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.
No, easy, now.
And mind the paintwork!
Oh, you and your bloody paintwork.
Leave it there, thank you.
And could we have a signature, please?
Certainly.
Oh, mon Dieu. Ca suffit.
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, Miss Lemon.
And now once more I have the backache, eh?
Has the post come, Miss Lemon?
Yes, and I'm afraid there was nothing for you.
Oh.
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 gray 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 am 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.
Have you clapped eyes on her?
Probably a complaint about the gramophone or something.
How's the cold, old boy?
And now also you're trying to give me the heart attack?
I wouldn't 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.
She's 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."
Hmm?
You know, the new murder mystery at Wyndham's.
Oh, 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 10 quid you can't solve "The Deadly Shroud."
You on?
Well, the money, of course, is of no importance.
But I find your challenge irresistible.
I accept.
Oh, it's you.
You 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 was?
That killed Lady Muriel.
The sherry -- it was poisoned.
Oh. Do you think so?
Mm.
I think that Mrs. Sadler is looking pretty suspicious.
No, no, no.
Ah.
Whiskey?
No, thank you.
Now, don't open this now -- only at the end.
What is it?
The name of the murderer, of course.
Ah.
It's Mlle. Matthews.
Over there, Hastings, the girl in the red dress --
she lives in the flat below me in Whitehaven Mansions.
An 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.
Hmm.
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?
Oh!
Oh, but that's -- that's absurd.
The writer is an imbecile.
Oh, yes, Mrs. Sadler, your plan was clever --
so clever that it almost had me fooled.
But I noticed that...
...what did happen to the missing glass.
Perhaps it is time I retire, Hastings.
I say, Poirot, you're beginning to make me feel badly
about all this.
No, 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.
Of course I did. I got it at the end of act one.
I knew it was that Mr. Sadler right from the beginning.
Takes one to know one, I suppose.
It was that dress she wore in the first act.
I mean, it was so -- Ugh.
Oh, I can't find my key.
Perhaps you just forgot to bring it, darling.
Of course I didn't.
I'm not a complete nincompoop, Donovan.
I always bring my key.
Actually, I saw her put it in her bag before we left.
There, you see?
The point is, how are we going to get in?
Well, the night porter will 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-floor flat might be regarded
as rather a reckless proposition.
Is there a fire escape?
No, but there's a coal vent.
That's a point.
It's loaded in the basement of the flats
and goes up to a hatch in the kitchen.
We put the dustbins on it, as well, and send them down.
Won't the hatch be bolted?
I never really bother to bolt mine.
It's too stiff.
Well, it's worth a try, wouldn't you say?
Absolutely.
Oh, really, my dear chap, it's not necessary.
Only a bit of fun, you know.
No, no, no, no, no.
£10 we agreed.
£10 it shall be.
Qui est-ce?
The carrier? It is late to put out a dustbin.
Hastings, be so kind as to extinguish the light.
This'll be it.
Are you sure?
Of course I'm bloody sure.
Put the light on.
No, they won't work.
Try the sitting room.
All right.
Looks like burglars.
No, no, no, I do not think so.
They are wearing the evening dress.
Un moment.
What on earth's Pat been up to?
Everything's 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.
What are we going to do?
I don't know.
Pat! Mildred!
Something's happened.
What is it?
There's a dead woman down here.
Oh, my God.
Jimmy?
Uh, this is Jimmy Faulkner, M. Poirot.
Ah, bon soir, M. Faulkner.
Not the M. Poirot?
Well...
Yes, he lives in the flat above me.
Oh, gosh, I didn't know. This is an honor, sir.
Well, thank you.
You see, Hastings?
I am still a force to be calculated.
So, the doors were unbolted.
You walk across the kitchen.
And you say the light did not switch on.
No, the bulb had gone or something.
Ah.
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 domestic, the maid.
We will let her sleep for the moment.
You 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 Matthew's flat.
And then we put the light on and realized we weren't,
and then we saw the body.
Ah.
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 M. Dicker what time
the last post was delivered this evening.
Right.
Hastings.
Japp.
Ah, my dear Chief Inspector Japp.
You'll be having murders in your back bedroom next, Poirot.
Right. Who's the victim?
Mrs. Ernestine Grant.
Apparently, she only moved in to 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.
Omelet for you, Mildred?
Oh, I couldn't.
I suppose you're inured to this sort of thing, M. Poirot?
No, no, no, on the contrary. I think it is very nice.
You know, Mlle. 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.
Mlle. Patricia, a little bread, perhaps?
Mm.
It is essential to keep up the strength
of my little gray cells.
You seem a little better, sir.
Thank you. I am feeling better.
Doesn't seem real at all.
It's like a little play or something.
A better play, I trust, than the farrago we saw this evening.
Oh, didn't you like it?
Oh, we all thought it was terrific.
Ah, I beg to differ -- on the contrary.
We were not given all the facts.
The facts, as presented, pointed to Chivers, the butler.
Oh, do you think so, sir?
There's no question.
Consider his position.
He was the only person who had the motive and the opportunity
to poison the sherry.
And then the writer
has this character of a simple, plodding policeman
speaking a windbag of the summing up
and resting his whole case on the infantile subplot --
The door was open.
Come in, Inspector.
Well, it looks like a pretty cut-and-dried matter.
Not worth your while, I'm afraid, Poirot.
But that woman's Mrs. Grant, all right.
The maid identified her.
She was shot at the table
with a small-caliber 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 and 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 theater at about 7:00, wasn't it?
Mm.
And you got back at what time?
