All language subtitles for Murder by the Book

What is it, darling?

Nearly 7:00, my dear. Dinner will be

here for supper soon.

Ah!

My god, you gave me a fright creeping up

on folk like that. Did you get that

blooming poison for my moles? Of course

I did. Well, where is it, girl? On the

kitchen table.

Ah.

AND YOU OWE ME 15 P.

EDNA.

NOTHING, MISS.

Having a little trouble with the old

moles, I see. Little blighters, can't

seem to get rid of them.

Your Charlotte's right, I'll publish it.

Well, I bought a manuscript a long time

ago, never looked at it, and see what

she thinks.

In my opinion, this is fine a book she's

ever written. I've always thought so.

But

if she doesn't want to, let's just leave

it.

Plenty of great detectives out living

their creators. Why shouldn't Hercule

Poirot? Over my dead body.

Well,

I suppose it would be, wouldn't it?

Don't be ridiculous, go on with you.

Hello, Edmund.

Trying to kill me off, too? Agatha, you

look marvelous. Oh, don't be so silly.

Have you brought the murder weapon with

you? I have. Thank you, my dear. As soon

as I'm ready when you are. Thank you,

Sally.

Come on, Edmund. Let's go and eat. I'm

famished.

Don't forget your box of tricks.

I've got a really special box of tricks

for you.

Oh, Edmund, you stop How DOES IT GO

ANYWAY? SO, THE PROMPT YOU GAVE THE LINE

YOU GAVE, a little help this time, and

still the actors all stood there, not a

word. So he said it again, and then

someone in the stalls even called out

the line. Still no response. Well, you

can imagine by this time the poor old

prompter was getting a bit browned off.

So finally he took a deep BREATH AND

JUST YELLED THE LINE OUT, at which point

dear old Charles turned to the wings and

said in that wonderful booming voice,

"By your boy, Mrs. Crusty's players, we

performed in this theater for the past

20 years. We all know perfectly well

what the line is. We've simply forgotten

to say it."

I didn't think that was at all funny.

THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE PROFESSIONALS.

They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Well, Edmund,

we've had the old softening her up

routine.

That's usually a sign that you're going

to spring something perfectly horrid.

It is your opinion, Sir Max tells me,

that the time has come to kill the goose

that lays the golden eggs.

Shall we get the young chaps the doors,

would you? It's getting rather chilly.

Agatha?

What?

You know, snap out of it.

It's always been so much trouble.

How is it Miss Marple's never upset me

at all, not ever?

Her books have always been so

Well, they're so easy.

But Poirot

always upsets me, so completely

unbearable.

You know, Edmund,

when I wrote this, I really meant

Well, anyway.

What's it like after all this? What is

it? 30 years? 35.

35?

Huh.

I seem dreadfully dated. Oh, there are

one two tiny little things, but it

stands up marvelously. Well, of course

it does. It was written with passion. I

enjoyed every minute of it.

So, you and Billy Collins and the rest

have decided that the old girl's not

going to come up with anything else, so

we might as well let our little Belgian

friend kick the bucket, too.

She's only pulling your leg, Edmund. I'm

not, actually.

Yes, Agatha. I think we ought to

publish.

And how?

Publish and be damned. We'd actually

need to read it first. Oh, thanks.

Tell the old fuss pot.

Well, I'll be

I expect you two want to gossip.

Well, I'll just take this

and disappear.

Thank you.

Dear Edmund,

you've always been so good to me.

Why don't you two come to Sterling Lee?

We are.

So all in all, a pretty gloomy weather

prospect. That's it then. A very good

night to you.

On BBC 2 now, Read All About It. While

here on 1, it's Kojak.

Who is there who hasn't felt a sudden

startled pan

at reliving an old experience

or feeling an old emotion?

Bingo.

Bingo.

Bingo, what is it?

Bingo?

Bingo.

I'm a gentleman.

I beg you to excuse me for

deranging you at this most inappropriate

hour. What in

heaven's name are How I wish I could say

that my visit was

purely of a social nature.

Unfortunately,

it is a matter of the

WHAT THE

BINGO.

NO, BINGO.

YEAH.

BINGO. GO.

NO.

OKAY. I DIDN'T THINK it would go like

that.

I suppose you'd better come in.

This is quite impossible. Do come in,

Monsieur Poirot. Please sit down. I'll

be back in a moment.

Where are they?

Sally?

Sally?

Sally?

I'm so sorry.

It's quite extraordinary. Everyone's

disappeared.

Please sit down, Monsieur Poirot.

