All language subtitles for 01. The ABC Murders

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?

At the garden gate.

When was this, Lady Clark?

In the morning of the day Carr died, at
about 11 o

'clock.

What was he like, this man?

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.

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

have the malady.

Mr. Poirot.

Mr. Fraser.

I'm sorry.

I've got to talk to you.

Well, come up to the apartment, Mr.
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.

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

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

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 you a drink?

I mean, I could have had a blackout.

The fourth letter. Read it to me.
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, ABC.

Perhaps our little band of helpers will
have something to do after all.

Where did Mr. Poirot keep his cup?

Top cupboard, over there.

Our bottom cupboard, over there.

Everything's arranged in order of
height.

By George, Poirot. This is a bit of a
stuma.

Doncaster on the 9th.

Is this a convention?

Good day, Chief Inspector.

May day.

We formed an association of our own to
deal with this.

A legion of interested parties.

Ah, yes.

But I rather fancy old ABC has done for
you again.

Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. Clark, 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.

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. Ledger
is being run at Doncaster.

Oh. Yes, I was wondering about that.

Do you cheat, Inspector?

Merci.

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

C 'est ingénieux.

He has planned this most cleverly.

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

Perhaps actually while the ledger is
being run.

Thank you.

Yes, well, of course, the St. Ledger is
a complication.

However, why don't I get back to the
yard?

Everything's under control.

We don't know anything about the
murderer, and that's the problem.

And 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 Clark was killed.

That's right, I didn't.

But Lady Clark tells us, Mademoiselle,
that on that day, from her window, she

saw you standing at the garden gate
speaking to a strange man.

Lady Clark made a mistake.

I never...

Oh, 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's quite a harmless sort of person.

I suppose that's why I forgot about him.

Stockings.

Stockings.

Stockings. Stockings of your stockings.

Stockings. That is the thing.

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,

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 daughter's ore.

Describe this man.

I can't. I don't... He had glasses, I
think.

And a shabby overcoat.

Mieux que ça, mademoiselle?

What did you do?

I don't know. I hardly looked at him. He
wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.

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. Cass, if you'd
finished your... You all right, Mr.

I just feel a bit out of sorts.

Oh, I'm sorry.

You won't be going away today, then? Oh,
yeah.

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.

Donka. He said his next murder's going
to 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.

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

Oh, Mr Cust, you do look bad.

Really, now. You oughtn't to go
travelling today.

It is necessary, Mrs Marbury.

When I undertake to do a thing...

I'd follow it through.

Oh, well.

If you say so, Miss.

How 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 locket 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 glue of the stockings is the
beginning.

Brought your private army along, I see,
Connor?

Chief Inspector Jupp, my dear friend.

We did not know that you were on this
train.

Well, you toffs don't know this much
what's going on down among the workers,

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, Anne.

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.

Good night.

Good night.

Look

here,

Mr Poirot.

When you went down to Cherston last
week, did my sister -in -law sort of...

I mean, did she hint at all?

Comment? Did Lady Clark hint at what?

Well, you see, Thora, Miss Grey, is a
rather good -looking girl.

Perhaps, yes.

Please, sit 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 all jealous, I suppose.

Anyway, after Carr's death, when there
was a question of Miss Grey staying on,

Charlotte cut up rough.

Cut up... rough.

Women really are devils, Mr Poirot.

Please, Mr Clark, remember that Lady
Clark is ill and in great pain.

I know.

Yes, 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.

I can assure you, Monsieur Clark, that
Poirot never permits himself to get

impressions from anything anyone says.

Good man.

Good man.

Good night, Mr. Barton. Good night,
Monsieur Clark.

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

If you should see anyone who fits the
description of the stocking salesman,

must report to the police, but
immediately.

Even if you see someone who looks
familiar, but you cannot quite place,

that is of significance.

You'll never attempt it now.

With the race course 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 four and one
-half minutes late.

William, it is time for you to take your
places. I wish you good luck.

What about you, Poirot?

No instincts.

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

We will meet at three o 'clock as
arranged.

Very well.

We're going to fall back.

We're going to fall back.

Thank you.

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

Look at the crowds.

Oh, yes, I know. It's damn difficult.
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...

Excuse me.

Excuse me.

Now then, sir.

Show's over.

Ah, he's ill.

Eh, we'd better, um... By heck, that
looks like blood.

Look what's under his feet.

It's an ABC.

is number 645.

I've washed already.

It's cold.

I cut my hand.

You all right?

Just

tell

us what happened, please, Mr. Downs.

There's a woman to see you, sir. Says
it's urgent.

When was this? About a quarter past
four.

Well, that's three hours ago.

Well, I didn't think of it at the time.
Not until I heard there'd been another

murder. But he said he'd cut his hand.

Could you please, madame, can you
describe this man?

Well, he's tall, and he stoops, and he
wears glasses.

And his clothes?

Um, a dark two -ton overcoat and an
ombre gout.

A bit shabby -looking.

Looks like blood, sir.

Get him out of the hospital.

Morrow, we found it.

We found the name to 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 out and let's have a look.

Silk stockings.

You were right, Poirot.

Something else is there right at the
back.

It's a knife.

Don't touch it.

Get the bed out.

It was funny, though.

The way he said goodbye.

As if he'd never see us again.

Told me he was going to Cheltenham.

Poor Mr. Cust.

I can't believe it.

Murder business.

Give me the creeps, it does.

You'll be watched. You'll be questioned.
You'll be followed.

You've been very careful.

You and me.

We can never know, little lunatic.

Nasty men, they say.

Why do you do this to me?

What I am to take to do a thing? I'm
getting through.

Wars and event.

Your fate.

It's a friend.

It's a friend. It's me. It's me, are
you?

