You can pour that cup of tea now, darling.
This is the last bit.
Right you are, dear.
Wouldn't mind having your job, mate.
Standing there, doing nothing all day.
Easy now...
- Mind the paintwork. - You and your bloody paintwork!
Leave it there, thank you.
Could we have a signature, please?
Certainly.
Mon dieu!
Ah Mr. Poirot.
You've only done seven minutes!
You'll never cure your cold if you don't obey the instructions.
I can't imagine a method so undignified can cure anything.
And now also I have the back ache.
Has the post come, Miss Lemon?
Yes, and I'm afraid there was nothing for you.
It's only been three weeks since your last case.
Three weeks is an eternity to a brain like mine.
Without the constant stimulation, my little grey cells will starve and die.
Already you can see I am suffering the effects.
- There's a letter for you. - Read it.
"Dear Miss Matthews."
"I'm the new tenant of 36B, directly below you."
"I wonder if I might have a word at your earliest convenience?"
"Ernestine Grant (Mrs.)".
It sounds a bit ominous. What could she want?
Lord knows. I never clapped eyes on her.
Probably a complaint about the gramophone or something.
How's the cold, old boy?
And now also you try to give me the heart attack?
I would not be surprised if riding in that car was not responsible for my present malady.
She's much too much of a lady to give anyone a cold.
Running like a bird since I fitted those new gaskets.
Birds do not run, Hastings.
When you were little you should have paid more attention to your lessons in biology.
You're really in a bad way, aren't you?
Well, my friend,
as one approaches the end,
one begins to see life as it truly is.
Don't worry. I've got something that'll cheer you up.
Really?
A couple of tickets for "The Deadly Shroud".
You know, the new murder mystery.
Now my dear Hastings, that is most kind, but
how can a mere stage play be compared to the real life cases of Hercule Poirot?
Tell you what.
I'll wager you ten quid you can't solve "The Deadly Shroud".
You on?
The money, of course, is of no importance.
But I find your challenge irresistible.
I accept.
Oh, it's you.
You'd better come in.
Mother, are you all right?
Oh my God! Help her, someone.
Lady Muriel!
She's dead.
It was the sherry, of course.
What?
That killed Lady Muriel.
The sherry. It was poisoned.
Oh. Do you think so?
I'm at Mrs. Sadler looking pretty suspicious.
No, no, no.
Whisky?
No, thank you.
Now don't open this now. Only at the end.
What is it?
The name of the murderer, of course.
There's Mademoiselle Matthews!
Over there, Hastings. The girl in the red dress.
She lives in the flat below me, in Whitehaven Mansions.
Enchanting Mademoiselle, n'est ce pas?
Yes!
The question of motive has had me worried, I can tell you.
Why should anyone want to kill Lady Muriel?
Who would gain by her death?
The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is nobody.
Why?
Because Lady Muriel was never the intended victim.
No.
The person who should have drunk the poisoned sherry,
the person for whom it was intended,
was the missing son and heir who stood to inherit Lady Muriel's fortune.
Major Sadler.
Only one other person in this room
knew of this well-kept secret,
and stood to gain from the Major's death.
His wife.
Am I not correct, Mrs. Sadler?
But that's absurd. The writer is an imbecile.
Perhaps it is time I retire, Hastings.
I say, Poirot, you're beginning to make me feel badly about all this.
No, no, no, not at all.
Hercule Poirot is a man of his word,
even if the playwright is not.
We were not given all the facts.
It was only at the end that we discover that Major Sadler is Lady Muriel's son.
And that theater has made my cold even worse.
I knew it was that Mrs. Sadler right from the beginning.
Takes one to know one, I suppose.
No, it was that dress she wore in the first act. I mean it was so...
I can't find my key.
Perhaps you just forgot to bring it, darling.
Of course I didn't. I'm not completely dolt and I always bring my key.
Actually I saw her put it in her bag before we left.
There. You see?
The point is, how we're going to get in?
Well the night porter be off-duty now.
Donovan darling, you wouldn't care to be a cat burglar, would you?
No, Pat. I think even among cat burglars
a fourth flat might be regarded as rather a reckless proposition.
Is there a fire escape?
