FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING TRAIN WHISTLE TOOTS Poirot!

Ah!

Hastings!

Ah!

Mon ami.

Bert, get a couple of nice handbags out of this!

I'll take care of that, thank you.

Who is your friend, Hastings?

Oh, this is Cedric, he's a cayman.

I shot him on the Orinoco, a miles upstream from La Urbana.

We'd been in portage round white water all day and I was pretty exhausted, I can tell you, and suddenly... - Hastings?

- What's that, old chap?

You must tell me the story in full detail later.

I think these gentlemen wish to get home to bed.

Oh, right!

So, how have you been these last six months?

Busy?

No.

The little grey cells, I fear, they grow the rust.

When the date approached for your return, I said to myself, "Now something will arise.

"We will hunt again together, we two."

Sorry.

But it must be no common affair, Hastings.

It must be something recherche.

Delicate.

Fine.

Anyone would think you were ordering dinner at The Ritz.

CAYMAN THUDS Sorry.

Where are we going?

I thought we were going to my hotel first.

There is no hotel, Hastings.

Until you can reclaim your apartment, you stay with Poirot.

Oh, I say!

This super fine crime of yours hasn't turned up yet, I suppose.

Pas encore.

At least, I am not sure.

This is awfully decent of you, Poirot.

Well, not at all, mon ami.

I need you where I can keep an eye on you.

To protect you from the beauties with the auburn hair, no?

What did you mean just now when you said you weren't sure?

About the super fine crime?

Ah.

Hastings.

HE SNIFFS Uh, Hastings, you've forgotten your crocodile.

I would rather its curious smell was confined to your bedroom.

Oh, well.

It was a present for you, actually, Poirot.

For me, Hastings?

Oh!

That is beautiful!

I mean, if you don't like it... No, Hastings.

It... It adds a certain "je ne c'est quoi", do you not think?

Well, I thought so.

The chap who stuffed it for me said the smell would go away after about a month or so.

HE GRUMBLES I like the smell, Hastings.

HE INHALES DEEPLY One feels braced.

It brings to London, the jungle.

Good.

For one awful moment I thought you might not like old Cedric.

- No.

- He's a cayman.

I shot him when we were still up in Venezuela.

Hastings, it is a week since I received this letter.

What do you make of it?

"Mr Hercule Poirot, "you fancy yourself, don't you, at solving mysteries "that are too difficult for our poor, "thickheaded British police.

"Let us see, Mr Clever Poirot, just how clever you can be.

"Perhaps you'll find this nut too hard to crack.

"Look out for Andover on the 21st of the month.

"Yours sincerely, ABC."

ABC?

Typed.

Thick paper.

Postmark London WC1.

What is your opinion, Hastings?

Some madman, I suppose.

A madman is a very dangerous thing, my friend.

Wait a minute.

Today's the 21st.

What have you done about it?

Did you go to Andover?

Hastings, as always the man of action, huh?

What is there to do?

There are no fingerprints.

No clues to the possible writer.

Well, don't blame me if there's a story in the papers tomorrow about a whacking great robbery near Andover.

- What a comfort that would be.

- A comfort?

It would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else.

Of what?

Of murder, my friend.

JAPP: Cream crackers, yes.

Edwards' desiccated soup, yes.

Sausages?

I can't go carrying sausages around all afternoon.

No!

My desk isn't a blooming larder, Emily.

Supposing someone... I'll do that, Sir.

POIROT: Chief Inspector.

Ah, morning, Poirot.

Well, well, well.

If it isn't Captain Hastings back from his holidays in the wilds of whatchamacallit.

Sit down, sit down.

Looking well, too.

Getting a bit thin on top, though, eh?

Oh, I don't know.

You'll be rivalling Monsieur Poirot soon.

Chief Inspector, do you know that Captain Hastings has brought me back as a present a crocodile?

A cayman, actually.

I bagged him while we were still up in Venezuela.

We'd been in portage round white water... And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?

Today is the 22nd, Chief Inspector.

Yeah.

You recall the anonymous letter?

Oh, yes.

"Beware the 21st."

Andover, wasn't it, you mentioned?

Oui.

Just to keep you happy.

Get me Inspector Glen at Andover, will you?

We get these anonymous letters every day of the week.

People with nothing better to do and a bit weak in the top storey write 'em and... Hello, Dennis.

Japp.

How are you?

Now, listen, do you remember that anonymous letter I told you about?

Yeah.

Oh.

Really?

Right.

Yes, I'd better.

Righto.

Well?

Well, I don't suppose it means anything, but an old woman who kept a tobacco and newspaper shop in Andover was battered to death last night.

Glen says they think they can lay their hands on the man who did it, though.

All the same, I'll pop down there and have a dekko.

What was the name of the woman, Chief Inspector?

Ascher.

Mrs Alice Ascher.

No, I mean, the thing is, there was no money taken out of the till.

So I mean, one would expect they would have been after the money.

- Ah, Poirot.

- Chief Inspector.

This is Inspector Glen.

He's in charge of the case.

How do you do?

Looks pretty straightforward.

The victim is Alice Ascher, 60 years old.

Struck down behind the counter by a heavy blow to the head.

- And you suspect the husband?

- We do.

We haven't been able to find anyone yet who saw Ascher in the neighbourhood, but of course, it's early days.

Did Monsieur Ascher live with this wife, Inspector?

No, they separated some years ago.

Ascher's a German.

Used to be a waiter, but he took to drink.

Oui.

Perhaps you should look at this.

The famous anonymous letter, eh?

The body was found in this corner, yes?

Yes.

Lying sort of huddled.

This doesn't read like Ascher.

I doubt if he's got the wits for it.

It's odd that the letter should mention the 21st of the month, though.

Of course, it might be a coincidence.

I do not like that kind of coincidence, Inspector.

Nothing was missing from the shop?

No.

Money in the till seems undisturbed.

No signs of robbery.

But something has been added perhaps?

Added?

GLEN: An ABC railway guide.

She must have been looking up trains from Andover.

Her or a customer.

Fingerprints?

Only Mrs Ascher's as far as we can tell so far.

POIROT: Regard, Hastings.

Wedding picture.

A beautiful woman, n'est-ce pas?

Yes.

Oh, this room, Poirot.

All that's left of a life.

Couple of broken china ornaments, photograph.

New pair of stockings.

POIROT: Hastings.

Let us not become sentimental.

There is nothing more for us here.

Come.

Dear, oh, dear.

Something is amiss, Chief Inspector?

I've been trying to get a list of people who were seen coming in here.

And no-one's seen anybody?

Oh, they've seen people, all right.

Three tall men with furtive walks.

Four short men with black moustaches.

Two men with beards.

Three fat men.

One man with a peculiar hat.

And if I'm to believe what they say, every one of them had a sinister expression.

Does anyone claim to have seen this man Ascher?

Oh, no, nothing helpful like that.

DR KERR: She never knew what hit her.

Struck in the back of the head.

