Triangle at Rhodes

Triangle at Rhodes opens at Whitehaven Mansions, home of the illustrious Hercule Poirot.  But, alas, Poirot is not in attendance as the mailman is informed by the doorman as he attempts to deliver letters on a lovely English day.  Which is to say, a very rainy day.  It turns out that neither Hastings or Miss Lemon are around either.  Hastings has gone off shooting things (Fuck Off, Hastings!) and Miss Lemon has gone to visit her sister, an endeavour that we can assume does not involve killing innocent creatures.  (Actually, Miss Lemon's sister will feature prominently in a future episode).  Poirot, for his part, has gone off "somewhere foreign".

Well, that narrows it down!

Fortunately, the title of the episode does narrow it down.  Poirot has gone off to Rhodes.  You know, Triangle at Rhodes is one of my favourite episodes; I must have watched it dozens of times.  And, yet, I never actually knew where Rhodes was.  I'd always assumed it was an island somewhere close to Italy, but I thought for this recap I should probably actually find out.  So, a quick trip to Wikipedia and...much to my surprise, I discover that Rhodes is actually a Greek Island.  However, a closer look reveals that, during the time in which this episode takes place, Rhodes was under Italian control.  So, I wasn't entirely wrong.  But given that my real world job actually requires a fair knowledge of geography, I was wrong enough.

Anyway, in the next scene we are introduced to Rhodes, where the rest of the episode will take place.  We are also introduced to our Hastings substitute for this episode: a thirtysomething English woman named Pamela Lyall.  Pam.  sigh  Fucking Pam.  If ever there was a character who makes me appreciate Hastings, it's Pam, who is, to put it mildly, a huge fucking bitch.  Which I could handle, except that the episode doesn't treat her like a bitch.  It's clear that we the audience are supposed to like Pam and it is actually possible to do so on a first viewing.  But after you've watched the episode multiple times, as I have, you begin to see what a horrible person she truly is.  Horrible and kind of stupid.  Whereas Hastings is just stupid.

When we first see Pam, she is pushing her way through the crowded market streets of Rhodes, fleeing from a middle-aged man.  A teenaged local girl helps her find her way into the nearly deserted back alleys, where she eventually runs straight into Poirot.  It turns out she recognized him at the hotel where they are both staying and is a great admirer.  She takes him by the arm.

Pam: May I cling to you, Mr. Poirot?

Like a fucking remora.

Poirot asks if Pam is in danger, not realizing that he's the one who's attached himself to a fucking psychopath.  It turns out that Pam is escaping the attentions of a Major Barnes, the middle-aged man we saw earlier.  He comes out into the alleyway behind Pam and Poirot just in time to see them walking off and cheefully waves after them with his hat.  He's balding and rather dopey looking.  Pam is afraid of getting stuck with him for the entire holiday and clearly considers him a colossal nuisance.  

BTW, did I mention Pam is stupid?

At any rate, she's out of danger for the moment as Barnes replaces his hat and--with a far less dopey expression--goes off in the opposite direction.  According to Pam he's "here for the fishing."  But, rather than go towards the ocean, he enters a building, rather surepticiously, I might add.

Meanwhile, Pam and Poirot continue walking together.

Poirot: The behaviour of the English abroad is something I have always found peculiar.

Because their behaviour at home is so normal?  Actually, given that Poirot is talking to an Englishwoman, that comment is rather rude.  Of course, given that the woman in question is Pam, I think we can let it pass.

Pam and Poirot see a group of blackcoats harassing the locals.  Yay, historical context!  Pam mentions that they are troublemakers, which...duh!

Poirot: But for me the English is more cold-blooded.  His violence is more calculated.

Yeah, I'll remember that in a few years when WWII breaks out.  Also, show?  I know I'm watching a murder mystery, you can lay off the heavy-handed foreshadowing.

Next we turn to the coast, where some of those cold-blooded English have just arrived by boat.  Two couples, one of which takes both the cars sent by the hotel--for them and their luggage--forcing the other couple to wait at the docks for the cars to return.

Charming, really.

Pam and Poirot arrive back at the hotel, just as the couple with both cars is arriving.  Pam recognizes the woman as Valentine Chantry, formerly Dacres, formerly God knows what else, since she's apparently been married 5 times.  We don't learn anything else about her; as near as I can tell, she's famous for being married.  A lot.  At any rate, Pam seems to think that the Chantries' arrival will make the holiday more interesting.  Because she is Pam.  And everything is about her.

Just then, Pam and Poirot are accosted by good old Major Barnes who runs up to them.
  
Major Barnes: I've been looking all over the place for you, little lady.

Well, she's not hard to find, dude.  Just follow the sound of moronic blather and barely concealed psychopathy.

Pam: Not out fishing today, Major?

I doubt if it would be possible for her to say that in a snottier tone.  However, since Major Barnes addressed her as "little lady," I'm actually willing to giver her a pass on that one.  People who call me "little lady" are lucky if all they receive in return is a little snottiness.

It turns out that Major Barnes has been out fishing, but without any luck.

Poirot: Perhaps, Major Barnes, you are fishing too close to the shore.  I noticed you by the harbour.

