All language subtitles for Poirot - S03E04 - The Plymouth Express

-Yes, sir?
-Hello there.

You're new, aren't you?

Is there someone
you wanted to see, sir?

Well...

Yes, there was,
as a matter of fact.

I'd rather like
a few quick words with my wife.

Paper!

Paper!

-Good morning, sir.
-Good morning.

Have you a suite?

Excuse me.

And how long
will we be having

the pleasure of your patronage,
M. le Comte?

Difficult to say.

I have a business in London
of an indefinite nature.

Have you a florist's
attached to the hotel?

But of course, monsieur.

Excellent.

Suite 37.

Flossie, darling.

Oh.

What the hell
are you doing here, Carrington?

Florence doesn't want to
see you.

I'd have thought
the letter from the lawyer

made that perfectly clear.

Well, I'm sure
we both want to spare Flossie

the embarrassment of airing
all our little family secrets.

Get out of here.

Rupert.
I thought it was your voice.

There's no need for you
to talk to him, Florence.

There's no need for you
to even see him.

But I want to talk to him,
Father.

Just for a moment.
Please.

All right.

One minute.

Then I want him
out of this house.

He never liked me.

Good heavens.

I can't imagine why.

Look, Flossie...

This legal separation --

It isn't what you want, is it?

Rupert...

The only reason I wanted to
be alone with you

was to be absolutely certain
I'd got you out of my system.

I have.

Goodbye, Rupert.

Flossie, wait.

Look, all right,
if that's what you really want.

But, look, you couldn't, um...

I'm in a spot of difficulty.

You mean money.
Not a penny of it.

You've had a good run
for my money, but now it's over.

I think you should
help me out, Flossie.

What were they standing at

at the close yesterday
in Sydney?

Listen, the geologist's report
is fine.

Couldn't be better.

Where do the rumors start?
Do you know?

Paris?

Who in Paris?

Look, Tommy, hold the bank off.

When the real
report's published,

those shares are gonna rocket.

Yeah.

Right.

I say.

Do you remember those shares
Sandy Hacket tipped me to buy?

Shares, Hastings?

The Australian Mining Company.
Yellow Creek.

He said they were about to make
some spectacular discovery.

Do not tell me, Hastings.
They are down to five shillings.

Three and six, actually.

I thought you didn't study
the stock market.

I do not, Hastings.
I study the psychology.

M. Hacket is what we call
the congenital optimist.

The only occasion
on which we met,

he assured me
with the utmost certainty

that it would not rain
that afternoon

because he was
going to the garden party.

Yes, I remember.
It bucketed down.

A Mr. Gordon Halliday is here
to see you, Mr. Poirot.

M. Gordon Halliday.

Show him in, by all means,
Miss Lemon.

Is that the Australian
Gordon Halliday?

Mais oui.

The self-made millionaire
par excellence.

But he's the chairman
of Yellow Creek Mines.

Do you think he'd advise me?

Hastings, I forbid you
to mention it.

M. Halliday is here to ask
for advice, not to give it.

Mr. Poirot.

Very good of you to see me
without an appointment.

Not at all, M. Halliday.
Not at all.

How may I be of service to you?

Well, actually,
it's a little awkward.

Flowers from M. le Comte again,
madam.

Not more of them.

What does he say this time?

"I'm desolated not to have heard
from you.

Can it possibly be that I am
condemned to take tea alone?

Have pity, my lovely Florence.
Have pity."

He hasn't changed one bit.

Well...

I could do
with a bit of cheering up.

Look, Mr. Poirot,
money's no object.

I want him got rid of.

Poirot is not in the business

of getting rid of people,
M. Halliday.

He's not only European,
M. Poirot, he's a Frenchman.

And he's not only a Frenchman,
he's a wrong un.

You see,
it's hard for poor Florence.

Everybody knows
she's my only heir.

That scares off
all the decent blokes

and brings
the buzzards flocking.

And this Comte de Rochefour
is one of the buzzards.

Yeah.

Knew it as soon as
I heard his wings

flapping towards us in Paris.

Of course, Florence thought
he was the bee's knees.

I had a hell of a job
getting her away from him.

I thought I might find her
someone more suitable

in English society.

The Honorable Rupert Carrington?

