Original subtitles

Damn pests.

Aah!

Jack?

I'm here, darling, I'm here.

It's all right, Susan.

I just stumbled, that's all.

You shouldn't be out here.

You know what Dr. Bernard said.

So soon after the operation.

Yes, I know what Dr. Bernard said --

stay inside, get plenty of sleep.

Well, that may be good advice for a tortoise, Susan...

but not for --

Oh, damn this infernal ulcer.

Darling, you're still weak.

It'll mend itself.

It just takes time.

You've just got to learn to be patient.

What is it?

Susan?

It's up there again.

That face!

You heard it that time, Jack.

Don't tell me you didn't hear it.

That mad, horrible cackling.

She was up there --

up there like before!

Laughing!

Well, this is it. What was his name again?

Naughton -- Samuel James Naughton.

Welcome to my hotel.

This is the greatest day of my life.

Let me take your bags.

Thank you, M. Naughton.

We received your letter this morning,

and as you see, we came straight here.

I've got two of my best rooms

all ready and waiting for you, gentlemen.

Thank you, M. Naughton.

Now, in your letter you stated that

three farm workers have been poisoned,

the syringe of the doctor has gone missing,

and that it is only I, Hercule Poirot,

who can solve the mystery.

That's right, sir -- but there's plenty of time.

How about a nice pot of tea first?

Oh, that's very kind.

You don't do sandwiches at all, do you?

M. Naughton, in a matter of murder,

there is never the time to lose.

The facts of this case, if you please?

Right you are, sir -- it's all here.

The first 200 pages anyway.

"The Needle in the Haystack,

A new murder mystery by Clarissa Naughton."

I use a woman's name.

Seems to help them sell better.

It's a corker of a plot,

only I've got myself into a bit of a stew with the ending.

So I thought, I'll drop him a line.

Perhaps he'll come and sort it out for me.

So I said to my wife, you can but ask.

And blow me down, here you are.

I did mention it was a book in the letter.

Oh, Hastings.

Mon Dieu!

125 miles, Hastings, we come on a wild gooseberry hunt.

And now we have missed our last train

and we cannot leave until the morning.

Just... sacre!

Cheer up, Poirot.

Plenty of things to do to while away the --

I say! That looks like fun.

Come on, Poirot.

Genuine death masks of local murderers.

I say, this is interesting.

Apparently, they got them by taking actual wax impressions

of the killers' faces after their execution.

Pretty grisly stuff, eh?

Well, I find it most curious, Hastings --

this English passion for perusing a collection of

the glorified scarecrows.

So far, I have not seen one likeness that is truly accurate.

Hastings.

I'm sorry, sir,

we're just closing, I'll have to ask you to leave.

Are you coming, Hastings?

Locking up time, I'm afraid.

-Yes, but -- -This way, please, sir.

Sir?

Never quite as realistic in the flesh,

somehow, are they?

Any pain there?

No.

Well, I don't think there's any serious damage,

but for goodness sake, be more careful, Jonathan!

You know, these things can perforate.

And it's not just a question of diet.

Any stress or exertion is strictly taboo.

Instances of post-operative erosion can --

All right, thank you, Geoffrey, here endeth the lesson.

Now, why don't you join us for dinner?

Ah!

Will you be wanting a table in the restaurant at all?

We do stop serving at 9:00.

Thanks.

I'm actually here to see some friends.

I'll be dining with them tonight, up at Marsdon Manor.

Oh, yes, I know it, sir.

Well, have a good evening.

Ah, Mr. Poirot!

You worked it all out now, my whodunit?

No, M. Naughton,

I did not give another thought to your whodunit.

The brain of Hercule Poirot

is like a finely tuned engine of a motorcar.

It does not run on the cheap, low-grade fuel.

Not to worry.

Give you something to read in bed.

I'll just get your keys for you.

Oh, someone just back from Africa?

Kenya, actually.

Just a small present for someone.

If you'll excuse me.

Monsieur.

Ah, thank you.

I picked it up in one of the markets.

It was rather well done.

Something another artist would appreciate.

And it's actually supposed to be some sort of talisman.

You know, evil spirits of the departed,

all that hokum.