You're making me nervous.

Do you not think, my dear Agatha, that

after all these years we might be on,

how do you say, first name terms?

perfectly well how we say.

I'm sorry. I've never been any good at

first names. Besides, nobody calls you

your partner.

Goodbye.

As you wish.

Nevertheless, madam, I should prefer, if

you do not insist, to remain for the

moment standing.

What a charming room. Partner, I really

would be most grateful if you would

kindly tell me what on earth you're

doing here. Hello. There is, as you well

know, madam, only one reason, as a rule,

for a visit from the great Hercule

Poirot.

You're investigating a crime?

A crime of the most serious sort. You

mean murder? Murder, madam.

But who?

Please, madam, all in good time.

It is my habit, is it not, to

investigate a murder once it has been

committed?

But the particular case that brings me

here tonight is, however, of a rather

different sort.

For the murder in question has yet to

take place.

But that's absurd.

I think not. Surely it is better to

investigate a murder before it has been

committed rather than afterwards.

Perhaps one can use the little gray

cells to prevent such a murder from

taking place. I do wish you'd hurry up

and get to the point, partner.

Ah, the point.

The point, my dear Agatha, is that we

have here a most interesting and unusual

case.

For we know not only that the murder is

to be committed,

we know also

the identity of the victim.

Moreover,

ma chere amie,

we are fortunate enough to know the

identity of the murderer.

Oh, for goodness' sake, do get on with

it.

You are agitated.

That is but natural.

Let us, however, for a moment

reflect.

And let us use our reason and consider

what we know about this murder and what

we do not know.

Let us use, as I said,

our little gray cells.

Hm?

Ah.

C'est intéressant, ça.

Wagner.

Voyons.

Let us begin with those elements that we

do not know.

First of all,

we do not know when the murder is to

take place. Secondly, we do not know how

it is to take place. Thirdly, we do not

know, and I'm sure you would agree,

madam, that this is the most intriguing

and important question, for from it all

else stems, we do not know

why

it is to take place.

In short, madam, we do not know the

motive for the murder.

Well,

how exciting.

So, I'm to help the great Hercule Poirot

solve a real-life murder. Yes, a

real-life one.

Oh, come on, let's get on with it. Tell

me, who is the intended victim? The

intended victim, my dear Agatha,

is myself.

Oh, no.

How absolutely marvelous. Tell me, who

is the murderer? No, no, don't tell me.

Let me guess.

Is it someone like that mad scientist

woman, you know, Madame Olivier?

The one who nearly got you in The Big

Four

when you pretended your last cigarette

was a blowpipe with a poison dart at the

end?

Is it someone like her?

Let us not beat around the bush.

About? About the bush.

I think you know quite well, my dear

Agatha, who is the murderer.

What, may I ask, madam, is that?

Oh,

nothing. Just another sausage from the

old sausage machine. Pardon?

Oh, that's what I used to say to Edmund.

Here you are, I'd say, "Another sausage

from the sausage machine."

Sausage? Yes. A manuscript. A new book.

A book.

Might I, um,

be so bold as to inquire whether I,

Hercule Poirot,

figure in this sausage? Oh, good souls,

no. Certainly not. Actually, it's not

much good. I don't know that I shall

even let him have it. Probably scrap it,

I should think. It is, then, I imagine

one of your Miss Marple books. Yes,

that's right. Absolutely. A Miss Marple.

Rather a silly one, really.

May I have a look?

No.

My dear Agatha,

you seem upset.

Forgive me if I upset you. It's just

that it's so silly.

It's so silly that

I don't like people reading my

manuscript.

Why, Agatha?

I beg your pardon? I said, "Why? Why do

you want to kill me?"

This is absurd.

It's getting very late, Monsieur Poirot.

I really must insist. Sit down.

It is of course not surprising, madam,

that someone with such experience in the

matter of murder as yourself, when

confronted with a straightforward

accusation,

does not immediately decide to make a

clean bosom of it. Rest.

Exactly.

So, I see that we must proceed along the

conventional lines.

I know.

Let us calmly examine the facts and

arrange them in their proper order.

Those of importance we will put on one

side. Those of no importance,

those in the way.

I know. First of all, we know that the

celebrated writer, madam Agatha

Christie, plans to publish a book

in which a world-renowned

internationally famous Belgian

detective, Hercule Poirot,

is to be killed. Thus, as I said, we

know both the murderer and their

intended victim.

