02x04 - The Cornish Mystery

[bunniefuu]

Are you feeling better,
Hastings?

Yes.

Yes, I am, as a matter of fact.

Takes the pressure
off the pancreas, you see.

Ah, the pancreas is nothing.

Of the digestive organs,
the liver is the king.

Look after the liver, and life
will take care of itself.

It is on, Mr. Poirot.

Thank you, Miss Lemon.

This is what you need, Hastings.

No fear.
I've tasted it.

-Mr. Poirot.
-Yes, Miss Lemon.

There's a lady outside.

-A client?
-I don't know.

When I say "outside,"
I mean outside in the street.

I've been watching her
from my window.

She keeps on
backwards and forwards,

then stops
and looks up at the building.

I'm sure she wants to come in.

Go and intercept her,
Miss Lemon.

Inform her that Hercule Poirot

is done devouring
the strange ladies this season.

Mr. Poirot.

To leave the pancreas alone,
Hastings,

is the best advice
I can give you.

And look to your diet.

What did you eat
last night, huh?

Ah! Do not tell me.

You went to
that Indian restaurant

you keep on telling me about,
n'est-ce pas?

The Orient has much
to teach us, Poirot.

Mm-hmm.

You have been warned, Hastings.

Do you know what is the most
heavily taxed import in Belgium?

Rice.

The government of my country
is determined to stamp it out.

I was brought up on rice --
rice pudding.

And how are you feeling,
Hastings?

Well...

Yes, Hastings,

but we happen to be living
in the corn country.

The Indian philosopher
Rabindranath Tagore

specifically recommends rice
as a cure for all known ills.

She won't come in, Mr. Poirot.

She denied wanting to see you
at all at first.

Then she said she'd meet you.

Where?

Don't be nervous, madame.

You are among friends.

I may be wickedly wronging

poor Edward, though.

It's a terrible thought
for a wife to have.

I've got this dreadful idea.

You suspect
your husband of...

Oh, M. Poirot, I'm dreadfully
afraid I'm being poisoned.

I see.

What makes you think so, madame?

I'm sick
after nearly every meal,

and I get this burning pain
all down here.

The doctor says it's gastritis,
but it's very odd.

Whenever Edward's away
for the weekend,

I'm quite all right again.

Even Freda noticed that.

-Freda?
-My niece.

And then there's that tin
of weed k*ller.

The gardener says he's never
used it, but it's half empty.

You and your husband
reside where, madame?

Polgarwith.
It's in Cornwall.

Ah.
Do you have any children?

No.

But a niece
I think you said, yes?

Yes, Freda Stanton, my husband's
only sister's child.

She's lived with us
for the last eight years,

that is, until a week ago.

Aha.
And what happened a week ago?

I don't know.

One day last week she just
flared up and walked out.

She's taken rooms of her own
in the town.

"Leave her to come to
her senses," so Mr. Radnor says.

M. Radnor?

Oh, he's just a friend,
a very pleasant young fellow.

Anything, uh, you know,
between him and your niece?

Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

Madame...

We must be brutal.

Do you know of any reason

why your husband should wish you
out of the way?

Yes, I do.

There's a yellow-haired hussy
that works for him.

My husband's a dentist, M.
Poirot, and nothing would do,

but he must have a smart girl,
as he put it,

to make his appointments
and mix his fillings for him.

Go on, madame.

Well, there's talk
'round the town.

I mean, her with her bobbed hair
and her white overall.

Of course he swears
it's all right.

But then, he would, wouldn't he?

It makes me cold
talking like this.

Alors, let us then be practical.

You'll return to Polgarwith
today, yes?

Yes.
There's a train at 5:00.

Tr?s bien.

Tomorrow Captain Hastings and I
will follow you there.

I don't want there
to be any talk.

Courage, madame.

We will be discretion itself.

You see, he was one
of the Wiltshire Hastings

on his father's side.

So it was Herbert who moved
the family to Cornwall.

Yes, Herbert was my father.