I'm sorry, have I said something?

Oh, Andrew -- I don't think you've met

Geoffrey Bernard, my medic.

And this is Captain Black,

an old family friend, just over from East Africa.

Oh, really? Where were you stationed?

In Kenya, near Lake Victoria.

Shall we go in, darling?

Doctor?

Oh, I have a cousin in Nairobi.

Ah, we are just about to have dinner, Miss Rawlinson.

Won't you join us?

Thank you, Mr. Maltravers.

The books are still in a bit of a mess, I'm afraid.

Well, perhaps you could join us later.

It's as though she's mocking me.

And then, just as suddenly, it stops.

As if I completely imagined it all.

So, let me get this clear.

What you're saying is, out there in the garden,

there's the ghost of a dead girl,

up in a tree.

Well, the story is that

50 or so years ago, a young, teenaged girl

killed herself here in these grounds.

She'd been jilted by a lover or some such thing.

Anyway, she climbed to the top of that massive cedar out there,

and threw herself off.

And over the years,

people in the village...

Well, you know how these superstitions take root.

In my experience of these cases,

a lot of it is auto-suggestive.

People believe

that they've witnessed some sort of paranormal --

Dr. Bernard, I know what I saw.

Uh, I'm just off to the bank now, then.

I'll see you later.

Danvers.

Chilly morning.

Morning, sir.

Finally, throughout the United Kingdom,

preparations are nearing completion

for the national civil defense exercise

called by His Majesty's government for this Wednesday.

The prime minister...

Ah, Poirot. Sleep well?

Like a top, Hastings.

I am turning and spinning all of the night.

And then, at 3:00 in the morning,

h� l�, the ultimate desperation.

Ah, M. Naughton.

This really is incroyable.

There is such a tangle of the confused threads,

I admit surrender.

Everyone has the alibi that is unbreakable.

Who could possibly have committed the murders?

I know, that's what stumped me.

I seem to have backed myself into a corner this time,

and I can't get out.

Not to worry.

Was the accommodation all right?

No, M. Naughton.

The accommodation was all wrong.

Oh.

The duck-feather pillows --

it feels as if the ducks are still in them.

Looks as if Captain Black didn't enjoy his stay much either.

Comment?

Booked in for a full week last night,

paid up in advance.

And now this morning, he's gone.

Perhaps he was frightened away

by ghosts.

Now, then, breakfast.

How about a nice kipper? They're fresh today.

My tisane, two slices of bread, toasted on one side only,

if you please.

Ghosts, did you say?

Well, yes, haunted house, Marsdon Manor,

where he went last night.

They say it's full of them.

You have seen them yourself?

Well, no, not personally I haven't, of course.

How do you know they are fresh?

Sorry?

The kippers.

Oh, yes, sir.

Oh, they're fresh, all right.

We get them delivered twice a week from Grimsby.

So, it is the place of the untold evil.

Crawling with the spirits of the living dead.

Grimsby?

Marsdon Manor.

M. Naughton, my breakfast if you please.

We both have the urgent train to catch.

Is Mr. Maltravers still outside?

I need to have a word with him.

I suppose he must be.

Is it 11:00 already?

He's usually come in for his pills by now.

Madame! It's Mr. Maltravers.

I think you'd better come, quick.

Come on, move along!

What is it now?

It's an emergency!

Shift yourself.

Allez, allez.

Don't you come that, matey.

You just move back.

Hold on.

Isn't that Hercule Poirot? Right on our doorstep.

Nothing's been touched, sir.

That's just how I found him.

Thank you.

The doctor warned us all it could happen.

That wretched ulcer could rupture,

cause internal bleeding.

He must have choked on the blood.

If only he'd listened, taken a little advice.

Fate can be so cruel at times.

M. Danvers...

you say that you discovered the body at 11:00.

Now, before this,

when was the last time that you saw him alive,

your employer?

About half past 9:00.

He just plonked himself on the old stone seat by the hedge.

He often went there for a little snooze after breakfast.

The stone seat.

His poor, young wife.

So heartbreaking.

They hadn't even been married two years.

Met at one of them society parties up in London.

Real whirlwind romance.

If ever two people were in love.

And the other lady?

