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Captain Hastings, I presume.
Daisy Luttrell.
Delighted.
How do you do?
Poor Monsieur Poirot
has been so looking forward to your
coming.
He's quite beside himself.
How is he? He'll be much the better
for seeing you.
Ah, Toby! Captain Hastings.
How do you do?
Came by the 3.
40, eh?
We bought this place in a fit of
madness.
Guest house keepers at our age!
Still, needs must these days
.
.
and at least one of us
has a good business head.
Don't I, Toby?
Chop, chop!
Take the captain up to his room.
Unless, of course, you'd prefer
to see Monsieur Poirot first.
Yes, I would.
Drawing room, Toby.
Then see to the cases.
Ah, Norton.
Pair of n-nesting b-blackcaps
down by the sycamore.
This is
Blasted builders! Bill, this is
Captain Hastings.
Hastings, yes.
Sir William Boyd Carrington.
Excuse the tantrum.
Having my old place tarted up.
Knatton Hall, y'know?
Lazy blighters need a good kick up
the backside.
So you're the famous Hastings?
The little Belgian chappie
never stops talking about you.
And we've got your daughter up here
as well.
Yes.
Fine girl.
Pity Franklin has her
slicing up rats and rabbits all day.
Excuse me while I give 'em another
earful.
Tadminster 7211.
Poirot? There's someone to see you.
Hastings.
Hastings, my dear, dear, Hastings.
Poirot, old chap.
Oh, mon ami, mon ami!
But I forget myself.
This is the
talented Mademoiselle Cole.
Captain Hastings.
You have worn well, mon ami.
With the
straight back and the grey of the hair.
But the woundthat is still fresh,
huh?
No man could have wished for better.
Still, she died as she would have
wanted.
No long, drawn-out suffering.
Bon.
And how are you?
Me? I am a wreck.
No, a ruin.
I cannot walk.
I am crippled and twisted.
I have to be attended to like a baby.
But the core, Hastings, that is still
sound.
You have the best heart in the
world, Poirot.
The heart, no, but the brain -
as magnificent as ever.
Hastings, do stop, do!
It is not a wheelbarrow.
Sorry, old chap.
So is it good to be back after all
these years?
The food, it is disgusting.
Rationing, I suppose.
No, it is the English cooking.
And the water, always so tepid,
and the towels so thin they're of no
use at all.
Then why did you come?
Because when I see the advertisement
in the newspaper
and discover your daughter, she will
be here I conceive of a plan.
I will persuade my old friend Hastings to join
us and we shall all be together en famille.
It is most agreeable, n'est-ce pas?
You're up to something, aren't you?
Oui.
I knew it!
Otherwise why come back
to the scene of our first ***?
Because, mon ami, I fear
.
.
it will soon be the scene of
another.
Are you sure about this? You think I
have the softening of the brain?
No.
No, but it seems so unlikely -
another *** all these years
later, under the same roof.
Tres bien, that is how it is.
Can't you stop it?
How do you propose that I do that?
You could warn the victim.
I do not know who is the victim.
You must know who the killer is.
Non.
Then how on earth
do you know it's going to happen?
I cannot say.
Why not?
Because
you are still the same old Hastings.
You have the speaking countenance and I
do not wish you to stare at all the guests
with your mouth wide open
and give, as you say, the game away.
I say, Poirot, that's a bit strong.
I do play poker, you know.
Yes, and always lose.
But this is not a game, mon ami,
make no mistake.
There is here work to be done
and that is why I ask you here.
Now, the thinking you will leave to
me,
but I need you, my most invaluable
Hastings,
to be my eyes and my ears,
to go to places where I cannot go
.
.
to sniff out the snatched conversation, the
shared confidence, and report back to me.
For I tell you
there is here amongst us a murderer,
and that person must be stopped.
Here is Curtis, mon valet.
Your valet! Where's George?
It was necessary for him to go to
Eastbourne to care for his ailing father.
Well I got here.
Very clever of you.
You remember my father?
Hello.
I hear you work my daughter very
hard, Dr Franklin.
Nonsense.
I'm afraid I get so
awfully wrapped up in a thing.
How did you find Uncle Hercule?
Not well.
Not well at all.
I promised I'd read to Barbara.
I'd
better
As if she couldn't read herself.
How is Mrs Franklin?
The same and rather more so.
She just likes making a fuss.
That's rather harsh.
It's true.
She takes no interest in John's
work, goes on and on about her health.
Ah, there you are.
Thought Frankenstein
had dragged you off to his lab again.
This is my father.
Allerton.
Hastings.
Heard a lot about you.
Poirot's loyal lieutenant, eh?
I'm so glad you're here.
Uncle Hercule always manages
to bring you out of yourself.
He gets so sad.
Ah, well, you must
allow him that, mon cher.
What's the use of dwelling on the
past?
We must all look forward.
You know, you've been rather ***
all evening.
I don't know what you mean.
Staring at everyone.
You're so transparent.
Maybe it's being back here
with its memories and ghosts.
There was a ***, wasn't there?
Oui.
The lady of the house, she was
poisoned.
She controlled, as you say, the purse
strings,
but her stepchildren felt
they had no life of their own.
That's so selfish.
Old people, sick people, shouldn't be
allowed to ruin the lives of others.
Judith!
Oh, I didn't mean
Selfishness is not the monopoly of
the old, I can assure you, mon cher.
It's just that I was thinking of this case of a
man who treated his daughters appallingly.
But when the eldest steeled herself
to cut the knot, so to speak,
in order that her sisters might go
free, she gave herself up and was hanged.
Margaret Litchfield.
Yes.
How did you know?
Oh It is a case most famous.
Well, I think she was very brave.
And Dr Franklin, what does he think?
He thinks it served the old man
right.
Some people just ask to be murdered.
*** is never justified, Judith.
But when a situation is so extreme
Who has been putting into your head
these ideas?
Nobody.
Pernicious nonsense!
Actually, I came over to
give you a message from Mrs Franklin.