Yeah, Poirot's no fool.

Major Barnes allows as to how that might be the case, since the local fishermen use dynomite, which scares the fish off.

You know, it might scare Pam off if you used some near her.  Just a thought.

The three of them then go inside the hotel, where we next see Poirot in his room getting dressed in formal clothes.  I assume it's for dinner, since it's now getting dark out.  From his window, he sees the second couple from the docks who are now finally arriving at the hotel.  The male half of the couple is clearly fed up with the situation (not that I blame him) as he is snapping at the porters about his luggage and bitching to his wife about the length and discomfort of their trip.  It turns out that coming to Rhodes was entirely the wife's idea as the husband seems to think they could have had an equally pleasant vacation in England.

I can only assume he enjoys swimming in the rain.

The next day finds the English people enjoying the most decidedly unrainy beach.  I have to admit, even I find the sparkling water appealing and I'm not much of a sun and sand type person.  Give me a rainy moor and a cosy pub any day of the week.  But the Rhodes seashore does look enchanting.

Valentine Chantry is sunbathing and being as useless and demanding as humanly possible.  She has her latest husband--Tony--dancing attendance on her in the most pathetic way.  And she's a smoker.

Watching her from a little ways off down the beach, Pam complains about how how Valentine's perfect tan makes her feel "undercooked."  Ah, the days before melanoma.

Just then the second new couple arrives on the beach and Pam makes a particularly catty comment about the wife's bathing outfit, which, in all fairness is pretty awful.  The couple greet Pam and Poirot cheerfully as they set up their chairs near the water.  The wife comments that coming to Rhodes was such an excellent idea of her husband's, which causes Poirot to look at her askance.  The husband says he'd scarcely heard of the place and he seems to have had as good an idea of its location as I had.

The wife decides that now is a good time for a swim.  She asks her husband--who is named Douglas--to join her, but he has been distracted by a whole new type of view: Valentine Chantry.  Mrs. Chantry eyes Douglas as he does some rather obtrusive stretching, then sends her husband back to the hotel to fetch her something.  Meanwhile, Douglas' wife, wearing a sensible, but thoroughly unsexy bathing cap, has entered the water and is raving about how lovely and warm it is.  As someone who grew up by the ocean, but a most distinctly northern part of it, this is something I have a hard time imagining.  A dip in the water might be refreshing on a hot day, but warm it is not, even at the height of August.

Pam asks Douglas if he's going to go in the water.

Douglas: Oh, I like to get well hotted up first.

Well, no worries about that with Valentine Chantry around.  Though why he's so taken with her I can't imagine as she's currently struggling with the concept of getting the lid off a bottle of nailpolish.

Valentine: Oh dear, I can't get this thing undone, I'm hopeless.

Yes, yes you are.

Both Poirot and Douglas get up to help her, but Douglas is quicker.

Valentine: I'm such a fool at undoing things.

Oh, I'd say something's undone, alright.  And Valentine Chantry is hardly the fool here.  Well, not the only one, anyway.

Valentine is laying it on pretty thick in her gratitude towards Douglas when her husband returns.  The two men shake hands and we learn that Douglas' wife is called Marjorie and their last name is Gold.

Pam and Poirot observe the interaction.

Pam: Don't you think that human beings tend to reproduce certain patterns, Mr. Poirot?

She draws a triangle in the sand.  And Poirot agrees with her.  Though it seems that in this case, we have more of a quadrangle.  But Quadrangle at Rhodes would make a stupid title, so there you have it.

Some time later, a group of tourists, including Douglas and Valentine, are on a walking tour.  When Valentine asks Douglas about his wife, he informs her that Marjorie wasn't feeling well, so he came alone.

Valentine: Well, we'll just have to make the best of it on our own.

And she gives the most insipid little laugh.

Meanwhile, at an archeological dig in some ruins elsewhere on the island, Poirot runs into Marjorie, looking quite healthy.  She tells him that she and Douglas had arranged to go on a tour together, but somehow managed to miss each other.  Well, isn't that a heck of a coinkydink?  Marjorie then goes on in the most maudlin fashion about how all the divorce and trouble in the world make her feel so greatful for her own happiness and so sorry for people who aren't happy.   People like whom, you might ask.  Why, people like Valentine Chantry of course!

Marjorie: I mean, in spite of all her money and good looks, she's the sort of woman, I think, that men would get tired of very easily.

Yeah, no bitterness there.  Personally, I'd take money and good looks over men any day.  Plus, I don't know what good looks she's talking about, since I don't find Valentine Chantry very attractive.  I mean, no offense to the actress, but she's really rather blah.  Of course, this show is always doing this: telling us a character is attractive, while showing her to be entirely average.

I have to say, though, that I think Marjorie is probably right about the shelf life of Valentine Chantry's allure.  Hell, I've known her all of five minutes and I'm tired of her.

Later, Poirot is sitting outside at the hotel when Valentine and Douglas return, looking very chummy.  Valentine informs Douglas that she absolutely must have a pink gin and he goes off to get it.  I've never had a pink gin, which I suppose makes sense as it is apparently a very British drink.  I have to say, though, that it does sound rather refreshing.  It is also, I would note, a very girly sounding drink.