Who was your mother, then?
Maude Hastings.

At least she wasn't Hastings
till she got married.

She was Maude Willoughby.

What are you doing, Hastings?

I'm trying to get
these relationships sorted out

if I'm going to pretend
I'm the son

of Mrs. Pengelley's
second cousin.

What do you think of this case,
Hastings?

Nasty business, I'd say.

Unless Mrs. Pengelley's
making the whole thing up.

Well, Mme. Pengelley
did not strike me

as being the hysterical woman,
Hastings.

No, if I mistake not,

we have here
a very poignant human drama.

Polgarwith.

This is Polgarwith.

You see, it's very simple,
Hastings.

Ordinarily a woman
will accuse anyone in the world

except her husband.

She will stick her belief in him
through thick and thin.

Well, this other woman
complicates matters.

You mean affection
may turn to hate

under the stimulus of jealousy?

Exactly.

Why, then, come to me?

To have her suspicions
proved wrong

or to have them proved right?

In a town like this, Hastings,

woe betide any husband
who buys a tin of weed k*ller.

Probably only one place

to buy something like that.

And then if his wife
suffers from gastritis

and is inclined
to be imaginative,

the fat is in the flames,
I think.

If M. Pengelley chooses
for dalliance his receptionist,

Hastings, he chooses unwisely.

It is a little too close
to home.

Domestic quarters on one side
and surgery on the other.

What is that, Poirot?
It sounds like someone crying.

In here, Hastings.

Yes?

We wish to see Mrs. Pengelley.

You can't.

She's dead.

Dead?

Not an hour ago.

Upstairs cold.

Of what did she die?

-Are you foreign?
-Belgian.

The whole world's
gone mad today.

What happened?

It's not my place to say
anything, and I'm not going to.

But everybody knows.

Indeed?

Didn't I see the master
with me own eyes

standing just near the shelf
with the weed k*ller

this very evening?

And didn't he jump
when he turned 'round

and saw me a-watching of him?

And the missus' gruel
there on the table, ready.

Not a bite more food passes
my lips when I'm in this house.

Not if I dies for it.

Jessie?

Jessie?

Oh, my God, it's him.

You'll have to go.

Jessie?

Where does the doctor
who attended your mistress live?

Dr. Adams -- at the other end
of the High Street.

Who is it, Jessie?

It's nobody, sir.

It's just some men.

I'm very sorry

to hear of your tragic loss,
M. Pengelley.

Thank you.

We'll come back
some other time.

-Yes.
-Thank you.

Thank you, mademoiselle.

We should have come with her
yesterday, Hastings.

An imbecile!
A criminal imbecile!

That's what I have been!

Oh, I boast about
my little gray cells,

and now I have lost
a human life?!

A life that came to me
to be saved!

Damned nonsense!

Damned nonsense,
every word of it.

Was I or was I not in attendance
in this case?

-Indeed.
-Did I or did I not say

the first day I went to see
Mrs. Pengelley, gastritis?

Yes. Did I ever waver
from that diagnosis?

No, I did not.

But this is undoubtedly --

This town is a hotbed of gossip.

A lot of scandal-mongering
old women get together

and invent God knows what.

But the fact remains --

They read these scurrilous rags
of newspapers,

and nothing
will suit them better

but that someone from their town
should be poisoned, too.

But Mme. Pengelley --

Why should anyone
want to poison her?

Dr. Adams, will you
please listen to me?

Why?
I'm telling you.

It was yesterday that
Mme. Pengelley came to London

in order to consult me.

She believes
she was being poisoned.

Never.

Ah, Hastings, do you hear that?
Now I am a liar, huh?

Dr. Adams, please, allow me.

Mme. Pengelley believed that
her husband was the poisoner.

Rubbish.

I know Edward Pengelley.

Wouldn't poison
his grandmother's dog.

But it is not the dog
of Mme. Pengelley's grandmother

that has been poisoned!

Mme. Pengelley believed
that her husband

had fallen in love
with his receptionist.

