to be a motive.

Ask me any questions you like.

But I don't see how I can help you.

On Monday night, Mrs. Allen had a visitor.

He's described as a man of 45, military bearing,

toothbrush mustache, smartly dressed,

and driving a Standard Swallow Saloon car.

Do you know who that is?

It sounds like Major Eustace.

Who's Major Eustace?

He was a man Barbara had known in India.

He turned up about a year ago,

and we've seen him on and off since.

He was a friend of Mrs. Allen's?

He behaved like one.

Would it surprise you, Miss Plenderleith,

if I suggested that this man was blackmailing Mrs. Allen?

Of course!

So that was it.

Of course!

You find the suggestion feasible, mademoiselle?

I was a fool not to think of it.

Oh, I wish she'd told me.

I'd have told him to go to the devil.

But he might have gone,

might he not, to M. Laverton West?

Yes.

Yes, that's true.

Which room do you think

Mrs. Allen would have received her visitor in?

Oh, probably in here.

On the other hand,

if she wanted to write a check or anything of that kind,

she'd probably take him upstairs.

There's no question of a check.

Mrs. Allen drew out �200 in cash on Monday.

So far, we've not been able to find any trace of it

in the house.

But I'd like to have just one more look 'round, if I may.

Look anywhere you like.

Thank you.

Would you like to sit down?

Thank you.

Cigarette?

You are most kind.

This cupboard under the stairs, Miss Plenderleith.

It's locked.

Yes, I've already found that out.

Could I have the key, please?

Um... I don't know where it is.

Oh. That's too bad.

Don't want to have to break the lock.

No.

Um... it might be upstairs.

I managed to find it.

Good.

We keep it locked.

Otherwise, one's umbrellas and things

have a habit of getting pinched.

Very sensible. Right.

That's mine.

It came back with me yesterday morning,

so there can't be anything there.

Just as well to be on the safe side.

Nothing much there.

No, well, there couldn't have been, could there?

Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Laverton West.

Couldn't it have waited?

This sort of inquiry is often inconvenient, sir.

I don't mind the inconvenience if I see the results.

Have you any idea yet, Chief Inspector,

what caused Mrs. Allen to take her own life?

Well, perhaps it will be more understandable, sir,

if I tell you that it was not suicide, but murder.

What are you talking about?

Have you any idea, Mr. Laverton West,

who might have any conceivable motive?

No. It's bizarre.

The mere idea is unimaginable.

She never mentioned any enemies,

anyone who might bear a grudge against her?

Never.

Do you know a Major Eustace?

Eustace?

Oh, yes, I remember.

I met him once at Barbara's.

Mrs. Allen's.

Rather a doubtful type, in my opinion.

I said as much to Mrs. Allen.

He wasn't the sort of man I should have encouraged

to come to the house after we were married.

Look, I've got to get dressed.

What did Mrs. Allen say to that?

She quite agreed.

She trusted my judgment implicitly.

And naturally, as my wife,

she would have found a good many of her old associates,

well, unsuitable, shall we say?

Quite.

What can you tell me about your own movements

on the night of November 5th, sir?

My movements?

Purely a matter of routine, sir.

We have to ask everybody.

I should have thought a man in my position

might have been exempt.

It doesn't work quite like that, sir.

Very well.

Let me see.

I was at the House of Commons,

left about half past 10:00,

went for a walk along the embankment,

watched some of the fireworks.

Lucky there aren't any plots like that nowadays.

Then I walked home.

What time did you arrive?

Somewhere about 11:15, 11:30.

Perhaps someone let you in.

No.

Did you meet anyone whilst walking?

No.

What an alibi.

It's so feeble, it must be genuine.

No, I'm not bothered about him.

It's the Plenderleith girl that worries me.

I'd still like to know

why she got so hot and bothered about that briefcase.

That's something in your line, Poirot.

You like chasing about

after the kind of triviality that leads nowhere --

the mystery of the perambulating briefcase.

Sounds quite promising.

No, you got to work south a little.

No, you got to work east now, boys.

Nunca, nunca.

Major Eustace in the club?

Major Eustace?

Yes.

Chief Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard.

Oh, yes?

Drink?

No, thank you, sir. Might we have a word?

Uh, yes.

Shall we go over here?

Well, well, well.

Take a pew.

It's not often I get honored

by a big gun like a chief inspector.

No, thank you.

Ah.

You smoke Turkish, I see.

Yes.

Would you prefer a gasper?

I've got some.

Somewhere.

No, no, this'll do fine, thanks.

I think you knew Mrs. Barbara Allen, Major Eustace.

Ah, yes.

Very sad business.

Saw it in the paper last night.

You met her out in India, I believe.

Yes.

That's some years ago now.

Did you also know her husband?

No, as a matter of fact, I never came across Allen.

But you know something about him.

I heard he was by way of being a bad hat.

Of course, that was, uh, only hearsay.

Mrs. Allen never spoke about him?

Never.

What I want to know is

did you see Mrs. Allen on the night of November the 5th?

Indeed I did.

