All language subtitles for Poirot - S03E10 - The Affair at the Victory Ball

The Harlequinade.

Ancestor of
the English pantomime.

Six characters,

garish, grotesque,

first brought to life

three centuries ago
by the clowns and the actors

of the Italian fairgrounds.

Today, mere costumed characters
at a masked ball.

Where now their mystery,
their magic,

their comedy...

their tragedy?

Ready for the party, Uncle?

Well, where's your mask?

It's not midnight yet,
you know, Eustace.

Victory Ball?

You'd think the Hun would
remember 1918 as well as we do.

Ah, well, as Coward says,

"What a pity the Hun
prefers fighting to fun."

Oh, what's this?

Oh, Uncle Eustace,
not more for your collection?

Magnificent set, isn't it?

Just over from Holland.

And Mira's holding it for me
till the end of the month.

I can guess why
you're telling me.

Your poor uncle doesn't
get 6,000 a year

from the Cronshaw Estates,
as you do.

-Eustace, please --
-You know I'm cleaned out

after the figurines.

This is a night
for old triumphs,

not for new quarrels.

Cronshaw.

This is the National Programme.

The time is 7:00.

And now we present a play
by Desmond Havelock Ellis

entitled "Deadly Alibi,"

starring Coco Courtney
as Loretta Lampton.

The late Coco Courtney,
as usual.

Where the hell is she?

Cue them.

Are you expecting Miss Lampton
for dinner tonight, sir?

Yes. She should be arriving
in about half an hour.

I believe that clock
is gaining, sir.

I'm quite aware of that,
thank you.

Will there be any other guests?

No.

Very good, sir.

Good evening, Davis.

I'm afraid I'm a little early.

That's quite all right, miss.

Bloody actresses.

It was such
a fine night, I --

Hey, is that the time?

Approximately.

Of course.
I forgot -- it gains.

Rather fun, really.

You can be early and late
at the same time.

Oh, Letty.

I wasn't expecting you
till 8:00.

Sorry.
I never realized.

Thank you, Miss Lemon.

I think Captain Hastings was
listening to the weather report

to see whether
you'd need an umbrella.

Oh.

This urgent package
just arrived by messenger.

Can I go now?

Yes, of course.

Just one moment --
Miss Lemon!

Ah. I was wondering
where that had got to.

Apparently, we won't need
an umbrella.

Oh, you haven't forgotten,
have you?

The Victory Ball.

You promised
you'd try and make it.

Ackerley was really
looking forward to it.

-Ackerley is?
-He's with the BBC.

But he's quite a decent chap.
Drives an Alvis.

Well, unfortunately,

I have to rearrange
my stamps in order of size.

Please convey my apologies
to M. Ackerley.

He'll be very disappointed.

He said that meeting you

is the high spot
of his career.

Well, that seems reasonable.

It's not much to ask,
Cronshaw.

A thousand should do it.

Eustace, not now.

Later.

And there she is --

the belle of the ball.

Cronsh.

Cutting it a bit fine,
weren't you, Coco?

I like cutting it fine.
Hello, darling.

Coco, you remember my uncle,
the Honorable Eustace.

Dishonorable, I heard.

Oh, and this is Chris Davidson,

one of Coco's old
acting cronies.

Hello.

Come on, Davidson.

We'd better go
and rescue your wife.

She's out in the taxi

with a friend of Uncle's,
the infamous Mrs. Mallaby.

Well, about time.

I was beginning to suspect
Miss Courtney

was having a clandestine affair
with Henry Hall.

And his orchestra.

Good evening, Coco.

Getting chilly, isn't it?

All aboard
for the Victory Ball.

They seek him here,
they seek him there.

Those Frenchies seek him
everywhere.

What do you think, Poirot?

Hastings, you look... .

...incomparable.

I still don't think
they'll let you in.

I thought I made it clear

the Victory Ball
was a costume do.

Hercule Poirot
does not wear costumes.

Everybody does.

The whole idea is to go
as someone famous.

Precisely.

Oh. I see.

-James.
-Arthur.

May I present M. Hercule Poirot?

I'm so delighted
to meet you at last.

The Sheikh of Ackerley,
I presume.

Well, here we are, then.

We eat supper first,
don't we, Cronshaw?