Just then, Tony Chantry and Pam return.  Valentine greets them merrily, but Tony marches right past her and into the hotel.  Quite taken aback, Valentine follows, calling after him.  It's the first time since we've seen her that she's appeared less than confident.  But then Douglas comes out with her drink and the two of them go off together.

Pam watches all this and then sits down with Poirot.

Pam: Valentine certainly has her methods.
Poirot: Mademoiselle, I do not like all this.
Pam: Don't you?  Nor do I.  No, let's be honest, I suppose I do like it really.

SHUT THE FUCK UP, PAM!

Actually, I suppose I should give her credit for honesty, here.  Most of us would probably enjoy such a spectacle, but few of us would have the guts to come out and admit it.  Of course, it helps that Pam is a sociopath and has no shame.

Then it turns out that Pam is enjoying the love quadrangle so much that she has arranged an excursion with all the principle actors for the next day.  That's just kind of loathesome.  Though, admittedly, if I was at that hotel, I'd probably tag along.

So, the next thing we see, the hotel guests are climbing up a steep set of stone steps set into a high hill.  One of the men--I think it's Tony Chantry--complains about having driven two hours and climbed the hill just to see another ruin.

Pam: But wait till you see the view!

Personally, I prefer the view from my couch.

Needless to say, Douglas is helping Valentine up the stairs--she's wearing the most inappropriate shoes for such an expedition.  At the top, he pokes his head into a chapel and crosses himself, as one does.  Poirot then does the same.  Huh, I suppose Poirot would be Catholic, wouldn't he. 

Outside, admiring the view, Pam spots a viper.

Pam: Look!  Look!  A snake!

A friend of yours, my dear?

Marjorie comments that it's beautiful, while Valentine--for once the sensible one of the lot--says that she doesn't like it there and wants to go back.  Tony notes that it's not safe to walk around.

Pam: They're everywhere.  In the old days, Rhodes was known as the Island of Snakes.

What?  I'm sorry, I meant WHAT!!??

You took your vacation in a place called The Island of Snakes!?  Where are you going next year, the Island of Funnel-Web Spiders?  Oh wait, that's Australia.

Marjorie, leaning closer to the snake rather than running screaming into the night like any sensible person would do, notes how clearly one can see the markings.  Poirot claims that nature has done this on purpose, to give the snake's prey a chance to identify it.  Huh, it looks to me as though the snake blends in very well with its surroundings.  But Poirot is actually making a rather heavy-handed point.

Poirot: If every killer was as clearly marked, I would be without a job.

Marjorie seems to find this highly amusing.

Later the group sits down for a meal at a rustic restaurant.  The British seem determined to  be the most obnoxious tourists imaginable.  Valentine Changry complains that she can't read the menu, Tony Chantry complains about the wine, comparing it scathingly with pink gin and Marjorie Gold decides out of nowhere to go on a rant about divorce.

Marjorie: Well, I belong to the old-fashioned generation that doesn't believe in divorce.  The sort of attitude there is to life nowadays that if you do a thing and you don't like it, you get yourself out of it as quickly as possible.  Easy marriage, easy divorce.  I hate that!

As it happens, I'm in complete agreement with her.  However, even I would probably have enough tact not to say it in front of a woman who's on her fifth marriage!

Valentine looks a little put out, but its her husband who reads Marjorie the riot act.  Marjorie stutters out an apology, then runs off.  Douglas then calls out Tony for upsetting his wife and the two of them get into a shouting match over Douglas' supposed infatuation with Valentine.

Throughout this whole thing, Valentine doesn't say a single word, just sits there smoking with a blank look on her face.  Dear Lord, I wish they would give this woman a personality!

Fortunately, the waiter arrives to take their order.  Poirot orders--and I swear I am not making this up--"the bowels in spit."  Yeah, I don't think there's anything I can add to that.  Nobody else orders anything, they just sit there glaring.  Way to kill the mood, Marjorie.

Eventually, Poirot goes to find Marjorie, who is standing on the rocks a short ways from the restaurant, staring out at the sea.  Poirot tells her that her husband loves her, but she insists that all he can see is Valentine and he doesn't even think of her anymore.

Poirot: Then my advice to you, Madam, is this: leave this place before it is too late.
Marjorie: Too late?  What do you mean?  You're frightening me.
Poirot: Yes, that is my intention.
Marjorie: But, why?  Why?
Poirot: It is my advice to you: leave this island if you value your life.

Well, it doesn't get anymore straight forward than that.  When Poirot tells you to leave a place or your're going to die, you fucking well leave!

The next thing we see, Poirot is taking his own advice and arranging to check out of the hotel.  Poirot decides that he will have a light meal before he leaves and is informed that Major Barnes has provided the kitchen with some fresh fish.

Major Barnes: Catch them unawares, first thing in the morning.

Everyone in the vicinity looks at him like he's an idiot.