No, but there's a coal lift.
What's the point?
It's located in the basement to the flats, and goes up to a hatch in the kitchen.
You put the dustbins on it as well, send it down.
Won't that be bolted?
I never bothered to bolt mine. It's too stiff.
Well it's worth a try, wouldn't you say?
Absolutely.
Really, my dear chap, it's not necessary.
Only a bit of fun, you know.
No, no, no, no, no.
Ten pounds we agreed,
ten pounds it shall be.
Tiens.
C'est curieux. It is late to put out the dustbin.
Hastings, be so kind as to extinguish the light?
It's over here.
- Are you sure? - Course I'm bloody sure.
Put the light on.
Drat! It won't work.
- Try the sitting-room. - All right.
Looks like burglars.
No, no, I do not think so.
They are wearing the evening dress.
Un moment.
Life is just a bowl of cherries.
Don't be so serious Life's too mysterious
You work, you play You worry so
But you can't take your dough When you go-go-go
So, keep repeating It's the berries
For the strongest oak must fall
The sweet things in life To you are just loaned
So how can you lose What you've never owned?
Life is just a bowl of cherries
To live and laugh at it all
What on earth has Pat been up to?
Everything is in the wrong bloody place.
This isn't Pat's flat.
Jeepers!
"Mrs. Ernestine Grant".
Oh Lord, we're in 36B, not 46B.
I suggest we get out of here before she finds us.
Look!
Good God!
Life is just a bowl of cherries
Don't be so serious Life's too mysterious
You work, you play You worry so
But you can't take your dough When you go-go-go
What we are going to do?
I don't know.
Pat! Mildred! Something's happened.
What is it?
There's dead woman down here.
Oh my God!
Jimmy?
This is Jimmy Faulkener, Monsieur Poirot.
Bonsoir, Monsieur Faulkener.
Not "The" Monsieur Poirot?
- Yes. He lives in the flat above me. - Gosh, I didn't know.
This is an honor, sir.
Thank you.
You see, Hastings, I am still a force to be calculated.
So, the doors were unbolted.
You walked across the kitchen.
You say the light did not switch on?
No. The bulb had gone or something.
Tiens!
- How very odd. - Maybe there's a loose connection.
Or perhaps the bulb has been replaced.
We heard that sound before, sir.
It is the domestique. The maid.
We will let her sleep, for the moment.
You'd better watch your step, lads.
This is where the famous private detective, Mr. Hercule Poirot, lives.
So, Donovan and I came in here, I mean.
We still thought we were in Miss Matthews' flat.
And then we put the lights on and realized we weren't,
and we saw the body.
She has been dead for some time.
What, hours, do you mean?
- What is that on your hand? - What?
Oh. What's that?
My God! I think it's blood!
- Did you touch the body? - No!
So,
the crime was committed at the table,
and then the body was moved to the window.
It is blood.
Hastings, be so kind as to go downstairs and ask Monsieur Dicker
what time the last post was delivered this evening?
Right.
- Hastings. - Japp.
Ah, my dear Chief-Inspector Japp!
They'll be having murders in your back bedroom next, Poirot!
Right. Who's the victim?
She is Ernestine Grant.
Apparently she only moved into the flat today.
And how was the body found?
Well I'm afraid that's rather a long story, Chief-Inspector.
It would be.
I shall want statements from everybody.
- Omelette for you, Mildred? - Oh, I couldn't.
I suppose you weren't new to this sort of thing, Monsieur Poirot.
No, no. On the contrary. I think it is very nice.
You know, Mademoiselle Patricia,
I once loved a very young, beautiful English girl,
who resembled you greatly.
But, alas, she could not cook.
And the relationship withered.
No, I meant...
Well, you know. Poor Mrs. Grant and everything.
Mademoiselle Patricia, a little bread perhaps.
It is essential to keep up the strength of my little grey cells.
You seem a little better, sir.
Thank you. I am feeling better.
It doesn't seem real at all. It's like we're in a play or something.
A better play, I trust, than the farrago we saw this evening.
Didn't you like it?
We all thought it was terrific.
I beg to differ. On the contrary.
We were not given all the facts.
The facts as presented pointed to Chivers, the butler.
