Agatha Christie's Poirot

Poirot!

Ah!

Hastings!

Oh, mon ami.

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 caiman.

I shot him on the Orinoco,

a few miles upstream from La Urbana.

We'd been in portage around white water all day,

and I was pretty exhausted.

I can tell you, it's some distance...

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 gray 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.

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 superfine 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 superfine crime?

Ah.

Hastings...

Ah, 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 adds a certain je ne sais 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.

Well, I like the smell, Hastings.

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 caiman.

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, A.B.C."

A.B.C.?

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, eh?

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.

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.

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?

Well, I don't know. I...

You'll be rivaling Monsieur Poirot soon.

Chief Inspector,

do you know that Captain Hastings

has brought me back as a present a crocodile?

A caiman, actually.

I bagged him while we were still up in Venezuela.

We'd been in portage around white water all day, and...

And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?

Well, 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 story, right?

Hello, Dennis?

Japp.

How are you?

Now, listen.

Do you remember that anonymous letter I told you about?

Yeah.

Oh? Really?

Right.

Yes, I better.

Right-o.

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

that they would have been after the money.

- Oh, Poirot. - Chief Inspector.

This is Inspector Glen.

He's in charge of the case.

How do you do?

Looks pretty straightforward.

The victim's Alice Ascher, 60 years old,

struck down behind her counter by a heavy blow to the head.

And do you suspect the husband?

We do.

We haven't been able to find anyone yet

who saw Ascher in the neighborhood,

but, of course, it's early days.

Did Mr. Ascher live with his wife, Inspector?

No, they separated some years ago.

Ascher's a German.

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

Well, perhaps you should look at this, Inspector.

Famous anonymous letter, eh?

The body was found in this corner, yes?

Yes, laying 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.

Course, 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.

Something has been added, perhaps.

Added?

An ABC railway guide?

She must have been looking up trains from Andover.

Or a customer.

Fingerprints?

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

My God, Hastings.