Miss Rawlinson?

Oh, she goes back a lot longer.

She'd been his secretary, oh, must have been 20 years.

Well, "secretary" --

she practically ran his affairs for him.

He wasn't the most organized of gentlemen.

Terrible sight, though.

There's something about that look in his eyes.

Almost as if he'd seen a ghost.

Yes.

Come along, my dear, take one of these.

Eh bien, regardons, regardons.

Ah, voil�.

What've you found?

What I was looking for.

I don't see anything --

Oh, look at that.

Un moment, un moment. Qu'est-ce que c'est?

Ah, there are more.

Looking puzzled, Poirot?

Can't see your problem.

Poor chap had a stomach condition.

You heard what the ambulance man said, internal hemorrhage.

Plain as day, caused him to choke to death.

Mais certainement, Hastings,

that is the conclusion most obvious.

But perhaps it is too obvious.

You noticed, of course, the faint ridges in the grass.

Ridges?

And you cannot have failed to notice

the mud across the back of his shoes.

You put those two facts together, Hastings,

and you'll reach the conclusion that is most disturbing.

The body of the dead man

was dragged physically from the stone seat

to the foot of the tree.

Good lord.

I think it is time that we telephone

the Chief Inspector Japp at Scotland Yard.

We were in the south of France,

two months ago.

That's when it got really bad.

We had to cut short our holiday,

rush back so they could operate.

They said, so long as he rested, took things easy,

there was every chance he'd make a full recovery.

But you couldn't keep Jack indoors like that, all day long.

He'd suffocate, go mad.

My dear, do you think it's w--

It was her! I know it.

She killed him.

"She," Mme. Maltravers?

I think it would be best if you all left now.

She's still in a state of shock.

Up there, in the tree.

That awful, laughing woman.

That's what he saw.

That's what...

frightened him to death.

Life insurance policy, Poirot.

�50,000!

That is indeed a great amount of money, Chief Inspector.

Ask yourself, Poirot...

man insures his life for a hefty sum like this.

His health takes a sudden turn for the worse.

He becomes a burden on his poor young wife.

He might decide life's not worth living anymore.

He's more use to her dead than alive.

Suicide?

Hmm! Insurance fraud!

It's certainly worth considering.

Well, the boys from the insurance company

have been doing their homework,

and it seems that our Mr. Maltravers'

business affairs have been going through

rather a sticky patch of late.

As things stood when he died, he was on the verge of bankruptcy.

No, no, no, no, no, merci.

Now, that would give him a pretty powerful motive

to engineer his own death, pay off his debts,

and make sure Mrs. Maltravers

was left well provided for.

Tell me, Chief Inspector Japp,

how is M. Maltravers supposed to have taken his life,

when there are no signs of the violence,

no injuries of any kind on the outside,

and there is no poison

that can fill the mouth of a man with the blood?

Well, presumably, the postmortem will tell us

if it was the ulcer.

Yes, that'll take a couple of days yet.

We've got to get a pathologist over from Norwich.

Of course, we mustn't forget Captain Black.

Now, he left in a bit of a hurry.

I hope you've got your lads on the lookout for him,

Chief Inspector.

Yes, we circulated a full description

to all the major seaports.

Although, of course, it's not really the --

You seem to know a lot about all this, sir.

Crime and detection, Chief Inspector,

are a special hobby of mine,

as Mr. Poirot here will tell you.

Now, I've drawn up a little list of the principal suspects

which I think you'll find very useful.

Thank you.

M. Naughton, perhaps you would oblige us

with a little more of your most illustrious applesauce.

Certainly!

Thank you.

So, what do you reckon, then?

If it wasn't suicide, and it wasn't natural causes?

Surely, you don't believe all this hogwash

about ghosts and haunted trees.

I believe, mon ami, that there is at work here some great evil.

In what shape or form, we shall soon discover.

Sometimes, they walk in their sleep, no?

And like the misdeeds of the past,

they return to haunt us.

You think I'm mad... out of my mind.

What I said before --

No, no, no, Mme. Maltravers.

Like you, I also believe that there was,

in the garden, something...

that struck the terror into the heart of your poor husband.

It wasn't only the garden, Mr. Poirot.