Poirot is in his room bitching at the maid for not packing his suitcase to his satisfaction--hey, asshole, if you don't like how she's doing it, pack it your damn self!--when he sees Marjorie and Pam through the window.  So apparently Marjorie is not heeding his advice.  Instead, she is spilling out her sorrows to Pam--great choice, there, really--telling her that Douglas is so infatuated with Valentine Chantry that he wants a divorce.

For reasons completely passing understanding, Poirot decides to spend the rest of his time on the island with Pam and the two of them sit at a table near the beach.  Pam can't believe that he's leaving just as things are getting really heated up between the Chantries and the Golds.  Hey, Pam, not everyone takes such great pleasure in other people's misfortune.  Needless to say, Pam spills everything that Marjorie told her about the impending end of her marriage.

Pam: Who could have predicted such passion, Mr. Poirot?

Oh, shut the fuck up, Pam!

Unfortunately for Pam, she and Poirot then spot the two couples on the beach and they're...making up!?  Yep, Tony and Douglas agree that they're being silly and ruining the vacation for everyone.  Then they shake hands and the two couples go back to the hotel together.  Needless to say, Pam is disappointed.

Pam: I was half hoping there'd be a murder, so you would stay.

FUCK OFF AND DIE, PAM!!!

You do not joke about murder around Hercule Poirot!  Hell, you should not even think about murder around Hercule Poirot.  In fact, come to think of it, if you see Hercule Poirot, you should run screaming into the night because there's bound to be a murder and if you're not the one planning it, then you're likely to be either the victim or the innocent bystander who gets falsely accused.  And if you are planning a murder and you see Hercule Poirot, for God's sake, put your plans on hold.  And if you have ever in the past committed a murder and gotten away with it, get away from him immediately because he will find you out.  Basically, Poirot is the Typhoid Mary of murder and everyone on Earth should avoid him.

Of course, Pam has managed to insinuate herself into the role of sidekick, which means--unfortunately for the viewer--she's probably safe.  Probably.  She's still an idiot and a sociopath.

Anyway, it seems that everyone is sincere in their desire to start getting along as we soon see Marjorie and Valentine--and Pam, sigh--laughing and taking pictures at some ruins--the temple of Apollo, as it will later be revealed.  I think Valentine might even be showing some personality here, but the whole thing is shot from a distance and the women are mostly in silhouette, so it's hard to say.

Back at the hotel, Douglas and Tony are playing pool--or billiards, I suppose the English would say--as Poirot looks on.

Major Barnes comes up to Poirot to comment favourably on the lessening of tensions and to express his regret at Poirot's intending departure.  Poirot compliments him on the fish he provided for dinner, then asks him where he bought it.

Major Barnes: What do you mean?  Had to go a long way out for that.
Poirot: No, no, no, no, Major.  Your interests are closer to the shore.

It turns out that the Italians have been strengthening their defenses in the harbour, likely for military reasons.

Major Barnes: You have very sharp eyes, Mr. Poirot.
Poirot: The sharp eyes are important in both our professions, Major.

Well, way to put British security at risk, Poirot!  Maybe you could say that a little louder, I think there might be an Italian on the other side of the hotel who didn't hear you!

Actually, the rather dowdy and silly looking Major Barnes is probably a pretty accurate version of a spy.  We're so used to seeing spies in tv and the movies as beautiful and glamorous, but of course those are the types of people who stick out in a crowd.  As I understand it, real spies are usually the most mundane looking and unassuming people you could ever hope to meet.  And Barnes was smart enough to get Miss Nosey Rosey Pam to actively avoid him, by pretending to be interested in her.

But what does Poirot care?  His car arrives and he leaves.  Wait.  He's leaving and nobody's dead?  That's....new.

Back inside the hotel, Douglas and Tony finish their game of pool and join Major Barnes for a drink.  Tony orders a pink gin, which....what?  Seriously?  That's like the girliest drink ever.  I'm all for men getting in touch with their feminine sides, but even I would look askance at any guy who ordered that.  And Tony does not strike me as the type of guy who would go for a girly drink under any circumstances.  The other two guys order whiskey and sodas, which are much more in character.

A few minutes later, as Major Barnes is boring the living crap out of Douglas Gold, the three women come in, all raving about the wonderful time they've been having.  Tony asks the women what they want to drink.  Pam orders a sidecar, once again sending me to wikipedia.  It turns out a sidecar is a type of brandy cocktail.  I'll say one thing for this episode, it's giving me a list of drinks to try next time I go out.  Marjorie orders an orange-ade, because apparently she thinks she's in pre-school.  She eventually bows to peer pressure and changes it to a gin and gingerbeer, much to her husband's consternation.  Yeah, you've got a real wild woman there, Douglas.  What's next, going out for a walk without a sweater?

When Tony asks Valentine what she wants to drink, she replies, "pink gin," in a tone of voice that implies that anyone on Earth should know the answer.  Well, anyone watching the episode certainly should.  Tony tells her to take his and that he'll order another.  Valentine immediately takes a large sip.

Valentine: Ooh, I needed that!

Not to get all spoilery, but I'm going to have to disagree.  Though it is nice to actually see some personality coming from her.

Valentine continues to sip her drink as the others talk.  She coughs.

