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Agatha Christie's Poirot (1989–2013): Season 2, Episode 5 - The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim - full transcript

Banker Mr. Davenheim steps out of his house, into the fog, and disappears. Where has he gone? Poirot bets good friend inspector Japp five pounds that he can solve the mystery within the week, without leaving his flat, using Captain Hastings to collect the clues.

Mr. Davenheim's back, madam.

Thank you, Walter.

I won't be needing the car
over the weekend.

Thank you, Martha.

You look tired.

Darling, servants.

How was your meeting
this morning?

Well, so-so.

They must refer
back to Wall Street,

so it'll be a few days yet.

Oh, by the way, Lowen rang.

He said he would be catching
the earlier train after all.


I don't know why you agreed
to see him, anyway.

You keep saying how much
you detest the man.

It wasn't quite that easy.

He's a shark
and is very slippery.

He's angling for a directorship
at the bank

has been for months now.

But you'd sooner die.

Gerald Lowen,
a seat on your own bank?

Oh, he wants to make life

as uncomfortable for me
as he can,

and that would give him just
the power base to set about it.

And unfortunately,

he does hold a bit
of a trump card this time

5% stake in Cape Gold,

which he knows we're desperate
to get hold of.

It puts him in a rather strong
bargaining position, I'm afraid.

You all right?

Yes, I'm fine.

Well, maybe he's on the 4:45.

Could be here pretty shortly.

I really ought to go through
one or two of these papers

before he gets here.

I'm sorry about all this.

Ah, look, I just want to
catch the last post.

I think I'll take a wander
into the village.

Lowen will be just getting in.
I can meet him off the train.


Anyway, a spot of fresh air
will do me good.


The girl was no longer

inside the chrysalis
when it vanished.

There was the secret.

It baffled even Poirot
for a full 10 seconds.

The key, of course,
lies in the costume of the girl.

there is a sewn a network

of very fine steel wires.

Human beings are made
of flesh and blood, no?

To make them vanish
into the air, c'est impossible.

You think so.

I take it
you haven't heard, then,

about the strange business
of Mr. Mathew Davenheim.

We are talking
about M. Davenheim

of Davenheim and Selmon.

Ah, the big banking firm.

Of which Mathew Davenheim
was a senior partner

and a very wealthy man, too,

if his house
is anything to go by.

my dear Chief Inspector,

you will have a little something
to warm you before you leave?

Well, seeing as I'm not on duty.

Yes, it's a rare old puzzle,
all told.

Friday afternoon,
he told his wife

he was off to the village
to post some letters,

Walks out the front gate,

hasn't been seen
or heard of since.


And at what time precisely
did M. Davenheim leave?

We gather around 4:40.

He was expecting
a business colleague

to arrive by train
that afternoon

to talk over
some financial deal or other.

A Mr. Gerald Lowen.

A gentleman to see
Mr. Davenheim, madam.

Gerald Lowen.

How do you do?

Mr. Lowen.

You drove here, then.
I didn't hear the car.

No, I came by train,
but we were a little early,

so I thought I'd walk up
from the station.

But my husband was
walking down to meet you.

How maddening.

You must've passed each other
in the lane.

I don't think so.

Oh, but you must have.
He left here not five minutes --

Mrs. Davenheim,
I couldn't possibly

have passed your husband.

The fact is,
I didn't pass anybody.

There wasn't another soul
in the lane all the way.

Please make yourself
comfortable in here.

I'm sure he won't be very long.

Thank you.

Mrs. Davenheim showed
Lowen into her husband's study,

and there he waited...

and waited...

and waited.

Well, over an hour goes by.

Still Davenheim doesn't return.

Gerald Lowen,
his patience exhausted,

takes his leave.

This is the way
your husband treats

important business clients,
is it?

I'm -- I'm quite at a loss.
I'm so sorry.


I'm very sorry, too,
Mrs. Davenheim.

Very sorry, indeed.

Inquiries are made
throughout the village.


They've searched everywhere.

They've found nothing.

But I don't know
who else to turn to.

For all intents and purposes,

Mathew Davenheim has vanished
off the face of the earth.

I'll call you back.
They've just come in.

Good evening.

It seems everyone saw Lowen.

Nobody saw Davenheim.


Why does that name ring a bell?


It is most obscure,
my dear Chief Inspector.

Which gives me the great hopes
of solving it.

I'm afraid
I can't see it myself.

Ah, but I do not see, mon ami.

I shut my eyes and I think.