-No, not till half past 9:00.
-Oh.

Couldn't they run to
a doorman in this place?

We're so backward in England,
Mrs. Mallaby.

We still have door handles.

Oh, well, pardon me for living.

Oh! Sloshed already.

Did I hurt you, my dear?

I half expected you
to shatter like a vase.

-Come along, Coco.
-It's all right.

Are you all right, darling?

I was so afraid I wasn't going
to make it here on time,

thanks to the antics
of Coco Courtney.

Oh, speaking of which,
isn't that her up there?

Oh, Lord Cronshaw's party, yes.

She's talked about nothing
but the costumes

all through rehearsals.

They're a reproduction
of the old Italian comedy.

The what?

Ah, yes,
the Commedia dell'Arte.

Harlequin, the magical sprite

who can become invisible,
and his lover, Columbine.

Punchinello and Pulcinella,
the grotesques.

And, ah, yes, the tragic Pierrot
and Pierrette.

Enchanting.

I thought Lord Cronshaw
was a younger man.

What? Punchinello?

Oh, no, no.

That's his uncle,
the Honorable Eustace Beltaine.

He was the one who bought
those rare Meissen figurines

there was
all that publicity about.

Apparently, they provided
the inspiration for the outfits.

That's Cronshaw
in the Harlequin suit.

Oh, yes.

I read in the paper
he's worth an absolute fortune.

And who is that
lighting the cigarette

of Mlle. Courtney?

The Pierrot?
Chris Davidson.

Quite a versatile actor.

And that's his wife talking
to Cronshaw, I assume.

The other lady is
the notorious Mrs. Mallaby.

Ah, yes.

The American widow in search
of a new victim, yes?

They say she stalks
the aristocracy with a net

and a group of beaters.

Oh, you're such a bore.

They make a jolly
crowd, though, don't they?

Yes, indeed.

And now I think it is time
for a little cr�me de banane.

Thank heavens that's over.

Coco and Cronshaw
are being simply appalling.

Ah, there's that shyster
Van Meer over there.

Eustace, forget it.

He held me
for ransom on the figurines,

and now he wants to do the same
again with that china.

That's the least of
our worries this evening.

I'm going to
corner the blighter

and demand that
he reduces the price.

Eustace!

I'm sorry.

When Eustace wants something
for his collection,

he does rather...

I want to put an end
to this right now!

For God's sake, shut up.

Coco, where do you
think you're going?

I told you, I've had enough.

Chris, get me a taxi,
would you?

I've got a splitting headache.

Coco.

It's all been decided, Cronsh.

Chris is taking me home.

The hell he is.

You're staying right here!

I am not prepared to have
an argument about it.

Look, why don't we all just sit
down for a moment and cool off?

Cool off?

He's already as cold as
an iceberg,

with me as the Titanic.

What the hell do you think
you're laughing at?

I'm sorry.

Coco, people are looking.

Come along.

Cronshaw, let's go back inside.

And yet I feel I took
the podium in Josephine.

M. Ackerley, do I understand
that you produced

a play on the radio this evening
following the weather forecast?

Yes.

Tell me -- is not Mlle. Courtney

slightly older than is usual
for the part of the ingenue?

A little, perhaps, but, then,
that's the joy of radio.

The visual appearance
is all in the mind.

It's amazing what we
get away with sometimes.

Good night.

What's all that about?

It would appear
that Mlle. Courtney

and her boyfriend,
Lord Cronshaw,

have had a disagreement
of some kind.

Just now I heard her ask
M. Davidson

to escort her home.

Well, that's a shame.

She'll miss all the fun.

Well, I wondered
how long it'd be

before something
like that happened.

You are not surprised?

I know actors, M. Poirot.

They never know when to stop.

Well, she has had her moment
of drama for this evening.

Let us hope
it will be sufficient.

He's arrogant, conceited.

What's all this about, Coco?

What exactly did Cronshaw
say to you earlier?

Chris, not now.

Has our taxi arrived yet?

-Your cab is waiting, sir.
-Careful.

Chris?

We need to
have this out here and now.

Look, you're not a poor man.

Surely you can do me
this one favor.

You know I'm desperate.

Thanks for everything, Chris.

I think I can handle it
from here.

It's time Cronsh realized

I'm not one of his
prize racehorses.