Meanwhile, Poirot is trying to get through passport control at the docks.  It's chaotic to say the least.  When he finally to gets to the front of the line, he's pulled aside.  Uh oh, random cavity search?

Back at the hotel, Valentine's cough is getting worse and she's trying to cure it with a cigarette, but she can't seem to get the bloody thing lit.  Then Pam comes over and insists on talking to her, which naturally only makes the situation worse.  Valentine starts choking quite badly and asking for water.  Everyone gathers around her.  She mentions that her drink tasted queer.  Then why the Hell, did you chug it back the way you did?  The water finally arrives, but she can't get it down.

Pam: Who knows what to do!?
Major Barnes: I'll get a doctor.

Yeah, I'm going to file that one under Duh!

Valentine continues choking and, honestly, this scene would be quite distressing--you don't normally have to watch the murder victim die slowly and painfully--but it's hampered by the fact that Valentine has displayed so little personality.  I don't feel as though I ever really got to know her, so it's hard to get too upset about her death, though it is unpleasant to watch.

Her husband, however, is upset and he knows just where to direct his anger.

Tony Chantry: That was my drink, Gold.  I'd not touched it.  What the Hell did you put in it?

Before a doctor can get there, Valentine is dead.  Her husband accuses Douglas of killing her while trying to kill him.

Tony Chantry: I'll see you hanged for this, Gold!  I'll see you hanged for this!

Well, yes that was the punishment of the day for murder.

Douglas stammers out a denial while his wife looks on, aghast.

Meanwhile, Pam has had perhaps the first good idea of her entire life and has rushed off to the docks to find Poirot.  Unfortunately, as she gets there, she sees the boat sailing off.  But then she hears yelling.

Poirot: I have told you again, and again: I am on holiday!

It turns out that the authorities suspect Poirot of being a spy--which is rather ironic, when you think about it--and have detained him so long that he missed his sailing.  Completely oblivious to her friend's precarious situation, Pam runs up to him and immediately starts blathering out the story of Valentine Chantry's untimely demise.

Poirot: I feared such an outcome.
Pam: Then why didn't you do something!?
Poirot: Do what?  What is there to do before the event?  Tell the police that someone has murder in their heart? 

Fair point.  Of course, if I was Poirot, I would just assume that no one would be stupid enough to commit murder when I was around.  And, in all fairness, the murderer in this case did wait until Poirot had left; it was just dumb luck that he wasn't safely at sea by the time Valentine Chantry died.

Anyway, Poirot agrees to accompany Pam back to the hotel.  And, strangely, the authorities who suspect him of being a spy just let him go.  Geez, no wonder the Italians lost the war.

The next day finds Poirot visitng Douglas Gold in jail.  The two discuss Douglas' interaction with Valentine Chantry.

Douglas: Oh, I was attracted to her.  Who wouldn't be?

Um, me?  Anyone with a lick of taste or common sense?  Seriously, dude, your wife was right: a month with her and you would have been bored silly.

Douglas insists that his attraction to Valentine was "within the bounds of propriety," whatever that means.  In my experience, it means whatever the person claiming it wants it to mean.  He also reveals that Valentine was unhappy in her marriage.  You mean the fifth time wasn't the charm?  According to Douglas, Valentine was afraid of her husband who was jealous of anyone who showed her any attention.  So, I guess that's why she made a point of flirting with every man in sight.  Douglas insists that he wanted to protect poor, helpless (ie. useless) Valentine.

Douglas: But, somehow, everything got out of hand.  Chantry behaving like a bull at a gate, then Marjorie getting hysterical.

Normally, I'd call him out for the inherent sexism of a man calling a woman "hysterical."  But, in this case, he kind of has a point.

Poirot asks Douglas if he loves his wife, and of course he says he does.  Even if he didn't, now would be a pretty stupid time to admit it.  Poirot then asks him if he is a Catholic, which is a pretty odd question, given the circumstances.  I'm not saying it's not important to know, but it doesn't exactly seem relevant.  When Douglas answers yes--yay Douglas!--Poirot tells him that his faith will console him.  Well, yes, that's what faith is meant to do, but I think an acquittal would be a greater comfort to him just now.  Actually, Poirot tells him that he does not intend to let him hang, so...faith in God and faith in Poirot, I suppose.

Poirot's quest to free Douglas Gold does not get off to a good start.  He goes to see the investigator in the case, who is quite convinced of Gold's guilt.  In all fairness, he does have some pretty good evidence.  The poison came from an empty bottle, which was found in Douglas Gold's dinner jacket pocket.  Not only that, but Douglas' fingerprints--and only Douglas' fingerprints--were found on the bottle.  The investigator is quite convinced that Douglas was having an affair with Valentine and since her husband would never give her up, Douglas tried to poison him and killed Valentine by accident.

Poirot points out that since the police had Douglas empty his own pockets, it is hardly surprising that his fingerprints ended up on the bottle.  He also suggests that it is unlikely that a murderer as calculating as the investigator believes Douglas to be would leave the empty bottle in his pocket in the first place.