One must always seek the truth
from within.

If you've told me that once,

you've told me a thousand times.

All right, then, Poirot.

Here's a challenge for you.

A fiver of my money that says

you can't solve
this little mystery

without leaving the house.

We'll give you seven days.

Of course, if it's beyond
even your magical powers

Trs bien.
Seven days, huh?

Provided the facts
are placed before me

and that you will allow
Hastings here to furnish me

with such information
as I require,

the solution,
it becomes inevitable.

I accept.

Good night, Poirot.

Thanks for the drink.

Like robbing a baby.

Now, that's the way
to walk to the village, sir.

About five minutes on foot.

During which time,

he must've passed Lowen
coming from the station.

Can I just ask,
what's down there?

That takes you
right into Brooklands,

a big motor-racing venue.

Uh, a little way down there
is a boating lake.

Now, we've checked
with the keeper.

He swears Davenheim
never passed it up.

-Captain Hastings.
-Chief Inspector.

I beg your pardon, sir?

What, uh, color were they,
if you can remember?

Mr. Lowen's trousers, sir?

Well, I know
it's a rather odd question,

but, uh, a rather odd person
would like to know.

Kind of a light color,
I suppose you'd say they were.

Light gray.

Very smartly turned out, he was,

apart from
that stupid mustache.

It goes back a long way,

this rivalry between them.

Lowen lost out to my husband
in a big deal

over some
shipping-company shares.

Poor man was nearly wiped out.

That was a few years ago now,

but he's never stopped
hounding Mathew ever since.

I believe he came here to barter

some South African stock
or something

in exchange for a position
on the bank.

Did a lot of business
in South Africa,

did he, your husband?

He was over in Johannesburg
all last winter.

Must've been three months.

He brought me back the most
wonderful diamond earrings.

He always
brought me back jewelry

of one kind or another
whenever he went away.

Do you believe in a sixth sense,
Chief Inspector?

I had it the day my mother died.

I had it again on Friday.

All day, the certain knowledge

that something like this
was going to happen.

And now it has, hasn't it?

I wonder if I might have a word
now with your maid.

I think I might have a word now
with your mistress.

Chief Inspector.

Captain Hastings.

I'm surprised to see you
still here, Mr. Poirot.

I thought you'd be out
on the Davenheim case.

Ah, well, Miss Lemon,

the Chief Inspector Japp
has bet me 5

that I cannot solve this mystery

without leaving my apartment,

and I accept his bet.

Oh, are you sure that was wise?

Perhaps not, Miss Lemon.

On reflection,

10 would be a much rounder sum.

I just told all I know
to that police inspector.

I ain't got time
to tell that all again.

No, quite.

I can see you're
a very busy man, Mr. Merritt.

Boatman's work's never done.


On Friday afternoon,
Mr. Merritt


I remember it all plain enough.

Friday afternoon
is one of my busiest times.

I remember looking at my watch
that said 4:55.

A couple of vagrants come by

and this, uh, girl on a bike.

One of them was blind.

Ugly-looking pair, all told.

Looked as if
they'd been drinking.

That were all that afternoon.

There weren't no one else
come by.

I'd remember, wouldn't I?


Well, I better be getting along.

Wouldn't want to keep you
from all your work, Mr. Merritt.


Don't you worry about that.

Soon as that paint's dry
on that bench,

I'll be right up
and giving that a second coat.

Ah. Light gray,
you say, Hastings.

That may be significant.

I'd still like to know what
the color of Lowen's trousers

has got to do with anything.

Surely that is obvious,

M. Lowen says that he
did not pass M. Davenheim

in the lane, oui?

Now, is he lying, Hastings,

or did he in fact
kill M. Davenheim?

A messy scuffle
in the country road,

a disposal of a body
in a muddy field,

and still he manages to turn up
at the house minutes later

so immaculately dressed.


Seemed rather trivial.

No, Hastings.

Nothing is trivial
in the matter of murder.

I commend also to your attention

the fact that before
he leaves a room,

M. Davenheim puts
onto the gramophone

a record of the "1812 Overture."

Well, that was highly
significant, too, was it?

Well, we may as yet
be on the wrong track,

but at least it is suggestive.

Track! That was it!
Gerald Lowen.


Gerald Lowen races
a couple of Bugattis,

just beginning to make a name
for himself on the circuit.

I bet it's the same chap.

Ah, the racing of the cars, huh?

Round and around in the circles.

Never will I understand
the passion

for such a pointless pastime.