Aren't you and me?

I'm celebrating.

I'm celebrating.

I die on the gallows.

I killed the dishes.

Now I'm done.

So that's that.

Committed for trial.

Chief Inspector, what is your opinion of
Mr. Cutler? 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 hear

that this case is solved.

There's Mr.

Strange waiting in your office, sir. He
says it's urgent.

Chief Inspector Jack.

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 o 'clock and 1 o
'clock strangling Mademoiselle Betty

Barnard. Listen, he did the Andover
murder, he did the Cherston murder, he

the Doncaster murder. He must have done
the Bexhill murder.

Why?

Why?

I don't know why.

Because he's balmy. That's why.

Excuse me.

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 Cast, who did? I don't know.

You always have been.

Even when you were a child?

No.

But my mother was ambitious.

She gave me these ridiculous names.

Alexander Bonaparte.

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...

that the firm who you say employed you
deny the fact.

Yes.

But I've got their letters to me, giving
me 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 do, I do.

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

The Bexhill one.

I was playing Domino's A .D. Spawn,
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

dominoes.

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
they told me.

What did they say?

Talking about your fate being written in
your hand.

They told me some amazing things.

Said I was going to be the most
celebrated man in England before I died.

But... 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.

I suffer quite badly from my head, you
know.

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

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 ready 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, Cathy, is in prison. There

will be no more killings.

Finished.

But you see, I know nothing, huh?

And there is also one small fact that is
vexing.

Monsieur Kast has an alibi for the night
of the crime that he is alleged to have

committed on this beach.

From the beginning, I had felt that
there was something wrong with those

that I received.

And there was.

I had assumed that they were written by
a madman, may not.

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

When do you know this leaf?

A pin.

Look at it, though, Billy.

When it is in a pin cushion.

When do you notice least an individual
murder?

When it is one of a series of related
murders.

Hold on a minute, hold on.

Cuff did the murders.

He was caught red -handed, more or less.

Blood on his coat, knife under his bed.

He even admits 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,

add, the brains.

The murderer must have flirted with
Mademoiselle Betty Barnard. Somehow he

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

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

with Monsieur Caste produced an idea.

His epileptic seizures, his headaches,
indeed the whole shrinking personality

Monsieur Caste made him for the murderer
an ideal tool.

Perhaps his very name of Alexander
Bonaparte Caste gave to the murderer the

of the murder's 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 murderer then set to work.

A list of potential clients in Landover
is sent to Monsieur Gust.

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

Monsieur Gust does as he is directed.

And later that day, Madame Asha, 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 Madame Barnard.

That night, Mademoiselle Betty Barnard
is strangled with her own belt on the

beach.

At Churston, Lady Clark observes

Mademoiselle Grey talking with Monsieur
Cust, and Sir Carmichael Clark, he also

dies.

Three crimes.

And Monsieur Caste 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?

Madame Asha had no money.

So, therefore, you, Mademoiselle Rauer,
had nothing to gain from the death of

your aunt.

Mlle. Betty Barnard?

Eh bien, she was not rich, and lived on
the no -doubt niggardly salary paid to

her by the Delaware 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, Mlle.
Gray, 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

next ABC 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 Chilton. What did you say, Mr.

Cust?

And this is where the understanding of
the personality of Mr. Cust by the

murderer pays dividends.

In spite of every inner void.

Telling Monsieur Cust not to go to
Doncaster. Nevertheless, he goes. Why

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 he's back, he's there.

There occurs the stabbing of the fourth
victim.

Excuse me.

By killing four people, our murderer
hoped to disguise the one murder with

real motive, that of your brother, Sir
Carmichael Clark.

But who is this murderer you keep
talking about?

You're not implying it's me.

I couldn't have killed that fellow in
the cinema. I was at the racecourse with

the rest of you.

Indeed you were, Mr. Clark.

And the murderers 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 Kast
received from his soi -disant employer,

instructed at which hotel to stay.

So there is no difficulty in picking him
up.

Our murderer follows Monsieur Kast to
the cinema.

And in the darkness, he cold -bloodedly
takes his opportunity.

And when the program comes to an end,
and Monsieur Carthy's leaving, he does

realize that the person he passes in the
aisle also flips into his pocket a

knife.

This is rot!

Whenever I hear it, it's out and out.
Rot!

No, Monsieur Clark.

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 Clark.

They were discovered on the typewriter
that was sent to Monsieur Cust.

A typewriter which, if you were
innocent, you could never have handled.

I'm out.

There he is!

Come on after him!

Woke it, son!

Well, that's that, I suppose.

I can't believe it.

I just can't believe it.

He was afraid, Mademoiselle Gray.

He was afraid that it were the cancer to
kill Lady Clark.

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 Clark ensures that when the

finally overcomes Lady Clark, 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

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
Mr. Clark that the third letter, it

should go astray.

The police were not to be told about the
one murder with a real motive until it

was safely over.

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

No.

Merely, he needed the private address.

It was the fingerprint on the typewriter
that really glitched 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.

Come, Hastings.

Morning, Poirot.

I brought someone to see you.

Monsieur Cast.

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 Cast.

Ah, merci.

If it hadn't been for you.

Thank you.

Do you know, a newspaper has offered me
a hundred pounds.

A hundred pounds for a brief account of
my life and experiences.

Do not accept, Monsieur Caste.

You must stand firm.

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

Do you think so?

Mais certainement. Do you not realize,
Monsieur Caste, that today you are the

most famous man in England?

You're right.

You're absolutely right.

Famous.

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
now.

Right, well, sit down, Mr. Cutt.

It was when I was up in Venezuela.

We were a few miles upstream of La
Urbana, which is actually one of the

places in the world. The humidity was
absolutely unbearable.

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