Secondly, we know that this book,

the manuscript of which is locked in

this bookcase,

was written not recently, as the writer

and her publishers will no doubt claim,

but a great many years ago. If I might

hazard a guess,

I would say

just before the Second World War. Ah.

How?

You are going to ask do I, Hercule

Poirot, arrive at such a conclusion?

It's quite simple.

First,

the paper of the manuscript is yellow

and of a quality that, alas, is no

longer to be found today.

Second,

for some years now you have not typed

your own manuscripts, preferring to use

instead what I believe you call a

dictaphone. It is clearly evident that

this particular manuscript has been

typed in your own idiosyncratic hand.

Thirdly, the brown paper bag in which it

was kept bears the name of a shop in

Charing Cross Street, which was, at the

beginning of the war, bombed.

The shop has never reopened.

It seems unlikely that it not madam that

you would be employing such a bag some

35 years later to contain a manuscript

which was only recently written.

The significance of the fact that you

wrote this book so many years ago will

of course not be lost on you.

Had you produced it by example this year

or last year

one might excuse it as you wish or be

the misguided one

to see how two great careers terminated

at approximately the same time.

If however it was written in 1939 1940

that throws a very different light on

the matter for I as you madam was then

at the very pinnacle of my career which

brings us to the interesting question of

motive.

Why you wanted to kill me?

It's really terribly easy to explain.

Huh?

Terribly easy. Please sit down.

You see

Hercule it was wartime.

You of all people who came to England as

a refugee must know what it feels like.

It's a very emotional time.

We were bombed you know. We were aware

at the time but we were actually bombed.

Three houses on the other side of

Sheffield Terrace not flat.

One begins to think that at any moment

it might be one's own turn to die.

I suddenly realized that the Germans

might drop a bomb on me and then bang

I'd be gone and where would that leave

you?

Stranded in limbo

or worse still a prey to writers who

would exploit you

not look after you properly

like they did to poor James Bond

and that would be so humiliating.

So

I decided to write a book that would

finish you off well,

decently.

You know, just in case.

Oh, there was no intention of

publishing.

It was supposed to be a sort of nest egg

for the family.

If anything should happen to me,

the royalties would come in handy.

But, in the main, the idea was to take

care of you.

I could have been touched.

I'm not saying I'm untouched.

I would be more touched however if your

very moving account were rather more in

accordance with the facts of the case.

What uncharacteristically you are

forgetting, my dear Agatha, is

that you are not the sole witness to the

events of 1940 with which we are to my

mind concerned.

At least two other parties were

involved. Your agent,

Monsieur Edmund Cork,

and Monsieur Harold Ober, your agent in

the United States of America, where,

thanks to his perspicacity,

Hercule Poirot has enjoyed, and did

enjoy, a very highest esteem.

Fortunately, although Monsieur Ober is

no longer with us,

Monsieur Cork is.

He has furnished me valuable evidence as

to your

attitude towards me at that time.

I have here two

letters you wrote to him in January 19

39.

"Poirot," you write,

"is rather insufferable.

Most public men are

who live too long.

Perhaps you would have to elaborate a

little on exactly what you meant by live

too long.

Well, it was just a joke.

A joke.

A joke.

And yet it was in months

you were writing the book that was to

put an end to that excessively long

life. As I told you, it was just a

nested. There was no intention to

publish.

Indeed, young madam.

Perhaps you can explain to me how in

that case the manuscript came to be sent

to Monsieur in America.

I don't know. We always did We always

sent Harold a copy. Standard practice.

Standard practice with books you were

about to publish? Yes. Um

no, I mean

Monsieur Monsieur informs me practically

had a heart attack when he read this

manuscript of yours. A heart attack? You

find that amusing? Fortunately, he at

least it seems recognized the folly of

killing off the world's greatest ever

detective.

One who owns you virtually every penny

you own. Now, the plain fact of the

matter is, my dear Agatha, that you

fully intended to publish the book at

that time and were only prevented from

doing so by your agent and publisher.

And what is more, madam, I have a little

idea about your motive for wanting me

dead. Oh, yes?

Oh, yes.

Jealousy.

Jealousy? Jealousy. You were jealous of

me, jealous of my fame, jealous of my

reputation throughout the world. YOU

RESENTED THE FACT THAT IT WAS MY NAME,

not yours, THAT SOLD YOUR BOOKS. SACRE

BLEU!

WOULD YOU LIKE A CUP OF COCOA?

HERE WE are then.

I made it just the way you like.

Madam, is it torsion feet?

Well, thank you. How jolly nice this is.

I must say you're looking absolutely

splendid.