Coco, are you sure
you'll manage?

I'm sure.

I'd get back there
if I were you.

That wife of yours may look
like a startled poodle,

but she's no fool.

I'll never make it back
before midnight.

Well, then, you'd better
go home and wait for her.

Good night, Coco.

Sleep tight.

I always do.

Have a nice evening,
Miss Courtney?

-Oh!
-So sorry.

Oh, thank you.

M. Ackerley, I thank you.

You are very kind.

My pleasure.

Sant�.

Cheers.

Are you sure I can't persuade
you to recount some of

your juicier cases
on the radio?

Alas, no.

You see, murder --
a real murder --

is not an entertainment.

Look at this place --
people dance, they laugh.

But anywhere, there may be
evil beneath the mask.

Pardon me.

I saw you across the room.

Aren't you Hercule Poirot,
the detective?

I am indeed, Madame Mallaby.

Ah!

That's amazing.
You worked out my name.

I suppose you don't also know
where Lord Cronshaw is.

He's a Harlequin.

He's been in a tizzy
ever since supper.

Alas, no.

Oh.

He promised me a turn
on the floor before 12:00.

Then, madame, you must not
be disappointed.

My associate, Captain Hastings,
is a dancer consummate.

He would be pleased
to accompany you.

My pleasure.

Ah, look, there he is.

Yoo-hoo!
Viscount Cronshaw!

Would you excuse me
for a moment?

Of course.

Been stood up, Arthur?

No title, I'm afraid.

My lords,

ladies and gentlemen,
the time for

the unmasking and the victory
celebrations is at hand.

Twelve seconds to midnight.

Ten, nine,

eight, seven,

six, five, four,

three, two, one.

Thank you.

Darling, what is it?

What's happened?

Lord Cronshaw's dead.

Inspector Japp,
any comment to make?

Is it true Hercule Poirot
missed the killer?

Tell us the truth, Inspector.

Here's a fine
dish of tea, Poirot.

Peer of the Realm
murdered in cold blood

under the noses of 400 revelers.

We'll need the Albert Hall

to gather the suspects
on this one.

Perhaps.

It is one of
the table knives.

Plenty back here.

We'll check for prints,
but I'll lay odds it's clean.

An instrument not
very practical,

but in the right hands...

Ah, we also found this
on the floor.

The Mallaby woman saw him
make some sort of note

just before he died.

Lowestoft.

Town on the east coast.

Perhaps he was
planning a holiday.

I say, Poirot, look at this.

Attention, mon ami.

Monogrammed.

"C" for Cronshaw.

Very nice.

Idiot!

What is it?

Such foolishness!

Young people must realize that
life is not to be gambled with

like the roulette wheel.

It is nothing less than poison.

Cocaine.

Would that account for his
strange behavior after supper?

It's not unusual for addicts
to become moody and troublesome.

He certainly seems to have
put up a fight.

Why do you say that, Hastings?

Hadn't you noticed?

His fist.

It's still clenched.

C'est �a.

Well, I can't see
how that helps us.

Can you not, Chief Inspector?

Then let me enlighten you
further.

Unless I am very mistaken,

there is something very
important behind this curtain.

Voil�.

Well, it's just an empty recess.

My point exactly.

One more thing, Chief Inspector.

If I were you, I should find
Mlle. Coco Courtney.

-Why?
-Ask her if

she and Lord Cronshaw
had an argument.

"Murderer eludes
famous detective."

Idiot.

It's a very good photo
of Captain Hastings.

Indeed it is, Miss Lemon.

I'm sure no one
will think less of you.

Seen the paper, Poirot?
Jolly good photo of me --

Oh, you've seen it.

I'll go and sort the letters.

I wouldn't take it to heart
if I were you.

No, indeed, Hastings.

For the present,
it suits my purposes.

Ah.

This is what interests me.

The obituary?

Listen to this.

"The Viscount Cronshaw was
chairman of many charities,

including the Widows
of British Seamen

and the League Against
Drug Addiction."

"He is succeeded
in his title and estates

by his uncle,
the Honorable Eustace Beltaine."

The League Against
Drug Addiction.

That's a bit hypocritical,
isn't it?

You miss my point,
I think, Hastings.

Mr. Poirot.
Chief Inspector Japp.

Oh.