There was something else.

A couple of weeks ago,

we were just getting ready to go to bed.

Jack was in the bathroom.

I'd just taken my sleeping pill.

I turned to the mirror to brush my hair, and...

It was her blood!

I know it was her blood.

Tell me, madame...

when your husband went for his walk in the garden,

you observed him from the window?

I saw him go out.

Then he disappeared from my view

round the other side of the house.

I was working on a watercolor at the south lawns.

And he used to go and sit in front of the old yew hedge.

On the west side of the house?

Mm.

And the secretary to your husband, Mlle. Rawlinson?

Uh, she went to the bank, at about 9:30,

and returned at 11:00.

I'd just finished my painting.

I think I was just washing the brushes through

when she came back in and asked to see Jack.

That's when Danvers came running across the lawn.

I'm sorry, Mr. Poirot.

-I'm sorry. -Madame?

National civil defense day.

Is it an emergency?

The doctor does have rather a lot of house calls

later this morning.

S'il vous pla�t, madame,

say to him it is Hercule Poirot.

I think that he will see me.

Doctor?

There's a gentleman outside

suffering from "erkul poirot."

He seems to think it's quite serious.

Oh! Yes, thank you, Margaret.

Show him through.

Thank you.

-Mr. Poirot. -Monsieur le docteur.

I would like to introduce you, if I may, to my associate,

Captain Hastings.

How do you do?

For the children. Help yourself.

Oh! Thank you.

Dr. Bernard, in your expert opinion,

how dangerous was it,

the stomach condition of M. Maltravers?

I'm afraid I'm not in the fortune-telling business,

Mr. Poirot.

Of course, we all knew there was a risk of complications.

There always is.

But he was a very hardy type, Jonathan.

Very strong constitution.

Shouldn't have had any problems. He really shouldn't.

Ah, what do I know?

45 years' medical experience,

sometimes doesn't amount to a jot in the end.

You'll rot your teeth, you know.

Do you also prescribe the drugs for Mme. Maltravers?

Oh, yes, from time to time.

Sleeping pills, that sort of thing.

She frequently --

That's odd.

Something is wrong, Dr. Bernard?

Chloroform.

Five fluid ounce bottle.

It's gone.

Hello, Mast--

Oh, Mr. Poirot.

No, I'm afraid she isn't.

She went into town,

to the civil defense meeting at the parish hall.

About an hour ago.

The civil defense meeting.

Come, Hastings.

The time may be of the essence!

Excuse me, madame, excuse me,

could you tell me please, where is the parish hall?

Merci.

Vite, mon ami!

Hastings.

Noxious gases.

In the event of a sudden emergency,

make sure the mask is secured by fastening the strap

of the back --

Ahem.

Um...

Excuse me, madame.

Mme. Maltravers, are you here?

Mme. Maltravers!

The gas mask, quick,

remove it at once!

Excuse me, excuse me. Clear the way, please!

Clear the way, please.

Excuse me, excuse me, please.

Excuse me, excuse me.

Some smelling salts or some brandy.

And fetch at once the doctor.

Captain Black!

Quick, Hastings!

He must not leave!

In a bit of a rush, aren't we, sir?

It's all right, madame. It is all right.

Sir?

Hastings, I think it would be wise

for you to travel back with Mme. Maltravers

until she is quite recovered from this ordeal.

Oh, yes, of course.

-Madame. -Thank you.

See you back at the hotel.

Oui.

Why did you try and run away back there, Captain Black?

I wasn't running away.

I was running downstairs to see if I could help.

I didn't fill this blasted thing with poison.

My God,

I wouldn't harm so much as a hair of her head.

I've done nothing wrong.

Well, in that case, perhaps you'd like to tell us

why you vanished like a ghost

on the morning Mr. Maltravers' death,

where you've been for the last 24 hours,

and how you came to turn up again here today

as an attempt was being made on his poor young widow's life?

Captain Black.

If you will not answer the questions

of the Chief Inspector Japp,

perhaps you will answer one of mine.

How long have you been in love with Mme. Maltravers?

This is preposterous!

Now, come, come, come, come, monsieur.

The truth, if you please.

How could I stay here?