She's invited you to her room.
Excuse me.
I've never understood that girl.
Oh, she is her own woman,
and a good one too, Hastings.
But she's become so cold-hearted.
I put it down to the company she
keeps - that wretched Dr Franklin.
And Allerton.
I don't like that man.
What you call the nasty bit of
goods, eh?
But most attractive to the ladies.
Isn't that always the way?
I'm delighted you're here, Captain
Hastings.
Dear Monsieur Poirot must be so
pleased.
Sharp as a knife, old Poirot,
even though he is falling to bits.
And it will be so nice for Judith.
The child has been working far too hard.
She looks very well on it.
Oh, how I envy her.
Ill health has been the bane of my
life.
Pillows, Craven.
Yes, my husband's a real slave
driver.
Aren't you, John?
Mm? What's that, Barbara?
She was just saying how
you work poor Judith into the ground.
Judith, yes.
There was something we had to
Do excuse me.
Oh, I feel so inadequate.
I know I ought to take more interest.
You shouldn't worry yourself, Babs.
But I find it all so nasty, the
guinea pigs and the rats and everything.
It makes me feel quite sick.
I just want to think about lovely,
happy things.
Babs and I are old playmates,
even though she's 15 years younger.
Darling Bill.
Then when I came back from Burma
to find her a beautiful young lady.
My family used to live in this part
of the world
and Bill would come to stay with his
uncle at Knatton Hall.
A mausoleum of a place.
Needs a woman's hand.
I don't mind telling you
I completely lost my heart,
but she went and married Franklin.
The fellow doesn't understand her.
He's only interested in his test
tubes, damned fool!
Fancy a rubber?
Hearts, you stupid man!
Oh, there's nothing for it,
we'll have to start again.
I don't know what's got into me.
I'm all at sixes and sevens.
We haven't cut yet!
Oh, I'm sorry, dear.
I'm so sorry.
Well, that was pretty g-ghastly.
Shh.
It gets my back up to see him
b-bullied like that.
Keep it down.
But it's too b-bad, it really is.
And what's worse, he just t-takes it.
Couldn't assert himself if he tried.
Oughtn't we to shut that?
Ah, I d-don't think everybody's in
yet.
Who's still out? Your d-daughter, I
think, and Allerton.
Still about, old chap?
I couldn't sleep.
I was going to get some pills from
Poirot.
Oh.
I'll fix you up.
No need to wake him.
Oh.
Do you normally stay up this late?
I never go to bed when there's sport
abroad.
These moonlit evenings
aren't made to be wasted.
This is the real stuff.
It'll make you sleep like a log.
Slumberyl.
Is it dangerous?
It is if you take too much of it.
It's one of the barbiturates.
Don't you need a prescription? Damned
right, but I've got a pull in that line.
An old friend of mine
gave me a few useful introductions.
Dead now, sadly.
Chap called Etherington.
Leonard Etherington?
That's the one.
That wife of his.
Who'd have thought
she'd have it in her?
Arsenic, wasn't it?
Yes.
Knew him too, did you?
No, I read about it.
I see.
Funny chap, but good company
in small doses.
Sleep well.
This is the Calabar bean.
Physostigma venenosum.
I've been experimenting with various
alkaloids derived from it.
Poirot, this stuff's really more up
your street than mine.
How is that, mon ami?
Well, you see, it's also called the ordeal
bean, supposed to prove innocence or guilt.
Don't you like rats, Father?
I certainly don't like Allerton.
So that's it.
And I suspect you don't either.
Why shouldn't I like him?
He's not your type.
And what is my type?
You have no idea, have you?
Well, as it happens, I find him most
amusing.
Amusing, yes.
And very attractive.
Any woman would.
That's the trouble.
Really, Father!
You were out with him very late last
night.
What has that to do with you?
This is most interesting.
I would find it a great help if I could
test so easily the guilt or innocence.
Then you have to ask,
what is guilt or innocence?
Pretty obvious, I'd say.
One would
always feel guilt when it comes to ***.
You think so? There are lots of
people I'd like to kill
without my conscience
being too much troubled.
I do so hate making a fuss.
I sometimes thinkif one isn't
healthy, one should be quietly put away.
God, no, madame.
Look at me, all cramped and twisted,
not able to move,
yet I do not think of quitting.
I enjoy still what I can.
But you have only yourself to
consider.
In my case, there's poor John.
I feel such a millstone round his
neck.
But I'm sure he's never said such a
thing.
These scientist chaps can
get quite obsessive about their work.
Absolutely.
Sometimes, Monsieur
Poirot,
I think I can hear the poor little
creatures screaming in the night.
Perfectly horrid.
Stephen and I are as one on this.
I can get so terribly depressed that I think
what a relief it would be to end it all.
Oh, come, madame.
But what use am I to anybody?
Oh, to step into the Great Unknown -
and then John would be free.
I'll fetch your malted milk.
I will come with you.
Hastings!
Madame, monsieur.
All right, old chap?
Yes, I need to rest.
I gather you were here in the first
war.
Yes, in 1916.
I came here to
convalesce.
That's when I met Poirot.
Didn't an old lady get murdered?
Oui.
I was once in a house
where there was a ***.
She was an old lady too -
one of my patients.
It was not by any chance
the case of Miss Sharples, was it?
Yes, it was, actually.
Her niece Freda Clay
was accused of her poisoning
but there was evidence insufficient
to prosecute.
How did you know?
Oh, it is my job to know, Nurse Craven.
He doesn't miss a trick.
Blasted pigeons.
They do a lot of damage, you know.
Toby's always been a fine shot.
Oh .
.
I used to be.
I often used to think of evenings
like this out in India,
but nothing's ever quite as you
picture it.
I don't know why, but I've got quite
a thirst on.
Oh.
Have a drink on the house!
What d'you say?
Splendid idea!
Have you done the tropics, Norton?
No.
No, er
W-W My hands were t-tied with
Mother.
You all right, old chap?