You've got to experience it,
Poirot --

the sheer exhilaration.

Flying round
by the seat of your pants.

Yes, well, Hastings,

perhaps you should try
cleaning them first.

All right, lads, fan out.

Keep your eyes open.

Chief Inspector!

Bring it in.

Oh, my God.

It's my husband's.

Might just as well admit it,
Mr. Poirot,

you can't stand to being
cooped up here on your own,

away from all the action.

Miss Lemon, it becomes denser
by the minute, huh?

If his body had been discovered
in the lake, eh, bien,

a simple murder problem
or an intriguing suicide.

But his clothes
and no M. Davenheim, huh?


We are dealing here, Miss Lemon,
with a body of evidence

the most skillful dissection.

Well, in that case, why don't
you call off this stupid bet

and get out there,
ferreting for yourself?

Get out there ferreting,
Miss Lemon?

We are not hunting
the jack rabbits.

This is a delicate exercise
in the skill of --

Miss Lemon, the door,
if you please.

Mr. Poirot!


Morning, sir.
Got a parrot for Mr. Poor-rot.

Ah, no, no, no, no.

It is pronounced "Poirot."

I beg your pardon, Governor.

I've got a Poirot
for Mr. Poor-rot.

But I heard nothing
from the Commander Wallace.

He promised me faithfully

he was going to
clear it with you first.

It's just that he had to dash
away to Scotland for a few days,

and there was no one else
could look after it for him.

Anyway, be a bit
of extra company for you

as you're stuck
inside the office for a week.

You do like birds,
don't you, Mr. Poirot?

Miss Lemon, small animals have
no part to play in the home life

of a private detective
from Belgium.


Except, of course,
as a source of nourishment.

Driver of Car 17

kindly report to the secretary
of the meeting.

Excuse me. I'm looking
for a Mr. Gerald Lowen.

Well, that was him.

He'll come back into the paddock
next time around.

You're interested in the car?

I'll say. Never seen a Bugatti
fly like that before.

-The best time we've ever done.

Yes, we can meet him
by the shed.

So, you altered the fuel system.

Oh, yeah. We took out
the dual-built drive 224.

Oh, mind your back, sir.

So, you raised
the compression ratio.

Oh, yes, sir.
Upgraded the supercharger, sir.

Brilliant. Bet you get a
fantastic HP for your rev rate.

This is the gentleman
who's interested in the car.

Captain Hastings.
You're Gerald Lowen.


Well, you better take her
for a spin.


That's terribly kind of you.

-Go on.
-You sure?

Well, you want to get
the whole picture.

-Well, of course.
-Mr. Lowen.

Competitors are reminded
that, to assist timekeepers,

correct numbers are to be
displayed during practice.

I'm sorry to trouble you,
Mr. Lowen,

but I'm from Scotland Yard.

I wonder if you wouldn't
mind answering

a few questions.

Colonel Briton, Mr. Lowen.

This is the gentleman
I was telling you about.

He's interested
in buying the car.



Hey, you!

Get out of that damn car!

Captain Hastings.

Chief Inspector.

I think the police have had

quite enough of my time,
Chief Inspector.

Uh, just one moment,
please, Mr. Lowen.

How many more times do you
want me to tell you?

I didn't pass Davenheim
in that lane.

Perhaps he fell
down a rabbit hole.

And good riddance.

I gather he'd given you a bit
of a hiding on the markets

once or twice, Mr. Lowen.

Scored a few major coups
at your personal expense.

Davenheim's wealth
was accumulated

at many people's expense.

I don't imagine I'm
the only financier in the city

who bore him a grudge.

Well, you know what it's like.

What is it like, Mr. Lowen?

Dog-eat-dog in the city?

High-powered money men going
for each other's throats?

Look, if you're suggesting
that I killed Davenheim

and then tossed his damn clothes
away into that lake

Clothes in the lake, Mr. Lowen?

I don't think we've
officially announced that yet.

Well, must've heard it
on the exchange.

Good God, you don't think

you can keep a thing like that
secret, surely.

Thank you, Mr. Lowen.

Good day.

He sounds quite unbearably vain,
this man, Hastings.

How did he know about
the clothes in the lake?

In the city, they would know
what we had for breakfast

if it was important

to the share prices.

Where does that leave us, then?

You think Davenheim's
been kidnapped?

No. Where is the ransom note
or the demand?

A murder, then?

Where is the corpse?