You called at her house, I think.

That's right.

She asked me to advise her about some investments.

She gave no hint about contemplating suicide?

Not the least in the world.

As a matter of fact, when we said goodbye,

I said I'd ring her up soon and we'd do a show together.

You said you'd ring her up?

Those were your last words?

Yes.

Curious.

I have information that you said something quite different.

My information is that what you actually said was,

"Well, think it over and let me know."

Not quite the same thing, is it?

Well, I -- I-I think what I said

was that she should let me know when she was free.

I mean, you can't expect a man to remember word for word.

Excuse me, Major.

Deirdre says we need some more gin from the cupboard.

Ah.

Get a couple of bottles out, will you, Trevor?

Right.

You own this place, do you, Major Eustace?

Wish I did.

Little gold mine, this.

You say that Mrs. Allen asked you to advise her

about investments.

Did she, by any chance, entrust you with a sum of �200?

What the devil do you mean by that?

Well, Mrs. Allen drew out the sum of �200 in cash

from her bank.

Some of the money was in �5 notes.

They can be traced by their numbers, of course.

Well, trace them, then, and be damned to you!

Trace them.

I don't care.

Was the money for investment, Major Eustace,

or was it blackmail?

That's a preposterous suggestion.

How dare you?

Look -- Look -- what happened was this --

I went 'round to the house.

I mean, I-I telephoned first --

What time did you get there?

Um... about half past 9:00.

We sat and talked.

And smoked.

Yes, and smoked.

Anything wrong with that?

Where did this talk take place?

In the sitting room.

As I said, we sat and talked quite amicably.

And then I left, uh, just before about half past 10:00.

You stayed in the sitting room throughout your visit?

Yes.

You didn't go upstairs to Mrs. Allen's own room?

No.

Could I just look at your cuff links, Major Eustace?

Cuff links?

You can refuse if you wish, of course.

I've got nothing to hide.

When did that happen?

-What? -One of them's broken.

Oh, I know.

I, uh -- I noticed it this morning.

It doesn't show if I put that end on the inside.

Would it surprise you to learn

that it happened when you were visiting Mrs. Allen?

Well, I've not denied I was there.

Yes, but that piece of cuff link

was found not downstairs in the sitting room,

but upstairs in Mrs. Allen's own room,

there in the same room where she was murdered.

Murdered?

Yes, and where a man sat smoking

the same kind of cigarettes that you smoke.

Are you trying to frame me?

I never went near the house again that night.

You didn't need to. She was dead when you left.

No.

No, now, wait a minute.

Wait a minute.

You've got someone who heard me talking to Barbara

on the doorstep.

You said --

They heard you talk to her,

then pretend to wait for her to answer, and then talk again.

That's an old trick.

Oh, my God, it isn't true.

Robert Erskine Eustace,

I must ask you to accompany me to the police station.

Oh, my God.

Oh, hello.

Yes, dear?

Could I please speak to Miss Plenderleith?

Well, you could, dear, if she was here.

She's gone off playing that golf.

Golf?

If you please.

And that poor Mrs. Allen still lying cold down at the mortuary.

Indeed.

This is most difficult.

I'm sorry. Missus...

Pierce, dear.

Ah.

My name is Hercule Poirot, Mrs. Pierce.

Ooh!

I've heard of you, dear.

Well, I am most flattered.

Mrs. Pierce, I am in something of a difficulty.

Oh.

I came here yesterday with a Chief Inspector Japp,

and we omitted to search for clues

in one particular place in the house.

So, I was wondering if --

Oh, come on in, dear.

Help yourself.

You are most kind.

Thank you.

My old man will be ever so tickled

when I tell him you was here, dear.

Always reading your exploits in the paper, he is.

That's very nice, Mrs. Pierce. May I?

Yes, go on.

Drive you to drink, he would,

reading all that rubbish in the newspapers.

Mrs. Pierce,

where does Miss Plenderleith go to play the golf?

Are you sure he's all right, Captain Hastings?

The name of Poirot is feared

on golf courses all over the continent.

You don't happen to have a handicap certificate on you,

do you, sir?

No, no, I'm fine.

Now, there should be a little hole somewhere,

and I have to push the ball into it.

You see that flag there?

No.

In front of the big tree, a little patch of red.

Ah, yes, good.

That's where the little hole is.

No.

Won't keep you a moment.

Now, all you have to do is hit it with that.

Go ahead.

Easy does it.

Am I allowed to hit the flag?

Oh, yes, yes, that'll be fine.

No, it will not hit the flag, I think.

Oh. Bad luck.

Hastings, how will we ever catch up with Miss Plenderleith

if you take so many hits each time?

Well, we can't.

She started out an hour and a half ago.

We might see her coming back on one of the parallel holes.

I do wish you'd stop rummaging around in the dustbins.

Ha.

Not another one.

Number three, Hastings.

Someone's having a bad day.

People do break clubs, you know.

But three clubs in three holes?

Well, what, then?

Our Miss Plenderleith is getting rid of some golf clubs

in a place where she thought they would never be noticed.