Hello?

Ah, Poirot.

We're drawing a blank
at this end, I'm afraid.

Miss Courtney doesn't
answer her phone,

and there's no reply
at her door, either.

I implore you
to be persistent,

Chief Inspector Japp.

I am now even more convinced
that Mlle. Courtney

must be located
with all possible speed.

Right.

Mlle. Courtney
is proving elusive.

Probably sleeping the night off.

All of these theatrical types

lie in late if they
haven't a performance.

But she does have
a performance.

They usually perform
the Friday evening play again

on Saturday morning.

My mother listens to it
during her morning coffee.

I do love him
in a way, I suppose,

but it was never quite how I
imagined it was going to be.

I suppose it never is.

But I'm staring at
the clock -- why?

Come, Hastings.

We will make a trip
to Broadcasting House.

Letty, what do you mean?

I mean...

"Hercules Poy-rot."

I'm afraid the variety auditions
are on Tuesdays.

That is fortunate.

I am here on a matter
of murder, madame.

You're the detective
from the newspapers.

Correct.

Don't suppose you want to
miss a second one.

You were never where
you said you were that night,

but here all the time.

I was such an idiot.

I never guessed it was
the money you wanted.

Is that what you thought?

Luckily we took
a recorded transcription

of last night's performance
for the archives.

We would have had to ask one of
the girls to double up parts.

Did Mlle. Courtney send to you
a message this morning

to explain her absence?

Not a sausage.

Three minutes to transmission,

she still wasn't
answering her phone,

so I had no choice
but to use the transcription

and dismiss the other actors.

Hastings, I'm very much afraid
of what has happened.

Would you please telephone
the Chief Inspector Japp?

Instruct him that he must
enter the apartment

of Mlle. Courtney
by any means necessary.

-Well, of course, but what --
-Hastings, please.

This is a matter
of life and death.

Very clever, Letty,
but I suppose you realize

that I can't let you
spill the beans.

Is there anything
I can do to help?

Phillip, you can't!

Fourth floor, lads.

Right, the apartment above.

Get down on the balcony.

Fast!

And don't break your necks!

Nothing yet?

You and Mlle. Courtney
are old friends, huh?

After a fashion.

She likes having people
she knows around her

playing minor roles.

Coco and I go back a long way.

She was playing the lead in Rep
when I landed my first part.

So you see a great deal
of each other.

Look here, Poirot.

I'm a married man, remember?

I'm sorry, M. Davidson.

Forgive me, but...
I was just trying to ascertain

whether you could shed any light
on the argument last evening

between Mlle. Courtney
and the Lord Cronshaw.

Not really.

There was a bad atmosphere
all evening.

It was as if something
was brewing.

We all noticed it.

But they conversed normally
at supper?

Hardly a word.

No one had much of a chance
to say anything

with Beltaine going on
about some china

he wanted to add
to his collection.

Of course, it all flared up

after the meal,

and then I ended up
taking her home.

And when you were
alone together

in the taxi?

Just a lot of nonsense about
how she'd make Cronshaw pay.

The usual hysterics.

And then I dropped her off
at her flat.

At what time was this?

Nearly midnight.

There was no time
to go back to the ball,

so I just headed home.

Ah.

All right, lower away.

Okay, okay.

Sir.

He made me
feel young again,

like a newborn calf.

When I saw him,

it was as if the whole world
was fresh.

We'll come down right away.

Even the sky seemed bluer.

Get up there.
Come on.

Let's see her face.

All right, stop that, you lot.

-Courtney!
-Come on.

Try and get another picture.

Come on, move out of the way.

Could you stop for a minute?

Still looking, Poirot?

Poirot,
can you make a statement?

No photographs.
No, no, no.

Chief Inspector.

We found her in the bedroom.

Overdose of cocaine.

Presumably supplied by her
boyfriend, Lord Cronshaw.

How many more must die

before this folly
is seen for what it is?

Toxicity finally
got too much for her.

Cronshaw must have been

supplying it to her
for some time.

Do you not understand,
Chief Inspector?

Lord Cronshaw
was determined to stop

Mlle. Courtney
from taking cocaine.

The initial, "C,"
on the silver case --

it stood for her name, Coco.

Of course.