You know, in all those pictures and

plays and films and things, no one's

ever got you quite right. I mean,

captured the real you.

For some reason, they always wanted big

fat men to play you. Francis Sullivan,

Charles Laughton.

But

I thought that Albert Finney wasn't

quite the mark. Oh, the mustache was

simply disgusting.

No, no one's ever come up with an actor

who had the right sort of

look of superiority.

And I don't I always imagined perhaps

David Niven. David Niven? Oh, far too

English and much too good looking.

I'll go.

You know, whenever I delivered a new

book, Edmund always used to take me out

to lunch. Usually the Caprice.

Have you had the lobster thermidor?

Absolutely marvelous.

Sometimes we go to the Savoy Grill, you

know, just for a change. And one day

I remember I looked across the room and

there you were. Well, not you of course,

but the spitting image. This little man

dining alone,

striped trousers, immaculately dressed,

a lot.

Even the funny egg-shaped head.

And I said to Edmund, "Do go over and

get him.

We can't let him go." And he said,

"Agatha,

you know perfectly well that if I

brought him over, you'd melt with

embarrassment and rush off to the ladies

or something."

I notice that you take the

pharmaceutical journal.

Excellent publication.

I was on staff for the OPJ.

They reviewed your first case, you know,

Styles.

One of the best compliments I ever had.

They said, "Miss Agatha Christie knows

her job."

They said,

"She deals with poisons

in a very knowledgeable way."

This is a sham also.

Where did you find such a delightful

piece?

We got it on one of Max's digs.

What do you dig? Archaeology. Ah.

I wonder why you never used such a table

in one of your books, huh?

There's so many interesting

possibilities. For example,

neither of us has drunk any of our cocoa

yet, huh?

Both the cups and saucers are identical.

The liquid in the cups are the same.

Even the teaspoons in their respective

saucers are in exactly the same

position. What of that?

Come, come, come, madam. Surely you see.

Let us imagine

two people sitting at such a table, huh?

One of them wants to murder the other,

but the other person suspects

that he is to be murdered.

And suspects, let us suppose, that his

drink has been poisoned.

What do you think he would do, huh?

I hadn't the faintest idea.

You jest, of course.

Why, naturally, he would find some way

of distracting the attention of the

other.

Voilà.

That, I believe, is what you say in the

English,

turning the tables.

How very difficult such a crime would be

to solve, huh? The would-be murderer

becomes a victim, the victim the

intended murderer. Where is the motive?

There is none.

A formidable case. One to tax the brain

even of the great Hercule Poirot.

But, of course, my dear man,

I am talking of an entirely hypothetical

situation. As in real life, both cups

are identical and perfectly harmless.

It matters not at all

from which of them either of us drinks.

Delicious.

Don't mind if I go to drink up?

It will get cold.

Upon what, may I ask, are you sitting?

You're hideous, you're hideous, little

man.

Laggard, how dare you?

Filthy,

low-picking pilferer.

As you will, of course, have no need to

question me. that manner. Scotland Yard

is fully aware of that.

Give it to me.

Give it to me.

I insist that you allow me to read this.

Do you know what I said? No, give it to

me.

All right.

My poor friend, Poirot.

I have described him many times.

Now, to convey to you the difference.

Crippled with arthritis,

he propelled himself about in a

wheelchair.

His once plump frame had fallen in.

Fallen in, and had thinned for the man

now. His face was lined and wrinkled.

His tortured hair, it is true, was still

of a jet-black color.

But candidly, this was a mistake.

The candle of the moon turned her dye as

too painfully obvious.

It merely created the impression that he

wore a wig, and had adorned his upper

lip to amuse the children.

"Me?" said Poirot with a grimace.

"I am a wreck. I am a ruin. I am

crippled and twisted.

Mercifully, I can still feed myself.

But otherwise, I have to be attended

like a baby. Put to bed, washed, and

dressed."

"Something something."

"The family WILL NOT TOLERATE IT."

"The public will not tolerate it."

"It shall not be permitted."

Kill me. I beg your pardon?

Pack it.

I didn't say kill me.

Show me that you have the courage to do

it in a decent, honorable way.

Not in a cowardly, crawling, humiliating

way that you planned.

Oh, yeah.

I feel the same.

What?

You know,

this is the first time

in my life

that I

feel I need a touch of alcohol.

Apoyo,

be a dear.

The bottles are over there.

What do you think I ought to have?

Sherpa whiskey?

Anything.

I suppose

I don't know.

I don't think there is any.