You can't believe it's the same woman as in the photograph, can you?

Well, yes, Hastings, you can see the line of the jaw, the bones, the structure of the head.

Did she have any children?

No.

But there's a niece.

Name of Mary Drower.

She's in service out near Hoveton.

Steady young woman, they say.

The weapon hasn't been found, of course.

A weighted stick, a club, something of that kind.

Would there be needed much force to strike such a blow?

Meaning, I suppose, would a shaky old man of 70 like Ascher do it?

Perfectly possible, given sufficient weight in the head of the weapon.

I haven't done nothing!

It is a shame and a scandal to bring me here!

Let me go!

How dare you!

I haven't done nothing.

I'm not charging you with anything yet, Ascher.

And you're not obliged to say anything.

I did not kill her.

It is all lies.

You threatened to often enough.

No, that was a joke.

Take him away.

Detained on suspicion.

I never did go near Alice!

I haven't done anything!

Let me go!

Do you perceive, Hastings, there is already one further point in the favour of the innocence of Monsieur Ascher.

- Really?

- Oh, yes.

If he had been abusing and threatening his wife, she would have been facing him over the counter.

But instead, she had her back to her assailant.

Obviously, she is reaching for some tobacco or cigarettes for a customer.

Ah.

I think it is you who are Mademoiselle Mary Drower?

Will you not sit down, Mademoiselle?

No, thank you, Sir.

I dare say the mistress wouldn't mind, but I'd rather not while she's out.

SHE SNIFFLES You were fond of your aunt?

VOICE BREAKING: Oh, it's terrible.

Poor Auntie.

Such a hard life she'd had, too.

She was always so good to me, Auntie was.

And all the trouble she had with that German devil.

It was awful the things he used to say.

That he'd cut her throat and suchlike.

Swearing and cursing, too.

It's dreadful to think, Sir, what people come to.

Mademoiselle, if you should need at any time, you will be sure to contact me, yes?

Is there something queer going on, Sir?

Yes, my child, something queer is going on.

But later, you may be able to help me perhaps.

I'll do anything, Sir.

It wasn't right, Auntie being killed.

Well?

I think Monsieur Ascher is a suspect most unlikely, Hastings.

Ah.

What about the girl, then?

It is always possible, of course, but with what motive?

I see what you mean.

If only he'd left some clue.

Ah, the clue.

It is always the clue that attracts you, yes, Hastings?

Alas that our murderer, he did not smoke a cigarette exotique, leave the ash on the floor and then step on the ash with shoes that have nails of a pattern most curious.

He is most unobliging, our murderer.

But at least, mon ami, you have a railway guide.

The ABC.

Now, there is a clue for you.

You mean, you don't think he left it there by mistake?

No, he left it on purpose.

The fingerprints tell us that.

WHISTLE BLOWS But, Poirot, there weren't any fingerprints on it.

Exactement, Hastings.

Our murderer, he is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark.

But in the very nature of things, he cannot help to throw the light upon himself.

What do you think, Poirot?

Excellent, Hastings.

Most artistic.

Well done.

HASTINGS: You don't think it's a bit overpowering?

We can find somewhere else for the fruit bowl.

What we could do is... There is another letter, Hastings.

- I'm sorry.

- Another letter from ABC.

"Dear Mr Poirot.

"Well, the Andover business went with a swing, didn't it?

"First game to me, I think.

"But the fun's only just beginning.

"Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea, "date the 25th inst.

"What a merry time we're having.

Yours sincerely, "ABC."

Good God.

Good God!

I fear that the death of Madame Ascher is only the beginning, Hastings.

GLEN: There's no doubt that the two letters were typed on the same machine I suppose?

No, and we can fairly assume that the writer was responsible for your murder in Andover.

Now, we have definite warning of a second crime scheduled to take place in Superintendent Carter's county on the 25th, the day after tomorrow, at Bexhill.

What steps do you think the Sussex police can take, Superintendent Carter?

Well, it's difficult.

There's not the least clue as to who the victim may be.

It is possible that the surname of the intended victim will begin with the letter B. That would be something.

POIROT: I suggest it as a possibility, no more.

It came to my mind when I read the signature "ABC" on the first letter and again when I heard the name of the unfortunate woman in Andover.

You mean, first a Mrs Ascher in Andover, then someone beginning with "B" in Bexhill?

Oui.

Well, it's possible, I suppose.

I mean, we are dealing with a madman.

But so far he hasn't given us any clue as to his motive.

Does a madman have any motive?

Perhaps he's gonna murder someone in every town in the alphabet all the way from Andover to, uh... Zennor.

I've thought a lot about it, you see.

Well, at least we can take some precautions.

Superintendent Carter, perhaps it will be possible for your men to make a special note of all the B's in your area.

Especially small shopkeepers.

And, naturally, keep tabs on all strangers, as far as possible.

Bexhill's a seaside resort, man.

It's the middle of the holiday season.

People are flooding in.

BRASS BAND PLAYING TUNE HASTINGS: So, tomorrow's the big day.

Is it old women in tobacconist shops, do you think?

POIROT: Ah, it does not seem likely, Hastings.

Shops, though, perhaps.

Which of us, at some time or another, has not felt aggrieved by a shopkeeper?

Good Lord, yes.

At least we know it can't be Ascher now.

I mean, he's still in custody.

But what about the girl, Hastings?

Mary whatsit, the maid?

No.

MAN: Stalls to the right.

Circle's to the left.

Seats at all prices now.

HASTINGS: I wouldn't give much for a murderer's chances with all these men of yours around, Japp.

JAPP: He's as good as nabbed.

POIROT: The sanity of a town full of men against the insanity of one man.

Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper?

JAPP: Hmm.

We don't need another one of those, thank you very much.

I am afraid, my friends.

I am very much afraid.

DOG BARKING Come on!

Come on, boy!

DOG BARKING POIROT: Hastings!

It has happened.

But today's the 25th.

The murder took place last night between twelve and one.

Our homicidal joker's a man of his word.

If he says the 25th, then the 25th it is.

Even if it is only by a few minutes.

But we are quite sure this is THE crime?

An ABC open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body.

POIROT: Do we know who is the dead girl, Chief Inspector?

She's been identified as a Miss Elizabeth Barnard.

Twenty-three years of age, worked as a waitress at the De La Warr Pavilion.

- Was she pretty?

- Here he goes again!

That does not seem to you to be important, huh?

Mais, pour une femme, it is of the first importance.

It often decides her destiny.

With what was the girl strangled, Chief Inspector?

- Her own belt.

- Ah!

At last, we have a piece of evidence that is very definite.

And it tells one something, does it not?

Well, I don't see what.

CARTER: I've broken the news to her parents, but I thought I'd let them recover a bit before questioning them.

- Right.

There are other members of the family, yes?

There is a sister, a typist in London.

She's been communicated with, and there's a young man.

The girl was supposed to be out with him last night, I gather.

Any luck from the ABC guide?