Can't s-s-st-stand b-blood.
You get used to it.
Nothing like bagging a few birds
and blasting the odd bunny, eh, Hastings?
Darn good fun.
What on earth are you doing, Toby?
I just thought I'd give the fellows
a snifter.
You'll do no such thing!
Give that bottle to me!
Daisy
How do you think we'll ever make this place
pay if you keep standing people drinks?
They're old friends, Daisy.
Locked up! That's the way of it.
I won't have it.
You won't? Who are you, I'd like to know?
I'm I'm awfully sorry, you chaps.
We
We seem to have run out of whisky.
Do you know, I'm not that thirsty, anyway.
We'll soon be having dinner.
Oh, dinner, yes.
Don't worry, Toby, old chap.
We'll
live.
Right.
Stretch the old pins before
mess call.
Splendid chap, isn't he?
Yes.
Whatever he turns his hand to,
always makes a success of it.
Some chaps have all the luck.
All he needs now is a wife.
So long as she doesn't b-bully him.
He won't get bullied.
He wouldn't let himself.
There's a damned rabbit!
Is there?
Nibbling at the bark.
I thought I'd wired the place.
My God!
Get Franklin!
It's all right, Mrs Luttrell.
It's all right.
That's it.
It's fine.
Franklin's seeing Daisy.
She's going
to be fine.
Do you think he did it on purpose?
Well, I did until I saw them
together.
Now I'm not so sure.
Ah
Poor old Luttrell.
I mean Daisy's a good sort, I
suppose, but a chap can only take so much.
After the bridge, Norton actually
said as much.
I'm sure Luttrell heard every word.
The killer is here! I know it!
How do you know?
I know!
Whether Luttrell shot his wife by accident or whether
he meant toit is impossible to prove.
Oh, you'll prove it all right.
You always do.
If only life were that simple.
Poirot always gets his man.
Perhaps this time he does not wish
to.
You've lost me there, old chap.
Unless, of course
.
.
someone was hiding in the bushes,
and when the colonel fired, they fired too.
Who might be this mystery killer in
the bushes?
I wouldn't put it past
that drug-addled Lothario Allerton.
Drug-addled?
A chum of Leonard Etherington.
That addict who was poisoned by his
wife.
How do you know this?
He told me.
And you did not think to tell it to
me?
Well
The trouble with you, Hastings,
is that you are lazy - mentally.
I know I'm not much of a fellow
but you don't have to rub it in.
You do not like to work with this.
We could get someone else on board.
Boyd Carrington.
Certainly not.
He's a good deal cleverer than me.
That would not be difficult.
But Boyd Carrington
Is a pompous bore,
whose memory is so bad
that he tells back to you
the story that you have told to him!
Now, I forbid you
to speak of this matter to anyone.
Do you understand?
Yes.
It is up to you to follow people
where I cannot go,
to talk to them, to listen to them,
to spy on them, watch through keyholes.
I will not look through keyholes.
Oh, very well, very well,
you will not look through keyholes.
You will remain the English gentleman
and someone will be killed.
Oh, dash it all, Poirot.
You can be quite obstinate at times.
Do you know that, Hastings?
I also wish there was someone else
I could trust
.
.
but I suppose I will have to put up
with you.
And since you cannot use your little
grey cells because you do not possess them,
at any rate use your eyes,
your ears, your nose, if need be.
But only, of course, as far as
the dictates of honour will allow.
Now go away.
I'm very tired.
At it again, are youat your deadly
exercise?
I knew you would be.
For my sins, I knew you would.
But while I have breath in my body, I
will
I will damn you to hell
.
.
whatever the cost.
He doesn't look too happy.
He isn't.
He was offered the chance to go to
Africa,
to continue his research,
but his wife protested.
He probably felt he couldn't leave
her.
Do you know much about her, Captain?
Only that she's an invalid.
She certainly enjoys ill health.
So you don't think there's very much
the matter?
She always seems to be able
to do anything she wants.
You know the Franklins well, do you?
Erno.
What I've told you I learnt from
your daughter.
She's up in arms on his behalf.
What do you think of Mr Norton?
Why do you ask?
You seem to get on well.
We have a good deal in common,
and he's awfully kind, if a
littleineffectual.
No, he's a gentle soul.
He lived with his mother for many
years - she was very bossy -
and I don't think he had
a very good time at school either.
He's very perceptive, you know.
Quiet people often are.
Yes.
That's the depressing thing
about places like this.
It's full of failures.
I suppose it's having endured
another war.
We've all had the stuffing knocked
out of us.
Did you see much action, Captain Hastings?
Oh, not allowed to this time round.
Gammy leg.
And, let's face it, I'm
pushing it a bit.
But your life's just beginning.
Anything might happen.
If you mean marriage, I could never
think of it.
Not with my history.
What do you mean?
You have no idea who I am, have you?
I know your name.
It isn't Cole.
It's Litchfield.
Matthew Litchfield.
Yes.
He was my father.
A wicked man, Captain Hastings.
He was our jailer until my sister
Margaret
Yes, I know.
It was in all the
papers.
But you don't.
It's inconceivable she'd *** him.
I know she gave herself up, but
.
.
I've always felt it wasn't true.
It wasn't Margaret.
It can't have been.
Good morning, gentlemen.
Good morning, Mrs Franklin.
You sound very happy today, madame.
I am.
I am, Monsieur Poirot.
I'm going on a little outing with
Sir William to Knatton Hall to
advise him on his cretonnes.
Silly me left my handbag in the studio
yesterday when I was talking to John.
Head like a sieve.
Where is Dr Franklin?
He and Judith have driven into
Tadminster for some chemical or other.
I'm so glad I don't have a
scientific mind.
On a day like this, it all seems so
puerile.
Do not let the scientists hear you
say that, madame.
Oh.
Oh, you mustn't think
I don't admire my husband, monsieur.
The way he lives for his work
is really tremendous,
but it makes me nervous
the lengths to which he might go.
What exactly do you mean, madame?