The quarrel after supper
was when Cronshaw discovered

what he'd suspected
all evening --

that she had a supply with her.

He took it from her,
and that's when she went home.

So, to spite him,

she took another dose
as soon as she got back.

Messy.

What I don't see is where

Cronshaw's murder fits in
with all this.

Because the devil himself
dances among us,

but we do not see him.

Eh?

I wonder...

Chief Inspector,

will you permit me a further
examination of the body?

Well, I don't know
what you expect to find.

The facts on Miss Courtney
are indisputable.

I am not talking about the body
of Mlle. Courtney.

I am talking about the body
of Lord Cronshaw.

That newspaper headline sent him
dippy, if you ask me.

What's he going to find
that we didn't spot last night?

You checked all his pockets?

Pockets, clothing, the lot.

I don't see --

Indeed you do not see,
Chief Inspector.

All right, Poirot,
what's the trick?

Look at his hand.

What do you observe?

Clenched fist.

Hastings.

I agree.

But the fist --
why is it clenched?

Could it be
that it hides a secret?

Voici.

Swat me,
he was holding something.

The pompom.

Mr. Poirot!

Ah, Mme. Mallaby.

Captain Hastings.

We meet again.
I wonder, could you --

-Of course.
-Oh!

I couldn't decide
on my autumn look.

Anyway, Eustace can afford it.

He's Viscount Cronshaw now.

26 pence.

Oh.

To what do we owe
this delegation?

Well, M. Poirot
has taken it into his head

to see these famous figurines.

-Oh.
-A foolish whim.

Is His Highness
at home, Summers?

His... Lordship is in
the morning room, madam.

Thank you.

This way, gang.

Summers, be a dear

and take the boxes, will you?

Hi, Eustace.

Ooh, I see you're already
enjoying your inheritance.

It's beautiful.

May as well salvage
some consolation

out of this awful business.

-Hmm.
-Ah.

Poirot, Hastings.

Welcome.

Good afternoon, Viscount.

I say, what a quaint
little tea set.

Hastings, this tea set
is not only "quaint,"

as you call it, but priceless

and very rare, n'est-ce pas?

Had no idea you were
interested in china, Poirot.

Mr. Poirot wants
to see the figurines.

The Meissens?

Mais oui.

We have all heard
so much about them

and of your success in
bringing them to this country.

I wonder if I could please
make an examination.

Feel free.

Thank you.

Ah.

May I?

I can't imagine
what he's looking for.

Tricks of the trade, you know.

The costumes last night

at the ball -- they were
exact replicas of these?

To the last detail.

Oh.

And this was your apparel,
was it not?

Punchinello,

with the elaborate ruff
and the hump.

Yes.

I imagine it took
some time to change

in and out of this costume.

I had to hold him up
while he unfastened it.

As I thought.

Viscount, where were you

after supper last night
during the ball?

Trying to beat down
the dealer chap over this lot.

Finally managed to corner him.

In the supper room?

That's right.

Again, I thank you.

Well, cheerio.

Ah, there you are, Poirot.

I've been looking for you.

Chief Inspector Japp.

I've been doing some thinking,

and to my mind,
that missing pompom

could only have come
from one person.

I concur absolutely,
Chief Inspector.

Excuse me.

Mrs. Davidson?

Yes.

May we come in?

Oh, thank you.

I'm sorry my husband isn't here.

He went out for a drink.

A bit early for that
sort of thing, isn't it?

He's the sociable type, is he?

Yes.

Unlike me.

Acting isn't exactly
a good, steady job, you know.

You're not in
the profession yourself?

No.

I thought I might like to once,
but I just couldn't,

not in front of everyone
like that.

Why, indeed there are many types
of people in this world, madame.

We must each be true
to ourselves.

Perhaps.

What exactly did you want?

M. Poirot here has some notion

of staging a reconstruction
of the evening.

Oui, that is so.

Oh?

Oh, it is just merely a question
of detail to be checked.

The precise nature
of the costumes

that were made for you
for last night's ball.

You understand?

I think so.

We'd like to
have a look at them

for a moment, if we may.
Do you still have them?

I'm afraid not.

My husband sent them
to be cleaned.

Yes, of course.

Quel dommage.

Well, I'm very sorry to have
disturbed you, Mme. Davidson.

We will just finish our tea.

Thank you, Hastings.