Yeah, well, that was
out of the frying pan,

into the fire with a vengeance.

And now, just as she gets him
out of her hair,

back out of nowhere comes
this so-called count.

Staying at the Adelphi Hotel.
Spending a fortune on roses.

Poirot is not in the business

of vetting the potential
husbands, M. Halliday.

I cannot help you.

You keep telling me

what business you're not in,
Mr. Poirot.

Can't you just run your eye
over the pipsqueak for me?

You're not a father, Poirot.

You don't know what it's like

trying to bring up a daughter
all on your own.

No wife to talk it over with.
No one to ask advice.

Very well.

I will run my eye over him
for you.

I can tell you where he'll be
in half an hour from now.

Unless I'm
very pleasantly mistaken,

Florence will be there too.

Will you go to Crufts?

Crufts is about
the most exciting thing

in London this month.

No.
That is not so.

I was devastated
when you left Paris, Florence.

I was utterly destroyed.

Well, I'm sorry about Paris.

-My father --
-Ah.

Your father.

Perhaps he will look at me
in a better light this time.

Why?
What's different this time?

I have a job.

I think the First National Bank
of Paris will carry weight.

Even with him.

Well, Hastings,
what do your instincts tell you

about our so-elegant count?

Well, not a lot, really.

Just looks like a typical fro--

Typical Frenchman.

I mean typical Frenchman
of his type...

of Frenchman.

Quite so.
Quite so.

Typical of his type.

Bearer bonds?

Worth 20,000
of your English pounds.

Now, if the bank can trust me
to such an extent,

so can your father.

So can you.

Perhaps.

Is this something to do with
some financial master stroke?

I will tell you all about it
when we meet tomorrow.

Oh, not tomorrow, I'm afraid.

Tomorrow I'm going away
for the weekend.

I accepted an invitation
months ago.

Florence, how can I possibly
be without you

for another three days

now that we have
found each other again?

Well, you can always
come and see me off

if it'll make you feel better.

I'm catching the 12:14
from Paddington --

the Plymouth Express --
and then changing at Bristol.

Come and wave goodbye to me.

It is only for three days.

Which of the jewels
shall I pack, madam?

Oh, I can't decide.

I'll take the jewel case
with everything.

Do you think that's wise,
Miss Florence?

Florence, now just --

Oh, do you have to wear those?

With this?
Don't be silly, Father.

-Pack these, Jane.
-Do you have to take them all?

Daddy, you really do
have to stop worrying about me.

Be a dear.
Help Jane with the cases.

Hmm.

150,000 shares, Comte?

150,000.

The Yellow Creek
Mining Corporation.

To be sold when they reach �1.

It's my security.

Porter.

Be careful with that.
It's a heavy one.

The train
now standing on platform one

is the 12:14 Plymouth Express
via Bristol.

The 12:14 Plymouth Express
via Bristol

will depart from platform one.

Are you sure you wouldn't rather
I stayed with you, madam?

Quite sure.
You go and find your own seat.

Are you expecting company,
madam?

Of course not.
Why on earth should I be?

Excuse me.

Do you know if that clock
is correct?

No idea, I'm afraid, my dear.

Is Poirot in?

I want to see him!

-Right -- Right this minute.
-Mr. Halliday! Really!

Florence has disappeared.

You've got to
do something, Poirot.

She just disappeared
into thin air.

Now, calm yourself, M. Halliday.

How can I?!

I knew something like this
would happen.

Tell me.

She was going away
for the weekend.

Her maid's just called
from Bristol station.

They were supposed to
change there,

only, apparently, Florence
stayed on the train.

Said she had some business
further on.

Now, did she specify
what business?

No, no,
she just said that

she'd get the first train
back to Bristol,

and then they'd go on together.

Well, that is not necessarily
to worry, my friend.

But that was
over three hours ago, Poirot.

There's still no sign of her.

I see.

What really worries me
is that when the maid went along

to Florence's compartment
at Bristol,

there was a man in it with her.

Train now arriving
on platform one

is the 12:14 from Paddington.

This is Plymouth.
Plymouth station.

The train now arriving
on platform one

is the 12:14 from Paddington.

Going on to Penzance,
are you, sir?