No.

No fingerprints.

Open at the page of Bexhill.

Yes, that's our man, all right.

HASTINGS: Well, it must mean something.

Something to do with the trains from Andover and Bexhill, perhaps?

Yes, that is a point.

MERRION This is most distressing, Chief Inspector, most distressing.

How it will affect our business, I shudder to think.

You'll have a boom, madam.

You won't be able to dish out the dainty teas quick enough.

Really?

Oh.

How awful.

People are so awful.

Mademoiselle Merrion, how long had Mademoiselle Barnard been working here?

This was the second summer.

She was pretty, yes?

She was a nice, clean-looking girl.

What time did she go off duty last night?

Eight o'clock.

We close at eight.

Did she say what she was going to do after work?

We were hardly on those sort of terms.

Nobody came and called for her?

Nothing like that?

MERRION: Oh.

No.

She had a young man, I believe.

Donald Fraser.

WOMAN SNIFFLES JAPP: Weren't you alarmed when your daughter didn't come home last night?

MAN: We didn't know she hadn't.

Mrs Barnard and I go to bed early.

We never knew Betty hadn't come home till the police officer came this morning.

Was she in the habit of coming home late?

You know what goes on nowadays, Inspector.

All the same, she was usually in by eleven.

She had this steady young fellow she was sort of engaged to.

Donald Fraser, his name is.

It doesn't make any bloody sense.

No, it doesn't.

Excuse me, Monsieur Barnard, did Betty ever mention any connection with Andover?

Did she have there, perhaps, any friends?

Andover?

No.

I'd like to look over Miss Barnard's room, if I may?

There might be something, Sir.

Letters, diary.

All right.

It's in here.

- Who are you?

- You're Miss Barnard?

Yes, I'm Megan Barnard.

I suppose you belong to the police.

Well, not exactly.

- What are you?

- Well... - Where's Mum and Dad?

- Your father's in there showing the police your sister's bedroom.

And your mother's in there.

I wonder if... Are you following me?

What do you want?

This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

Mademoiselle Barnard.

I don't see what Monsieur Hercule Poirot is doing in our humble, little crime.

What you do not see, Mademoiselle, and what I do not see, it would fill a volume.

But what is important is something that will not be easy to find.

- What's that?

- The truth.

I don't know about the truth.

I only know what I feel.

But that is the most important thing we have, Mademoiselle, in the hunt for the murderer of your sister.

All right.

It wasn't in Betty's nature to be fond of one person and not be interested in anyone else.

And working in the De La Warr Pavilion, she was always running up against nice-looking men.

I understand, Mademoiselle.

Do you?

Her boyfriend didn't.

If she was really keen on him, he couldn't see why she wanted to go out with other people.

Once or twice, they had flaming big rows about it.

Don was so violent, Betty was frightened.

When was this?

SHE SIGHS Last time was about a month ago.

They had an awful scene.

Don was all white and shaking.

GATE CLATTERS Oh, there he is!

POIROT: Quick, Mademoiselle, run and intercept him.

I wish to speak with him before the estimable Chief Inspector Japp.

Don?

Did Mademoiselle Barnard tell you where she was going last night?

She told me she was going to St Leonards with a girlfriend.

And did you believe her?

Who are you, anyway?

You don't belong to the police.

No, Monsieur.

I am better than the police.

Tell him!

I believed her when she said it.

But afterwards... - What did you do?

I don't know.

I lost my head.

I was convinced she was with some man.

I thought he might have taken her to Eastbourne in a car.

I went on there.

Looked in the hotels and restaurants.

HE SCOFFS They must have thought I was mad.

I hung around cinemas.

Went on the pier.

In the end, I gave up and came back.

Not much of an alibi, is it?

No, my friend.

Not much.

Well, Donald Fraser certainly seemed to have a perfectly good motive for the murder and opportunity.

For killing Mademoiselle Betty Barnard?

Yes.

But what was the motive for killing Madame Ascher?

Well, that we'll have to find out.

They're both women, of course.

And what was the motive for writing those letters to me, Hastings?

There's something about those letters.

Something that bothers me.

WOMAN: 'You've been very careful.

'But you've made one mistake.

'It will be the first time that anyone 'has suggested you as the murderer.

'You'll be watched, you'll be questioned, 'you'll be followed.

You'll give yourself away.

'And they'll get you.'

'I killed her, did I?

'Accusing me, are you?'

'Why don't you run away, Mary?

'Look, you can.

But you don't move, Mary.

'Why?'

'Because...' MAN: 'Because you know I'm not the killer.'

- 'Yes!'

- 'That's where you're wrong!

'I am the Dorset Murderer.

'I killed Lily James.

'And all the others.

'And now... I'm going to kill you!'

WOMAN SCREAMS We've kept the general public in the dark so far about the ABC link between these murders.

If we continue to keep them in the dark, then we don't get any co-operation.

But if you make it public, you're playing the game of the murderer.

Which is perhaps why he writes those letters.

For notoriety, publicity.

Well, I think we should chance it.

Splash it about in the headlines.

I did not say this before, Hastings, because perhaps it would have been mistaken for self-importance.

A characteristic that I dislike more than any other.

Oh, right.

Delicious soup, this.

But it is possible that our murderer is committing his crimes because of a direct personal hatred against me, Hercule Poirot.

Because he writes the letters to you, you mean?

Exactement, Hastings.

Or, perhaps, the animosity of our murderer, it is impersonal.

And merely because I'm a foreigner.

Yes.

Well, there are people like that.

DOORBELL BUZZES It is only the late post, Hastings.

Yes, I know.

I was expecting Lillywhites' catalogue.

I've been thinking of buying some new golf clubs.

I've still only got those old ones that belonged to my father... Good Lord.

What is it, Hastings?

It's another one.

Another ABC letter.

Postmarked London WC1 again.

That's significant, you know, I'm sure it is.

You open it, Hastings.

"Dear Mr Poirot, not so good at these little criminal matters "as you thought yourself, are you?

"Rather past your prime, perhaps.

"Let us see if you can do better this time.

"This time it's an easy one.

"Churston on the 29th.

Do try and do something about it.

"It's a bit dull having it all my own way, you know.

"Good hunting.

Yours ever, ABC."

I wonder where Churston is.

Hastings, you do not realise?

Today is the 29th.

- What?

- When was that letter written?

26th.

Mon Dieu.

Look, Hastings.

You did not notice?

The wrong address.

"Monsieur Hercule Poirot, Whitehorse Mansions.

"Not known at Whitehorse Mansions.

"Not known at Whitehorse Court.

"Try Whitehaven Mansions."

Does even chance aid this madman?

HE SIGHS C'est trop tard.

HASTINGS: You can't be sure of that.

POIROT: It's twenty past ten, Hastings.

HASTINGS: Churston, Devon.

Gets in at 7.15.

Leaves Paddington at midnight.

- Any word from Churston yet?

- Not yet.