How could I stay when every second was agony for me?

Seeing the two of them like that.

I thought I'd managed to get over it.

But when I saw her again, I knew it was no good.

I was just so ashamed of my feelings.

I caught the train back to Tilbury next morning,

planning to return to East Africa

and put it all behind me.

Then when I read of his death

in the newspaper, naturally, I had to come back.

Yes, of course... the newspaper!

Tell me, Captain Black.

The night you arrived in the hotel,

you had with you a parcel,

is that not so, wrapped in the newspaper?

Yes, it was an African carving,

a kind of talisman that I picked up while traveling in Kenya.

Yes, and you said,

as I now recall, it was a present for someone?

For Susan, and that's right.

I'm afraid it might have unnerved her rather.

She's slightly superstitious about that kind of thing.

Is this relevant, Poirot?

Relevant, Chief Inspector?

Yes, for we have now found the key

to the death of M. Jonathan Maltravers.

The colors really are delightful, I must say.

You really have a special talent, Mrs. Maltravers.

Thank you.

Look, are you sure you're all right now?

It's been such a ghastly ordeal.

Some rest and quiet, I think, is what she needs the most.

She's in safe hands, aren't you, my dear?

Captain Hastings!

I'd like you to have this, for all your help today.

I say, that's awfully kind of you. Are you sure?

I can't stand another night of it --

on my own in the house with her.

Miss Rawlinson? I don't understand.

There was something between them,

once upon a time.

Years before I met him.

Of course it was all over as far as Jack was concerned,

but I don't know.

With all this, I just don't know anymore.

All of a sudden, she scares me.

I see.

Come back and have dinner with us tonight, please?

You and Mr. Poirot.

I'd just feel safer.

So, what's happened?

Have they arrested Captain Black?

The fog, it begins to clear, Hastings.

But there are yet many questions that remain unanswered.

So, I come here for the early lunch.

The Salade Ni�oise will prove most nourishing

for the little gray cells.

So, what have you found out? Was Maltravers murdered or not?

Oh, yes, Hastings, he was murdered

most cruelly and in the cold blood.

What about Mrs. Maltravers?

I wonder who put the chloroform in her gas mask.

Ah, yes, the mask.

How is Mme. Maltravers now?

She is quite recovered from her ordeal?

Yes, sort of.

Actually, she's asked us both out there to dinner tonight.

To the manor.

She still seems to be worried about that secretary, Miss --

Hastings, is this not the picture

painted by Mme. Maltravers on the morning of the tragedy?

Yes.

My worst suspicions are now confirmed.

Regarde, Hastings -- it is all here.

This picture tells the whole story.

You do not see?

Sorry, Poirot.

Just looks like a painting of the garden to me.

The eggs.

Yes, the broken eggs.

It must have been there.

Ah, why did I not see before?

Mr. Poirot? Inspector Japp on the phone,

from the local police headquarters.

Sounds as if the plot's thickening.

Ah, Poirot.

Thought you might be interested to hear

the rather startling results of that postmortem.

According to this, what actually killed

Jonathan Maltravers was --

Now, how the devil did you know that?

We have not a moment to waste, Chief Inspector.

Tell me, do you still have stationed at the manor house

the constable outside in the garden?

Bon. Then listen to me carefully.

You must give to him the following instructions.

Incidentally, M. Naughton,

the killer is the explorer who is bed-ridden.

-Really? -Mais oui.

He fires into the fruitcake a poison dart

from his window upstairs.

Good lord, I think you may have solved it for me!

And you, my friend, can repay with a small service for me.

Susan, I...

I'm so sorry about...

I had to come back.

Do you understand?

It was very sweet of you, Captain.

Seems to be blowing up a bit of a gale out there.

Maybe, Hastings, the strong gales,

they are to be expected at this time of year.

Strong enough to waken the dead.

No, no, no, madame, seat yourself, please.

Please be seated.

It is nothing.

Voil�.

Oh, my God.

My God, what's happening?

It is the wind, madame.

Nothing more.

No.

No, those doors were locked.

I locked them both before dinner.

I distinctly remem--

Be still, Mme. Maltravers.

Jack?

Oh, my God.

No.