Investigator: There is no doubt, Senor.  When the cold-blooded Englishman comes out into the sun, perhaps it warms his passion.

And addles his brains?

Back at the hotel, Tony Chantry wants to leave the country, but the people at the hotel have been instructed by the police to hold his passport.  Marjorie Gold comes downstairs just as Poirot enters.  She tries to apologize to Chantry, but...well let's just say Emily Post never covered this particular situation.  It's awkward as Hell.  She then tells Poirot that she wishes she had taken his advice.  Tony, of course, wants to know what advice she's talking about so she tells him that Poirot advised her to leave the island.

Tony: Then I wish you had warned me also, Mr. Poirot.

Look, he's not bloody Cassandra!  The guy was on vacation. 

Poirot assures Marjorie that her husband is innocent and will soon be released.  She and Tony seem equally stunned by this pronouncement.

Marjorie goes off, supposedly to visit Douglas in jail, and Poirot sits out on the hotel terrace with Pam and Major Barnes, both of whom want to know what in the blazes is going on.  Poirot just repeats his assertion that Douglas Gold is innocent.

Pam: But that means that one of us poisoned the glass.

I vote Pam.  Who's with me?

According to Poirot, the only way to find the murderer is to find the source of the poison, but that's going to be a bit of a problem since the police are convinced the case is solved.  Not only have they stopped investigating, but they won't give Poirot any assistance in his investigation.  Fortunately, Major Barnes comes to the rescue.

Major Barnes: I trust I may speak among friends?

Dude, it's Pam.  Pam!  She's no one's friend!  It wouldn't surprise me if she committed the murder just to spice up her vacation!  And you're going to reveal you secret identity to her!?  I swear, you must be the worst fucking spy on the entire planet!

Anyway, Major Barnes reveals that the forensic officer is a friend of his.  And he sends Poirot off to see him.

The forensic officer's place turns out to be behind the door we saw Major Barnes sneaking into at the beginning of the episode....when he was supposed to be out fishing.  Frankly, the inside looks more like an apothecary's shop then any forensic office I've ever seen.  CSI, it most definitely is not.  Turns out the forensic officer is a British ex-pat who came out on vacation and never left.  Huh, sort of like Valentine Chantry.  What?  Too soon?

Anyway, it turns out that the poison is a local concoction.  It's snakebite, taken from the fangs of the horned viper.

Forensic Officer: The island is still full of superstition.

Fuck superstition, the island is still full of snakes! 

This particular poison cannot be bought from a pharmacist--pharmacists sell poison?--so the forensic officer suggests that Pam and Poirot search the streets for a local "herbalist or quack."

Actually, the first thing they encounter on the street is a crowd of blackshirts marching by, much to the disgust of the locals.  Seriously, I love the historical relevance of this episode!

Pam: There are so many streets.  Where do we begin?
Poirot: Mademoiselle, we must now appear the mad English who go out in the midday sun.

You may be mad, dude, but last time I checked, you were a Belgian.

So, the two of them wander through the streets, randomly asking people where they might procure some poison, which is an activity likely to get you arrested round about my parts.  It's also pretty funny since Pam, doesn't speak a word of the local tongue.

Finally, Pam is spotted by the teenage girl who helped her escape from Major Barnes at the beginning of the episode.  The girl follows her for a moment, then catches her eye and motions to her.  Pam and Poirot follow the girl to a residence, but only Pam is allowed in.  Oh yeah, bring the one who doesn't speak the language.  Inside, they find a blind old lady; I'm assuming the girl's grandmother.

Hilarity--the non-funny kind--then ensues as Pam tries to get the old woman to understand what she wants: she doesn't want to buy any poison--well, not today anyway--she wants to know if anyone else did.  The old woman naturally doesn't speak any English and the teenage girl seems to speak about three words so Pam uses the tried and true tactic of speaking English very loudly and slowly in the assumption that this will allow them to understand her.

Eventually it is revealed that the poison was purchased by an English lady--Marjorie Gold.  Pam runs outside to tell Poirot, who is--of course--entirely unsurprised.  Pam wants to know why Marjorie would help her husband try to murder Tony Chantry.

Poirot: My dear Mademoiselled Pamela, it is not a question of who failed to murder the Commander Chantry, but who, and for what reason, succeded in murdering his wife.

Yes, as a general rule, it's a good idea to assume that the person who died was the actual target.

Back at the hotel, Poirot and Pam discover that Tony and Marjorie have stolen their passports and run off.

As they set out after them, Poirot explains to Pam that she was right about the love triangle, but wrong about the main players.  After all, they never actually saw anything happen between Douglas and Valentine, it was only the reactions of Tony and Marjorie that made it seem like there was something inappropriate going on.  In truth, it was Marjorie and Tony who were having the affair.  I still maintain that that's a love quadrangle, but whatever.  Tony and Marjorie planned to meet on the island to commit their murder/frame job.  Tony Chantry poisoned his own drink and then gave it to his wife.  Hence the thoroughly out of character pink gin.  Then, in the confusion following Valentine's death, he slipped the bottle of poison into Douglas' pocket.  Kind of risky, really.  What if Valentine had demanded a fresh drink?  Or what if one of the other women had talked her into trying something other than her usual drink.  Of course, in any murder there are always a dozen things that could go wrong.  Still, this whole set-up seems absurdly complicated to me.  If I ever murder someone, I shall be sure to keep it simple.