Paper! Paper!
Extra! Extra!

Body found on train!

Paper! Paper!
Extra! Extra!

What's it all for, Poirot?

You're a clever man.
You tell me that.

My dear friend.
I am so very, very sorry.

You find her murderer, Poirot,

I'll make you richer
than you ever dreamed.

Halliday, my friend,
it is not a question of money.

Believe me,
I also shall not rest

until the murderer
is brought to justice.

Now, it is essential
that I speak with the maid

at the earliest possible moment.

She's in the breakfast room.

The police are questioning her
right this minute.

I tell you,
I never saw his face.

That's a bit hard to credit.

Well, she made sure
that I didn't.

Mrs. Carrington.

She was standing in the doorway
when we got to Bristol

with the luggage already
out in the corridor.

I just caught a glimpse of him
over her shoulder.

He had his back to me.

Well, you must have
noticed something.

I told you.
He was tall.

He had on a dark suit.

And I think...

I'm almost positive
that his hair was dark too,

but that's all I remember.

Hello, Poirot.
Hastings.

I heard you were here.
Nasty business, this.

Oui, d'accord.

A genuine tragedy.

If I may?

Mademoiselle.

Did he seem to you
in any way familiar?

No, I don't...

I don't think he did.

Could it have been
Mrs. Carrington's husband?

Well, I only saw him once.

I suppose it could have been.

Have you ever met a man
who calls himself

le Comte de Rochefour?

-No, sir.
-Bien.

Thank you very much,
mademoiselle.

So...

After you'd caught a glimpse
of this man

you might or might not have
seen before, then what happened?

I told you.

Mrs. Carrington said
she had business on the train

and that I was to take
the luggage and wait for her.

Mr. Halliday tells me
that Mrs. Carrington

had a lot of jewelry with her in
a blue morocco traveling case.

That wasn't with the stuff
you took off the train?

Oh, no, sir.
She kept that with her.

What do you think, Poirot?

I presume that the
traveling case of blue morocco

was not discovered
with the body.

You presume 100% correct.

Mind you, that doesn't
necessarily signify.

For whatever reason the murderer
had for killing her,

he'd be a fool to let a bag full
of valuable jewelry go begging.

Or perhaps he took it
to distract us

from his real motive.

Taxi!

How long had she been dead

when the body was discovered
at Plymouth?

About three hours,
the doctor says.

After Bristol,
the train stops at Weston,

then not again until Taunton.

According to the pathologist,

she was killed soon after
the train left Weston,

at the very latest.

Possibly before.

Before the train
reached Weston even?

Could be.

The train for Plymouth
departs from Paddington station

at 14 minutes past 12:00,
does it not?

12:14, yes.

Hastings, what do you say

to an invigorating ride
into the West Country?

Weston station.
Dead on time.

Exactly 25 past 3:00.

Excellent.

And exactly 35 minutes
after leaving Bristol,

at which time yesterday

Mme. Carrington
was alive and well.

The question is, Hastings,

was Mme. Carrington still alive
and well at this moment?

And if she was alive and well,
did she remain in the carriage

or did she descend from
the train onto the platform,

perhaps to stretch the legs,
take in the fresh air?

And did anybody see her
doing it?

Pr�cis�ment.

-Perhaps we should ask a porter.
-Papers!

Yes, we could.
Or...

Or possibly, Hastings...

Papers! Papers!
Get your papers here!

Papers!

Excuse me.

No, no, no, no.
No. No, thank you.

You have the appearance of
a bright, observant young lad.

That's what my mum says.

Tell me.

I want you to try to remember,

at precisely
this time yesterday,

did you see descending
from the train a woman?

A handsome young woman
in a blue --

a blue hat and coat, perhaps?

She bought a newspaper
off you, huh?

-You mean the Australian lady.
-So you remember her?

I couldn't forget her, gov.

Not with all the fuss
she was making.

-Fuss?
-Yeah.

She kept going on about wanting
a late edition of the paper.

Any paper.

Well, I told her
I only had the early edition,

but she wouldn't believe me.

Kept going on, saying,
"I must have one,"

as though her life
were at stake.

I see -- Pardon.

-And, uh...
-Come, children.

Did she give to you any reason

why she was so desperate
to acquire this late edition?