Fallen in love?

Yes.

Edward Pengelley isn't the sort
of man to fall in love.

We play golf together.

Never been in love in his life.

Damn fine dentist, too.

I'll be blunt with you,
Mr. Poirot.

We in Polgarwith don't need
you outsiders coming in

spreading your tittle-tattle.

All I am trying to tell you,
M. Doctor,

is what Mme. Pengelley thought.

Well, if she thought that,
she must have gone mad.

She should have come to see me.
I'd have told her.

And had all her fears ridiculed?

Ridiculed?
Certainly not.

I've got an open mind, I hope.

"Fall in love?

Edward Pengelley's not the sort
of man to fall in love."

He is as obstinate as a pig,
that one.

He says it is gastritis,
therefore it is gastritis.

"Did I waver
from that diagnosis? Never."

A doctor who lacks doubt
is not a doctor.

He's an executioner.

Poor Mme. Pengelley,
surrounded by such closed minds.

We owe it to her, Hastings,
to unmask her m*rder*r.

Well, let's meet
the yellow-haired hussy, eh?

What is this "hussy," Hastings?

Mm.

It means the sort of girl
who's sort of...

no better than she ought to be
kind of thing.

-No better than...
-That's it.

I say.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Yes, sir?

Oh. Right.

Look, uh, I'm the second cousin
of, uh...

No.

Good morning.

Look here.
I've got a toothache.

-Ow. It -- It...
-There's been a bereavement.

Um, Mr. Pengelley isn't
in the surgery today.

Ah, right.

Well, I better come back
some other time, shall I?

It is all right.
I will look after him.

Come along, Hastings.

What?

Oh. Right.

I'll come back next week, then.

What a stunner, Poirot.

You must not excite yourself,
Hastings.

Good morning.

And what do you think
of our little town?

It is charming, madame.

I hope you find it
interesting enough.

Indeed I do.

Miss Stanton, dear,
a gentleman to see you.

Who are you?

Hercule Poirot.
And you?

Jacob Radnor.

Oh, poor Auntie.

Of course, it was all nonsense,

her thinking Uncle Edward
was poisoning her.

It's terribly sad.

I've been wishing all morning

I'd been kinder
and more patient.

Well, these regrets are
all too common, mademoiselle.

But one must move on.

I know.
But I've got a sharp temper.

After all, it was only silliness
on Auntie's part.

You stood a great deal, Freda.

What was the actual cause of
your disagreement, mademoiselle?

Look, I'll be running along.

I'll see you this evening, eh?

Goodbye, gentlemen.

Thank you.

You are a fianc?e to M. Radnor.
Is that not so?

As a matter of fact, yes.

Uh-huh.

How did you know?

Well, one does not have to be

the greatest detective
in the world to notice it.

Oh, I see.

That was the whole trouble,
actually, with Auntie.

She did not approve
of the match for you?

It wasn't that so much.

-But you see...
-Yes?

It seems rather a horrid thing
to say about her now...

now she's dead.

But you'll never understand
unless I tell you.

Well...

Auntie was...

She was absolutely infatuated
with Jacob.

Jacob?
Jacob Radnor, you mean?

Yes.

Yes, I know.

I mean, she was over 50,
and he's not 30 yet.

But there it was.

She was silly about him.

I can see it would have
made things a dash difficult.

Well, I just had to tell her
in the end.

I had to say it was me
Jacob was after.

Well, she carried on
most dreadfully.

She wouldn't believe
a word of it

and was so rude and insulting,
I lost my temper, I'm afraid.

I wish I hadn't.

And so you left.

Yes.

So I should jolly well think.

Goodbye. Thank you
very much, Miss Stanton.

You've been most helpful.

I hope I've put your mind
at rest. That's all.

Indeed.

"Mind at rest," Hastings.

Well, I thought it all
seemed quite, you know...

You know?

I'm not surprised
she had gastritis.

Comment?