We've got men moving in from all over the area.

It's only a village.

Have you got the letter with you?

Ah, yes.

TRAIN WHISTLE TOOTS "Whitehorse Mansions."

Of all the blessed luck.

With two letters he gets the address right.

Why now does he get it wrong?

Perhaps he did it on purpose.

JAPP: No.

This fella's got these barmy rules, and I think he sticks to them.

I know.

He drinks White Horse whisky.

POIROT: Yes, it is ingenious.

He types the address... And the bottle, it is in front of him.

We've heard of psychology at Scotland Yard, too, you know.

WHISTLE BLOWS MAN: Mr Carmichael always takes his after-dinner walk along the clifftops, Miss Grey.

When he gets to the headland, he turns right and comes up past the farm.

But he's always back by ten o'clock.

Always.

It's after midnight now.

Suppose he's had an accident or something.

I'm going down to the cliff.

I'll go to the other side of the field.

Perhaps he's started back.

Miss Grey!

Over here!

They've taken the body up to the house.

Blow to the back of the head, apparently.

Blunt instrument.

This should make people sit up, now the newspapers are in the know.

Three murders within ten days.

The whole country will be looking for ABC now.

But what will they be looking for, Hastings?

Well, a madman.

And what does a madman look like?

Well, uh... Madame Ascher had no connection with Bexhill-on-Sea, and Mademoiselle Betty Barnard had no link with Andover that we can discover.

And we will find neither, apparently, had anything to do with Churston and Sir Carmichael Clarke.

On that, I will place a wager.

Hundreds of miles.

And everything about their lives seems to separate them.

What is it that binds them together?

But why?

I mean, what earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime?

Even in the most diseased imagination?

You go straight to the point, Monsieur.

Ah, Poirot, this is Mr Franklin Clarke, Sir Carmichael's brother.

You have my condolences, Monsieur Clarke.

Mr Poirot.

Captain Hastings.

How do you do?

Now, let me have a few facts, would you, Mr Clarke?

Certainly.

JAPP: Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday?

FRANKLIN: Oh, yes, I should say he was quite his usual self.

Not upset or worried at all?

Excuse me, Chief Inspector, I didn't say that.

To be "upset" and "worried" was my poor brother's normal condition.

Oh?

Well, I was shocked at the change in him when I returned from the East recently.

His wife's illness preyed on his mind terribly.

Illness?

My sister-in-law Lady Clarke is in very bad health.

Between ourselves, she is suffering an from incurable cancer.

She can't live much longer.

Sir Carmichael hadn't received any unexpected or unpleasant letters?

Not that I was aware of.

He wasn't short of a bob or two, was he?

My brother was a very wealthy man.

And in possession of a collection that is extremely beautiful.

Yes.

It's what he lived for, really.

Have any strangers come to the house asking for Sir Carmichael recently?

The doctor says he's finished, Sir.

Thank you, Deveril.

Deveril, have any strangers been enquiring for Sir Carmichael recently?

No, Sir.

Ah, doctor.

Anything to tell us?

Nothing we didn't know already.

Death instantaneous.

We've put him in the billiard room.

I'll just have a word with Lady Clarke.

Ah, this is Miss Thora Grey, gentlemen.

My brother's secretary.

How do you do?

I'll talk to you later, Miss Grey, if I may.

- Yes.

- Mademoiselle.

FRANKLIN: I'll be in the library if you want me.

Hastings.

JAPP: That just doesn't stand to reason.

There must be a connection between these victims.

We just haven't found it yet.

POIROT: No.

We hit our heads against a stone brick.

There is no connection.

- There must be!

I see none, Hastings.

There is no connection whatever between these people except their names begin with certain letters of the alphabet.

We have searched the background of victims and suspects for any other connection.

Hastings can find nothing.

Scotland Yard can find nothing.

Even I can find nothing.

HE INHALES SHARPLY Oh, we are wasting our time.

Because there is nothing to find.

You mean, those people were complete strangers to the murderer?

Precisement, Hastings.

Chosen only because of his mania for the alphabet.

Finished with that one?

Yes.

HE EXHALES SHARPLY WHISPERS: Nasty business, eh?

Yes, very.

You never know with lunatics, do you?

They don't always look barmy.

Sometimes they can look just like you and me.

Yes, I suppose they can.

You know, sometimes it's the war that's unhinged them, and they've never been right since.

I don't hold with wars.

I don't hold with plague, and sleeping sickness, and famine, and cancer, but they happen all the same.

Ah, but war's preventable.

HE LAUGHS HE LAUGHS LOUDLY Shh!

HE STIFLES LAUGHTER Oh, I'm sorry, Sir.

I expect you was in the war.

Ah, yes, yes.

I was.

And it did, um... unsettle me.

- They're all here.

- Ah!

- What did you get?

Ah!

- Biscuits.

And so we are all assembled.

Huh?

Let us begin with you, Mademoiselle Drower.

When were you last in contact with your aunt?

I hadn't seen Auntie for a fortnight, Sir.

I'd had a letter from her, though, two days previous.

Ah!

Now, these are just the sort of facts which could provide the clue that is vital.

Now I believe you all have some information that you are not aware that you have.

Did you keep that letter?

No, Sir.

But I remember what it said.

She said the old devil had been round, and she'd sent him off with a flea in his ear.

And she said she expected me over on the Wednesday.

That's my day out, Sir.

And said we'd go to the pictures.

It was going to be my birthday, Sir.

I'm sorry, Sir.

I don't mean to be silly.

It's just the thought of her looking forward to our treat.

MARY SNIFFLES It's always the little things that get one.

Especially anything like a treat or a present.

Same thing happened when Betty died.

Mum had bought her some stockings as a present.

That very morning, in fact.

Poor Mum.

I found her crying over them.

She kept saying, "I bought them for Betty "and she never even saw them."

Look, uh... all of us here have an interest in bringing the murderer to book.

Suppose we joined forces to try and track the fellow down?

I'm sure Mr Poirot and the police are quite capable.

Well, speaking for myself, I am never too proud to accept a little help.

Mademoiselle Grey, when you returned to Devon, and you think back to the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke, he was killed, you may perhaps remember seeing around the village a stranger?

No.

I know I didn't.

Anyway, I've left Churston for good.

Miss Grey kindly stayed on to help me clear things up.

But, naturally, she prefers a post in London.

I see.

How is Lady Clarke?

Oh, pretty bad.

By the way, Mr Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down and paying her a visit?

Before I left, she expressed a desire to see you.

Mais certainement, Monsieur Clarke.

Do you think their co-operation will lead to anything?

It is possible.

Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind... of the impression that something was said this afternoon that was significant.

It is odd.

I cannot pin it down exactly.

But something passed through my mind that reminded me of that which I had already seen, or heard, or noted.

Ah!

It will come to me.

Something is the matter, Hastings?

What?

No, no, no, no.

I'm just thinking about "D", as a matter of fact.

The next murder?

Yes.