And what sort of murder is it

where the killer removes
the clothes of his victim

and throws them into the lake?

Well, those two vagrants
could've attacked him,

robbed him of his clothes,

then, panicking,

in case the clothes identified
them as the man's killer,

tossed them into the water
and made a run for it.

Well, the boatman said
he saw nothing.

Then he spends most of his time
asleep, anyway.

Bravo, Hastings.

You begin to use your
little gray cells, huh?

Of course, your reasoning is
fallacious in every respect.

Your common sneak thieves

are very rarely the murderers,

And unless also he is
a member of the magic circle

and has constructed a secret
trapdoor somewhere in the lane,

how has he made the body


And please do not fraternize
with that creature.

I am still training him.

It's only a parrot.

I was talking to the parrot.

Ol' moneybags
is still missing, then?

Except he's in Rio by now.

And you are certain
that the lock,

it had been forced?

Nobody knows when.

Could've been like that
since Friday.

Everything is gone,
including the gems.

The gems?

All those expensive jewels
he kept bringing back.

Cleaned out, the lot.

Ah, things are now moving
in a very definite direction.

You cannot fail
to see the thread.

All the same,

there are still certain
litmus tests to be carried out

before we can be
absolutely sure.

Ah, ah, ah.
Where are you going?



Unless, of course,
you've changed your mind and

Certainly not.
A wager is a wager.

Hastings, you are not busy
this afternoon?


I want you to help me
in a little experiment.

Well, I don't know why we're all
standing around here talking

while he's out there
going scot-free.

Well, we have questioned
Mr. Lowen, madam,

but at the moment,
we don't actually have any --

Excuse me.

Would you mind awfully if I went
to get a glass of water?

Oh, please, let --

No, no, no, no.
I'll go myself.

Well, the man was determined
to ruin my husband.

We know that.

And he was on his own
right there in the study for --

well, for well over an hour.

We don't know for sure

it was broken into
on Friday afternoon.

I locked it up
myself, Chief Inspector,

just as Mathew
was returning home.

We couldn't have been burgled
since then.

Why haven't any of the doors
or windows been forced open?

It can only have been done by
someone who was in this house.

It couldn't only have been done
by Gerald Lowen.


Just, uh, conducting
a little experiment

that, um

It's a wonder
Japp didn't lock me up

for breaking and entering.

But, Hastings,
you performed magnificently.

I don't see what it proves,

except that you need a strong
hand to get that thing open.

Lowen isn't exactly a weakling.

Ah, our old friend
M. Lowen, huh?

He has suffered so badly
at the hands of M. Davenheim

that he vows to exact his
revenge on the demon banker.

So, first,
he kills his adversary,

then he turns up at the house
in order to ransack the safe

and make off
with the family jewels, huh?

It's the only explanation
that fits.

Like the round hole
into the square peg.

The opening of the safe door,

How did he force open
such a lock

without being overheard?


As you yourself
so expertly demonstrated,

it is quite impossible.

Well you've only
got three days to go.

This is quite tasty.

It is a recipe of my own,

Oh, yeah?

Nut husks, bird seed,
and a ground cuttlefish.

What do you think, then?

Is Davenheim dead or what?

I think, Hastings,
that there is much more

to the disappearance
of M. Davenheim

than at first appears.

But you tell me, mon ami.
You are my eyes and ears.

What is our next move?


And the final meeting
of an exciting season

brings out the fastest
of the speed cars,

with the biggest crews
of the day doing the big race --

the Gold Star Handicap
over a distance of 20 miles.

A keen crowd
of enthusiastic spectators

takes advantage of the
unusually mild autumn weather

to rally at the famous track.

The drivers go 'round and 'round
and come out here,

or at least this one does.

But it's speed
the crowd have come to see,

and Gerald Lowen,
Number 3, obliges.

My God.
He took that one a bit fine.

Lowen cut up Bera's Bugatti
there on the inside

like nobody's business.

Man's certainly got a ruthless
streak in him and no mistake.

Ah, ruthless --
remains to be seen.

We've had him under close
surveillance for four days now,

hoping he might point us
towards a body.

All he's pointed us towards
so far

are cartels and carburetors.


Old Shuttleworth's got some
juice in that arm for a mayor.

Must be averaging 1-4 something,
at least.

Sorry, Japp?

Just thinking aloud.

Japp, look out!


I'll take that.

Sergeant, cuff him.

Billy Kellet. My God,
some people never give up.

Friend of yours, Sergeant?