- Do you think so, sir? - Yes, sans question.
Consider his position.
He was the only person who had the motive and the opportunity to poison the sherry.
But that writer has this character of a simple bloody policeman speaking,
a windbag of the summing-up,
resting his whole case on the infantile subplot...
Ah, the door was open.
Come in, Inspector.
Well, it looks like pretty cut-and-dried matter.
Not worth your while, I'm afraid, Poirot.
That woman's Mrs. Grant, all right. The maid identified her.
She was shot at the table, with a small calibre automatic pistol.
She fell forward, which accounts for the blood on the cloth.
So somebody actually shot her in cold blood?
That's the way it looks, sir, yes.
- How dreadful! - And the time of death?
The doctor estimates between five or six hours ago.
None of you noticed anyone unusual in the flats around that time, I suppose?
Mildred arrived just after lunch,
and we didn't go out until Jimmy and Donovan came to collect us for the theatre, at about seven, wasn't it?
- And you got back at what time? - Oh, ten thirty or so.
What does the maid say?
- Oh, Miss Trotter... - Excuse me.
Seems she had the evening off.
She went out at five and got back at about ten o'clock,
letting herself in with her own key.
She noticed nothing unusual?
She thought her mistress was in bed.
Never thought to look behind the packing cases.
It's very curious.
Curious?
To try and hide the body.
He didn't want the crime discovered until he made his getaway.
Perhaps.
Pardon. Please, continue, Chief-Inspector.
Well, we found this on the floor.
Dropped in his haste, I expect.
Take a look at the corner, Poirot.
- "J.F." - Right. "J.F."
Now, take a look at this.
It was found in the pocket of the dead woman's dress.
"If it suits you, I will come this evening.
"Shall we say six o'clock?
"Frazer."
An incriminating document for this Frazer.
I think we may take it that "J.F." and Frazer are one and the same.
A John Frazer, perhaps.
We'll get a line on him, in due course.
Chief-Inspector, sir?
Miss Trotter here was wondering if she could go home now, sir.
I'm going to stay at my sister's, if that's all right.
I couldn't sleep here, not tonight I couldn't.
Yes, that would be all right for now.
Thank you, sir.
- Excuse me, Mademoiselle. - Yes, sir?
- Permit me if I may to ask you a question? - Yes, sir.
When you returned to the flat belonging to Mrs. Grant, this evening,
did you enter the sitting room?
Yes, sir.
I collected the evening post on me way up,
and I left the letters for Mrs. Grant on the sitting room table.
And you noticed nothing strange in that room?
No, sir. Nothing.
- Thank you very much, Mademoiselle. - Thank you, sir.
Good night.
Ah Poirot.
Apparently the last post arrived at nine o'clock this evening.
Thank you, Hastings.
And according to Dicker, nobody out of the ordinary came in or out of the building all night.
Inspector...
- A little favor, if I may? - Here we go...
I would like to examine the flat belonging to Mrs. Grant.
There's nothing there, Poirot.
Well...
I've put out a call for this John Frazer.
We find him, that's the end of it.
As you say.
Well, then...
Examine it as much as you like!
You all right?
I'm all right.
Shivering, you must be cold.
It's just this terrible thing with Mrs. Grant.
I know.
We were having such a lovely evening.
We'll have lots more lovely evenings.
Do you see that?
They're taking her away.
Shocking business.
And she only moved in this morning.
Let us, my friends, consider the facts.
First, the letter.
Which was found at the scene of the crime,
with the name John Frazer written on the bottom.
Then the handkerchief, with the monogram "J.F."
marked on one corner.
So, it would appear, would it not, my friends,
that this man, John Frazer...
... was careless, n'est ce pas?
Poirot, why are you rummaging around in the dustbin?
I thought so.
Voila!
Pardon, I have a cold.
Would you be so kind, Monsieur Donovan?
Thank you.
No, no, no! Why did you take off the lid? That is stupid!
Jimmy, fetch some brandy, if you please. In the sitting room, I think.
Hastings, a damp cloth.
What happened?
Here, drink this, my friend.
You are fortunate, Monsieur Bailey. It could have been worse.
Even poison, perhaps.
You must be more careful.