I mean... is he out there somewhere, planning it?

It gives you the shivers just to think about it.

POIROT: "ABC murders.

"Captain Hastings speaks."

- Poirot, I... - "After the third murder, "the brutal slaying of millionaire "Sir Carmichael Clarke, "Monsieur Poirot takes grave view of situation, "says Captain Hastings."

Well... "Andover, Bexhill, Churston.

Where will ABC strike next?

"Monsieur Poirot on eve of success, "says Captain Hastings."

Look here, Poirot.

I didn't say all those things.

I know, Hastings.

Often between the spoken word and the written, there is an astonishing gulf.

N'est-ce pas?

I wouldn't like you to think that I... Do not worry yourself, mon ami.

In fact, these imbecilities, they might even help.

How?

Because if our murderer reads what I am supposed to have said in The Daily Blunt today, he will lose all respect for me as an opponent.

But after another crime, we will know infinitely more.

Crime is revealing.

Just a minute.

Lady Clarke.

Monsieur Poirot is here.

Oh, yes.

Monsieur Poirot.

Lady Clarke.

May I introduce my friend and associate, Captain Hastings?

- How do you do?

- How do you do?

So good of you both to come.

Merci.

It was about Car, wasn't it?

About Car's death?

You haven't caught him yet?

POIROT: Not yet.

He must have been loitering round here that day.

But no stranger came to the house that day?

Who says so?

Well, the servants say so, and Miss Grey says so.

That girl is a liar!

Oh, but... Of course, Car thought the world of her.

He couldn't see it was only his money she was interested in.

Once I was out of the way.

Lady Clarke... why do you say that Mademoiselle Grey is a liar?

Because she is.

She told you no strangers came to the house, didn't she?

Yes.

Very well, then.

I saw her with my own eyes talking to a perfectly strange man.

Out of this window.

- May I?

- Please.

Merci.

At the garden gate.

POIROT: When was this, Lady Clarke?

In the morning of the day Car died.

At about... eleven o'clock.

What was he like, this man?

Oh, an ordinary sort of man.

No, pardon.

A gentleman?

Or a tradesman, perhaps?

A shabby sort of person.

I... I can't remember.

That was an extraordinary story about Miss Grey and the strange man.

It is as I tell you, Hastings.

Always, there is something to be discovered.

But why did she lie and say she'd seen no-one?

It's monstrous to suppose that a girl like that should be in league with a madman.

Which is why I do not suppose it.

WHISTLE BLOWS A good-looking girl has a hard time of it.

Ah, Hastings, always you are full of the charitable feelings to the young ladies who are beautiful.

Huh?

As for me, I am always full of the charitable feelings to the old ladies that have the maladies.

DOOR CLICKS OPEN HE STUTTERS Mr Poirot?

Monsieur Fraser.

I'm sorry, I've got to talk to you.

Well, come up to the apartment, Monsieur Fraser.

Mr Poirot... ..do you know anything about dreams?

POIROT: I do.

You have been dreaming?

DONALD: I keep dreaming the same dream.

I'm on the beach looking for Betty.

She's lost, and I've got to find her.

You see, I'm carrying her belt in my hand... and then Yes?

She's there... sitting on the sand.

I come up behind her, I slip the belt round her neck, and I pull.

And pull.

POIROT: Go on.

She's dead.

I've strangled her.

And then... And then her head falls back, and I see her face, and it's Megan.

It's not Betty.

It's awful.

Have your drink.

DONALD: I mean, I could've had a blackout.

Poirot.

It's come, the fourth letter.

POIROT: Read it, Hastings.

Quickly.

"Mr Hercule Poirot, still no success?

Fie!

Fie!

"What are you and the police doing?

"Isn't this fun?

And where shall we go next for honey?

"Poor Mr Poirot, I'm quite sorry for you.

"We have a long way to go still.

"The next little incident will take place at Doncaster "on the 9th of September.

"So long, ABC."

Perhaps our little band of helpers will have something to do after all.

LIFT BELL DINGS Where does Mr Poirot keep his cups?

Ah, top cupboard, over there.

Saucers?

Bottom cupboard, over there.

Everything's arranged in order of height.

By George, Poirot.

This is a bit of a stumer.

Doncaster on the 9th?

DOORBELL BUZZES - I'll get it.

- Thanks.

What are you doing here?

What is this?

A convention?

- Good day, Chief Inspector.

Maybe.

We've formed an association of our own to deal with this.

A legion of interested parties.

Oh, yes?

But I rather fancy old ABC has done for you again.

Well, as a matter of fact, Mr Clarke, I must beg to differ.

I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but the 9th isn't until Wednesday of next week, is it?

And that seems to give us plenty of time to mount a publicity campaign in the press... And plenty of time to warn the inhabitants of Doncaster, particularly those whose names begin with the letter "D."

Oh, it's easy to see you're not a sporting man, Chief Inspector.

If however, you... What do you mean?

Next Wednesday is the day the Saint Leger is being run at Doncaster.

Oh.

Yes, I was wondering about that.

Tea, Chief Inspector?

Merci.

I mean, the whole of Doncaster's like a fairground.

C'est ingenieux.

He has planned this most cleverly.

It is my belief the murder will take place at the racecourse, perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.

Thank you.

Yes, well, of course, the Saint Leger is a complication.

However... Oh, I'd better get back to the Yard.

JAPP: Thank you very much.

LIFT BELL DINGS Everything's under control.

We don't know anything about the murderer.

And that's the problem.

We've gone over everything we do know again and again.

We've talked... - Not everything, Monsieur.

For instance, Mademoiselle Grey here has told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was killed.

That's right.

I didn't.

But Lady Clarke tells us, Mademoiselle, that on that day, from her window, she saw you standing at the garden gate speaking to a strange man.

Lady Clarke made a mistake.

I never spoke... Oh.

Oh, I remember now.

How stupid.

Oh, but it wasn't important.

Just one of those men who come round selling stockings.

You know, ex-army people.

Oh, they're very persistent, but he was quite a harmless sort of person.

I suppose that's why I forgot about him.

Stockings.

Stockings.

Stockings.

Stockings, oh, yes.

Stockings!

Stockings!

That is the link.

Do you not remember, Hastings?

Andover.

The room behind the little shop.

Over the back of the chair.

A pair of new silk stockings.

- Well, yes, but... Now I remember what it was that aroused my attention two days ago.

It was you, Mademoiselle.

You spoke of your mother who wept, because on very the day of the murder she had just bought for your sister a pair of new silk stockings.

Yes.

Yes, she did.

She said something about feeling sorry for those wretched men who go round sell door-to-door.

Describe this man.

I can't.

I don't... He had glasses, I think.

And a shabby overcoat.

Mieux que ca, Mademoiselle.

Well, he stooped.

I don't know.

I hardly looked at him.

He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.

Ah.

In those few words, Mademoiselle , lies the whole secret of these murders.

"He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice."

Oh, yes, there is no doubt about it.