Pam and Poirot arrive at the docks and set about searching for Tony and Marjorie.  Once again, Major Barnes comes to their aid.  He pulls up to the docks after yet another "fishing" trip and tells them that he saw Tony and Marjorie on a fishing boat heading towards Turkey.  Pam and Poirot join Barnes on his boat and take off after them.  Ah, the requisite chase scene.  At least a boat chase is a bit of a change up.

Pam asks Poirot how he knew that Marjorie Gold was a fake.  It turns out that Poirot's suspicions were aroused when Marjorie said that Douglas wanted a divorce, since he had already deduced that Douglas was a Catholic.  Um...Poirot...Catholics do get divorced.  Even back in the 1930s, I'm sure it happened.  And if a man becomes completely infatuated with a woman, that might override any religious convictions, at least temporarily.  Besides which, your only evidence that Douglas was Catholic was that you saw him cross himself at the temple.  Yeah, that's pretty clear evidence that he was raised Catholic, but not that he was still practicing.  All in all, a pretty flimsy excuse for deduction.

Just as the boat with Poirot, Pam and Major Barnes is catching up to the boat of Tony and Marjorie, the Rhodes police also show up.  We never get any explanation about how they knew to be there.  Maybe they were just out fishing?  Tony Chantry tries to attack Poirot's boat with dynamite, but the police shoot him (non-fatally).

Investigator: You crazy English!  If you do not stop trying to kill each other, I shall put you all under arrest!  That includes you, Senor Poirot!

Yeah, tourists suck.  But, once again, Poirot is a Belgian.  I wonder if he likes being mistaken for English better than being mistaken for French.

Anyway, that seems to be the end of that.  I guess the Rhodes police finally got things figured out, because the next thing we see, it's evening and Douglas Gold is moping along the beach by the hotel as Pam and Poirot watch him from the veranda.  Pam comments that he has decided to stay and finish off his vacation, which MAKES NO SENSE AT ALL!  Though, I suppose, in all fairness, he probably doesn't feel he has much to go back home to.  And imagine all the questions he's going to have to answer!  Friends, family...ugh!  Perhaps he should just run off.  But staying on the island where his wife tried to frame him for murder is weird.  Poirot agrees with me.

Poirot: Well, he should leave.  I told his wife to leave, but she took no notice.

Well, yeah, she had a murder to commit!  Busy, busy, busy.

Pam wants Poirot to stay a few more days, but he claims it's impossible.  And, really, if I was a guest at that hotel, I'd want him to get the Hell out before anyone else dropped dead.  Unless it was Pam.  For her, I'd make an exception.

Pam: I really enjoyed our little adventure.

Yes, I'm so glad that someone could die and someone else could have his life ruined just for your amusement. 

Inside the hotel, they run into Major Barnes, who Poirot notes will soon be off to Abyssinia for the ostrich shooting seaosn because whoever wrote this episode seriously knows their interwar-period history. 

Outside, Pam and Poirot say their final goodbyes as he gets into his car.

Pam: I hope we shall meet again.

Thankfully for the sake of my sanity, she never appears again in the series.

BTW, if you're interested, there really is an "island of snakes": http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/snake-island-ilha-de-queimada-grande

I sincerely hope Pam takes her next vacation there.

The Third Floor Flat

Episode 5 opens with a young(ish) woman being moved into an apartment in Whitehaven Mansions--apartment 36B, to be precise.  In the apartment above her, we see two other young women dancing together.  In the apartment above them we see Hercule Poirot...with a towel over his head, sneezing.  It turns out he's trying to steam-out a cold.  It also turns out that it's been three weeks since his last case.  In other words, he's utterly miserable.  Don't worry, Poirot, I have the feeling something's about to turn up for you.

Back in the third floor flat, the new tenant unpacks and pauses to stare up at the ceiling, from which the sound of the music being played in the apartment above is clearly audible.  sigh  Noisy neighbours are a pain, as I can attest from personal experience.  Of course, my former neighbours used to have drunken fights at 3am and had the police called on them on a regular basis.  Compared to that, a little music is a minor annoyance.

The new tenant goes upstairs and knocks lightly on the door of the apartment above hers, which goes completely unnoticed by the two young women within, who are laughing gaily--at what, I haven't the faintest idea.  Then she slips an envelope--addressed to Miss Patricia Matthews--under the door and leaves.  Well, that's a little passive aggressive.

One of the dancing women finally notices the note and brings it to her dancing partner...who continues dancing by herself.  Geez Louise, what is up with these people?  Anyway, she reads the note, which asks Miss Matthews to come see the new tenant--Mrs. Ernestine Grant--at her earliest convenience.  The friend notes that it sounds ominous and wonders what it could be about.

Patricia Matthews: Probably complaints about the grammophone or something.

Which implies that she's had complaints about it before.  She then goes back to dancing with her friend and throws the note in the trash, laughting.