Major Eustace is not guilty of murder, Hastings.

Lost your ball again, Poirot?

Shh! Keep out of sight.

Look.

Have you seen enough, Hastings?

I must regretfully abandon our most interesting game

and go and telephone the Chief Inspector Japp.

Come on.

Why?

Why would a presumably sane young woman

want to throw an expensive case into a lake

with just two magazines in it

and a couple of stones to make sure it sank?

You need worry no longer.

The answer is coming.

And why break up a perfectly good set of golf clubs?

I don't mind telling you I lay awake last night

worrying about it.

Mon pauvre Japp.

Miss Plenderleith, Mr. Poirot.

Thank you, Miss Lemon.

I'm sorry I'm late.

I've just come from Barbara's funeral.

It was so good of you to come.

Please sit down, mademoiselle.

I have certain news to give you.

I read it in the papers.

Major Eustace has been arrested.

It was murder, then?

Oh, yes, the willful destruction of one human being

by another human being.

And now, mademoiselle, I am going to tell you

just how I arrived at the truth in this matter.

He has his methods.

I humor him, you know.

To begin with, there was the smell of the cigarette smoke.

Which I didn't smell.

Precisely.

And yet the ashtray had in it

no fewer than the stubs of nine cigarettes.

So it was very odd, eh, very odd

that the room should smell as it did -- perfectly fresh.

Oh, so that's what you were getting at.

Hmm?

The next thing that attracted my attention

was the wristwatch worn by the dead woman.

What about it?

It was worn on the right wrist.

In my experience, it is more usual

for the wristwatch to be worn on the left wrist.

But now, my friends, I come to the writing bureau.

Yes, I thought we'd come to that.

You know the blotting pad had on top

a clean, untouched piece of blotting paper?

The sheet was clean

because Barbara hadn't written any letters that day.

Yes, she had.

Freddie saw her post some letters at 6:00.

Well done, Hastings.

So, what, then, happened to the piece of paper

on which she had blotted her letters?

But there was a second curious detail about the writing desk.

Perhaps you, Japp, can remember the arrangement of it.

Allow me.

Ink stand and blotting pad in the center,

the pen tray to the left,

the calendar and the quill pen to the right.

Eh bien?

Yes.

Ah, you do not see?

The pens for use were in the pen tray on the left.

Is it not more usual to find the pen tray on the right

more convenient for the right hand?

So I made myself a picture, Japp.

A picture of Miss Plenderleith arriving home

after the weekend.

A picture of Miss Plenderleith opening the door

and finding her friend lying dead,

with the pistol clasped in her hand.

Barbara?

Her left hand, naturally,

since her friend was left-handed,

in spite of everything Miss Plenderleith has done

to convince us that her friend was right-handed.

There is also a note addressed to you, mademoiselle.

It was, I fancy, a very moving letter

about a young, gentle, unhappy woman...

driven by blackmail to take her own life.

I think almost at once the idea flashed into your head --

"Let him be punished."

You take up the note, and the top sheet of blotting paper.

Then you go downstairs and light the fire...

...and drop both into the flames.

You take the ashtray upstairs to further the illusion

that there were two people sat up there talking.

You also have a lucky break.

You discover a fragment

of Major Eustace's cuff link in the sitting room.

You take that upstairs, too.

You expect that to clinch the matter.

You take the pistol from her left hand.

You wipe it clean and put it back in her left hand.

You bolt the window and lock the door.

There must be no suspicion that you have tampered with the room.

And so it goes on.

Oh, yes, mademoiselle, it was clever,

a very clever murder.

For that is what it was.

The attempted murder of Major Eustace.

It wasn't murder.

It was justice.

That man hounded Barbara to her death -- poor kid --

just because she got involved with some married man in India

and had a baby.

When the child died, she came back to England.

She met Charles and fell in love with him.

God knows why, the pompous little tick.

And then that devil Eustace turned up from India.

If you'd read that letter she left me,

you'd understand why I did what I did.

She loved Charles, she said.

She couldn't live without him,

but for his own sake, she mustn't marry him.

She was taking the best way out.

I wish you'd seen that letter.

And you call it murder!

Because it is murder.

The man you wish to trap is already in prison.

Do you really wish to destroy him?

Do you really wish to destroy the life,

the mind of any human being?

No.

No, I don't.

I wish I did.

But I don't.

Well, I'm jiggered.

Not murder disguised as suicide,

but suicide made to look like murder.

And cleverly done, too.

Nothing overemphasized.

Wait a minute.

What about the briefcase?

And what about the golf clubs?

Ah.

Well, they were Mrs. Allen's.

You see, Jane Plenderleith

had to convince us that her friend was right-handed

if we were to believe she had been murdered.

But the golf clubs -- they were the left-handed.

Of course!

And when she opened the cupboard,

she tried to focus our attention on the wrong object.

So she used the briefcase as a --

What is it, a bloater? Kipper?

Red herring.

Absolutely.

And now, my friends,

it is time for me to take you to lunch.