You have just described the murderer.

KNOCKING AT DOOR I was wondering, Mr Cust, if you'd finished your... Are you all right, Mr Cust?

I just feel a bit out of sorts.

Oh, I'm sorry.

You won't be going away today, then?

Oh, yes.

I have to go.

I'm going to Cheltenham.

Oh, that's nice.

Cheltenham's nice.

Got some nice shops.

Terrible the news nowadays, isn't it?

Nothing but this murder business.

Gives me the creeps.

I don't read it.

- No.

Doncaster he says his next murder's gonna be, if you please.

And tomorrow.

If I lived in Doncaster, and my name began with a "D", I'd take the first train out.

I would, for all the hundreds of police they say they're drafting in.

Mr Cust, you do look bad.

Really now, you oughtn't to go travelling today.

It is necessary, Mrs Marbury.

When I undertake to do a thing, I follow it through.

Oh, well, if you say so, Mr Cust.

What a fool I was!

I've let you all down.

I never really looked at him.

Even if I saw him again, I probably wouldn't recognise him.

Now, now, petite.

Do not upset yourself.

So far, the luck, it has been on the side of the murderer, yes.

but sooner or later, I believe it must turn, and be on our side.

In fact, I believe that has turned.

The clue of the stockings is the beginning.

TANNOY: 'Doncaster.

Doncaster.

This is Doncaster.'

Brought your private army along, I see, Poirot.

Chief Inspector Japp, my dear friend.

We did not know that you were on this train.

Ah, you toffs don't notice much what's going on down amongst the workers I suppose.

POIROT: Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Barnard will be patrolling the area around the grandstand.

And Monsieur Fraser will be by the parade ring.

It seems to me highly problematical that we can do anything of practical value.

Don't be defeatist, Don.

Our weapon is our knowledge, Monsieur Fraser.

But remember, it may be a knowledge we do not know that we possess.

Eh, bien.

That is all we can do for this evening.

I bid you good night.

- Good night, Poirot.

- Good night, Hastings.

- Good night.

- Good night.

- Good night.

- Good night.

Look, here, Mr Poirot, when you went down to Churston last week, did my sister-in-law sort of... Well, I mean, did she hint at all?

Comment?

Did Lady Clarke hint at what?

Well, you see, Thora... Miss Grey, is... Well, rather a good-looking girl.

Perhaps, yes.

Please, sit yourself.

Yes, my brother always said she was the best secretary he ever had, but it was all perfectly straight and above board.

But of course.

But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be rather jealous, I suppose.

Anyway, after Car's death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on, Charlotte cut up rough.

"Cut up?"

Rough.

Oh.

Women really are devils, Mr Poirot.

Please, Monsieur Clarke, remember that Lady Clarke is ill and in great pain.

Oh, I know.

Yes, I know.

I keep telling myself that.

Still, I didn't want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything my sister-in-law may have said.

Ah.

I can assure you, Monsieur Clarke, that Poirot never permits himself to get false impressions from anything anyone says.

Good man.

HE CHUCKLES Good man.

Good night, Mr Poirot.

- Good night, Monsieur Clarke.

I cannot impress upon you enough to let your instincts rule.

If you should see anyone who fits the description of the stocking salesman, you must report to the police but immediately.

Even if you see someone who looks familiar but you cannot quite place, even that is of significance.

He'll never attempt it now with the racecourse full of police.

The man would have to be mad.

Unfortunately, he is mad.

In my opinion, the obsession of the murderer is so strong that he must attempt to carry out what he promises.

Failure to do so would be to admit defeat, and that his insane egoism would never permit.

Ah, Mademoiselle Grey.

- I'm sorry.

- No matter.

You are only four and one-half minutes late.

Eh bien, it is time for you to take your places.

I wish you good luck.

What about you, Poirot?

No, Hastings.

My force, it is in my brains, not in my feet.

We will meet at three o'clock as arranged.

Very well.

- 7-4, Bartlan.

- 7-4, Bartlan.

CUST CRIES IN FRUSTRATION TANNOY: '..with winning prize money this year 'of £10,000.

'Last of the runners to go down 'is the strongly-fancied Rhodes Scholar, 'owned by Lord Astor, 'in company with Fearless Fox, ridden by F Smith.

'And Bandit On The Rails ridden by Gordon Bridges.

'And here comes the winner of this year's Derby... 'moving in the colours of His Royal Highness, 'ridden by Charlie Smith.'

GATE CLATTERS TANNOY: 'And they're off.

'His Grace leads very smartly on the inside.'

'..settled down in midfield... 'Flying Fox tucked away on the inside... 'He's making it by two legs to one...' CROWD CHEERING Hastings!

Hastings!

Hastings!

Excuse me.

Excuse me.

Hastings!

It's all right.

Everyone's in position.

No, no, no, Hastings, you do not understand.

Look at the crowds.

I know, it's damned difficult.

It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Yes, Hastings, yes.

Where's the best place for a man to hide himself?

In a crowd of other men.

POIROT: Yes, Hastings.

And where's the best place to conceal a murder?

A murder?

I don't know.

Amongst a lot of other murders, I suppose.

Precisement, Hastings!

At Churston, I said that the victims were chosen in a manner that was haphazard, selected only because of their initials.

Yes?

I was wrong, Hastings.

All of the victims are haphazard, except for one!

This monster is committing a series of murders in order to draw away our attention from one murder in particular!

CHEERING CONTINUES DRAMATIC MUSIC PLAYING Excuse me.

Excuse me.

Now, then, Sir, show's over.

I think he's ill.

We'd better... By heck.

That looks like blood.

Look what's under his seat.

It's an ABC.

HE SIGHS HEAVILY OVERLAPPING CONVERSATIONS What time?

Right.

I'll be right over.

Bom bom bom-bom bom bom.

Ba-ba bom bom.

HE SCREAMS CUST SOBBING KNOCK AT DOOR Ah!

I've washed already in cold.

I, uh... I cut my hand.

Are you all right, Sir?

Just tell us what happened, please, Mr Downes.

KNOCKING AT DOOR There's a woman to see you, Sir.

Says it's urgent.

JAPP: When was this?

- Oh, about a quarter past four.

- Well, that's three hours ago.

Well, I didn't think of it at the time, not until I heard there's been another murder.

He said he'd cut his hand.

If you please, madame, can you describe this man?

Well, he's tall, and he stoops, and he wears glasses.

And his clothes?

Um, a dark suit and overcoat and an Homburg hat, a bit shabby looking.

It looks like blood, Sir.

- Get it analysed.

HASTINGS: Poirot, we found it.

We found the name in the register.

- What is it?

- Look.

"AB Case."

POIROT: Or is it Cash?

Well, it's ABC, anyway.

Case.

Cast.

And a London address.

17 Market Street, Southwark.

There's a suitcase under the bed, Sir.

Get it out.

Let's have a look.

Stockings.

Silk stockings.

You were right, Poirot.