No, she just kept saying,
"He'll be so angry,"

and looking back at the train

like someone was on it
waiting for her.

-And then?
-Well, nothing.

She just kept going on and on

until she nearly
missed her train.

She only just managed
to jump back on it

as it was moving.

Thank you very much.

Early edition, late edition,
early edition, late edition.

Superbe, Miss Lemon.

I knew
that you could arrange it.

Difficulties are made
to be overcome, Mr. Poirot.

"Difficulties are made
to be overcome."

What a truly magnificent
attitude.

So, Hastings,
let us divide these between us

and examine them minutely.

Inspector Japp.

-Chief Inspector.
-Poirot.

Hello. What's this?
You looking for a job?

No, I know. You've had a chat
with that newsboy.

You think
there's something in it?

That is what we are trying
to discover, Chief Inspector.

Hmm.

Well, I just thought
I'd come and tell you,

you could be on the right track
with that French gent.

Apparently, he left the Adelphi
at 11:00 yesterday morning,

an hour before the express
left Paddington,

and didn't get back
till gone 10:00 in the evening.

And nobody has any idea
where he spent the day.

However, we picked him up

trying to catch the boat train
this morning.

We just stopped him
for questioning,

and he made a run for it.

He's down at the station now.

These papers have probably got
nothing to do with it.

Oh, no, no, no, Chief Inspector.

When we shall discover
why Mme. Carrington

was so anxious to acquire
a late edition...

...then we shall know
why she was killed...

...and who is responsible.

Another one.

I don't think I can,
Mr. Carrington.

I'm sorry.

What do you mean,
don't think you can?

Well, for one thing, sir,
I think you've had enough.

And for another, there is
the question of your bill.

-Who are you?
-Arthur Hastings.

You know this fellow won't give
me a drink, Arthur Hastings.

Really?

Well, perhaps I'll have
more luck.

Two large Scotches, please.

Had a bit of luck
at Ascot yesterday.

Don't talk to me about Ascot.
Horses.

What were you on in the 3:30?

I bet you were on
Highland Laddie.

Yes, I was, as a matter of fact.

I hate people like you.

33 to 1.

I put my shirt on Rising Star.

Rising Star.

Every penny I had in the world
on that nag.

My last chance.

Must have given you
a nasty shock

when you read the result
in the paper.

Shock?

Do you know why I'm here?

This is the only place I know

where my bookmaker
can't get at me.

I mean, I don't want to
sit here drinking.

I actually dislike drink.
Do you know that?

Why did you back
Highland Laddie?

Oh, I had a tip.

I really dislike people
who get tips.

Thank you.

You're a good chap, though.
You've got to be fair.

How did you know
I read about it in the paper?

Oh, you said.

You said
you weren't at the course.

Did I say that?
You are a good chap.

Every penny I had.
I looked at that newspaper.

I could be a success, you know,
if I just had the capital.

And tips.

Isn't there anyone you could
go to for capital?

Not a soul in the world.
Not now.

I don't want to talk about that.

I demand to see
the French consul.

All in good time, M. le Comte.

This is a serious business.

I know nothing of the death of
Mrs. Carrington, I tell you.

I am devastated by it.

I'm rather more interested
in these things for the moment.

Mr. Halliday is here, sir.

-Show him in.
-Very good, sir.

Mr. Halliday.

M. Halliday,
I am devastated for you.

Now, the count says
he last saw your daughter

when he had tea with her
at the Adelphi on Wednesday.

Yeah, he did have tea with her.

One interesting thing, though,
Mr. Halliday,

is that he had these with him.

Bearer bonds.

And what the count
can't tell us, you see,

is what sort of financial
dealings would require him

to bring �20,000 worth
of these bonds into England

and then take them back again
to Paris three days later.

Well, he was obviously
using them as security.

Security for what?

That is my bank's business.

Not according to them,
it isn't, sir.

I rang them up, you see?

They're quite anxious
to have a word with you.

What, uh --
What bank are we talking about?

The International Bank of Paris.

Wait a minute.

I know what he wanted
the security for.

10 days ago,
somebody started a rumor

that a geologist's report
on one of my mines

was gonna be unfavorable.

The shares plummeted.

