PORTER:
Oh, thank you, M. Poirot.
Well, it was
the damnedest thing.
I pop out for a stroll
in Mayfair
and come back minus a leg,
and a face fit for a sideshow.
I shall tell you the story.
[ Clears throat]
One Sunday afternoon
two years ago,
I stopped for a breather
outside the London pied-à-terre
of the millionaire
Gordon Cloade.
I'd heard that Gordon
had returned to England
with a child bride,
one Rosaleen.
Irish girl, actress whom he'd
met and married in New York.
Never having seen her,
I was hoping to catch a glimpse.
[Vehicle approaching ]
Gordon had summoned his brother,
Jeremy, his wife, Frances,
and the rest of the family
Cloade up from the country
to meet this Rosaleen
for the first time.
You mark my words--
She's a bloody little tart.
Lionel, darling.
- She is.
- You've never even met her.
I don't need to, Adela.
I know the type.
Slack, greedy,
and cunning as hell.
PORTER: Well, the introduction
of Rosaleen
proved a rather more
inflammatory affair
than any of us had anticipated.
Gas.
Someone called
to say they'd smelled it.
Blew the front
off Gordon's house--
from the inside.
Gordon and a dozen others
were k*lled instantly.
The Cloades were sufficiently
far from the blast
to escape unscathed.
But miraculously,
Rosaleen also survived.
She just walked out
of the inferno.
She'd been in the cellar
with her brother,
one David Hunter, choosing wine.
[ Bell clangingl
Poor Rosaleen, hm?
Widowed for the second time
at the age of what, 23?
So she was married before?
Oh, yes.
Bloke called Robert Underhay.
A chum of mine.
Served with him in Mombasa.
Hence my interest.
You see, some time before all
this occurred, Underhay d*ed.
Well, he disappeared
into the jungle.
Didn't come back.
[ Chuckles ]
JEREMY:
Ah. Poirot, there you are.
Sorry to keep you waiting.
- Porter.
- Cloade.
Shall we go in to dinner?
Oui.
Major.
Ciao.
JEREMY:
Porter is an oceangoing bore
with his story about my brother
Gordon.
He can't have known you were
acquainted with us Cloades.
The death of Gordon must have
ramifications most substantial
for the entire family, no?
It's been an interesting couple
of years financially.
A“YWaY. Lynn.
Do you have news?
She's coming back to England.
To stay?
Do you know, your niece is
a child of whom I am most fond.
Child no longer.
She's engaged to be married.
No.
Cousin of hers, in fact.
Rowley.
Farmer.
Pleasant enough.
He's a Cloade.
Lynn told me to invite you
to the annual do at Furrowbank.
You can meet Gordon's widow
for yourself.
Now, beef.
Well done.
That's how they do it here.
And then, uh,
spotted d*ck and custard.
- MAN: Yes, sir.
- JEREMY: Now, wine.
Two glasses of the house red.
[ Horn honks]
Lynn.
Well, naturally,
we were flabbergasted.
I mean,
could you imagine Gordon,
at his age,
suddenly getting married?
It was ridiculous.
She's good-looking, I suppose.
She has the most enormous eyes,
terrifically blue
and what they call
"put in with a smutty finger."
Personally, I think she looks
rather half-witted.
Well, Mummy, you're not a man.
I don't suppose Uncle G
was after her
for intellectual companionship.
I don't suppose he was after her
at all.
Quite the other way about.
I think any woman veering
too close to Gordon
would be vilified by this family
as a gold digger.
He was incredibly good to us,
darling-- all of us.
[ Faucet squeaks ]
Not much has changed in Warmsley
Vale while I've been away.
[Thud, water runs]
Four years.
You might have got my taps
fixed.
[ Sobs]
These are all unpaid.
When your father d*ed,
Gordy took me to one side.
He said, "Now, I don't want you
to worry about money.
Anything to do
with the household,
just put it in an envelope
and send it to me."
Well, you've put it
in an envelope.
Dear God.
Can you recall
one single instance
of extravagance in this house?
Can't what's her name continue
the arrangement?
The widow.
All she'd have to do
is write a check now and then.
She couldn't possibly...
I doubt that Rosaleen would
object, but her brother would.
Very, very nasty piece of work,
that one.
What's the brother got to do
with anything?
He controls her.
Controls what precisely?
Everything.
Her money, her diary,
her conversation such as it is.
He runs Furrowbank
as if he owns the place.
Your aunts and I doubt very much
that David Hunter really is
Rosaleen's brother at all.
[Sighs]
[ Horn honks]
Oh.
I think it's Rowley.
You've-- You've grown.
No. Really.
You're--
Well, you're taller
than when I last saw you.
When you last saw me,
I was a child.
You've seen more of the world
than I have, Lynn.
I've seen a lot
of sleepy sickness in Africa.
God.
That's not what you mean,
is it, Rowley?
You're kissing me
and you're thinking,
"I don't even know
if she's still a virgin."
[Telephone ringing ]
[ Ringing continues]
Rosaleen Cloade.
WOMAN:
You're not a Cloade.
You're a slut.
A filthy, stinking Irish slut.
What about me?
[ Click, dial tone]
[ Receiver rattles ]
They'll stop soon, sister child.
I'll make sure of it.
POIROT:
My good George,
all things in my new apartment,
they are delightful.
Yet this morning I am troubled
with a draft.
And also, in the matter
of the ordering of my books...
Quite so, monsieur.
Unacceptable.
I'll have a word.
Further abominations, monsieur,
or may I serve breakfast?
- Ah.
- [ Buzzer sounds]
[ Gasps]
My dear monsieur!
[ Smooches ]
- Madame.
- Shall I sit here?
Oui.
What marvelously square
furniture you have.
Not a curve in the place,
madame.
Not strictly true,
now I've arrived. [ Laughs]
Now, I expect you have heaps
of questions to ask me.
Merci bien.
Madame... who are you?
Mrs. Katherine Woodward.
KATHERINE:
Lynn's aunt.
Lynn's mother, Adela, and I
are Gordon Cloade's sisters.
Did you not get my letter?
The first post, monsieur.
Ah.
Merci, George.
Here.
There we are.
That's the fellow.
Merci, madame.
When I heard you were coming
to Warmsley Vale to see Lynn,
I thought, "Bingo.
Just the man for the job."
You see, the Child of Light has
been particularly forthcoming
on the subject
of Robert Underhay.
Gordon's widow's first husband.
The Child speaks for the dead.
But of course.
First-class spirit.
Very reliable.
In his punctuality at seance,
madame,
or the accuracy
of his intelligence?
Both.
He tells me Underhay
is not among the dead.
Eh bien, Mme. Woodward.
How is it that Poirot, he may be
of assistance in this matter?
You must find him.
This Underhay must be produced.
Je suis désolé, madame.
But this is a commission
that Poirot,
he is not equipped to accept.
But can't you see what it means?
The woman Rosaleen was never
at liberty to marry my brother.
She's a bigamist.
That is what we need you
to prove, monsieur,
or the family's inheritance
will be lost.
The tawdry little beast has got
her hooks into Gordy's fortune,
but she must be stopped.
Merci.
[ Dog growls ]
[ Barks]
[ Dog panting ]
Mme. Lead better.
Count.
[ Growls ]
How do you know my name?
I have had the pleasure
of making your acquaintance,
madame, on previous visits
to this establishment.