There's something else here, Sir .

Right at the back.

It's a knife.

JAPP: Don't touch it.

Get the bed out.

MARBURY: It was funny, though, the way he said goodbye.

It was as if he'd never see us again.

He told me he was going to Cheltenham.

Poor Mr Cust.

I can't believe it.

MARBURY: 'Terrible the news nowadays, isn't it?

'Nothing but this murder business.

'Gives me the creeps, it does.'

WOMAN: 'You'll be watched, you'll be questioned, 'you'll be followed.

You've been very careful...' MAN 1: '.. you and me.

But you never know with lunatics.

'Nasty business, eh?'

OVERLAPPING VOICES MAN 2: 'Your fate.

It's written.

It's written in your hand.'

'The most celebrated man in England.

'You'll die on the gallows.'

INDISTINCT VOICES OVERLAPPING MAN 3: 'I killed the victim.

'And now I'm going to kill you!'

CUST GROANING JAPP: So that's that.

Committed for trial.

Chief Inspector, what is your opinion of Monsieur Cust?

He's playing a very crafty game.

He's an epileptic, the doctors tell me.

But is it possible for a man to commit a crime without being aware of it?

Well, he might try that line of defence if it wasn't for the letters.

They show premeditation.

POIROT: And of those letters, we still have no explanation whatsoever.

No.

Until I have a reason for those letters being written to me, I will not feel that this case is solved.

There's a Mr Strange waiting in your office, Sir.

he says it's urgent.

- Chief Inspector Japp.

- That's me.

It's about that Bexhill murder.

JAPP: He swears by all that's blue that he met Cust in the Royal George Hotel in Eastbourne on the evening of August 24th.

That they had dinner together, and then played dominoes until well after midnight.

And if he is telling the truth, Monsieur Cust could not have been on the beach at Bexhill between twelve o'clock and one o'clock, strangling Mademoiselle Barnard.

Listen.

He did the Andover murder.

He did the Churston murder.

He did the Doncaster murder.

He must've done the Bexhill murder.

Why?

Why?

I don't know why.

Because he's barmy, that's why.

CUST MUTTERS INDISTINCTLY Excuse me, Monsieur Cust.

I am Hercule Poirot.

Oh, yes.

I am the man to whom you wrote those letters.

I never wrote to you.

I told them over and over again.

If you did not write those letters, Monsieur Cust, who did?

I don't know.

They're all against me.

They always have been.

Even when you were a child?

No.

But my mother was ambitious.

She gave me these ridiculous names.

Alexander Bonaparte... HE SCOFFS ..Cust.

She had some absurd notion that I would cut a figure in the world.

And what do I end up as?

A door-to-door stockings salesman.

You are aware, are you not... that the firm who you say employed you deny the fact?

- Yes.

But I've got their letters to me, giving me instructions as to what places to go.

And a list of people upon whom to call.

But all of the letters, they were typed on the machine found in your room.

The typewriter was sent to me by the firm at the beginning of my job.

But the letters were sent after you received the machine.

So it looks, does it not, as though you typed them, and then posted them to yourself?

Yes, I know.

I know.

But I couldn't have done the second murder, though, could I?

The Bexhill one.

I was playing dominoes in Eastbourne, wasn't I?

It is a game that is very absorbing, is it not, Monsieur Cust?

Oh, there's a lot of play in it.

A lot of play.

When I was a clerk in the city, we used to play every lunch hour.

CUST CHUCKLES SOFTLY You'd be surprised the way total strangers can come together over a game of dominoes.

Ah?

Yes.

I remember one person in particular.

We just got talking over a cup of coffee and started dominoes.

And I've not been able to forget something that he told me.

What did he say?

Talking about your fate being written in your hand.

He told me some amazing things.

Said I was going to be the most celebrated man in England before I die.

- Oh!

- But that... - Yes?

"It almost looks as though "you're going to die on the gallows," he said.

Laughed afterwards.

Said it was only a joke.

But I suffer quite badly from my head, you know.

I mean, there are times when I don't... I don't seem to remember what I've done.

But you do know that you committed the murders?

Yes.

Yes, I do know that.

And I am right, am I not, that you do not know why you committed them?

No.

No, I don't.

I'm not having that dream any more.

No.

All that will disappear with time.

I don't want to forget Betty, though.

No, we won't forget her.

Here he is.

About ruddy time, too.

I don't know what this is in aid of, Poirot.

The case is over.

Done with.

Finished.

That is true, Chief Inspector.

The man Cust, he is in prison.

There will be no more killings.

Finished.

But, you see, I know nothing, huh.

And there is also one small fact that is vexing.

Monsieur Cust has an alibi for the night of the crime that he is alleged to have committed on this beach.

From the beginning, I have felt that there was something wrong with those letters I received.

And there was.

I had assumed they were written by a madman.

Mais non.

They were written by a sane man pretending to be mad.

POIROT: When do you notice least a pin?

CLATTERING Shh!

WHISPERS: Don't clatter so, Milly.

POIROT: When it is in a pin cushion.

When do you notice least an individual murder?

When it is one of a series of related murders.

Hold on a minute.

Hold on.

Cust did the murders.

He was caught red-handed, more or less.

Blood on his coat.

Knife under his bed.

He even admits to the murders.

What more do you want?

When I first saw Monsieur Cust, Chief Inspector, I knew he was not guilty.

For such a plan, Monsieur Cust had neither the cunning, the daring, nor, may I add, the brains.

No.

The murderer must have flirted with Mademoiselle Betty Barnard.

Somehow, he got her to remove her belt with which she was strangled.

You have seen Monsieur Cust.

Can you imagine Monsieur Cust, as you English say, "getting off" with a pretty young girl?

Monsieur Cust making the click?

Mr Poirot, please.

All along, I was aware of a dual personality of the murderer.

Now I see wherein it consisted.

'Two people were involved.

The real murderer.'

Cunning, resourceful, and daring.

And the pseudo-murderer.

'Stupid, vacillating... And above all, suggestible.

'The murderer 'had been considering already several schemes 'when a chance meeting with Monsieur Cust 'produced an idea.

'His epileptic seizures, his headaches, 'indeed the whole shrinking personality of Monsieur Cust, 'made him for the murderer an ideal tool.

'Perhaps his very name of Alexander Bonaparte Cust, 'gave to the murderer the idea of the murders alphabetical.'

TRAIN WHISTLE TOOTS The arrangements were excellent.

Some letters were sent to Monsieur Cust as if from a well-known wholesaler, offering him employment on salary and commission.

In fact, the plans were so well laid down beforehand by the murderer, that the letters that were subsequently sent to me, had already been typed.

'And afterwards, the typewriter that was used for the purpose 'was sent to Monsieur Cust, allegedly to use for business.'

The preliminary plans completed, the murderer then set to work.

'A list of potential clients in Andover 'is sent to Monsieur Cust, 'and he is instructed to go there on August 21st.