Well, if she's gonna run around
after chaps half her age --

Mr. Poirot.

Hmm?
Ah, hello again, M. Radnor.

I wonder if I might
have a word with you.

I can pretty well guess
what Freda has been telling you.

Indeed.

It was all really unfortunate.

At first I was quite pleased.

I imagined the old woman was
helping things along with Freda.

And then it turned out --

Well, the whole thing was absurd
and extremely unpleasant.

This is my little place.

Oh, is this your shop?

It's not bad, is it?

After you, gentlemen.

-Thank you.
-Hmm.

-Oh, good morning, gentlemen.
-Good morning.

Oh, good morning, Mr. Radnor.

It's all right, Mr. Newsome.

These gentlemen are with me.

You can go and have your dinner
if you like.

Thank you, sir.

Well, this is most impressive,
M. Radnor.

We try to liven Polgarwith up
a bit --

new fashions, better quality.

When are you and Mademoiselle
Stanton going to get married?

Soon, I hope.

Look, Mr. Poirot,
can I speak freely?

Of course.

I'm going to be candid with you.

Excellent.

I know a bit more
than Freda does, you see.

Indeed?

She believes her uncle
to be innocent.

And you don't?

I'm not so sure as all that.

I can tell you one thing,
though.

I'm going to keep my mouth shut
about what I do know,

let sleeping dogs lie.

I don't want my wife's uncle
tried and hanged for m*rder.

Why do you tell me this,
monsieur?

Because I've heard of you,
and I know you're a clever man.

It's quite possible you might
ferret out a case against him.

But I put it to you.
What good is that?

The poor woman is past help,
isn't she?

And she'd be the last person
to want a scandal.

You are probably right.

So you want me to hush it up?

Well, I admit
I'm being selfish about it.

I'm building up
a good little business here.

You don't know what
these small towns are like.

Most of us are selfish,
M. Radnor.

Not all of us
admit it so freely.

Yes, I will do what you ask,

but I tell you frankly you will
not succeed in hushing it up.

Why not?

Vox populi, M. Radnor.

That is why.

The voice of the people.

Earth to earth.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

In sure and certain hope
of the resurrection

to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ,

who shall change our vile body

that it may be like
unto His glorious body

according to
the mighty working...

I suppose we can accept

this rather extraordinary story
about Radnor and Mrs. Pengelley.

But yes.

Must have been
dashed embarrassing for him.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps he found it
a little flattering, huh?

Flattering?

She was old enough
to be his mother.

Well, almost.

Forgive us our trespasses

as we forgive them
that trespass against us,

and lead us not
into temptation...

Mme. Pengelley was an estimable
and charming lady.

Thank you, Mr. Poirot.

If only I'd listened to her.

I assumed it was
some minor digestive disorder.

-Terrible business.
-Sandwich, Captain Hastings?

Thank you.
Terrible business.

Gastritis.
Gastritis pure and simple.

No, no.

If you don't mind,
Mr. Pengelley,

I'd like to read the will.

I have to get back to the office
before midday.

Yes, yes, by all means.

There are no secrets.

It's quite straightforward,
really.

After the usual preamble,

Mrs. Pengelley leaves ?2,000
in trust

for her niece Miss Freda Stanton
until she's 40.

The residue of her estate,

which amounts to some ?20,000
in government bonds,

she leaves to her husband,
Edward Pengelley.

That's all.

If you'll excuse us.

Thank you

I think I should take her home.

It is all very interesting,

is it not, Hastings?

Interesting? Seems to be
rather sordid and unpleasant.

Hardly seems any mystery
about it.

I agree.
There is no mystery whatever.

Pengelley had three motives
for m*rder --

money, he was in love
with his assistant,

Mrs. Pengelley was apparently
in love with Radnor,

although I must say I find that
pretty hard to believe.

Ah, Hastings,
you admire les femmes, huh?

You prostrate yourself
before all who are good-looking.

Look how you were struck
all over pale

by that yellow-haired hussy.

Quite untrue.