You must have made
a real killing.

He'd have bought the shares
at about three shillings

and sold them the day after
the real report came out

and they went back up again
to about 20.

Making about �100,000.

This sounds like something
for the fraud department.

Fraud?

What fraud?

It's normal business practice.

No wonder you were so anxious
to get hold of a late edition.

He went down to Ascot,

put everything he had
on Rising Star.

As soon as he knew
the horse had lost,

he asked Florence for a loan.

She refused him.

Right, Poirot,
the frog's cracked.

I knew it.

What he was reckoning was
he'd use Mrs. Carrington

as a backup
in case his deal went wrong.

No, no, no. He lost every penny
he had at the races.

-Races? Who had? What races?
-Rupert Carrington.

No, no, it's got nothing
to do with Carrington.

Please, please, please,
my friends.

If you please.

How can I possibly arbitrate

between your two
ingenious theories

if I can hardly distinguish
one word of them?

Now, Chief Inspector,
your theory, as I understand it,

is that the Comte de Rochefour

intended to use Mme. Carrington
as a fall back on.

If the takeover deal
went wrong,

he would then demand of her
the money

in order to redeem the bonds.

He's admitted as much.

But the deal,
it did not go wrong, did it?

So why should the count kill for
the jewels of Mme. Carrington?

Whereas, Hastings, your theory
is that when M. Carrington

discovered that his certain
winner fell at the last fence,

he then demanded from his wife
the money

in order to remove the threat
of the bookmakers.

And when she refused,
he killed her for her jewelry.

Exactly.

Then you tell me, Hastings,

why does M. Carrington
still lurk about his club,

drinking himself into oblivion
and shaking with fear

of what they might do to him,
these very same bookmakers?

Bon.

These feverish speculations,
they will not do.

Order and method
will be our guides.

Now, I have been consulting

the admirable files
of Miss Lemon.

So, Chief Inspector,
get four of your best men

and meet us at this address
at 9:00.

Find the jewels,
and you'll find the killer.

What's happening?

Nothing.

He's knocking at the door.

Hold on.
Someone's answered.

He's gone in.

I wish I knew what he was up to.

I'm not quite clear
what this is about, Mister...

A friend advised me
to get in touch with you.

Friend?
What friend?

He prefers to remain anonymous.

Oh, yes.

I don't think
I care for anonymous friends.

My friend is anxious
to buy some jewelry.

Plenty of shops around.

You look like a jeweler.

You're very acute, monsieur.

Very well.

Perhaps you read
of the jewelry robbery

the day before yesterday
on the Plymouth Express?

I don't read that sort of trash.

You are very wise, monsieur.

There is blood on those jewels.

It will make them
very hard to sell.

You're a funny little fellow,
aren't you?

What are you?

Montenegrin? Polish?

Belgian, M. McKenzie.

You see, those jewels
will have to be broken up,

removed from their setting.

And whoever tries to sell them

will be lucky to receive
one-sixth of their true value.

I don't know
what your game is, monsieur.

I really don't.

My friend
is a truly private collector.

He would not be so fussy.

He would not care if the jewelry

were left
in its original condition.

In fact, he would prefer it.

Let's hope it stays fine
for him.

You got the wrong shop.

None of this
means anything to me.

I see.

Sorry I couldn't be of any help.

We all have false hopes,
M. McKenzie.

How'd it go, Poirot?

It is him.

He denies all knowledge,
of course.

But there is on the coat rack

a duplicate of the coat
Mme. Carrington was wearing

at the time of her death.

Why did he need a duplicate?

For his accomplice to wear,
Hastings.

I didn't know
he had an accomplice.

But of course he did.

That is how
I was able to locate him.

Right.
Come on, lads.

This is the police!
Open this door!

All right.
Break the door down.

Mr. Halliday's dining.

I want a word with you,
Mr. Halliday.

You weren't welcome
when my daughter was alive.

You're even less welcome now.

I don't care
if I'm welcome or not.

Why should you have
an easy conscience?

This horror
would never have happened

if you hadn't come between
Flossie and me.

The only thing that came between
you and Florence

was your character.

She saw you for what you were.

No, she saw
what you wanted her to see.

You could never let her go,
could you?

Yeah, what is it, Mason?