- It kicked like a mule. - Feeling any better?
I think so. Thanks.
Mon dieu.
Hastings!
Take him upstairs to the flat.
Perhaps prepare for him some coffee.
No, I'm sure I'll be fine now, thanks.
No, no, no, I insist.
You are still weak, yes?
I suppose I do feel a little bit wonky still.
Better come along, old chap. Take it easy for a bit.
Hastings, make sure Monsieur Bailey is very comfortable. Because, Hastings,
I am anxious for his health.
Right.
So, what now, sir?
Now, Jimmy,
...nothing.
The case is finished.
Finished?
Oh yes, my friend.
I now know everything.
I don't understand, sir. Have they arrested this Frazer chap, already?
There is no Frazer chap.
He is the name only.
A name carefully marked on a handkerchief.
The name written on the bottom of a letter,
which was placed in the pocket of the dead woman, where we would find it.
Good Lord!
But, who changed the light bulb in the kitchen, then?
No one.
The light, it works to perfection.
It was a ruse to get you into this sitting room.
Come, I'll show you.
You see, Jimmy, with the light on,
it is obvious at once that this is not the kitchen of Mademoiselle Patricia.
You would to have no reason to go into the sitting room with him.
- No. - Hmm.
Jimmy, what is this?
The key to this flat?
No.
It is the key to the flat upstairs.
The key to Mademoiselle Patricia's flat.
Monsieur Bailey stole this key, Jimmy, from her bag, and, I presume, sometime during the evening.
- Donovan stole it? - Yes.
What on earth for?
To prevent you all from going into her flat when you came back from the theatre.
- But why would he want... - Mon dieu!
To drive you into this flat instead!
To drive you, my friend, into the service lift.
But where did you find the key?
Where I expected to find it.
In the pocket of Monsieur Bailey.
You see, Jimmy,
I only pretended to find this bottle in the rubbish bin.
I had it in my pocket all the time.
But I hand it to Monsieur Bailey, he sniffs it and, pfff.
In this bottle is ethyl chloride,
a most powerful instant anaesthetic.
So, for the few moments, Monsieur Bailey is unconscious.
But, it is time enough,
while you are in this room to fetch the brandy,
for me to take the two items
from Monsieur Bailey's pocket that I knew I would find there.
No no no, patience my friend, and you will learn everything.
I asked myself,
"Why hide the body behind the packing cases"?
To gain time? Yes,
but for a very special reason.
You see, Jimmy, earlier this evening,
the murderer entered this flat in order to take something.
But that something was nowhere to be found.
So it was necessary for him to return,
but only after the last post was delivered.
So he had to hide the body behind the curtain.
Then Mademoiselle Trotter, the domestic, enters,
sees nothing unusual, places the last post on the table,
and retires to bed.
And what's that letter then, sir?
Oh, this letter, Jimmy.
This was the second item I took from Monsieur Bailey's pocket.
It was this letter that he was so desperate to find.
Are you saying then that Donovan murdered Mrs. Grant?
Exactement.
But why?
He didn't even know Mrs. Grant. Why should he want to kill her?
Jimmy, before I tell you,
...allow me to ask you a question.
It is a most personal one.
Are you in love with Mademoiselle Patricia?
Oh come on, come on, come on. Don't be shy.
If I were your age, Monsieur,
without doubt I too would be in love with her.
Well yes, as a matter of fact, I care for Pat damnably,
...but, of course, she's engaged to Donovan.
Well, she will need you when this trouble is known.
How do you mean?
Once this case becomes public, Jimmy,
it would be very difficult to keep her name out of it entirely.
You see, Mademoiselle Patricia was the motive for the murder.
Poirot!
Vite!
Poirot, he's made a dash for it!
Constable, stop that man in the lift. Hurry!
And you, Jimmy.
Well, there's not a sign of him out there, sir.
That's dashed odd. He cannot have got far.
Ah ha! Your friend is not a fool, Monsieur Faulkener.
He presses the button inside the lift but does not descend himself. Voila!
Quick! The basement!
He's down there, somewhere.
Nothing here.
It must have been something else we heard, Monsieur Poirot.
I think we'd better go back upstairs.