Hercule Poirot.
You k*lled what?
Welcome to Warmsley Vale,
Mr. Poirot.
I'm so sorry.
I was engaged
with the telephone.
Foreigner, Beatrice.
[ Barks, growls ]
Do you remember Mrs. Leadbetter
and Count Bismarck?
They're residents.
Indeed I do.
Then they require
no explanation.
Let me show you to your room.
POIROT: Merci.
[ Growls, barks ]
[Birds chirping]
[Grunts]
Damn it.
Damn it!
Let me do it.
What?
Darling, what's the matter?
I'm afraid you made
a bad bargain, Frances.
Please remain where you are.
If you approach me,
I may not be able to continue.
Oh, God.
The whole thing is completely,
unutterably bloody.
Is it a girl?
Oh, God. Don't tell me
it's Edna, the new maid.
- No.
- Fingers like sausages.
- No.
- I couldn't bear it.
- Is it a boy?
- It is nothing of that kind.
It is... a professional matter.
Money.
Is the firm going smash?
Are we to be bankrupt?
You know, don't you,
that I've never cared about
money in the slightest?
It bores me to tears.
Would it be helpful
if I asked you questions?
You could nod.
Whose money is lost?
Is it ours?
Is it the clients' money?
Is it very much that is gone?
Pensions.
You spent the clients' pensions?
Jeremy, my father was a baronet.
He was also the most almighty
feckless, sponging crook.
My brother Charles
is just the same.
In memory, my childhood
divides pretty evenly
between dining at the Ritz
and flitting from rented houses
in the middle of the night
to escape the bailiffs.
Can we mortgage the house?
Of course.
You must have done that already.
Right.
There's only one thing for it.
It'll have to be a touch.
Big one.
Let's see if I really am
my father's daughter.
ADELA:
Poor old Furrowbank.
I've never seen anything
so vulgar in my entire life.
It's as though we're going
to an orgy.
The place stands empty all year.
It exists merely
for the most occasional party.
A more perfectly disgusting
display of extravagance
- I can't imagine.
- Quite.
But not what you used to say
when Uncle Gordon was around.
The Child of Light is adamant.
I see. That-- That's handy.
In what particular...
About Robert Underhay.
- Who?
- Rosaleen's first husband.
The Child is never wrong, and he
insists Underhay is still alive.
I fear for Rosaleen.
She's guilty of the sin
of bigamy,
and when she dies, her soul
will burn in hell for eternity.
The Child's quite unequivocal
about that.
Aunt Kathy, if you mention
any of this this hurtful
nonsense tonight,
I shall be very cross with you.
Oh, really.
[ Mid-tempo music playing]
[ Indistinct conversations ]
Another drink, madame?
No, I shouldn't think.
Thank you.
[ Indistinct conversations ]
Can you feel it?
What?
The hatred.
I think you're David Hunter.
Long-lost Lynn, yes?
[Music continues]
What is it
that we're all hating?
Me.
And my sister.
Mostly me.
I'm the one that keeps
her little purse snapped shut
when you lot are about.
What's the noun, I wonder,
for a bunch of Cloades
whose train has just run out
of gravy?
I don't know.
A wilderness.
A wilderness of Cloades.
That's very good.
[ Both chuckle]
Why are you marrying Rowley?
He's such a thug and a bore.
Look at him,
trying not to stare at us,
worrying what I might be saying
to you.
As he should.
LYNN: Your sister, Rosaleen--
Tell me about her.
Well, uh, she's not very bright.
But then you can see that
for yourself.
You're like me.
[ Whispers ]
You see everything.
[ Scoffs ]
I don't think I'm like you
at all, Mr. Hunter.
David, my dear, you're very
pretty, but you need beefing up.
You absolutely must try these.
Why?
Have they got the poison in?
What?
[Laughs]
[ Both laugh ]
[ Music, laughter continue]
[ Chuckles ]
Look, there's no elegant way
of saying this,
so I'm just going to say it.
Jeremy's up a gum tree.
I shan't bore you
with the details,
but a substantial amount of
money that wasn't strictly his
has been... mislaid.
You find this embarrassing,
Rosaleen.
Imagine how I feel.
How much do you think
you're going to need?
But to administrate
an entire hospital
in the heart of the jungle?
Now, that is a thing
of some consequence, I think.
Your letters sustained me.
Non, non.
They really did.
Gave me strength.
But your father,
he was a good friend,
and I promised to him
that I would observe
your progress through life.
He did not know, of course,
that your progress
would be conducted
several thousand miles away.
But he would be most proud
of you, mademoiselle.
Most proud.
Rosaleen,
I have absolutely no doubt
that you have saved my marriage.
I shall dedicate
every moment I possess
to making certain
that you are happy and fulfilled
and welcome in Warmsley Vale.
[ Clapping ]
[Music stops]
Bra va.
Bra va.
Tell you what, Rosaleen,
you could do worse
than getting a few
professional tips off this one.
She's a natural.
- If you'll excuse me, David.
- Oh, no. Don't rush off.
Let's discuss
inhabiting the character.
Motivation.
- Plot.
- You're in my way.
That's because my intention
in this scene
is to prevent you from leaving
until I have asked a question.
How much?
How... much?
Whatever has happened
between Rosaleen and myself
is of no concern of yours.
[ Chuckles ]
Now, that's a silly
and untruthful thing to say.
And if I hear you say it again,
I shall make myself very
disagreeable to you, Frances.
And you won't like it.
How much?
Your sister has seen fit to lend
me £10,000 of her own money.
[Gasping, murmuring]
HUNTER
[Laughs]
Oh, it's all in the detail,
isn't it?
The "lend" is particularly good.
I shall repay the loan in full
at the first opportunity.
Well, that's now.
Give her back the check
or she cancels it.
The bank manager won't like it.
Won't look good at all.
But the choice is yours.
Unh-unh.
As you so rightly say,
it's not my money--
It's Rosaleen's.
[Whispering]
You give it back to her.
I'm so sorry, Frances.
Oh, that's quite all right,
my dear.
I shan't forget the kindness
you have tried to show me.
Nor, David, shall I forget this.
Oh, that's right, Frances.
You won't.
[Snaps fingers]
[Music resumes]
[ Indistinct conversations ]
ADELA: Quite the most
extraordinary evening.
Good night, Rowley.
ROWLEY:
Good night, Adela.
Don't be long, darling.
So that was David Hunter.
Not my cup of tea.
The answer to the question
you asked earlier...
What question?
Oh, God, Lynn.
I never for a moment...
...is yes, still a virgin.
Not through lack of opportunity,
but because I never forgot
that I love you
and you love me
and that we have an appointment
with a vicar.
Which is when, by the way?
Any ideas?
Oh, Lynn.
ROSALEEN:
I want to go home.
Real home.
As you have been told,
I cannot sell the house
until the death duties
are signed off.
And that shall be soon,
but in the meantime,
enjoy the discomfort
of your new family.
Bloody parasites,
the lot of them.
They've had it too easy
for too long.
It's time they learned
to shift for themselves
without darling Gordy sprinkling
cash over them like confetti.
They hate me.
[ Chuckles ]
Indeed they do, sister child.
And you've just got to learn
to take it.
Takeit
Now...
...what are you going to do?
Everything you say, David.
And everything will be?