Thank you.

Please, do help yourself.

You look done in.

Not quite yet.

You've read it?

As much as I need.

You know, Mr. Poirot,

I think it's time

for the confession.

Where shall we begin?

It's quite true

that when I wrote Curtain,

I fully intended it for immediate

publication.

Apart from everything else,

you were simply getting too old. You

see, I made a dreadful mistake.

I made you too old right at the

beginning at Styles. That was NBC,

1920.

And after that,

I had to make you a bit older with each

book.

You know,

readers spot these things.

Anyway,

by 1940,

you'd had a good run for your money. You

were pushing 80.

That's too old, isn't it?

For a detective

to be effective.

Please proceed.

Well,

that's it, really. Really?

At the beginning,

you said about from everything else. I

was too old. I should like to know what

you meant by everything else.

Well,

you were beginning to get in the way a

bit.

Getting in the way? Yes, a bit. You see,

I like writing lots of different sorts

of things. I mean, I liked my Miss

Marple books. I liked

writing other murder stories without

being Well, being tied.

But they kept insisting, "Agatha,

we've got to have a new Poirot book.

Can't you put Poirot in this? Poirot in

that?"

I just obeyed orders.

It spoiled things, you see.

I mean, Sad Cypress, they forced me to

put you in that.

Completely ruined.

Didn't need you. Much better without

you.

But no,

got to have Poirot in it. Nobody'll mind

so long as it's Poirot.

Well, I minded.

Anyway,

there you are.

I hadn't realized quite how jealous you

were. Don't be ridiculous. No, I don't.

Do not attempt to deny it, my dear

Agatha.

Now that I have read it,

see?

Nothing could be more clear. If it

hadn't been merely a question of

How shall I say?

Logic, convenience to kill me off,

there would have been no need for all

this humiliation. Humiliation?

Come, my dear.

All those references, more and more of

them to

Monsieur Poirot's peculiar Pardon.

Pardon. Little Mr. Poirot's peculiar

egg-shaped head and then the closest.

First of all, it's the spine. Spine.

Then the two tight buttoned leather

shoes, the striped trousers.

I mean, whom?

Whom do you know that dresses like this?

Whom?

I came to look like some sort of

narcissistic penguin.

I trust you are amused by that.

I understand.

No doubt you were also amused when you

wrote me out of those two films, Murder

Most Foul and Murder at the Gallop, TO

MY THESIS. Wasn't my fault. Oh, of

course not.

And of course it would not have been

your fault, but I just happened to be

replaced in those two films by that

ridiculous Miss Marple woman. Your

obsession with whom I cannot for one

minute begin to understand.

Untrained,

senile, spinster.

But let us leave that to one side. All

all of this one might understand. It was

awful, it was cruel, it was humiliating,

but knowing the extent of your jealousy

one might understand, one might perhaps

even forgive, but this

twisted crippled in a wheelchair, put to

bed,

hair washed, dried,

and the hair tied

to a wig.

Come on.

It turns out to be a wig. Later on in

the bit you haven't read.

Where is it? Where is the rest of it?

Somewhere where you can't get it. I

INSIST ON SEEING IT. You can insist as

much as you jolly well like, I'm not

going to show it to you.

Tell me at least

how I am to die.

Surely that is my right.

Despite it all,

you will, I know, uh

give me a proper death, as well.

A death

worthy of both of us, yes?

A murder?

Monsieur, a murder.

Of course it would have to be a murder.

But for Hercule Poirot, a murder of the

most exotic sort. Naturellement.

The most brilliant murder that you have

ever devised in any of your books. I

write them, I know them.

And of course, no ordinary would succeed

on such a distinguished victim. A

ordinary murderer.

Ah, c'est intéressant, ça.

Whoever would be so clever as to outwit

a great Hercule Poirot.

You would not go for the clumsy shooting

or the stabbing. So, whoever it is

would have to use the little gray cells

as cleverly

more cleverly than myself. You thought

it was possible?

I don't think you can kill me.

I guess I don't understand.

My dear Poirot,

you don't get murdered at all. Huh?

You simply have a heart attack.

No.

Agatha, you're all right, my dear.

What time is it? It's 7:00

in the morning.

When Edwin and I came to find you last

night, you were fast asleep. You looked

so comfy, I thought I'd just cover you

and leave you.

Oh, what a lovely day.

What's old Edge come up to? Sorry, my

dear.

Oh,

moves.

I say, are you really all right, Agatha?

Perfect, quite all right.

He Max,

I think I've got rather a good idea.