Well, this horrible Calabar bean
thing.
I'm so afraid he's going to start
experimenting on himself.
You see, he can only learn so much
from animals.
He'd take every precaution, surely.
Oh, you don't know John.
Absolutely oblivious of his own safety.
He really is a sort of saint.
You ready, Babs? Oh.
Mustn't keep
the baronet waiting.
Dr Franklin, the modern saint.
She's a feather for every wind.
You think she is a fool, do you not,
Hastings?
Well, she's not the most brilliant intellect.
First her handbag, now her gloves.
I don't know how that girl puts up
with it.
It was so close! Wasn't it?
Ican't help noticing, Captain,
that you're looking a little uneasy.
Am I? And I have to say, well, I'd
feel the same way.
Things change all the time, don't
they?
Girls are more independent now.
I suppose
the w-war had a lot to do with that.
What are you trying to say, Norton?
Well
.
.
don't let it go further, but
.
.
when it comes to young women,
Allerton has rather a special
t-technique in that line.
I happen to know something pretty
f-foul about him, actually.
And what would that be?
Not long ago, I heard of a girl just
like Judith -
modern, independent -
falling prey to the major's charms.
Once he'd got her in his clutches,
just when she was at her most v-vulnerable,
he abandoned her, leaving her
d-desperate.
So d-devastated was she
.
.
she took her own life.
An overdose of Veronal.
Poor old woman.
Devilish pain.
Overdose of morphia finished her off and
her niece, Freda, said it was a slip-up.
The police had other ideas but didn't
have enough evidence to prosecute.
You knew her, did you, Freda Clay?
Yes.
It is just that I have heard this
story before.
So have I, from someone
who was there, actually.
Ah, have you?
It was in all the papers.
Get a bit ermfuddled
in the old brain-box sometimes.
Oh, Bill, can't you think of
anything jollier to talk about?
I'm sure Monsieur Poirot
is fed up to the back teeth
with people killing and dying
and who did what and why.
She certainly keeps us on our toes,
eh, Franklin?
Just the ticket.
They do say, don't they, that men
tend to marry their mothers?
I'm not quite sure about that.
Better ask Norton.
He's the expert.
A full complement!
What a treat! Isn't it, Toby?
Yes, my sweet.
Our little dinners are not the same
without you, Monsieur Poirot.
No.
I don't like the thought of your
eating alone.
I myself do not like to miss
anything, mon cher.
Never a m-moment's rest in your line
of work.
No, no, Monsieur Norton, there is
always still so much more to do
.
.
but the clock it ticks.
Non?
Such is the will of God.
We'll all miss you, old chap,
but you won't be forgotten.
Mm.
Damn good claret.
But my point is
Now, Bill.
You can see where Freda was coming
from, putting somebody out of their misery.
Don't you think it should only be
done with the patient's consent?
It can't be left to the patient.
It's the duty of someone who loves
them to take responsibility.
And end up being charged with ***? If
you love someone, you'd take that risk.
Would you? Yes, I would.
Well, I certainly wouldn't,
and neither would Toby, would you, dear?
Sip of water.
That'll shift it.
You can't have people
taking the law into their own hands.
I quite agree.
What about you, Franklin?
What?
Euthanasia.
You must have an opinion.
You're a doctor.
Mm Sorry.
My mind was elsewhere.
Most people wouldn't have the
n-nerve.
I don't believe you would if it came
to it.
Don't you?
Unless, of course, you had an axe to
grind.
You don't understand, do you?
Of course I couldn't if the motive
was personal.
Even if it weren't, I'm not sure you would
actually p-pull the trigger, so to speak.
Can't we talk about something else?
I agree.
It's all far too grim.
I don't hold life as sacred as you
people do.
Unfit lives, useless lives -
they should be got out of the way.
Judith! They should.
There's so much
mess about.
She might have a point.
It's really a question of c-courage.
Does one have the g-guts, to put it
vulgarly?
And you see, Miss Hastings,
but I don't believe you have.
Oh, Judith's got guts all right.
A lot more than you think, Mr
Norton.
Excuse me.
Judith!
I do understand, you know.
Your mother was so much better at
this than I am, but I do understand.
I'm not so sure that you do.
He isn't worth it.
Believe me, he isn't.
I know you care about him, but it's
no good.
Perhaps I know that as well as you.
It has no future.
He'll break your heart
and I can't bear to see that happen.
He's worth everything in the world
to me.
Please.
I don't want you ever to speak of
him again, because if you do, I will
hate you even more.
Do you understand that?
Well, I never!
A s-speckled woodpecker.
Such a lovely bird!
Oh.
What is it?
Flown away.
Let me see.
I-I think I might have made a mistake.
It's gone, Captain Hastings.
What's wrong?
The bird's gone.
Hello, you chaps!
Hello, Sir William.
We've had a perfectly marvellous
morning.
I haven't been able to do a good
shop for simply ages.
Oh, Bill, could you take that up?
It's very fragile.
Erm
I can bring the rest.
Thanks awfully.
Anything the matter, Stephen?
No.
You look as if you've seen a ghost.
No.
No, no ghosts.
Justthinking.
Monsieur Poirot.
What is it? Is anything the matter?
The matter, monsieur?
What should be the matter?
Do you know, I'm suddenly terribly
tired?
If you could bring those up
Thank you so much.
Ah, Babs! Uh
Well, I must say, Nurse is very good
at the old palm-reading.
Take these, Craven, and fix me an
egg-flip.
I'm exhausted.
Can I do anything, Babs?
Yes, Bill, you can go away.
I'm dead on my feet.
Has it all been too much for you?
I don't want to mention it.
I do so hate being tiresome.
Ah.
I reckon we're in for a storm
tonight, eh, Hastings?
Yes, probably right.
Excuse me.
Care to take a stroll
around the garden?
Not now, Norton.
But, Captain
Allerton.
You can't.
Let go of me!
There's nothing you can do.
The expert parent, eh?
- This won't get you anywhere.