Peaches and cream.
And so it shall.
And so it shall.
[ Snoring ]
[Grunts]
[Birds chirping]
[ Metal rattling ]
[ Cows lowing ]
Morning.
I'm looking for a place
called Furrowbank.
[Telephone ringing ]
[ Ringing continues]
Yes?
WOMAN:
Do it with your brother, do you?
Say your name.
Say it.
You'd do it with a corpse.
[ Receiver rattles ]
[ Door closes ]
[ Footsteps approaching ]
Who was it?
What, again?
Did you open anything?
What's this?
Came by hand.
ROSALEEN:
I didn't open anything.
HUNTER:
See who brought it?
You spend enough time
staring out the bloody window.
[ Paper rustling ]
Can I go now?
No.
Yes. Yes.
You must go to London.
Now, Rosie.
Go and get the driver.
Go!
[ Exhales deeply]
[ Indistinct conversations ]
- Mr. Hunter, isn't it?
- Mm-hmm.
How can I help you?
Well, a guest of yours
has invited me to call upon him
this fine day.
[ Knock on door]
Come.
Anything I can get you,
Mr. Arden?
I'm fine.
How about you, Hunter?
I think we're both fine.
HUNTER:
"Call on me this afternoon
to learn something of interest
concerning the husband
of your sister, Rosaleen."
[ Fire crackling ]
Doesn't say which husband.
Only one husband, old boy.
Robert Underhay.
[ Chuckles ]
I tell you what.
You say whatever it is
you have to say, Mr. Arden,
or I'll tip you out
on the pavement
on your scrawny arse...
old boy.
ARDEN: I'm afraid old Underhay's
in a bit of a bad way.
People often are when they've
been dead a few years.
He needs pretty continuous
medical supervision.
Unfortunately, that can be
rather expensive.
There.
That was it.
The word
we've all been waiting for.
Now, tell me.
Where does all this unfortunate
expense take place?
That's the information I'm keen
to keep from the Cloades.
But naturally, if your sister
feels unable to contribute
to the cost of my--
my friend Underhay's treatment,
I'll be compelled to lead the
whole pack of them to his door.
Naturally.
I'm only thinking of him.
I see that.
You, of course, have never
actually met Underhay, have you?
Perhaps I should just cut out
the middleman,
speak to Rosaleen myself.
What's your view on that?
I think we should try
not to distress the ladies.
Mm.
£20,000-- in cash.
Why don't you have
a little think about it?
Come back
and give me your decision.
MRS. LEADBETTER:
This establishment,
Beatrice Lippincott,
is a sewer of prurience
and depravity.
Get away from that door.
[ Dog growls ]
[Bell chiming]
[ Cow lowing ]
I'm coming.
Keep your hair on.
Whoa. Whoa. Slow down.
Slow down.
You're gabbling.
Yeah, I've seen him.
He came 'round the farm.
Paunch, soft hat.
Did he now?
Wait a minute.
This is...
Christ. Y-You're sure he
actually used the name Underhay?
And the-- the bloke's
still there, yes?
And Hunter's gone?
Bloody right,
I'm gonna want to have a word.
So will Jeremy.
I'll scoop him up
and we'll be straight 'round.
[ Engine turns over]
Rowley.
Wants you.
Very agitated.
[ Door closes ]
[Sighs]
That boy.
[ Indistinct conversations ]
Come 'round to my side,
Mr. Rowley.
Bit more private.
Don't speak.
Listen.
Call the bank and tell them
you wish to withdraw £20,000.
I'll come up tonight to get it.
Because a man's turned up
threatening to produce
Robert Underhay alive.
He may actually be Underhay.
God knows.
I never met the bugger
when you married him.
The situation
is not gonna be improved
by you asking questions,
Rosaleen.
There is no alternative.
Our future depends on it.
Everything depends on it.
Now, go call the bank.
There's my good girl.
[Birds chirping]
[ Footsteps approaching ]
[ Gasps]
It's my moon.
You like it?
A hunter's moon.
A good moon to hang by.
You frightened me.
You're trespassing.
Hm.
Forgive me.
What are you doing here?
Romantically enough,
I'm trying to catch a train.
The 7:02 to London,
if you really want to know.
This place is not on the way.
It's on the way to you.
[ Exhales deeply]
What were you thinking?
Just now, here on your own...
...looking at the sky.
Don't prepare your answer.
Tell me.
I was...
I don't know.
I was...
...thinking about the horror
of drifting.
You know what it is about
a woman that really arouses me?
It's a very rare physical quirk.
It's when she tells the truth.
Not here.
I have to catch my train.
My sister is in London.
She's expecting me.
I'll call you
as soon as I get there.
The moment I arrive.
Now go in to your mother.
[Telephone ringing ]
Warmsley Vale 1139.
WOMAN:
I have a call from London.
Hello?
Hello?
[Telephone rings]
HUNTER:
I'm here. Can you talk?
I don't know.
I can listen.
David?
You must marry Rowley Cloade.
And do it quickly.
Forget about me.
I shall make it my business
to forget about you.
I don't believe you.
You and I...
we'd tear each other to pieces,
destroy each other.
You're lying to me.
Why... Why are you lying to me?
I'd certainly destroy you.
It's in my nature, Lynn, to
desecrate the things I cherish.
And I love you too much
for that.
[Humming]
Mr. Arden, are you decent?
Breakfast!
[ Screams, dishes clatter]
LYNN:
Those are my gardening gloves.
But, mademoiselle, it is
essential for the great farewell
that it not be overdressed
with ceremony, huh?
You see?
You are happier this morning,
huh?
Quite the reverse.
But this morning
I see things more clearly,
which is useful.
Well, bien alors.
Of all the virtues, the English,
they value usefulness.
ROWLEY:
Monsieur.
A man calling himself
Enoch Arden has been m*rder*d--
last night in the pub.
I think he was Robert Underhay.
God help me, monsieur, but you
must come and sort this out.
Please.
You must come now.
Here's a bit of luck, then,
anyway, you being here.
You'll be able to show me how
it's done, this detecting caper.
Superintendent Spence.
Superintendent.
Even better, I believe you're
acquainted with the Cloades.
How is that better,
Superintendent?
Prickly bunch.
Handy for me to have a man
on the inside.
[ Knock on door]
Dr. Lionel.
Come in.
Ah.
M. Poirot.
Doctor.
Well, this, um, presumably,
is the patient.
You know, the woman Lippincott
is telling all and sundry
that this is su1c1de.
- Dear Beatrice.
- Yes.
Not the most efficient way
of dispatching oneself--
smashing in the back of one's
head with a set of fire tongs.
Now, the, uh, time of death.
Between 6:00 and 9:00
last night.
- I agree.
- I'm so glad.
And Beatrice heard Arden
at half past 8:00,
which narrows it down
quite nicely.
Now, I will fill in
the certificate,
but if you don't mind,
I must be getting along.
I have other patients
to attend to.
Unlike this poor fellow,
their treatments are billable.
Mr. Cloade, there you are.
Good.
Is this yours, by the way?
I found it upstairs
in the bedroom.
Not my color, Superintendent.
Quite right.
Definitely one for a brunette,
though.
He must have had a woman
up there.
[ Sighs ]
Where were we?
You were upstairs
looking at the dead man.
I was here being treated
as though I'd k*lled him.
- Did you?