You were right, Mme. Davidson,

not to consider
a career in acting.

Your eyes betrayed
what your tongue denied.

Chief Inspector?

There's a pompom missing
from the Pierrette costume.

Is there?

Perhaps you'd like to tell us

how it came to turn up in
the hand of the murdered man.

Oh, yes, I forgot.

It got pulled off after supper,

and I didn't know
what to do with it.

I looked for Mr. Beltaine,
but he was in the supper room

having some kind of argument,

so I gave it to Lord Cronshaw
to look after.

Sorry, I didn't think
it was important.

Does that answer your question?

You must understand,
Mme. Davidson,

that to conceal information
may not only protect the guilty,

but also punish the innocent.

You do understand, do you not?

I understand.

I'm sorry.

Sunday Standard!

Her story seemed
completely plausible.

Except in one respect.

-What's that?
-It is a foolish lie.

The threads of the pompom
that we discovered

in the hand of
Lord Cronshaw --

they were torn, whereas those

on the costume
of Mme. Davidson were cut.

You mean she cut it off herself?

No, no, Hastings.

She did not even notice
that the pompom was missing

until we pointed it out.

That is why she made up
that story that was ridiculous.

Hers was cut by the murderer.

Why?

To replace the one
that Lord Cronshaw

had torn from the costume
of his killer.

Well, if it wasn't her,
and her husband

wasn't even there when
Cronshaw was murdered --

Have either of you
considered the possibility

of a duplicate costume?

Another Pierrot?

Well, what about that note
he left -- Lowestoft?

Ah, yes, the note.

May I suggest that you inquire

from the dealer
about the dinner service

that has just been purchased
by Lord Beltaine?

I think you will discover that
it is rare Lowestoft china.

You mean --

And now it is necessary
to restore

the reputation
of Hercule Poirot.

This is
the National Programme.

In a change to our
published schedule,

we now present
a special broadcast.

Good evening, everybody.

This is Hercule Poirot.

I have been asked many times to
recount my cases for the radio,

but I have always refused.

However, tonight, I have
decided to present for you

a reconstruction of the affair
at the Victory Ball,

and that is why I have with me
tonight in the studio

the principal members
of the party

whose lives were altered
by that most tragic event.

I thank you all
very, very much, indeed,

for accepting my invitation.

And now, I take you back
to the Colossus Ballroom

on the night
of the Victory Ball.

The lights, they dim.

The music, it plays.

And the shadows
of the principal characters

return to gather before us.

Listen.

You can almost hear them.

Harlequin am I,

in diamond panes
of colored hue.

And I his Columbine.

Together, we have

special care
for lovers true.

Punchinello also
here appears.

Bombast and buffoon
to no avail.

Seeking heart

of Pulcinella,
ever shall he fail.

Heroes' tragic fate
is saddest.

See his painted tear.

Sighing for
his own Pierrette,

star-crossed lovers.

So completes

our masqueraders
gathered once more here.

And so our little evocation
is complete.

Our ensemble is before us.

And this, ladies and gentlemen,

I have been told
is the wonder of radio,

because what we see
is in the eye of our mind.

What is in the eye
of your mind,

Mme. Mallaby?

Why, the six characters
we heard,

of course.

Viscount?

Oh, just the same.

The six characters as portrayed

by my figurines, but --

You agree, Mme. Davidson?

Of course we agree,
Mr. Poirot.

Bon.

But now let us see
the reality before us.

Messieurs, mesdames,

the players.

Oh.

I present to you
Pierrette, Pierrot,

Pulcinella, Punchinello,
and Columbine.

There's one missing.

That's right.

Where's Harlequin?

Have you forgotten, Viscount,

that Harlequin
can become invisible?

Let us now reveal the truth.

Are you ready to tell us
the truth,

Mme. Davidson,

or shall I?

Very well.

It was all very simple.

The motive behind the murders

of both Lord Cronshaw
and Coco Courtney

was the evil drug cocaine.

You're staying right here!

I'm not prepared to have
an argument about it.

During the Victory Ball,

I witnessed
an argument between

Lord Cronshaw and Mlle. Coco.

They were known to be lovers,

but Cronshaw had discovered
Coco's secret addiction.

What the hell do you think
you're laughing at?