- That's settled, then.
Go up to town tomorrow and I'll say
I'm off to Ipswich for a night or two.
Wire from London that you can't make
it back
and we'll have a charming little
dinner at my flat.
You won't regret it, I promise.
Please, Hastings.
What you need is a l-large scotch.
The prodigal returns.
I'm awfully sorry, old boy.
I've got a blinder of a headache.
Must be the thunder in the air.
No, no, no.
It is because you sit around in the
draughts.
Is it?
Most assuredly.
The draughts will be the death of us
all.
But I have just the thing.
The hot chocolate.
It nourishes the nerves.
You
comprehend?
Drink, drink.
Do you not already feel much
improved?
Drink it all, cher ami, every last
drop.
My God, Poirot, what was I thinking
of?
What indeed!
Why did you not tell it to me last
night?
I was afraid you'd stop me.
Most assuredly I would.
Do you think I wish to see you hanged
all on account of a scoundrel
so unpleasant called Allerton?
Oh, I'd wiped my fingerprints off
the bottle.
Yes and also those of Allerton.
And then when he is found dead,
they establish that he died of an overdose,
and whether by accident or by design,
he would have had no reason
to wipe off his own fingerprints.
And then
.
.
they find the aspirin.
Well, everyone has aspirin.
Not mixed with their sleeping pills.
And not everyone has a daughter whom
Allerton is pursuing with the
intentions so dishonourable.
You see, it would not have
looked too good for you, Hastings.
And then of course it is possible
that someone may have seen you.
I can
assure you they didn't.
Someone might have been
peeping through the keyhole.
People do not spend their time
peeping through keyholes.
It's simply not done.
Anyway, it didn't come off.
Thank heavens for that.
But there's still the problem
of my Judith and Allerton.
She's gone to London with him today
- to his flat!
Straight into the lion's den.
Hastings, you are not clever enough
to deal with those two.
I would advise you to trust her.
Oh, Judith.
The poison worksand must be
stopped.
God help us.
God help me.
Are the Luttrells joining us?
They're setting up the cards.
Miss Hastings, you look s-splendid
this evening.
Like your namesake might have
appeared before c-cutting off
the head of Holofernes.
That's a bit grim, old boy.
Oh, no, she did it for strictly
moral reasons, toto save others.
"Jealousy is a green-eyed monster,"
this person said.
Shakespeare.
Oh, now, was that Othello or Emilia?
Iago.
Look! A shooting star!
Where?
And another one!
Oh, you must come and see, Uncle
Hercule.
No, no, no, merci.
I insist.
You're supposed to make a wish,
Captain.
Babs, come on over, why don't you?
Oh, I'm too tired.
Nonsense.
It's too good to miss.
Bill! Put me down!
Look at that!
What are you doing?
I was just seeing if there was a
copy of uh
Mother told me how you once carried her
out onto a balcony to look at the stars.
Ah, here we are.
Life's quite hard at times, isn't
it?
Othello.
Nowwhere is it?
"O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is a green-ey'd monster"
Splendid.
You were right, Poirot.
It was Iago.
But of course.
Did I miss anything?
I do not know, Hastings.
Did you?
Oh, you did, Captain Hastings.
I've never seen so many shooting stars.
Where's Craven?
Not sure.
I need my drops.
Where are they?
In the bathroom cabinet.
Oh, thank you, dear.
Think I'll take a stroll.
You seem pleased with yourself,
Doctor.
I am.
Oh, there you are.
Open my drops, would you?
It is established
that Barbara Franklin died
as a result of poisoning
by physostigmine sulphate
and other alkaloids of the Calabar
bean.
Monsieur Poirot, could you tell the
court
how Mrs Franklin seemed to you
in the hours before her death?
On the day before her death,
I had a conversation with Madame Franklin.
She appeared very depressed
.
.
and several times expressed the
desire to be
How do you say?
Out of it all.
Her health and fits of melancholy
made her life seem not to be worth living.
On the morning of October the 10th,
you were sitting outside the laboratory?
Oui.
Did you see Mrs Franklin
come out of the laboratory?
Yes, I did.
And did she have anything in her
hand, Monsieur Poirot?
She had a small bottle clasped in her
right hand.
You are quite sure of that?
Yes, quite sure.
Did you not see it also?
The question is, did you?
You think I would lie?
That would be perjury.
No, I was not on oath.
So it was a lie?
You yourself heard her speak of
suicide.
But she was a woman of many moods.
You didn't clarify that.
Perhaps I did not wish to.
You mean you wanted the verdict to
be suicide?
You think she was murdered, don't
you?
She was.
But this verdict stops all
further enquiry.
What are you playing at, Poirot?
This is not a game, mon ami, I assure you.
No, no.
I must say, old man,
you really should see a doctor.
Doctors, doctors!
You are looking pretty ropey.
They've done all they can for me.
I do wish you would.
Very well, very well.
I will see Dr Franklin.
Franklin?
Hastings, just do as I tell you - for
once.
How is he?
He's for it, I'm afraid.
Does he know?
Oh, yes.
I gather he's worried
about getting something finished.
That's right.
Then I hope he does.
Isn't there any treatment?
Nothing doing.
Just his ampoules of amyl nitrite
when he feels angina coming on.
A remarkable man.
He has a great respect for human
life, hasn't he?
Yes, absolutely.
Unlike me.
Since death comes anyway, what's it
matter?
Oh, well, ten days and I'm off.
Where to?
Africa.
The job's still open.
Isn't that rather soon?
What's to stop me?
It's no good pretending that
Barbara's death wasn't the greatest relief.
It doesn't worry you
that she's just committed suicide?
But I don't really believe she did.
Then what do you think happened?
I don't know
.
.
and I don't want to know.
Understand?
Norton, what's the matter?
Well
.
.
when a thing's right or wrong, it should be
awfully simple to say so, shouldn't it?
Do you see what I mean?
No.