But psychologically, you know
nothing whatever about them.

Ah, well, there you are.
You see, that just shows.

Women are always saying

I understand them
rather too well, frankly.

Really, Hastings? I should like
to hear them say so myself.

No, no, no, mon ami.

You listen to Poirot,
and you shall learn.

In the autumn of a woman's life,
Hastings,

there comes always
one mad moment

when she longs for romance, for
adventure before it is too late,

even if she is the wife
of a respectable dentist

in a country town.

And you think that --

A clever man might
take advantage of such a moment?

I'd hardly call Pengelley
so clever.

He seems to have got
the whole town talking.

You know, Hastings,
what I find curious

is that the only two men who
know anything about the case,

they both want to hush it up.

What, Radnor and the doctor,
you mean?

I don't see what that's
got to do with it.

Well, before your bank holiday
in August, Hastings,

we shall see M. Pengelley
in the dock.

Good thing, too.

And it will be our job
to save him from the gallows.

All right, lads,
pick 'em up.

Ready?

One, two, three, heave.

Two heads and a tail.

Two yins and a yang.
Right.

It's number 15.

I don't understand this.

You sure you were thinking
about Poirot?

His hexagraphs come out
as Chien.

What's that mean?

Modesty.

"Superior man who carries things
through without vanity.

Doesn't sound like Mr. Poirot.

What are you doing, Hastings?

-Nothing.
-The I Ching, actually.

-The "I"?
-I Ching.

It's an ancient Chinese oracle.

We were foretelling your future.

Most amusing.

Your hexagram
comes out as modesty.

Oh?

That is most apt.
Well, well.

Yes, but it's
the lines that are important.

You see, your second line says,

"10 pairs of tortoises
cannot oppose him.

The man in the scarlet
knee bands is coming."

Tortoises?
Knee bands?

You see, the tortoise
is considered a magical animal.

It means you're going to be
so successful

that not even magic
can stop you.

Hastings I have heard enough
of this nonsense.

I can foretell the future better
than any Chinese oracle,

as you will see if you look
in this newspaper.

"Herr h*tler's speech,
full text"?

Further down the page.

Oh, "Cornish mystery.

Mrs. Pengelley exhumed."

How long did I say, Hastings?

Say?

I said, did I not,

that we should see M. Pengelley
in the dock.

Before August bank holiday.

And when is the August
bank holiday, Hastings?

Two weeks on Monday.

Pr?cis?ment.

Here he comes.

-He's done nothing.
-Now, now.

No, you're wrong.

People tell lies!
They tell terrible lies!

He's innocent, I tell you!

He's innocent!

"Gossip in Polgarwith
became intense

when Edward Pengelley
announced his engagement

to his 25-year-old receptionist,
Miss Edwina Marks,

three weeks ago."

Hmm.

What did I tell you, Hastings?
The voice of the people.

Hastings, have you finished
your meditation?

Hastings?

And what was the reason
for your visit?

No particular reason.

I often dropped in to see them.
We were friends.

Did you see Mrs. Pengelley
on this occasion?

No, she was in bed, I was told.

She had her digestive trouble
again.

She had this digestive trouble
quite regularly.

Not regularly, no.

But she'd been suffering
for some time with it.

You saw the accused?

Yes.

What was he doing?

He was in the kitchen
preparing some gruel

to take up to his wife.

Now, what I want you
to tell the court

is exactly what met your eyes

when you went through that door
into the kitchen.

Well, I saw Mr. Pengelley.

He had his back to me.

He was putting a tin
up on a shelf.

There was a tray
with a bowl of gruel on it

on the kitchen table.

One moment, Mr. Radnor.

This tin that Mr. Pengelley
was replacing --

Can you tell us what was in it?

No.

Can you describe it to us?

It was a bit bigger
than a cocoa tin.

It was yellow
with black printing on it,

or perhaps dark blue.

Could we see Exhibit "D,"
please?

This tin, Mr. Radnor?

Yes.

Oh, no.