'Monsieur Cust does as he is directed.'

And later that day... Madame Ascher, she is murdered most brutally.

A few days later, he is instructed to go to Bexhill-on-Sea.

And on that particular list of clients is Madame Barnard.

'That night, Mademoiselle Betty Barnard 'is strangled with her own belt on the beach.'

SHE CHOKES POIROT: 'At Churston, 'Lady Clarke observes Mademoiselle Grey 'talking with Monsieur Cust, 'and Sir Carmichael Clarke, he also dies.'

Three crimes, and Monsieur Cust is at the scene of each one of them.

So... I was then forced back to the simple question, "Cui bono?"

Who stood to gain anything from even one of the murders?

Madame Ascher had no money, so therefore you, Mademoiselle Drower, had nothing to gain from the death of your aunt.

Mademoiselle Betty Barnard.

Eh bien, she was not rich, and lived on the, no doubt, niggardly salary paid to her by the De La Warr Pavilion.

Sir Carmichael Clarke, now.

Well, as the newspapers endlessly informed us, Sir Carmichael Clarke was a millionaire many times over.

What are you suggesting?

Persons suffering from epilepsy, Mademoiselle Grey, often have blanks when they cannot remember what they have just done.

Monsieur Cust suffered from these.

He was also nervous, highly neurotic... and extremely suggestible.

The Andover crime meant to him at first nothing.

The Bexhill crime, well, he was there at about the same time.

And then came Churston.

So, when he receives instructions to go to Doncaster, knowing, as he does, that the next ABC murder will take place in that city, he loses his nerve.

'He begins to imagine that his landlady 'is looking at him in a manner most suspicious, 'and he tells her that he is going to Cheltenham.'

Just as you say, Mr Cust.

POIROT: 'And this is where the understanding 'of the personality of Monsieur Cust 'by the murderer pays dividends.

'In spite of every inner voice 'telling Monsieur Cust not to go to Doncaster, 'nevertheless, he goes.'

Why does he go?

Because it is his duty.

'Monsieur Cust goes to a cinema.

'And when the film comes to an end, 'he starts to leave.

'But while his back is turned, 'there occurs the stabbing of the fourth victim.'

FLESH SQUELCHES Excuse me.

By killing four people, our murderer hoped to disguise the one murder with the real motive, that of your brother, Sir Carmichael Clarke.

But who is this murderer you keep talking about?

HE SCOFFS You're not implying it's me?

I couldn't have killed that fellow in the cinema.

I was at the racecourse with the rest of you.

Indeed you were, Monsieur Clarke.

'The murderer stayed in place at the racecourse 'until the crowds began to gather.

'Soon it would be impossible 'to check on the movements of anyone.

'And our murderer, he quietly slips away.'

In the letter that Monsieur Cust received from his soi-disant employer, he is instructed at which hotel to stay.

'So there is no difficulty in picking him up.

'Our murderer follows Monsieur Cust to the cinema.

'And in the darkness, he cold-bloodedly 'takes his opportunity.'

'And when the programme comes to an end, 'and Monsieur Cust is leaving... 'he does not realise that the person he passes in the aisle 'also slips into his pocket a knife.'

This is rot!

I've never heard such out and out rot!

No, Monsieur Clarke.

You were safe enough, and almost certain to inherit the wealth of your brother, as long as no-one suspected you.

But as soon as you were suspected, the proofs, they were easy to find.

Proofs?

You haven't got any proofs!

HE SCOFFS What proofs?

Your fingerprints, Monsieur Clarke.

They were discovered on the typewriter that was sent to Monsieur Cust.

A typewriter which, if you were innocent, you could never have handled.

You little jackanapes!

JAPP: Come on!

After him!

Wilkinson!

JAPP: There he is.

Come on!

After him!

Wilkinson!

Get him!

FRANKLIN GRUNTS Well, that's that, I suppose.

I can't believe it.

I just can't believe it.

He was afraid, Mademoiselle Grey.

He was afraid that were the cancer to kill Lady Clarke, his brother Sir Carmichael might have turned his attentions towards you, might even perhaps have married you.

Then his hopes of inheritance, it would be lost for ever.

By killing his brother, Monsieur Franklin Clarke ensures that when the cancer finally overcomes Lady Clarke, the family fortune, it will be his.

HE STUTTERS, CLEARS THROAT Mr Poirot... I understand why he wrote all those letters, because without them, the murders wouldn't have seemed connected.

What I don't understand is why he wrote them to you.

Why not to Scotland Yard?

Because, mon ami, you could not even arrange for a letter addressed to Scotland Yard to go astray.

Even the least well-oriented postman would know where to deliver it.

It was the very essence of the plan of Monsieur Clarke that the third letter, it should go astray.

The police were not to be told about the one murder with the real motive until it was safely over.

Alas, it had nothing to do with my undoubted fame.

No.

Merely, he needed the private address.

It was the fingerprint on the typewriter that really clinched things, of course.

Ah, the fingerprints, yes.

They are useful.

I put that in to please you, Hastings.

You mean, it wasn't true?

Not in the least, mon ami.

Good Lord.

LAUGHTER If you don't want it on the sideboard, where do you want it?

It is the smell, Hastings.

It does not seem to fade.

Oh, it's early days yet, Poirot.

I gave him a bit of a spray with some cologne yesterday.

Whose cologne, Hastings?

Well, it was, um... DOORBELL BUZZES I'll just... HASTINGS: Hello, Chief Inspector.

JAPP: Captain Hastings.

- Mr Cust.

Morning, Poirot.

I brought someone to see you.

POIROT: Monsieur Cust!

I just had to come and say thank you, Mr Poirot.

You are a very great man.

- Oh, he knows that.

Thank you very much, Monsieur Cust.

Oh!

Merci.

If it hadn't been for you... Thank you.

Do you know, a newspaper has offered me £100?

£100 for a brief account of my life and experiences.

A-ha!

Do not accept, Monsieur Cust.

You must stand firm.

You must say to them that your price, it is now £500.

HE CHUCKLES Do you think so?

Mais certainement.

Do you not realise, Monsieur Cust, that today you are the most famous man in England?

You're right.

You're absolutely right!

Famous.

Well, I must say, the money will be most agreeable.

I shall take a short holiday and, uh... I say.

What a creature.

Do you like it?

CUST: It's magnificent.

I shot it, as a matter of fact.

You shot it?

Yes, when I was in South America.

Oh, I should like to hear that story.

Oh.

Right, well, sit down, Mr Cust.

It was when I was up in Venezuela.

We were a few miles upstream of La Urbana, which is actually one of the hottest places in the world.

The humidity was absolutely unbearable.

We'd been in portage round white water all day, and I was pretty exhausted, I can tell you.

Suddenly, we rounded a bend in the river and came upon the most extraordinary sight.

Just down below the rapids, was a native canoe obviously in some kind of trouble.

And I suddenly realised that they were being pursued by something rather horrid... Subtitles by accessibility@itv.com