- I did not.
I told you.
Beatrice rang me up.
She'd overheard
this Arden character
lobbing a colossal
blackmail demand at Hunter,
reckoned I should pop 'round
and confront the bloke.
So around you duly popped?
Wouldn't you?
And what did he say to you,
this Arden?
Well, he didn't seem
particularly surprised.
In fact, he tried it on with me,
the bugger.
How much will the family pay
for definite proof
that Underhay is still alive?
I'm afraid at that point,
I rather lost my rag.
Told him if Underhay
were still around, we were--
Pardon.
What is "lost my rag"?
- It's when you lose--
- Lose one's temper. Thank you.
So I told him if Underhay
were still around,
we were perfectly capable of
establishing the fact ourselves.
We're not, of course.
That's why I came to you.
At what time did you lose
your rag, Mr. Cloade?
I don't know.
Too busy storming off. Ask Bea.
I have.
She says half past 6:00.
Then I expect
that's when it was.
I also expect Bea told you
that Hunter came back here
just after I left,
which makes him the last person
to see Arden alive.
We shall have the need to speak
to M. Hunter and his sister.
They're in London.
Tiens.
Superintendent,
will you be good enough
to make the telephone call
and to give to them
the invitation most pressing
to come this afternoon
to my apartment?
I'll get a car
to take us to London.
Merci.
Johnson.
And, George, the guests--
M. Hunter and Mme. Cloade?
Already here, monsieur.
- Uh, monsieur.
- Oui?
Ah.
Merci.
They've, um,
made themselves comfortable.
Good pictures.
- Poirot you already know.
- POIROT: Madame.
And, judging by the cheap shoes,
some policeman.
Superintendent Harold Spence.
Superintendent Harold Spence.
It is so good of you both
to come at such short notice.
Look, Poirot, you may have time
for small talk,
but Harold here is working.
And I'm easily bored.
What's going on?
Enoch Arden is dead.
[ Lighter clicks]
You interest me, actually,
Harold.
Go on.
You know the man
I'm speaking of,
and you're not surprised
to hear that he's dead?
That about sums it up, yes.
Are you working on this?
No. The superintendent,
he searches for the m*rder*r.
Hercule Poirot searches for
Robert Underhay.
But the information we discover
may be of mutual benefit.
You don't deny
discussing Underhay
with the man calling himself
Arden?
I haven't had the chance
to deny anything, Harold.
I can't get a word in edgeways.
Robert is dead.
SPENCE: Just for the sake
of form, Mr. Hunter,
why don't you tell me
where you were
between the hours of 6:00
and 9:00 last night?
For the sake of form,
why don't I refuse to answer?
Because a refusal to cooperate
will incriminate you.
I can only incriminate myself if
I'm actually guilty of a crime.
He's not very bright, is he?
You should work alone.
M. Hunter, what did Arden want?
I have made it my job
to intercept and destroy
every crooked attempt to relieve
my sister of her fortune.
And I've heard some very pretty
tales of hardship and misery,
mostly from the Cloades.
But to use Underhay
for blackmail.
That takes the cake.
Frankly, I was looking forward
to seeing
what sort of Underhay
this fellow would produce,
because it wouldn't be
a live one.
However, to protect my sister,
I decided to pay the man off.
Why open old wounds, eh?
SPENCE:
Beatrice Lippincott says
you paid a second visit to Arden
that evening.
Why?
To tell him he'd get
his blasted money.
And when I talked to him,
he was alive.
Mme. Cloade,
the man Arden claimed
that he knew your first husband
for Robert Underhay.
Therefore, it is possible
that you knew him--
perhaps by another name?
So if you would be so kind--
Slow down, Poirot.
I'm not going to have Harold
drag my sister off
to see some battered corpse.
"Battered," monsieur?
ROSALEEN:
Very well.
Can't you see
what they're suggesting?
They're saying that
this dead man could be Robert.
I must find out for myself.
How can I not, David?
Please.
Well, forgive me, but I have
little faith in that exercise.
Under the circumstances,
is she likely to identify
the corpse as Underhay?
S'il vous plaît.
Oui.
Merci beaucoup.
Superintendent,
you have been most kind.
Au revoir.
The afternoon of the m*rder,
Rosaleen Cloade telephoned
to her bankers
to arrange the withdrawal
of £20,000 in cash.
God.
Bloody hell.
We've got him.
You construe this as evidence
against David Hunter?
Well, Hunter made her do it
because he'd decided to pay.
Yes, I'd call that evidence--
with knobs on.
No.
It is evidence corroborating
the existence of blackmail.
It is not evidence
of the intent to commit m*rder.
No. You cannot have it
both ways, my friend.
Either M. Hunter,
he was preparing to pay
or he was preparing to k*ll.
Ah.
Ma foi.
This whole case,
it is entirely the wrong shape.
And above all else,
the dead man, he is also wrong.
Enoch Arden.
Not even an anagram.
No.
He's a character in Tennyson.
Hmm?
I looked him up.
Bloke goes off and comes back
to find his wife's gone
and married someone else.
Um, I can't remember
what he does next.
[ Buzzer sounds]
What you need, M. Cloade,
is a witness who is independent,
who has no connection
with the family,
who knew Robert Underhay
and can point to the dead man
and say,
"Yes, that is Robert Underhay,"
or, "No, that is not,"
and you will have,
without doubt, the truth.
Oh, yes.
Obviously.
But where are we going to find
such a convenient individual?
Oh, M. Cloade, have you or have
you not engaged the services
of the greatest detective
in the world?
Viens.
Come and meet your star witness.
Major Porter, greetings.
Ah.
Yeah.
Don't suppose you've got
a smoke, M. Poirot?
I seem to have run myself dry.
[ Chuckles ]
- But of course.
- Oh.
Most kind.
Mm.
ROWLEY:
But, Lynn, don't you see?
If this Porter character
can identify the dead man
as Rosaleen's husband,
it means he was still her
husband when she embarked
on a bigamous
and unlawful marriage to Gordon.
That means Gordon's
original will still stands.
Uh-huh.
Yes!
Exactly.
And that means quarter share
of the entire estate to Jeremy,
quarter to Kathy,
quarter to your mother,
and a quarter to me.
Now, if we all work
to ginger up proceedings,
we could have the money in our
pockets by this time next year.
I won't have you pig it, Lynn.
You had enough of that
in Africa.
In fact, I reckon
I've had enough of it here, too.
What will they do?
Who?
Rosaleen and David.
[ Exhales deeply]
You're a good woman, Lynn.
You won't gloat in victory.
I have a great deal to learn
from you.
Personally, I think
Hunter's going to swing.
God, I'd pay good money
to see him kick.
[ Clattering ]
Lynn.
Lynn!
[ Door opens]
I didn't do it.
We both know
I can make you believe that.
But I want you to believe it
freely.
Because it's true.
I can't believe I've had to
come back to this bloody place.
Well, there has to be
an inquest, Rosaleen.
It's only one day.
It'll all come out-- about me.
Nothing will come out.
Because nothing will come out
of here...
that has not come out of here.
And that is how all
shall be well.
Come.
I have something for you.
[ Gavel taps ]
Thanking you.
Thanking you.
Next.
Uh, call David Hunter.
[ Spectators murmuring ]
[ Gavel taps ]
Mr. Hunter, you received
a letter from the deceased
summoning you
to the public house the Stag?