Can't I have just one
little m*rder case to myself?

Bonjour, Chief Inspector.

We were on this case
long before you were.

Mmm. Good ham.

Mm, I am glad.

Mme. Pengelley came to me

because she thought
she was being poisoned.

She was right.

Poirot said Pengelley
would be in the dock

before August bank holiday.

So, what are you here for?

To rescue him.

Oh, no.

He had the means to do it --
the weed k*ller.

He had the opportunity to do it.

He lived in the same house
and prepared some of her meals.

He had the motive to do it.

For the yellow-haired hussy

who has to be no better
than she ought, huh?

And yet, Inspector,
he did not do it.

I can name six people who had
a motive to k*ll Mme. Pengelley.

What about Mlle. Stanton,
for instance?

She inherits
under her aunt's will.

Don't spoil it, Poirot.

This is a little holiday for me.

It's an open-and-shut case.

Everyone knows Pengelley did it.

Everyone does not use
their gray cells, I think.

You think I should talk
to the niece again?

Certainly.

The symptoms of gastritis

are identical to the symptoms
of arsenic poisoning.

That is not what the pathologist
from the home office said,

Dr. Adams.

No, no, no.
I'm telling you.

The symptoms of gastritis

are identical to the symptoms
of arsenic poisoning.

That's why I made the diagnosis
that I did.

Well, I don't see
what's gonna save him.

Poirot will save him.

With the help of the vox populi,
of course.

Well, the vox populi seems
quite certain Pengelley did it,

if you ask me.

Pr?cis?ment. You have now
grasped the nub of the matter.

Mr. Poirot?

Ah, M. Radnor.

Hello.

Captain Hastings.

This is a sad business.

-Ah.
-The trial, yes.

I just think it is.

Do you see any chance
of him getting off?

Well, he has reserved
his defense and he...

may have something up
his sleeve, as you English say.

M. Radnor, would you care
to join Captain Hastings and me

for a drink at the hotel?

Well, thank you.

Then please do join us, huh?

We can go to my room, M. Radnor,

where we can discuss the
intricacies of this case, no?

Splendid.

Ah, please, sit down, M. Radnor.

-Thank you.
-Hastings, be so kind

as to offer our friend
something to drink.

-Sherry?
-Please.

Business is good, Mr. Radnor?

Excellent, thank you, yes.

I've taken over the shop
next door to add to mine.

Ah. Bien.

It is, uh, Jacob, n'est-ce pas?

I'm sorry?

Jacob Radnor?

Yes.

Jacob...

...Radnor.

Of 21 Fourth Street, yes?

What are you doing?

Well, Captain Hastings and I

are very experienced, M. Radnor,
in matters of these kind,

and we both feel
that our friend M. Pengelley

has one loophole of escape.

Loophole?

What loophole has he got?

That you should sign...

...this little piece of paper.

What is it?

A confession that you
m*rder*d Mme. Pengelley.

You must be mad.

No, no, no, my friend.
I am not mad.

Mme. Pengelley
was a lady very well-to-do,

but the small allowance
she made to her niece

was not sufficient
for your ambitious schemes.

No.

You must get rid of both her
and her husband,

and then all of the money
would go to Mlle. Stanton, no?

You yourself decide
to m*rder Mme. Pengelley

and let her husband
hang for the crime.

I'm not gonna stay here

-and listen to this.
-Hastings.

You've got no right
to keep me here.

Nevertheless, you will stay.

You set about your task
very cleverly, M. Radnor.

You made love to that plain,
middle-aged woman.

You implanted into her mind

doubts about the fidelity
of her husband.

You introduced arsenic
into her food,

being very careful never to do
so while her husband was away.

You were in the house

while her husband was preparing
the gruel for his wife,

and you introduced
the fatal dose.

The rest is easy.

Very interesting.

Very ingenious.

But why do you tell me this?

Because, M. Radnor,
I represent...

No, not the law.

I represent...

...Mme. Pengelley.