Nothing 'round the back, sir.
Not a thing. He just disappeared.
Disappeared all together.
Grown men do not vanish into thin air, mon ami.
Well, he did.
No!
Oh my God! Donovan!
Monsieur Bailey! Monsieur Bailey!
I'd better call an ambulance, sir, I think.
Is he badly hurt?
Oh my God!
That front axle was just sheared right through.
Mon pauvre Hastings!
But you must not brood. You must occupy yourself, hein.
Go and telephone the Chief-Inspector Japp and tell him we have caught his fish, hein.
What's happened to Donovan?
I'm going to need a whole new front-end.
Monsieur Bailey,
please give me the letter you have just taken from the table.
Thank you, Monsieur.
Jimmy, would you be so kind as to read us this letter,
...written to Mrs. Grant.
Well it looks as if it comes from a solicitor's.
"Dead Madam, we return the document you forwarded to us."
"It is quite in order,"
"and the fact of the marriage having taken place abroad"
"does not invalidate it in any way."
"Yours truly", etc etc.
So, Jimmy, you asked why Mrs. Grant, hein.
Eh bien, voila.
It's a marriage certificate between Donovan Grant and Ernestine Trubshaw,
dated 1930.
Who's Donovan Grant?
He now calls himself Donovan Bailey.
I wanted to divorce.
I begged Ernestine, but she refused.
Said she'd never let me free.
After I fell in love with Pat, Ernestine started hounding me.
Telephoned me every day, held it over me, threatening to tell Pat everything.
Drove me mad!
Then she suddenly announced she'd taken a flat here, right underneath Pat.
I couldn't believe it.
By then I knew she was crazy enough to do anything.
So, what happened yesterday, Monsieur?
Ernestine called me in the afternoon.
She said she'd written to Pat to arrange to see her, to...
...tell her the truth about us.
Naturally, I assumed the worst.
It knew I had to do something once and for all.
I called down to her flat 'round about six.
Oh. It's you.
You'd better come in.
Drink?
You've absolutely no right to go hounding Pat!
But I'm not hounding her, my darling.
I'm simply telling her what a rotten bound you are, promising to marry her,
...when you're already married to me.
We got married in Switzerland, Ernestine, if you remember.
It doesn't count under British law.
So you keep telling me.
But I thought I'd test your little theory.
So I sent my solicitor a copy of our marriage certificate.
He's telephoned me to say it's completely valid,
and he's written back to me to confirm it.
Show me.
I haven't receive his letter yet.
It'll arrive in the evening post, I expect.
It's going to be quite a shock for poor Miss Matthews.
I'm warning you, Ernestine.
If you approach Pat, so help me God, I'll kill you. I swear it!
Donovan...
Don't make me laugh.
Now run along and try to impress somebody else, will you?
Poor Miss Matthews.
You really have let her down, Donovan.
I warned her, you see?
But she wouldn't listen.
Afterwards I went back home and changed for the theater.
It couldn't let her hurt Pat like that.
Could I?
My dear Chief-Inspector!
Came as fast as I could, Poirot.
No, no, no, my friend. You came just in time.
The case is closed.
Jimmy, go to Mademoiselle Patricia.
She doesn't want me.
She wants him.
No, no, no, no, mon ami.
She needs you.
Go on, go to her.
Hanging's too good for some people.
Basically, what you've got here, Hastings, is some very expensive scrap metal.
Hastings, my friend,
Poirot is as magnanimous in defeat
as he is modest in victory.
Oh, yes?
In view of the fact that you are going to need every penny you can get
to restore this beautiful machine to health,
I have decided to pay up,
and be content.
I say!
Thanks, old boy.
Think nothing of it, old boy.
Good morning, Miss Lemon.
Good morning, Mr. Poirot.
- And what a beautiful morning it is. - Lovely.
I hear you've been having all sorts of excitement here.
No, it was nothing. A case like any other.
- I've got your friar's balsam for you. - My what?
Your inhalant for your cold.
Poirot does not have colds, Miss Lemon.
It is well known that Poirot scorns all but the gravest afflictions.
But yesterday you were...
Miss Lemon,
...yesterday was yesterday.
My tisane, if you please.