What I'm t-trying to say is
say, for example, you happened to open a letter
that wasn't yours - by mistake, of course -
oror s-saw something -
through a k-keyhole, say?
A keyhole?
Yes.
Why on earth would you be
looking through a keyhole?
The key might have got stuck.
Stop beating about the bush.
Did you see something through a keyhole?
No.
But you did see something
through those glasses of yours?
That day we went out rambling with
Miss Cole,
there was something
you didn't want me to see, wasn't there?
Yes.
Wellno.
What was it?
Idon't know if I ought to say.
I didn't m-mean to see it.
There really was a s-speckled
woodpecker -
lovely fellow -
then I saw the other thing.
Is it to do with Mrs Franklin's
death?
Oh, damn it all.
I don't know what to do.
He saw something that he will not
tell to you? That's right.
Has he told this to anyone else?
I don't think so.
Ask him to come up and see me after
dinner.
Just a friendly little visit.
And be careful, Hastings.
Be very careful.
I'm moving back to my old pile
tomorrow.
I don't mind telling you,
I'll be glad to be shot of this place.
It gives me the creeps.
Poor Babs, for instance.
If she killed herself, then I'm a
monkey's uncle.
You know what I think?
I think it was that husband of hers.
You don't mean that.
And I'm not the only one.
Had the tip from someone who ought
to know.
Talk of the devil.
I thought she'd left after the funeral.
She's back for the night,
between engagements.
Monsieur Poirot?
Poirot?
Entrez.
How are you, old chap?
Not dead yet.
Did you have a good chat with
Norton? Oui.
And he told you what he saw? Oui.
Wellwhat was it?
You might misunderstand.
Of course, I won't.
He tells to me that he saw two
people.
Judith and Allerton! I knew it!
You see? No, not Judith and Allerton!
You have lard for a brain.
That's a bit harsh.
Drink.
No, thanks.
For me!
Oh, sorry.
Now, if anything should happen
Nothing will happen to you, Poirot.
You will find in here all the clues
you need
.
.
with this.
What kind of clues?
Indications that will lead you to
the truth.
Why do you have to make things so
difficult?
I'm completely in the dark as it is!
Rest assured, mon ami,
when you see the light
you may wish you had not.
And now I need to think.
But, Poirot
Go down to breakfast, mon ami.
The case, it is ended.
Is it?
Only loose ends to be tied.
You're late up this morning.
I didn't get much sleep.
Have you seen Norton?
He wasn't at breakfast.
Ohh!
He locked the door.
I heard him.
He shot himself?
Well, that's what they're saying.
The door was locked, the key was in
his pocket, the gun was in his hand.
I suppose he must have done.
It is like a conjuring trick,
n'est-ce pas?
Oh
Hastings,
sometimes you are like a little
child, so innocent, so trusting
Poirot, you're looking pretty awful.
Don't you think I should call a
doctor?
What good would that do?
What will be will be.
I have always tried to do my best,
you know.
You do believe that, Hastings?
How could I not?
Do you think God will forgive me?
Of course he'll forgive you.
You're a good man -
the best a fellow could know.
My heart bleeds for you,
my poor, lonely Hastings.
Poirot
Go now, cher ami.
Let me rest.
It was not suicide.
It was ***.
Cher ami
Forgive me.
Forgive
Captain Hastings?
It was bound to happen.
That doesn't make it any easier.
No.
No, of course, it doesn't.
Natural causes.
I wonder.
You're not suggesting foul play, I
hope?
It doesn't seem very likely, does
it?
Father, he had a heart attack.
All the same
Anything could have triggered it -
or perhaps nothing.
Perhaps his time had come.
And it surely wasn't suicide,
like poor Mr Norton.
Bad investments, so they say.
The coroner did think it strange
that he would shoot himself
in the centre of his forehead.
What a suspicious soul you are!
All those years with Poirot, I
expect.
He was my dearest friend, you know.
He was always there, keeping an eye
on me, ticking me off
.
.
like a father, really.
I'm not quite sure how I'll cope
without him.
Father, I have something to tell
you.
Oh, dear.
I don't like the sound of
that.
I haven't told you before,
what with one thing and another,
but the fact is, I'm going to
Africa.
Africa?
Yes, with Dr Franklin.
You can't do that.
What will people say?
I don't care what people say.
The fact is, I'm going.
It's one thing to be his assistant
here with his wife alive,
but going to Africa with him now
she's dead.
I'm not going as his assistant.
I'm going as his wife.
Butwhat about Allerton?
There was never anything in that.
I'd have told you
if you hadn't made me so angry.
But I saw him kiss you.
These things happen.
You can't marry Franklin.
Not yet.
It's so soon.
I can and I will.
But, Judith
We've nothing to wait for now!
When you see the light,
you may wish you had not.
I believe Monsieur Poirot
left you some sort of message.
Message, sir?
Yes, for me.
No, sir, not that I'm aware of.
Are you quite sure?
Yes, sir, I'd remember that.
Well
My mistake, I suppose.
How is your father?
My father?
He's very well, thank you, sir.
Oh, he's better, then?
Better than what, sir?
That's why you had to leave Monsieur
Poirot, wasn't it, to look after him?
I didn't want to leave, sir.
Monsieur Poirot sent me away.
Why would he do that?
I can only suggest that he discharged me
because he wanted to engage Curtis.
But why?
I really couldn't say, sir.
Not the brightest specimen,
although he was strong, of course.
But I'd hardly have thought he was quite
the class Monsieur Poirot would have liked.
He'd been an assistant in a mental
home.
A mental home?
It wouldn't surprise me
if he'd started off there as a patient.
I have instructed my
lawyers
.
.
to deliver this manuscript to
you
.
.
four months after my death
.
.
by which time you will no doubt have
evolved the most preposterous theories.
But really, mon ami, you should by now have
been able to work out who killed Norton.
As to who killed Barbara Franklin,
that may come as more of a shock.
When you asked if I knew who
was the killer, I did not quite tell
to you the truth.
I knew, but had to make sure.