It was only last week that we
put him inside for three months.

Same game --
lifting wallets in the crowd.

Looks like mine
was the first of the day.


Well, now.

How very interesting.

What is it?


Ah, Poirot.

Haven't caught you
at a bad moment, I hope.

Believe me,
my dear Chief Inspector Japp,

if you had caught me
at a bad moment,

I should certainly
have told you.

Just thought you'd like
to hear the news.

We found the signet ring
of Mathew Davenheim.

What's the matter, then, Kellet?

Three months inside last time
not enough for you?

Get homesick for prison, did we?

See the charming houseguests
we get in here?

They never learn, of course,
his type.

Must have an appetite
for prison food.

I'll ask you once more, Kellet.

Where did you get this ring?

The wrong answer,

and your next port of call
could be the gallows, laddie.


I was with me mate Frankie --
Frankie Marsh, you know.

And we was going
down the racetrack,

down Brooklands.


Hey, lady! You want to be
careful on that bike, miss!

I come back on me own
about 7:00,

and I'd had a little bit
of a drink, you know?

So I sits down by the side
of the road for a little rest.

I was just about dozing off
when I heard this sound...

of something dropping
into the leaves by the side.

That's when I saw it.

So this is his story?

Word for word.

"Someone had thrown the ring
over the hedge.

"I looks up and sees
this geezer walking away.

"Knobby gent
with a light gray suit

and a poncy mustache."


I can't help it.

So, tell me,
my dear Chief Inspector

do you not find it
the most remarkable coincidence

that the man
who stole your wallet

should also turn out to be

the most important witness

in the case of our M. Davenheim?

an unfortunate coincidence

from his point of view.

Yes, but sometimes
the most simple coincidence

is not all that she appears.

You do follow
my train of reasoning?



And since there is at stake 5,

you would not wish me
to elaborate further.

And, of course,
he denies all knowledge.

Still, we're planning
to test Kellet's story

with an identity parade.

Can't be ruled out
that he's telling the truth.

No, but I find it improbable

that having removed the ring

from off the finger
of his victim,

M. Lowen should suddenly decide
to toss it away into the ditch.

Of course, he

One has to ask, though,

why bother to remove
the ring at all?

Valuable piece of merchandise.

Not easy to pawn, though.

Surely far too easy
to recognize.

That's probably
why he took it off.


What is it, Poirot?

Don't tell me
you've sorted it all out.


But first, I will need
the answer to two questions.

What was in the bathroom cabinet
of M. Davenheim

on the day that he disappeared?

And did he and his wife
sleep together

or in their separate

A gentleman to see you, madam.

I'm most dreadfully sorry

to trouble you again,
Mrs. Davenheim.

Yes, Captain Hastings.

I'm back, Mr. Poirot.

God, that's a devil of a day
out there.

You can hardly see your hand
in front of your face.

How true, Miss Lemon.

There are days when none of us

can see the hand
in front of our face

when even I, Hercule Poirot,
cannot see

what is staring plainly at me
between the eyes.

I think you've lost me again.

Mais certainement, Miss Lemon.

It's very easy
to lose a person, eh?

Sometimes because
you do not know

who it is
you are trying to find.

Analysis and synthesis,
Miss Lemon.

There lies the key
to the art of deduction.

To strip apart the evidence

detail by detail

to its barest essentials

until, miraculously,
all the pieces,

they just fall into place,

and we have the complete picture

of everything that happened.

Ah, Hastings.
What news do you have for me?

The mystery, it is solved, yes?

You know, Poirot,
I sometimes wonder

if you don't set me these
little tasks just to find out

how much embarrassment
I can take in any one day.

The facts, Hastings.

This is of critical importance.

Charlotte and Mathew Davenheim

have occupied separate bedrooms
since the spring.


And it is now
the middle of October.

And the bathroom cabinet?

You sure want to hear all this?

Hastings, do you think
I play the games?

Two toothbrushes, one hairbrush,
one pot of skin cream,

one bottle of liver pills,
one tube of toothpaste,

one shaving brush,
one packet of razor blades,

one bottle of sleeping pills,
one nasal spray,

one bottle of eye drops --

Thank you, Hastings.
I have heard enough.

-There's another two pages.
-The evidence, it is complete.

Now, Hastings, Miss Lemon,
I trust you have no monies

deposited in the bank
of Davenheim and Selmon?


-Nor me. Why?

Because I should advise you
to withdraw it all, mon ami,

before it is too late.

You think
there's trouble looming?