And it is for her sake

that I'm going to give you
the chance to escape.

-Now, look --
-You sign that piece of paper,

and I will give you
24 hours' start, M. Radnor.

24 hours

before I place this matter
into the hands of the police.

You can't get away, Radnor.

Look out of that window.

Those two men have orders
not to lose sight of you.

Damn you!

You've only got one chance,
Radnor.

What guarantee have I got?

None.

But you will surely hang
if you do not sign.

All right.

Damn you!

Shall I give them the signal,
Poirot, to let him pass?

Certainement.

You have 24 hours, M. Radnor.

I'll get back at you, Poirot,
one day.

I think not, my friend.

In two days, you will be
in the prison cell.

I'm not sure we should have
let him go, you know, Poirot.

You're letting
a dangerous criminal escape

out of sheer sentiment.

No, Hastings.

That was not sentiment.

That was realism.

We have no shadow of proof
against him.

The only chance was to
frighten him into confession.

Hastings, those two men
of yours...

who are they?

I haven't the foggiest idea.

I just noticed them
standing there when we came in.

But that is sheer brilliance.

Oh. Well.

Your peculiar Oriental practices
which I tease you about

are obviously working wonders
on your gray cells.

Maybe it's the rice.

I hope not, Hastings.

Where are we going?

To place this into the
hands of the proper authorities.

But that's not for 24 hours.

Hastings, did you really believe

that I would let a cold-blooded
m*rder*r get off Scottish free?

Well, no, but...

Hastings,
I do not understand you.

You object if I let him off.

You object
if I do not let him off.

That very day I see it, sir.

I see his hand hovering
over the missus' gruel, sir.

Whose hand?

Well, his, sir.

The master's, sir.

And was there something
in that hand, Miss Dawlish?

Yes, sir.

There was, sir.

Weed k*ller, sir.

When you say "weed k*ller,"
Miss Dawlish...

This is most extraordinary.

Have you notified the police?

No, we thought it would
come better from you.

Good.

Meanwhile I'll ask that
the trial is at least adjourned.

There is just one thing.

We did promise Mr. Radnor that
we'd give him a 24-hour start.

Haven't got many of them
in Peckham.

If Edward Pengelley

had really m*rder*d his wife,
Hastings,

guilt would have
made him sensitive

to what people would say

if he announced his engagement
to Mlle. Marks.

No, no, no, Hastings, the guilty
person would have waited

and quietly slipped
out of Cornwall forever

before doing such a thing.

Well, there's Japp.

You make them yourself?

I don't know
what you're gonna tell him.

Nothing at all, Hastings.

I hate to be the bearer
of bad news.

He will learn soon enough
that his open-and-shut case

has the broken hinges.

Hey, Poirot.
Come and try one of these.

My dear Japp.

Poirot, Hastings.

Sure enough miss these
when I get back to London.

You still poking about
in my m*rder?

Ah, no, no, no, no, no,
Chief Inspector.

Captain Hastings and I
are retiring from the field.

Oh? Why?

Well, sometimes it is braver
to admit defeat, huh,

than to battle on
with no hope of success

against the superior forces.

Oh, yes.
So Pengelley's gonna swing

in spite of all your efforts?

Well...

If we are to catch
the next train,

we must tear ourselves away.

Captain Hastings is going to
treat me to dinner

at the most excellent restaurant
he has discovered

which serves the Indian food.

It is to this food
that Captain Hastings attributes

the improvement
of his gray cells.

Indian? What, these hot curries
and things?

-Yes.
-Rather you than me, Poirot.

Well, au revoir, Inspector.

Make haste, my friend.

I do not wish to be visible
when Inspector Japp discovers

he has to chase after M. Radnor.

Too late.

Sir! Sir!

The inspector says,
"Can you come, please, sir?"

The trial's been adjourned.

Adjourned?
What for?

Mr. Radnor's confessed, sir.

-Confessed?
-To the m*rder.

He confessed to that French gent
in writing!

Poirot!