Yes.
Do you still have the letter?
No.
I can't see the point in saving
unsolicited messages, can you?
Do you suppose it's sensible
for a man in your position
to adopt such an insolent tone?
What do you mean, my position?
I've never had a position
in my life.
[ Spectators murmuring ]
PEBMARSH: This is very
ill-advised, Mr. Hunter.
We are trying to establish
the cause of death
of a person to whom you--
Precisely.
And you've already done that.
Heavy object, skull, bonk.
The man, whoever he was,
is dead.
Somebody k*lled him.
But you have no mandate
to speculate on the matter,
no authority
to harass witnesses.
You're a doctor on expenses.
[ Spectators murmur,
gavel taps ]
But since you are clearly
so fascinated
by the lives of people
more interesting than yourself,
I shall enlighten you.
While m*rder was being committed
in the Stag, I was elsewhere.
And that can be vouched for
by a lady.
[ Spectators murmuring ]
PEBMARSH:
Does this lady have a name?
Obviously.
But you're not going to hear it
from me.
[ Spectators murmuring ]
PEBMARSH:
Call Major Porter.
Major, is it correct you have
been taken under supervision
to view the body?
Yes, sir.
And were you able to identify
the man you saw?
I was indeed, sir.
You sound very certain, Major.
PORTER: Absolutely no question
about it, sir.
The man I saw
was Bobby Underhay.
- Yes.
- [ Spectators murmuring ]
Now, Mrs. Cloade,
Major Porter has identified the
deceased as Robert Underhay--
"absolutely no question
about it."
What do you say to that?
I say the major is mistaken.
[ Spectators murmuring ]
PEBMARSH:
But he is adamant.
He served with Underhay
in Mombasa.
He messed with him,
paraded with him--
If the major was a close friend
of my husband's,
then why did Robert
never introduce him to me?
[ Indistinct whispering]
Every morning for two years,
I watched Robert Underhay
take a bath.
I listened to him sing "Your
Baby's Gone Down the Plughole."
I slept beside him in his bed.
Did Major Porter do
these things?
I loved Robert.
I knew him.
He d*ed.
It was awful.
It is beyond madness
to suggest that he has somehow
been resurrected
and brought from Africa
to Warmsley Vale
and that I should not know him.
[ Spectators murmuring ]
[ Gavel taps ]
SPENCE:
Plucky girl, Rosaleen.
On top of everything, she's been
getting telephone calls.
Usual filth.
Someone doing a voice.
There's nothing we can do
about it.
Superintendent,
if you please to help me
with the English idiomatic.
When M. Hunter professes himself
to have no position,
does that mean
he considers himself
to be a gentleman of leisure?
Probably.
Though by trade,
he's a road builder.
M. Hunter, he is a navy?
No, no.
Engineer.
At least he was
till little sis hit the jackpot.
Tunnels through mountains.
That sort of thing.
He's an expert.
Now, that is information
that is most intriguing.
Whatever he is,
he's up the creek
if this lady doesn't pipe up on
his behalf, and pretty sharpish.
Because I'm going to have him...
and he's going to hang.
Humbug?
Uh...
[Bells tolling]
[ Indistinct conversations ]
Monsieur?
- Sorry. Have you got a moment?
- Oui.
Um, a bit off accosting you
like this among the graves.
I'm not entirely sure
where we go from here.
I asked you to find Underhay,
and as far as I'm con--
well, we're all concerned,
you found him.
- Oui.
- What remains now
is to prove the fact in court.
Rowley's worried, monsieur,
that the money being used
to retain your services
should now be spent
on barristers.
Ah.
Eh bien.
Poirot, he waives his fees.
It is my wedding present.
That is so kind, monsieur.
Isn't it, darling?
So generous. Thank you.
M. Poirot always knows
what it is people need,
even if they don't know it
themselves.
Well, in my experience,
mademoiselle,
people always know
but are sometimes reluctant
to admit it.
Excusez-moi.
[Bird chirping]
ROSALEEN:
[ Sniffles ]
POIROT: Do you know
when the priest, he is buried,
he is always facing
his parishioners?
Oui.
Because when the day
of judgment, it comes
and the dead, they all arise,
he can greet them
and lead them
through the gates of paradise.
It is a beautiful idea, hm?
He shan't be leading me.
You must not say that, ma chére.
Despair is a sin.
I'm cut off
from the mercy of God.
No, no, no, no, no.
Nobody is cut off
from the mercy of God.
Even
I try to pray-
Mm-hmm.
And it feels like...
I'm going to choke.
God is patient.
I'm just a simple farm girl.
I never wanted any of this.
Holy Mother and all the saints,
sir.
But I'm a wicked bitch.
You have told a lie?
[ Sobs]
The man you saw
was Robert Underhay?
- No.
- Your brother, he k*lled him?
No!
That is what the police believe.
I am not the enemy, madame.
And I believe I can help you
if you will allow me.
I...
It's David.
I-I need--
I need David.
[ Indistinct conversation ]
David?
My God.
Look at you.
Church must have been a riot.
Oh, um, the constable and I
have become, uh,
somewhat attached.
Come on, Mr. Hunter.
[ Metal clanking]
No.
David, I-I need this
to stop now.
David, please.
It's only just started.
Constable.
HUNTER:
[ Chuckles]
[Birds chirping]
Monsieur, I hoped
that you'd come.
I wanted to talk to you earlier,
but I couldn't.
Oui. I noticed at the church
you were not happy.
I've changed, monsieur,
and I don't quite know
how to cope.
Non, mademoiselle.
You have not changed at all.
You went to Africa because you
wanted to get away from England.
Because what was England to you?
Your school that was cold,
the food was gray,
your climate, it was dismal.
All of that.
No.
You left England
because you wanted to escape
from Rowley Cloade,
and you still do.
- You've been talking to David.
- No.
But you have.
He spoke of you in court,
did he not?
You're a devil at knowing
things, aren't you, monsieur?
That is my métier.
We talked for... what?
A couple of minutes.
Here, in this garden.
Ithoughtn
"This man... I need him."
Even if he b*at me, I would kiss
his hands and love him.
And David Hunter has placed
his life at your disposal.
Do you know why?
To force your hand.
For to save him
from the gallows,
you must stand up and say,
"Yes, it was I.
I was with him at that time."
And Rowley Cloade,
he will discard you.
David's trying to protect me
from a loveless marriage.
Oh, perhaps.
But perhaps he plays with you
the games most dangerous
and cruel.
But he's made you his alibi,
and you must stand up.
- [ Snoring ]
- I say.
Madame.
How was church?
We don't go, of course.
Lionel's an atheist,
and I converse regularly
with Joseph of Arimathea,
so I really have no need.
Sit.
Let me see your eyes.
But, madame,
I do not wish to disturb--
Oh, he's always nodding off.
Mm!
You have a lot of unresolved
indigo in your aura.
Yes, I know.
It is a problem.
[ Exhales deeply]
Right.
How can I help you?
- See? Never very far away.
- No.
Uh, M. Le Docteur,
could you tell to me
if the medical aspects of this
case are entirely satisfactory?
- Kathy?
- Hmm?
Shove off.
Oh. Righto.
Can't be in the room when he
discusses blood and horrors.
I'll just go and powder my...
you know.
[ Pills rattle]
You don't suffer
from your bowels?