I expect a big crash within
the next few days, Miss Lemon,

perhaps sooner, huh?

So, if you please, a note
to the Chief Inspector Japp.

Advise you to withdraw
any monies

deposited with the firm
in question.

Ah, still he will not

I'm not sure I comprehend.

as I told you at the start,

once all the facts
were placed before me,

the solution,
it becomes inevitable.

All right, how did you know?

Or are you going to tell me
it was all done with mirrors?

You will permit me,
my dear Chief Inspector,

one moment longer
of the suspense.

I have, as I promised,

solved this mystery
without leaving my apartment.

Well, so you say, but I'm still
pretty much in the dark.

Very well.

I will simply draw
your attention to three details

which, taken together,
are really quite conclusive.

One, what is significant
about the period of time

that M. Davenheim spent during
the winter in Johannesburg?

Two, why had he and his wife
not been sleeping together

in the same bed chamber
from that moment on?

And three, what was
in the bathroom cabinet

belonging to M. Davenheim which
should never have been there?


I give up.

I give up. I give up.

I give up.

Chief Inspector,

this afternoon, you are staging
the identity parade

for the scoundrel Kellet
to point out M. Lowen.

I think you will find
the results really,

yes, quite surprising.

You will not object if I leave
the confines of my apartment

to witness the conclusion
of our wager.

All right, Sergeant.

In your own time,
if you would, man.

This is him.

He threw the ring
into the ditch.

Why, you miserable old fool.

You filthy little liar!

You killed Davenheim!

And now you're gonna swing
for it!

You grubby, filthy little tick!

Take him away!

So, now, what'd you
make of that, Poirot?

I'd say Lowen's
as good as shot himself.

On the contrary,
my dear Chief Inspector.

A mere moment
of the hotheaded rage.

M. Gerald Lowen
could not be more innocent

in this whole bizarre affair.

Couldn't he?

Well, then perhaps
it's about time

you explain to us
what the hell is going on.


Mrs. Charlotte Davenheim, sir.

M. Poirot.

-I came as soon as I could.

Well, what is it?

If you found anything out,
then for God's sake, please!


Stop him.

All right, then, Kellet.
So what's all this about?

Or perhaps I should
ask you that question.

Mais certainement,
my dear Chief Inspector.

I think that this charade
has gone on quite long enough.

Has it not?

Gentlemen, may I present to you

the missing merchant banker
Mathew Davenheim.

Damn you

you Belgian.

Take him to the cell.

From the start, I was intrigued

by M. Davenheim buying of the
priceless jewelry for his wife.

For years, you see,

he had been embezzling vast sums
of money from his own bank,

draining it to death,
as we have seen,

and converting the spoils
into the gems

which he stores in the safe.

So he'd always planned
to abscond with them

right from the very start.

Having first
very cleverly prearranged

with his hated archrival
in the city, M. Gerald Lowen,

to be at his house
on that day

so that he would become
the chief suspect

in this unfortunate affair.

So Davenheim had already
forced his own safe open

before he left the house
that day.

Using the good M. Tchaikovsky
as his accomplice.

Cunningly, he uses
the cannon fire in the music

to mask any sound
that would've alerted his wife.

Having made it look as if
the safe has been broken into,

he steals his own money
and jewels

because he believes
he has found for himself,

until all has blown over,
the most perfect place to hide.

In prison.

You see, during the winter,

when he was supposedly
in Johannesburg,

M. Davenheim was, in fact,

creating the character
of Billy Kellet,

spending the three months
in jail.

He returns to the racetrack
to steal the wallet,

knowing he will be caught
and put once again behind bars.

And no one will suspect a thing.

Of course, he always meant

for you to find in his pocket
the ring

so he could use it to further
incriminate M. Gerald Lowen.

And the contents
of the bathroom cabinet?

The razor blades, Hastings.

When resuming his identity,

M. Davenheim was forced
to wear the false beard.

To share the same bed chamber
as his wife

would certainly
lead to detection.

In fact, he was still shaving
from time to time

in order to become
Billy Kellet again.


Just so no one can say
I'm not a man to honor my word.


Mon pauvre chef, huh?

Like robbing a baby.

Robbing a baby.

However, it is
small remuneration

for the seven days in forced
confinement to my own home

having to listen to
the nonstop demented squawks

and the screechings.


Mais, madame et messieurs,

I want you to observe something
very closely.


Ah, well.

At least it was worth a try.

Worth a try. Worth a try.