No, it can't be.

Madame, your hand,

it is bleeding.

No!

No, Mr. Poirot...

Jack's blood.

My husband's blood

is on my hands.

Because...

I killed him.

Lights, Hastings.

Lights, Chief Inspector.

You have heard enough, Chief Inspector Japp?

I am afraid it's all over, Mrs. Maltravers.

Entre.

You performed your part most splendidly...

M. Naughton.

I will be able to tell my grandchildren

I helped Mr. Hercule Poirot

solve one of his most baffling cases.

Merci, monsieur.

Right, come on, Baines,

let's get her out of here.

Susan.

You did this for me?

For you?

But I don't understand!

This mask?

A wax cast, mademoiselle,

taken from the face of the deceased.

A device most macabre, huh?

But I fear it was necessary for the success

of this little masquerade.

But, the blood?

A little red paint

that I pressed into her hand a few seconds before.

In fact, it was the same red paint

that she herself used

to produce the blood on the mirror in her bedroom.

She put --

Oh, yes.

Just as she invented the face in the cedar tree.

Of course, there was no face.

There was no laughter.

The wind paints the pictures in her leaves,

and the screechings of the rook plays the tricks upon the ears.

The seeds of fear, once they are sown,

begin to grow in the imagination.

But why?

Simplement...

to unsettle her husband,

to drive him to his grave.

Remember, mademoiselle, that his condition,

it is still weak after the operation, yes?

She knows that any sudden upset

or shock could be most disastrous to his health.

Alors, voil�.

The insurance, it is paid out

and she has got rid of the husband

she had married only for his money.

Unfortunately, Mr. Maltravers turned out to be rather stronger

than she had bargained for,

which was why she decided on

more drastic measures.

Ah, yes.

The little rook rifle.

Jack?

Mlle. Rawlinson, you are at the bank,

M. Danvers at work in another part of the garden

and so she took her chance.

The rook rifle,

with its tiny bullets, was the murder weapon.

Parfait.

The bullet, it is embedded in the brain,

and the effect, it is complete.

The internal hemorrhage, that is fatal.

For the moment, she conceals the weapon in the hedge,

and in so doing, she disturbs

the nest and the eggs of the black bird.

Her plan to remove it later

is foiled because there was keeping watch in the garden

a police constable.

The body, she then drags to the foot of the tree

to make us believe he had seen something up there,

which brought upon his attaque tragique.

Ah, yes,

with the arrival of Hercule Poirot,

she starts to panic

because she knows that I suspect the murder.

And so she stages the clumsy affair

with the chloroform in the gas mask,

to make us believe that

her own life was under threat.

All of this

to divert our suspicions of the most cruel,

the most brutal murder

of her poor husband.

Sweet-looking girl like that.

Who'd have thought she could come up with such a grisly idea?

Ah, but, Chief Inspector, the idea did not come from her.

It came from her admirer of the most ardent,

Captain Black.

You don't mean they were both in on the whole thing?

Oh, no, no, Hastings, the newspaper.

Someone just back from Africa?

That was wrapped around the present of Captain Black,

on the front page there was a story

about a farmer in East Africa

who had killed himself in exactly the same manner --

with a rook rifle in the mouth.

You did not observe the headline?

Ah, but Hercule Poirot, he sees everything,

and he forgets nothing.

And what about the picture?

The shadows, Hastings.

They were all cast from the right to the left.

-You do not see? -Sorry, Poirot.

Madame! I think you'd better come, quick!

Now, if she had truly painted that picture

in the morning before midday as she had claimed,

they would have all been cast from the left to the right.

Ah! So, she'd already painted that picture beforehand

to give herself an alibi.

C'est �a.

Well, I suppose we better be leaving,

catch our train.

Oh, no, no, no, no, Chief Inspector!

It is still early,

and the exhibits here are quite remarkable, n'est-ce pas?

To be immortalized in such a fashion unique.

Ah, quel honneur.

Now, I wonder what is around here?

Oh, very impressive.

Quite incredible.

It's a masterpiece.

True work of art.

That's his curly hair to a T.

Even got the little dimples on his cheeks.

Look, a real piece of craftsmanship, wouldn't you say?