Uh, mercifully, no.
Sound constitution
and a clear conscience.
I'll tell you what's wrong
with the medical aspects
of this case, Poirot.
The m*rder w*apon is not
what k*lled him.
Smothered in gore and blood
and hair.
But...
It is the wrong shape.
Clever you.
M. Le Docteur, where were you
at the hour of the m*rder?
Here.
I was called out
to Cecily Leadbetter,
which means having to listen
to her rant for an hour.
- But she pays well.
- [ Snoring ]
Check if you like.
Wake her up.
But you'll need your tin hat.
If you'll please to excuse me,
Doctor.
Oh.
Just one thing.
Mme. Rosaleen Cloade.
What about her?
I think she is not well.
Be kind enough to call upon her,
and send to me the bill?
Of course.
LIONEL: The m*rder w*apon is not
what k*lled him.
POIROT:
It is the wrong shape.
Not so fast, sir.
Madame.
I know jolly well
what you are, sir.
Oui.
You're a pimp, sir.
That's what you are.
I've seen the floozies
traipsing.
Floozy?
Up and down the stairs
the night that idiot was k*lled.
I saw that vinegar-faced doxy
with her hair tied up
in an orange scarf.
Oh!
I know your game, sir.
This woman in the scarf, madame.
She was up the stairs or down?
She was scuttling down,
having leeched the vital juices
from your customer
in number three.
- Enoch Arden?
- What?
Did you report this observation
to the police?
The police?
Where?
You direct them to me.
I'll make the stinkers hop.
What you make hop,
Mme. Leadbetter,
are the little gray cells.
And they speak to Poirot.
Hello?
It is I, Poirot.
[ Indistinct conversation ]
Merci.
Are we seriously under suspicion
for bludgeoning a man to death?
I call it a bit thick.
I mean, if it were Underhay,
we would have prostrated
ourselves at his feet.
He'd have been our savior.
Well, yes indeed.
The position most desirable for
the dedicated blackmailer, no?
Mesdames,
there is strong evidence
that the m*rder*r may have been
a woman.
You are not obliged
to tell to Poirot anything,
but it may spare you
the less delicate intrusions
of the police.
Very well.
Fine.
I was here with Adela,
playing...
- Hangman.
- Hangman.
Well, there you are. You see?
That was not so painful, huh?
[ Chuckles ]
Alors.
Oui.
Poirot, he must fly.
Would you please tell
to your daughter
that I'm sorry
to have missed her?
Oh.
One thing before I go.
The last word
that hanged the man,
what was it?
"Adze."
It's a sort of... tool.
POIROT:
Oh, yes. Of course.
A cross between a hammer
and an a*.
Au revoir.
Anything I can help you with,
Major?
No.
Thank you, Gerald.
That's what I ordered.
Sir.
Bit of news.
Bit of a blow for the Cloades.
Have to find someone else to
identify Underhay to the judge.
[g*nsh*t]
POIROT: Punctilious in life
and yet so indiscreet in death.
And why not leave to me
a message?
There is a message,
but it's not addressed to you.
"Dear Gerald"-- club servant--
"Sorry to cause you
extra bother.
Have a drink with me.
Chin-chin."
With the note was 100 quid.
Even under the circumstances,
that's a big drink.
I'm sorry to have kept you
waiting, monsieur.
Jeremy isn't here, I'm afraid.
But Poirot, he has come
to see you, Mme. Cloade.
Oui, he has some information
that you might find distressing.
Oh?
Were it not that you are
already, I think,
in possession of the facts.
[ Clock ticking ]
Your brother, madame?
- Charles?
- Oui.
Alas, he is dead.
Oh, that is bad news.
When did you discover that?
I discover it with certainty
even now as we speak.
But you have endured this
knowledge for many days, no?
[ Inhales sharply]
Damned if I'm going to cry
in front of a stranger.
You're itching to tell us
how you know this.
You might as well.
Poirot, he sees things, madame.
It is a habit
that he cannot change.
It seemed probable that a member
of the family Cloade
conjured into being
this Enoch Arden.
The guess of Poirot was that
an actor had been instructed.
But as he waited for you
just now,
he looked along the photographs
of your family
and he found a space--
a space where a photograph,
it has been removed.
FRANCES:
Charles.
We were never close.
POIROT: But close enough
to make him come running
to make the imposture, huh?
A charade that cost him
his life.
Money, monsieur.
I dangled money-- half
my share of the inheritance.
Oh, he came sprinting on
the chance of that, all right.
He was always
a deeply venal man.
But plenty of front.
He'd buy a Bentley
subject to a morning's trial
and swan all over London
buying suits, paintings, wine.
Nobody questions your checks
when you arrive in a Bentley.
Master of the swift
and heartless confidence trick.
When Hunter ground my face
into the dirt,
I thought, "Do you know what?
Charles is the man
we need here."
I'm sorry that he's dead.
And Major Porter, madame--
Does your sorrow extend to him?
What?
This morning, he k*lled himself.
[ Gasps]
He left the entirety
of his bribe
to a servant
that he barely knew.
It was the action of a man
who was in utter despair
at his own faiblesse
and corruptibility.
What bribe?
Oh, madame,
did you not bribe Major Porter
to identify your dead brother as
Robert Underhay for £100?
I did not!
What did you think, madame,
when he made the claim?
A rank lie
that he could not bear to face
having to repeat
in a criminal court.
[ Exhales sharply]
To be absolutely honest,
monsieur,
nothing surprises me anymore.
The world has gone mad.
[Vehicle approaching ]
[ Horn honks]
[ Engine turns off]
[Laughs]
- Made you jump, eh?
- Oui.
Think of it as a test
for your heart.
No charge.
Rosaleen, on the other hand.
How did you find her?
Um, run down.
- Under the weather.
- Ah.
Nothing that can't be patched up
with a few vitamin supplements.
[ Chuckles ]
These I have furnished.
Now, effectively, what's wrong
with her is, um... shell shock.
From the blast.
I mean, living with that bloody
wretched brother
doesn't help, of course.
But there again,
that's, uh, beyond my remit.
My terms are 30 days.
Comment?
Ah!
La douloureuse, oui?
The tragic moment when one must
pay for what one has consumed.
We've all of us been
perfectly bloody to her.
Simpering to her face
in the hope that she'll
come across with the cash
and then sniggering
up our sleeves
at the way she talks,
the way she dresses.
But your statement,
mademoiselle,
may have saved the life
of her brother.
That is not sniggering
up the sleeve.
That is courage.
But M. Rowley, what is his view
of your admission?
He doesn't know.
Ah.
Yet.
I wanted to talk to David first.
That's why I came.
I know he's been released.
[Woman screams]
[Whimpers]
What is it?
No, no, no, no.
Mademoiselle.
Mademoiselle, please.
Let Poirot, huh.
Trop tard?
Trop tard?
Not too late.
She's breathing.
Get sal volatile
and call an ambulance.
Smelling salts. Ambulance.
Now!
Help me get her up on the bed.
Oui. Oui.
[ Grunts, sighs]
Get rid of that
and get cold water and towels.
Do it now.
Sorry.
But in the bush,
one has to get a bit shouty
to make things happen.
No.
You are magnificent.
May I?
Madame?
You will permit Poirot?
LYNN: I don't know why
that keeps happening.