Oh, 10:30 or so.
What does the maid say?
Ah, Miss Trotter.
Excuse me.
I assume she had the evening off.
She went out at 5:00 and got back about 10:00,
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.
That's very curious.
Curious?
To try and hide the body.
Didn't want the crime discovered until he made his getaway.
Perhaps.
Well, mm, but...
Oh, 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."
That's right -- "J.F."
Now take a look at this.
This was found in the pocket of the dead woman's dress.
"If it suits you, I will come this evening.
Shall we say 6:00?
Frazer."
An incriminating document for this Frazer.
Oh, 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 can 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'll be all right for now.
Oh, thank you, sir.
Excuse me, mademoiselle.
Yes, sir?
Permit me, if I may, to ask you the question.
Yes, sir.
When you returned to the flat
belonging to Mrs. Grant this evening,
did you enter the sitting room?
Oh, yes, sir.
I collected the evening post on my 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 9:00 this evening.
Thank you, Hastings.
And according to Dicker,
nobody out of the ordinary came in and out of the building
all night.
Uh-huh.
Inspector, please.
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.
Oh, examine it as much as you like.
You all right?
I'm all right.
You're shivering. You must be cold.
It's just this terrible thing with Mrs. Grant.
I know.
We were having such a lovely evening.
And we'll have lots more lovely evenings.
Do you see that?
Hmm?
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
and 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?
Mm.
Poirot, why are you rummaging around in the dustbin?
Aha.
I thought so.
Voilą.
Pardon. I have a cold.
Would you be so kind, M. Donovan?
Thank you.
Oh, no, no, no!
Why did he take off the lid? That is stupid!
Jimmy, fetch some brandy, if you please --
in the sitting room, I think.
Hastings...
What happened?
Here. Drink this, my friend.
You are fortunate, M. 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.
Ohh.
Oh, mon Dieu.
Hastings, take him upstairs to the flat, huh?
Perhaps prepare for him some coffee.
I'm sure I'll be fine now, thanks.
No, no, no, no, no, no, I insist.
You are still weak, yes?
I suppose I do feel a bit wonky still.
Better come along, old chap, take it easy for a bit.
Ohh.
Hastings, make sure M. 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,
the 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 show you.
You see, Jimmy, with the light on,
it is obvious at once
that this is not the kitchen of Mlle. Patricia.
You would have had no reason
to go into the sitting room, would you?
-No. -No.
Jimmy, what is this?
The key to this flat?
No.
It is the key to the flat upstairs,
the key to Mlle. Patricia's flat.
M. 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 theater.
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 M. 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 M. Bailey.
He sniffs it and -- Pff!
In this bottle is ethyl chloride,
a most powerful instant anesthetic.
So, for the few moments, M. 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 M. Bailey's pocket
that I knew I would find there.
Yes, but --
Now, now, now, now, patience, my friend,
and you will learn everything.
I ask myself,
"Why hide the body behind the packing cases?"
To gain time?
Yes.
But for the very special reason.
You see, Jimmy, earlier this evening,
the murderer entered this flat in order to take something, huh?
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 Mlle. 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?
Ah, this letter, Jimmy?
This was the second item I took from M. 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?
Ah.
Jimmy, before I tell you,
allow me to ask you a question.
It is a most personal one.
Are you in love with Mlle. 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 once his trouble is known.
How do you mean?
Once this case becomes public, Jimmy,
it will be very difficult
to keep her name out of it entirely.
You see, Mlle. 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 can't have got far.
Ah, your friend is not a fool, M. Faulkner.
He presses the button inside the lift,
but does not descend himself -- voilą.
Quick -- the basement!
He's down there.
Nothing here.
Must have been something else we heard, M. Poirot.
I think we'd better go back upstairs, eh?
Nothing around the back, sir?
Not a thing.
He just disappeared, disappeared altogether.
Grown men do not vanish into thin air, mon ami.
Well, he did.
No!
Oh, my God, Donovan!
M. Bailey! M. Bailey!
I'd better call an ambulance, sir, I think.
Is he badly hurt?
Oh, my God.
That front axle's just sheered right through.
Oh, mon pauvre Hastings.
But you must not brood.
You must occupy yourself, eh?
Go and telephone the Chief Inspector Japp
and tell him we have caught his fish, eh?
What's happened to Donovan?
It'll need a whole new front end.
M. Bailey, please give me the letter you have just taken
from the table.
Thank you, monsieur.
Jimmy, be so kind
as to read us this letter written to Mrs. Grant.
Well, it looks as if it comes from a solicitor's.
"Dear 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," et cetera, et cetera.
So, Jimmy, you ask why Mrs. Grant, huh?
Et bien -- voilą.
The marriage certificate
between Donovan Grant and Ernestine Trapshaw, dated 1930.
Who's Donovan Grant?
He now calls himself Donovan Bailey.
I wanted a 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.
And she suddenly announced she'd taken a flat here,
right underneath Pat's.
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...
...said she'd written to Pat
to arrange to see her to tell her the truth about us.
Well, I naturally assumed the worst.
I knew I had to do something once and for all.
I called around to her flat around about 6:00.
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 bounder 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 received 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.
Oh, Donovan.
Don't make me laugh.
Now, run along and try and 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.
I couldn't let her hurt Pat like that, could I?
Ah, my dear Chief Inspector.
I came as fast as I could, Poirot.
No, no, my friend, you came just in time.
The case is closed.
Jimmy, go to Mlle. Patricia.
She doesn't want me.
She wants him.
No, 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.
Ah, 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 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.