You see, I had never met this person before
and had never seen this person in action.
It did not take me long.
At last, at the end of my career,
I had come across the perfect criminal -
well, nearly perfect.
Pair of n-nesting b-blackcaps
down by the sycamore.
No-one gets the better of Hercule
Poirot.
Not even Stephen Norton.
Well, I'll be
Oh, yes, Norton was our man.
He had been a sickly boy
with a domineering mother,
he had had a hard time at school,
and disliked blood and violence -
a trait most un-English.
But he had a sympathetic character
and soon discovered how easy it was
to make use of it.
By understanding people, he could penetrate
their innermost thoughts
He's very perceptive, you know.
Quiet people often are.
.
.
and then make them do things
they did not want to -
compensation for a lifetime of
derision.
This sense of power gradually
developed into a morbid taste for
violence at second-hand,
which soon turned into an obsession.
Our gentle Norton was in fact a
*** addicted to pain and mental torture.
Remember the remarks he made
that first evening you played bridge?
It gets my back up to see him
b-bullied like that.
Keep it down.
Norton meant him to hear.
Couldn't assert himself if he tried.
Sometimes successful, sometimes not,
it was a drug he constantly craved.
No motive, no evidence, no proof.
Simply evil for the sake of it.
A criminal who could never be
convicted of his crimes.
You will have realised by now that
Franklin was in love with Judith and
she with him.
But with Madame Franklin alive,
life was very difficult for Judith,
and Norton knew exactly how the wind
lay.
He played most cleverly
on the theme of useless lives.
I don't hold life as sacred as you
people do.
Unfit lives, useless lives -
they should be got out of the way.
And gently ridiculed the idea that
she would ever have the nerve to take
decisive action.
Does one have the g-guts, to put it
vulgarly?
And you see, Miss Hastings,
I don't believe you have.
But with a *** addict, one iron in
the fire, it is not enough.
He sees opportunities for pleasure
everywhere, and found one in you, mon ami.
He discovered every weak spot
to exacerbate your profound dislike
of Major Allerton.
When it comes to young women,
Allerton has rather a special
t-technique in that line.
Then you saw Allerton and Judith
kiss.
You can't.
Norton hauled you away so that you
did not see what followed.
You went to the glass house and thought
you heard Allerton talking to Judith.
Wire from London that you can't make
it back
and then we'll have
a charming little dinner at my flat.
Yet you did not see her
or even hear her speak.
Norton made sure of that,
for if you had, you would have
discovered
that there had never been any question
of Judith going to London that day.
It was Nurse Craven
with whom he was having the affair.
But you fell headlong into the trap
of Norton
and made up your mind to ***.
I heard you come up that evening
and was already exercised
about your state of mind.
So when I heard you in the
corridor
and go into the bathroom of Allerton,
I slipped out of my room.
Slipped out of your room?
But
"How?" I hear you say.
You see, Hastings, I was not helpless
at all.
What? Why do you think I sent George
away?
Because I could not have fooled him
into believing
that I had suddenly lost the use of
my limbs.
I heard you in the bathroom of
Allerton
and promptly, in the manner you so
much deplore, dropped to my knees.
I realised what you were up to,
made my preparations
.
.
and sent Curtis to fetch you.
I'm awfully sorry, old boy.
I've got a blinder of a headache.
So I gave to you the hot chocolate.
It nourishes the nerves.
You comprehend?
Drink, drink.
But I also, mon ami, have sleeping
pills.
No, no, no, every last drop.
When you awoke the next morning,
you were your own self again,
horrified at what you had nearly
done.
But it decided me, Hastings.
You are not a murderer,
but might have been hanged for one.
I knew that I must act
and could put it off no longer,
but before I was able to,
Barbara Franklin died,
and I do not think that you
have once suspected the truth.
For you see, Hastings, you killed
her.
I killed her?
Oui, mon ami, you did.
There was, you see,
yet another angle to the triangle,
one that I had not fully taken into
account.
Did it ever enter your mind
why Madame Franklin
was willing to come to Styles?
She enjoys the good life,
yet insisted on staying in a guest
house,
and I have no doubt that Norton knew
why.
Hello, you chaps!
Boyd Carrington.
Madame Franklin
was a disappointed woman.
She had expected Dr Franklin
to have a brilliant career
There was something we had to
Do excuse me.
.
.
not shut himself away in esoteric
research.
And here is Boyd Carrington,
rich and aristocratic,
who had nearly asked to marry her
when she was a girl, still paying court.
So the only way was for her husband
to die,
and Norton had found her only too
ready a tool.
These scientist chaps
can get quite obsessive about their work.
It was so obvious -
her protestations of admiration,
then her fears for her husband.
But it makes me nervous
the lengths to which he might go.
What exactly do you mean, madame?
Well, this horrible Calabar bean
thing.
I'm so afraid he's going to start
experimenting on himself.
But when she saw Nurse Craven reading
the palm of Boyd Carrington, she had
a fright.
She knew he would be susceptible
to the charms of an attractive woman
and perhaps Nurse Craven might end up
as Lady Boyd Carrington instead of her.
So she decided to act quickly.
She invites us all up to her room for
coffee.
Her cup is beside her and
that of her husband is on the other side.
Look, a shooting star!
Then everyone goes to watch
the shooting stars except you, mon ami,
left with your crossword and your
memories.
What are you doing?
You hide your emotion by swinging round
the bookcase as if looking for a book.
And so when we all return,
Madame Franklin drinks the poisoned
coffee meant for her husband,
and he drinks the coffee meant for
her.
I realised what must have happened,
that she had poisoned the coffee
and you had unwittingly turned the table,
but you see, Hastings, I could not
prove it.
If the death of Madame Franklin
was thought to be anything but suicide,
suspicion would inevitably fall
on either Franklin or Judith.
That is why I was so insistent
that Madame Franklin had killed herself,
and I knew that my statement would be
accepted because I am Hercule Poirot.
You were not pleased, but mercifully
you did not suspect the true danger.