POIROT:
It is like the bilious att*ck.
It is the result
of ingesting too much morphine.
Even for a hardened addict
like Mme. Cloade,
the dose was most substantial
and designed to k*ll her.
Voilà.
15 to 20 ampoules.
Certainement,
she should have d*ed.
But she did not.
Why?
[ Footsteps approaching ]
Oh, now,
here's a very pretty scene.
- David--
- Don't speak to me.
Don't look at me.
I never asked anything of you.
Your running to the police
earns you nothing.
Do I have you to thank, Poirot,
for saving my sister's life?
Tell me, did you actually catch
the Marchmont woman in the act?
Poisoning her?
The only act, monsieur,
it is yours.
You are the source
of poisons here.
I regulate the amount of opiate
Rosaleen takes,
and I have done so
ever since the blast.
Wherever we go,
the filthy stuff is kept
under lock and bloody key.
Non.
Not today, monsieur.
Non.
Your sister,
she wished to k*ll herself.
Who enabled her to try?
Get that woman
to step away from my sister.
I want Rosaleen.
Mademoiselle.
[ Exhales sharply]
Desecration, Lynn.
Everything I draw close,
I defile.
Make foul.
Shh.
Shh, Shh.
[Vehicle approaching ]
One attempted su1c1de.
One successful su1c1de.
One ordinary, decent m*rder.
I don't understand any of it.
- [ Knock on door]
- MAN: Mr. Poirot?
Oui?
From Scotland Yard, sir.
Merci.
[ Door closes ]
How I dread the answer that is
contained in this envelope.
If it is "no"...
then Poirot has mistaken this
case from the very beginning.
But if it is "yes"...
[Sighs]
Poirot, très imbécile.
You ordered the newspapers.
You read them.
You should whip yourself
around the town...
for not asking this question
before.
The answer, it is "yes."
You know who's done our m*rder?
There is no m*rder
at Warmsley Vale.
But it is a place that harbors
one who is guilty
of the most cynical, merciless,
abominable slaughter
of many blameless people.
Many.
The carapace is torn away,
mon ami.
And the evil, it is disclosed.
[ Cows lowing ]
Rowley.
You've been crying.
I shall probably cry again
in a minute.
Is this a good place to talk?
Or shall we go inside?
No. Here's good.
In the sh*t.
I can't marry you, Rowley.
You know that, don't you?
It's a relief, isn't it?
What does that mean?
We've each been waiting
for the other one--
I asked you a question!
It means, Rowley, that you and I
are not suited to each other,
and to pretend otherwise
would be to condemn ourselves.
So who am I suited to?
I'd be fascinated to know.
Somebody who
properly appreciates
what you're trying to achieve
here.
Someone for whom...
...it is enough.
I see.
So we've established that I am
not enough for Lynn Marchmont.
- Don't do this, Rowley.
- Don't tell me what to do.
You have no authority
over me now.
So the question is,
who is enough for her?
Who is the lucky lad?
David.
Mm.
I love him.
He loves me.
I don't for a minute imagine
we'll be particularly happy
together.
But the funny thing is,
I don't care.
Love is bigger than happiness.
You bitch.
- [ Gasps, screams]
- You bloody bitch!
"Love is bigger than happiness"?
Bloody, heartless bitch!
He shan't have you, Lynn.
No, no.
That wouldn't be right at all.
Please.
I've k*lled two people
for love of you!
What's David done?
What's David done?!
Be careful!
M. Cloade!
You will help the lady
to her feet immédiatement!
It is time for Poirot to speak.
The death of Rosaleen Cloade.
Through whose mind has
this thought not crossed?
Could anything be
more convenient
for the indigent family Cloade?
She's not dead, Poirot.
POIROT:
No, monsieur. She lives.
But if you could have k*lled her
by wishing it,
she should have d*ed
a thousand times.
And such dissembling.
Such mendacity.
You, madame...
with your great command
of the voices from the dead.
Voices that speak miraculously
at seance.
Hatred like a sore.
Say your name.
Say it.
You'd do it with a corpse.
Bloody little whore.
POIROT: But your sister,
she did not approve.
She tried to get you to desist.
But oh, no, no.
You could not.
And on the night of the k*lling,
she found you again.
And knowing
that you would be compromised,
she offered to you
the mutually convenient alibi
of the game of hangman.
"Adze."
Buggering Irish dwarf!
LIONEL:
Katherine.
There's words for her.
Sniveling slut bucket!
- LIONEL: Katherine!
- F-Frothing little frigger!
- [Laughs]
- LIONEL: Katherine!
That's enough.
POIROT:
Bien sûr.
The good doctor,
who on the night of the k*lling
attended to Mme. Leadbetter.
For how long, Mme. Leadbetter?
For one hour?
An hour?
Ten minutes at the most.
Charged me for an hour,
the sewer.
The physician,
whose own digestive system
is crippled by the colossal
quantity of morphine
to which it is subjected
every day.
Bon sang!
No wonder this household
is in need of funds.
And then Poirot, he sent you
to examine Rosaleen Cloade.
Et Voilà--
what you had suspected
since the day of the trial,
when you saw in her your own
symptoms of... intoxication.
It was confirmed.
Good.
POIROT: A fellow addict with
a treasure trove of morphine.
Good.
POIROT:
C'est marrant, eh, doctor,
that your self-serving theft
actually saved the life
of the patient?
For in her attempted su1c1de,
she had consumed what,
15, 20 ampoules?
But only a handful of these
contained the morphine
because the rest you had emptied
most hastily
and refilled
with the castor oil.
The vitamin supplement
for which you wish to charge
Poirot 20 guineas, huh?
Monsieur.
I'm sorry,
but you are damaging this family
by saying things
that can never be unsaid.
It has to stop.
I can't pretend
that I never thought about
bumping off the widow.
But I k*lled Arden.
Oui.
Charles.
Bea summoned me here.
Told me the whole damned thing
before I even set foot
in the room.
I felt I had the advantage.
But he just stood there
so revoltingly supercilious,
oozing corruption.
I just felt the red mist
coming over me.
POIROT: For not only had you
already met this man,
but you had seen his photograph
in the house of your aunt.
Ever since I was a bloody child,
nobody in your generation
took me seriously or trusted me.
But you knew they were scheming,
this pair, independently,
to get the money of Gordon
for the family.
Why didn't you tell me?
Eh bien, your temper,
it was gone.
And you struck him.
Oh, I struck the bugger
like it was going out of style.
- [ Thud ]
- Straight down.
He whacked his head on
the stone thing 'round the fire.
Funny, I knew immediately
that he was dead.
POIROT:
And you saw your opportunity.
You dragged the body to
the center of the room, and...
you k*lled him
for the second time.
But you remembered
to clean the fire curb
of the blood, monsieur, oui?
But you only cleaned one side.
Poirot, he sees.
I was pretty confident,
what with Bea's enthusiastic
account of what she'd overheard
that this whole affair would be
laid squarely at Hunter's door.
That suited me well enough.
I knew Lynn had fallen in love
with him.
Knew it before you did.
And then came the pretty little
comedy of the poor Major Porter.
How-- How do you know it was me
who set him up?
Don't suppose you've got
a smoke, M. Poirot?
I seem to have run myself dry.
[ Chuckles]
POIROT: Because Major Porter,
he did not include you
in the cadging of the cigarette.