: The young Lord Cronshaw
was a man of high principle.

He seized his lover's cocaine
and threatened to

expose the supplier
who was destroying her life

along with many others.

But Coco was now
hopelessly addicted.

By the time she reached home,

she had obtained a new,
fatally strong dose of cocaine

from her supplier,
who now knew

the one chance to avoid prison

was murder.

But what of our Harlequin?

When I examined the body
of Lord Cronshaw,

I failed to discover
the pompom.

Why?

Because the fist was clenched
tight with the rigor mortis.

Lord Cronshaw
was not killed at 12:00.

He was killed earlier
in the evening

and the body hidden in
the recess until later.

Voil�.

But that can't be.

I saw him myself
a few moments before midnight.

No, no, no, Mme. Mallaby.

The Harlequin that you saw,
that very same Harlequin,

is here with us in this room.

The killer had
a duplicate costume,

and after the murder,
assumed the role of Harlequin,

even scribbling a false clue
pointing to M. Beltaine

and his obsession
with the Lowestoft china.

Ridiculous, huh?

Since the elaborate costume
of M. Beltaine

cannot be changed
without assistance.

No.

The murder took place
soon after supper,

when the killer contrived

a moment alone
with Lord Cronshaw.

It is Cronshaw
who knows the truth

about the dealing in cocaine.

To avoid being exposed
and to preserve

the evil trade in drugs,

the murderer stabs
Lord Cronshaw to death.

At the time,

the killer is unaware that
the last act of Lord Cronshaw

is to pull the pompom
from the costume.

Then the body is hidden
in the alcove

and the plan,
it can be completed.

-Yoo-hoo!
-At last,

having alerted Mme. Mallaby
just before midnight,

the final task
was to drag the body

from its hiding place

so it would appear

that the murder had only
just been committed.

Twelve seconds to midnight!

Ten, nine,

eight, seven, six,

five, four,

three, two, one!

The murderer
then slips quietly away.

Knowing that
when the discovery

of the body occurs,
it is believed

that he is safely at home.

No, it couldn't
have been Chris.

But it was, Mme. Davidson.

It was your husband who had

a moment alone
with Lord Cronshaw!

It was your husband
who gave to Coco

when they were alone together
in the taxi more cocaine!

And, in spite of what
he told us,

it was your husband

who had ample time
to return to the ball

to complete his masquerade
as Harlequin.

And still you protect him,

even though you later discovered

that he was implicating you,
his own wife, in the crime

by replacing the pompom
that was torn from his costume

with the one
he cut from your own.

Don't listen to him, darling.

Congratulations, Mr. Poirot,

on a most entertaining piece
of detective fiction.

Mais oui.

I'm afraid that is so.

Half a mo.
What do you mean?

Well, because unless
Mme. Davidson

is willing to testify
that her husband deals in drugs,

I'm afraid that everything
that I have told you so far

remains only theory.

Then I take it
that the show is over.

Oui.

Unless...

Harlequin has one last trick.

Mme. Mallaby.

With which hand did you see
Harlequin writing?

Oh, my God.

Cronshaw was right-handed.

Christopher Ian Davidson,

I arrest you for the murders
of Viscount Cronshaw

and Miss Coco Courtney.

If he had not gone too far
and tried to confuse

by writing a clue
that pointed to Beltaine,

he would be walking
away with us now,

but as you say,
M. Ackerley, actors --

they never know when to stop.

However, I thank you
very much indeed

for your cooperation.

I'm honored that you
took up my invitation.

I'm sure it was a most
enlightening experience

for our listeners.

-Thank you.
-Mr. Ackerley?

They've been trying to find you.

The switchboard's been flooded
with callers

complaining about
the dreadful accent,

lowering the standard
of spoken English,

all that sort of thing.

Oh.

Sir John Reith is waiting
to see you in his office.

So sorry.

Don't take it too hard, Poirot.

Indeed not.

I am not at all surprised.

-You're not?
-No.

Chief Inspector, you really
ought to look to your elocution.

Swat me, there's nothing
wrong with my lingo.

You see, that is exactly
the kind of expression,

like "half a mo,"

that brings the language
into disrepute.

Come, Hastings.

I shall lend to
the Chief Inspector

my personal copy

of "The English
As She Should Be Spoken."

Taxi!