It's the inspector
from Scotland Yard, sir.

And a lot of other people.

Do we have to talk about this?

I am afraid that we do,
M. Halliday.

Does no good.

Okay. Go on.

I still don't understand the
business about the newspapers.

Neither did I at first,
my friend.

Why should Florence
be so desperate

to procure this newspaper?

Please, mademoiselle, allow me.

Perhaps her companion was a man
who was desperate to know

the results
of a particular race.

Thank you, mademoiselle.

Or perhaps
her companion was a man

who desperately needed to know
the close-of-day figures

on the stock market.

Absurd.

I tormented my brain.

I agitated the little gray cells
without mercy.

Why did Florence Carrington so
desperately want that newspaper?

And what was the answer?

The answer. The answer,
my friend, was that she did not.

Now, once this idea presented
itself to me,

the truth,
it soon became very clear.

You see, I knew Florence was
murdered because of her jewels,

but I also knew something
about the man who killed her.

Knew what?

The man I was looking for

had to be a thief
of the most steelhearted,

one capable of committing
the senseless murder

of an innocent young woman.

So I looked in the files of
Miss Lemon, and what do I find?

I find a jewel thief

by the name of McKenzie.

A plan is devised

which will suggest
that the theft of the jewels

are not the principal cause
of the crime

that is to take place.

That color really suits you.

Florence Carrington
is traveling with the jewels

alone and unprotected
on the Plymouth Express.

M. McKenzie has also boarded
the train at Paddington.

Just as the train reaches
Bristol station,

he advances
towards her carriage.

Aah!

Oh!

The train arrives at Bristol.

M. McKenzie descends
from the train

carrying with him
not only the jewels

but also the baggage
of Mme. Carrington.

Now, if anybody had looked
at the carriage

as the train
left Bristol station,

they would have noticed
Mme. Carrington alive and well.

Indeed, at Weston

she apparently descended from
the train onto the platform,

where she made a great fuss

about acquiring
the late edition.

But this was to ensure

that the newspaper boy
would remember her.

Hang on a minute.

The pathologist said
she was dead

before the train reached Weston.

Maybe even before Bristol.

Pr�cis�ment, mon ami.

So how is this possible?

Do we believe in ghosts?

No.

No, we do not.

It was not poor Mlle. Florence

who was seen traveling
on the train to Weston.

It was not Mlle. Florence

who made at Weston station
the fracas.

It was the accomplice
of M. McKenzie,

wearing the duplicate blue coat.

To kill a fellow human being
is vile, my friends.

But I wonder if to kill a fellow
human being with a knife

is not the most vile.

You look a proper lady.

To see the eyes of
the victim staring into yours,

to feel the breath
upon her face,

the scrape of the knifepoint
between her ribs.

You see, the ruthless accomplice
of M. McKenzie

was a woman called Grace Kidd,

who was employed
by Mme. Carrington

under the name of Jane Mason.

Tell me, mademoiselle,

was it absolutely necessary

for a poor, wretched woman --

who had never done to you
one moment's harm -- to die?

Was there no other way?

Oh, my God!

Those jewels would have set us
up for the rest of our lives.

Why take chances?

Right.
That'll be enough of that.

Take her away, lads.

Poor Florence.

Poor, dear Florence.

We found the jewel case in
McKenzie's house, Mr. Halliday.

They're not mine.

I know the contents
of my daughter's will.

They belong
to that creature there.

No.

No, I don't want them.

I'm not going to profit
by Flossie's death.

Most sad.

Most sad.

I shall go now, I think.

Oh, you think so, do you?

You may not be a murderer,
M. le Comte,

but you're still a swindler.

You're coming back
to Scotland Yard.

Dear Mr. Poirot,

I would like to express
my gratitude

for your help
in this tragic business.

Your logical
and businesslike approach

was something I could cling to
in the depths of my despair.

I hope sometime in the future

to be able to find a measure
of such quiet strength.

Then, perhaps,
I can start again.

I'm returning home
to the memory of happier times.

Old friends may help me
live with the past.

Poor M. Halliday.

He says in his letter that
he will return to Australia,

immerse himself in his work,
and try to forget.

He has been most excessive
in his generosity.

Poor man.