Will it come into your mind after I
am gone,
like some dark serpent
that now and then raises its head and says,
"Suppose, just suppose, it was my
Judith?"
And therefore you must know the
truth.
There was one person
most unhappy with the verdict - Norton.
He was deprived, you see,
of his pound of flesh.
Madame Franklin had died, yes
.
.
but not how he desired.
The *** he had arranged had gone
awry, so what to do?
Norton, what's the matter?
He began to throw out hints
about what he saw that day
with you and Mademoiselle Cole.
What is it?
He had never said anything definite,
so if he could convey the impression that
it was Franklin and Judith that he saw,
not Allerton and Judith,
then that could open up an interesting
new angle on the suicide case,
perhaps even throw doubts on the
verdict.
And I realised that what I had
planned all along had to be done at once,
the moment I had dreaded -
the most difficult decision of my
life.
That is why I invited Norton to my room
that night and told to him all that I knew.
Madame Constance Etherington
tried for the poisoning of her husband,
a man who was very sadistic
but also addicted to the drugs
and with whom you are on terms most
intimate.
Norah Sharples -
poisoned by her niece, Freda Clay.
I hope you're not s-suggesting
I was on intimate terms with her.
You and Mademoiselle Clay
taking a walk together.
You see, I do my homework, Monsieur
Norton.
And Matthew Litchfield.
You visited him, did you not, on the night
he was killed by his daughter, Margaret?
What is your p-point, Monsieur
Poirot?
Ah.
My point is this, Monsieur
Norton.
That in none of these murders
was there any real doubt.
There was one clear suspect.
No
other.
But you, Monsieur Norton are the
one factor malevolent common to all.
Oh, d-dear, Monsieur Poirot,
is that the best your little grey
cells can come up with?
Your proximity to these three murders
was too much of a coincidence
and I smelt, as you say, the rat.
That is why I came to Styles -
to observe you function and you have
not disappointed, monsieur.
No.
You are a man who is very
clever
.
.
but not clever enough forHercule
Poirot.
Sowhat are you going to d-do
about it?
Execute you.
Execute me?
Oui.
Thendo get on with it.
I promised myself an early night.
Justice is no joking matter,
monsieur.
I do what I can to serve it, but if I fail, there
is a justice that is higher, believe me.
You p-pathetic, self-important
little man.
*** me?
There's a m-mortal sin if ever there
was.
And then what?
Suicide to escape the ignominy of
hanging?
Ah.
Your God will give you a hell of a
time.
All those years of piety
up in smoke because of me.
Uh-uh-uh, monsieur.
You can't go yet.
You don't think I'd let you d-die on
me,
d-d-deprive me of my ultimate
t-triumph?
Please Please
You see, if you don't succeed, I'm a
free man.
Even if you do, it would still be a
victory of sorts,
because in the eyes of the law
I would be innocent.
Whereas you and your reputation -
your p-precious reputation -
blown to bits.
- Je vous en prie.
- Je vous en prie.
You can see them now: "Went off his
rocker.
You can never trust a foreigner.
"
You see how good I am to you, old
man?
There you go.
Take your time
and see how it allpans out, shall
we?
Who will be there at the final
curtain?
I pity you, Norton.
How very sad to find
that this great and beautiful world
is so foul and disappointing.
And your motherI pity even more.
My m-mother?
You pity my mother?
To endure the agony of bringing you
forth
only to discover that she had
nurtured in her loins such wickedness.
Is that not worthy of pity?
It is you who is not worthy.
She m-meant the world to me.
And you to her?
She l-loved me
.
.
l-loved me more thanm-more
than
Did she ever hold you, Norton, as
mothers do,
stroke your hairkiss your cheek?
She She
Scared you, did she not?
She pushed you away,
starved you of what we all desire,
because she knew everything about
you.
My mother knew nothing.
Oh, Monsieur Norton, mothers know.
They always know.
Ohh
Shots in the dark, Poirot.
Shots in the dark.
Chocolate?
Would you mind awfully
if I drank yours instead?
Not at all.
It was quite immaterial.
I take the sleeping tablets
and have acquired a certain tolerance.
The dose that would send Norton to
sleep would have little effect on me.
With the greatest of difficulty,
I put him in my wheelchair.
Then when the coast was clear
I wheeled him to his room.
You will not have realised, Hastings,
that recently I have
taken to wearing the false moustache.
Even George does not know that.
I put on the dressing gown of
Norton
.
.
tapped on your door
.
.
then went into his bathroom.
Presently I heard you open your door.
I left the bathroom and returned
to the room of Norton,
locking the door behind me.
I put the dressing gown on Norton
.
.
and lay him on his bed.
I had a pistol,
which on two occasions I had placed
ostentatiously on the dressing table
of Norton
when he was out,
so that the maid would have seen it.
I put the key into the pocket
of his dressing gown
and locked the door from the outside
with a duplicate I had made
.
.
then returned to my room
and began writing this.
I played the game, as you English
say.
I gave to you the clues
and every chance to discover the truth,
pointing you towards Iago,
the original Stephen Norton.
My only weakness was to shoot him in
the centre of his forehead and not in
his temple,
but I could not bring myself
to produce an effect so lopsided.
That, mon ami, is my nature
and should have told to you the truth.
Take my advice for the last time.
Tell to Mademoiselle Cole all that I
have said,
that you also might have done
what her sister did
.
.
had there been no watchful Poirot
to stop you.
Take the nightmare away
and show how Norton, not her sister,
was responsible for the death of her
father.
Captain Hastings?
I have no more to say.
Am I justified in what I have done?
I do not know.
I do not believe that a man
should take the law into his own hands,
but by taking the life of Norton,
have I not saved others?
I have always been so sure, but
now
When the moment comes,
I will not try to save myself,
but humbly offer my soul to God
and pray for his mercy.
It is for him to decide.
Ah, Hastings, my dear friend,
they were good days.
Yes, they have been good days.
HerculePoirot.