Because he already knew
that you did not smoke.
"But where are we to find
such a convenient individual?"
Your words.
When only hours beforehand,
you had pressed £100
into the hand of the man
that you knew
that Poirot would produce.
Told you I'd k*lled two people.
I did for Porter
just as surely as if I'd pulled
the trigger myself.
Oui.
Two deaths.
But neither of them
were acts of m*rder.
But today, mes amis,
Poirot shall produce a m*rder*r
of whose viciousness
he stands in awe.
What about the tart
in the head scarf?
Mme. Leadbetter, now, that is a
question that is most apposite.
Can't understand her at all.
No?
But she is here with us now,
madame--
the cold-blooded m*rder*r
of whom I speak.
Superintendent.
Purely for the sake of form,
M. Hunter,
would you put on this scarf?
You'll have to do a little bit
better than that, Poirot.
Very well.
Superintendent,
am I correct in assuming
that you still have
in your pocket the lipstick?
Here.
S'il vous plaît,
pass it to M. Hunter.
- Again, purely for the--
- No.
It's undignified.
Peculiarly lacking in dignity
at the time, too.
Then perhaps
you might explain to us
why you thought it necessary.
Would you mind awfully
doing it yourself?
You seem fairly comfortable with
the sound of your own voice.
Very well.
At half past 6:00,
you return here
to say yes to M. Arden,
that you will pay to him
the blackmail money.
But you find him dead.
And you realize
that you are in imminent danger
of being chained to a crime
that you did not commit.
So oh, no, you must not be here.
You should be in London.
So you seek out or...
No.
You converse
with Mlle. Marchmont.
And in her statement,
we find that you told to her
that you had to catch the 7:02
to London
and that you telephoned her from
there soon after 10:00, huh?
Pas possible, monsieur!
You did not go to London!
You returned here,
dressed in borrowed robes
to forge yourself
the perfect alibi
for the crime
you did not commit.
You leave for the police to find
a little clue-- the lipstick.
You did everything
to create the illusion
that at half past 8:00,
Enoch Arden was still alive...
I've seen you right, sweetie.
Now, there's a good girl.
Off you pop.
POIROT:
...by imitating his voice
and making sure that
the woman visitor to his room
was seen hurrying away
by Mme. Leadbetter.
Tell us
about the telephone call.
That's the bit
that intrigues me.
As instructed, at precisely
4 minutes past 10:00,
Rosaleen Cloade makes
the telephone call
to Mlle. Marchmont.
I have a call from London.
[Telephone rings]
- LYNN: David?
- I'm here.
All of which proves
that I am alert
to the hideous subterfuges
to which this family will stoop.
But none of which makes me
a m*rder*r.
And then you left unlocked
the door to the cabinet
that contained the morphine.
HUNTER:
Oh, yes.
That was remiss of me.
Why did I do that?
POIROT: You knew that if you
gave to her the opportunity,
she would take her own life.
The final service
for your delectation.
HUNTER: Never.
I would never harm my sister.
No.
But the lady presently
watching you from over there,
she is not your sister.
- LIONEL: Good heavens!
- KATHERINE: What?
POIROT:
Her name is Eileen Corrigan.
A simple farm girl,
as she defined herself to me
at the church.
And whatever the papers
may say...
...she did not die in Mayfair
two years ago.
No.
But the real Rosaleen Cloade--
She did.
Why?
Because you m*rder*d her.
More than any Cloade,
you hated Rosaleen.
For in her happy marriage
to Gordon Cloade,
she had excluded you.
Your first love,
your little sister,
had surrendered herself
to another man.
But you had already made
your own arrangements
to deal with her,
for you had drawn
under your spell
a parlormaid who was young,
Irish,
and in the service
of your sister.
Her name?
Eileen Corrigan.
You had seduced her,
had deliberately...
impregnated her.
And had had the baby
disposed of.
[ Gasps]
- Not true.
- True.
Outside of the church,
Eileen Corrigan told me
that she'd been cut off
from the mercy of God.
She miscarried.
No, monsieur.
She endured abortion.
As it was always your intention
that she should.
You wanted to crush
the very soul
of this simple Catholic girl...
to make her so terrified
by the state of her own life
that she would deliver it
to you.
And maintained by morphine...
ruled by terror,
Eileen Corrigan would do
whatever you told her to do.
Why?
Why?!
Because you, monsieur,
offered her salvation if she did
and... the fires of hell
if she did not.
And what you wanted from her
that day
was to become--
in totality, huh?--
the widow of Gordon Cloade.
But your sister,
she had the concern for you.
She knew that her marriage
had upset you.
So she wished to use
the occasion of this luncheon
as a reconciliation.
She wanted to beg
your forgiveness,
to have a share
in her good fortune.
[ Gasps]
Dear God, David.
What in hell is happening here?
POIROT: But there was
no forgiveness to be had.
You punish her by taking
her fortune for yourself,
and so you'd send to her death
most violent your only sister.
Cut me.
EILEEN:
Cut my face.
That's what you said,
Mr. Hunter.
[Voice breaking]
And that's what I did.
And I felt pleasure in it.
So your sister,
she returned to her husband.
[ Hinges creak]
[Ticking]
Dynamite.
[Sighs]
There was no accident of gas
in Mount Street.
No, no, no.
A letter received today
from Scotland Yard
contained the expert
forensic evidence
confirming my suspicions.
There was only the premeditated
expl*si*n of a b*mb.
A device built and operated
by you, David Hunter,
engineer and road builder.
How depraved and how evil
does a man have to be...
...to cause the slaughter
of so many innocent people
for the concealment
of a single m*rder?
If God should withhold His mercy
from anyone on earth,
monsieur...
...it surely will be you.
One thing you don't know.
How many sticks
of the blasting stuff
is tick, tick, ticking away
around this room?
I can't honestly say myself.
I did it in a bit of a hurry.
But quite enough
to blow this dreary little pub
half a mile in the air.
No, you won't.
You won't do it.
You won't do it.
Because you love me.
You love me, David.
And this time you will care
for what you love.
You will not destroy it.
I don't believe I will.
Besides...
...there is no dynamite.
I had you going, though.
Your baby has gone down
the plug hole.
Your baby has gone down
the plug.
The poor little thing
is so skinny and thin.
It ought to have been washed
in a jug.
[ Breathes heavily]
[Thud]
[ Door opens]
Miss Lynn Marchmont, monsieur.
Ah.
Bon.
Show her in, George.
This is a pleasure
so unexpected, mademoiselle.
So this is for me?
It did not make me popular
on the underground.
Open it.
It happened yesterday.
I suppose you read about it
in the newspaper.
Oui.
The members of my rich family
still speaking to me
keep saying how lucky I am.
And what do you say,
mademoiselle, to them?
I say... good bye mostly.
So you will return to Africa?
It's my home.
But you will come again
to see Poirot sometime?
Don't know.
Might do.
Can't promise.
Bon.
Look, open that, will you,
before I blub.
I don't want to blub.
Ah!
I got her from an Arab.
Her job, apparently,
is to watch over your house
so that only good things
are allowed to enter.
Write me a letter, monsieur.
I like your letters.
10x04 - Taken at the Flood
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The famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, puts his skills to work as he travels the world solving difficult crimes.
The famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, puts his skills to work as he travels the world solving difficult crimes.