Bitch.

Below them, Mrs. Ernestine Grant glares up at the ceiling.  And I don't blame her one little bit.

Next we see Poirot toddle out of the building--scarf pulled up to his nose--to mail some letters.  That's one thing about email: you can send it from your deathbed.  A car horn startles Poirot, but it's just Hastings, riding about in a flashy convertible that Poirot claims is probably to blame for his cold.  And it turns out Poirot is one of those people who insists on overdramatizing every ailment.

Poirot: As one approaches the end, one begins to see life as it truly is.

Dude, seriously, it's a cold.  Try having my job, you'd get them all the time.

Anyway, Hastings tries to cheer Poirot up by telling him that he's got tickets to a new murder mystery play.  Naturally, Poirot points out that a fake mystery cannot possibly compare to the real thing.  No offence, Poirot, but perhaps you shouldn't be quite so obvious about your desire for someone around you to drop dead so you can amuse yourself.  Hastings decides to sweeten his offer by betting Poirot 10 quid that he won't be able to solve the mystery.

Quid?  Quid!?  Listen, you stupid show, stop trying to destroy my sanity with your crazy British money that no one understands!  It's called a euro.  Euro.  Do you hear me?  Stop trying to be unique and get with the rest of the bloody continent!

Poirot agrees to Hastings' wager, though he claims that "the money, of course, is of no importance."  Of course it's not, no one knows what it means.  Anyway, the bet is a dumb idea on Hastings' part since we all know Poirot is going to solve the mystery play.  Or if he doesn't, he'll claim that the actual solution is nonsensical and his idea is the right one.  Either way Hastings, you're never going to get any money out of him.  Best case scenario, you break even.

Next we see a man get off an elevator, walk down a short hall and knock on a door.  We don't see his face, but the sinister music accompanying him tells us he's up to no good.  The door opens and it's good old Ernestine Grant.

Ernestine: Oh, it's you.  You'd better come in.

She seems somewhat surprised, but not frightened.

That night, Poirot and Hastings go to see their mystery play, which is rather badly acted.  Is it me, or do shows do this a lot?  Whenever we see people acting in the show--a play within a play, as it were--they always have to make a big show of acting.  It's as if they want to contrast the actors in the show with the actors on the show, who we're supposed to forget are acting.  Anyway, it's dumb and always serves to remind me that I'm watching a show.

During intermission, Poirot writes down the name of the murderer on a piece of paper, folds it and gives it to Hastings, telling him not to open it until after the play.  And if it were me, I would so peek! 

Just then, Poirot spots Patricia Matthews across the room.  She's laughing again (I hate laughers) and gazing soulfully into the eyes of a young man with her.  Poirot recognizes her from the building.

Poirot: An enchanting mademoiselle, n'est pas?
Hastings: Yes.

You're both idiots.  Personally, I'm hoping she's this week's murder victim.  Also, she has a stupid haircut.  I hate bangs.

Anyway, Poirot and Hastings go back to watching the play.  As the solution is revealed, Poirot looks increasingly disgusted.

Poirot: That's absurd.  The writer is an imbecile.

Hastings pulls out the piece of paper Poirot gave him earlier and, sure enough, Poirot got it wrong.  Awesomely, Poirot's theory is that the butler did it.  That was actually true in one Poirot mystery...well, sort of.

As they arrive back at Whitehaven Mansions, Poirot is still bitching about the play and the fact that the theater made his cold worse.

At around the same time (one assumes) Patricia Matthews is arriving home, accompanied by her dancing partner, the young man from the theatre and another young man.  The two couples run into a problem when it turns out Patricia can't find her key, despite the fact that she's sure she took it with her.  After a minute's discussion of how they might gain access to the apartment, Patricia--who seems rather more intelligent now that she's not laughing uncontrollably--remembers that there's a coal lift, which she uses to send her dustbins to the basement.  Since she doesn't bother to bolt the hatch in her apartment, one could theoretically take the lift up from the basement to her apartment.

Great security there.

The two gentlemen go down to the basement to try, while Patricia and her friend once again dissolve into laughter.  sigh

Back in Poirot's apartment, we see that I was wrong: Poirot is writing up a cheque, even though Hastings tells him it's not necessary.  Huh, turns out Poirot is less egotistical than I thought.  Poirot is interrupted when, from the wall, they hear the squeaking of the coal lift.  Poirot finds this odd since it's rather late to be putting out one's dustbin.  As someone who often takes her garbage out after midnight, I'd have to disagree with that.

Poirot and Hastings stick their heads through the hatch and observe the two young men breaking into a flat below them.  Hastings, naturally, suspects they are burglars, but Poirot doesn't think so because they are wearing evening dress. What, like burglars can't enjoy the theatre?  Criminals do have lives, Poirot.

They go out into the hall and find Miss Matthews and her friend sitting on the stairs and singing at the top of their lungs.  They're actually pretty good singers, but it's still rather obnoxious, given that it's late at night.  If they tried that in my building they'd soon find themselves out on their asses.  (Elderly strata council members with too much time on their hands and 8pm bedtimes do not mess around!)

We then see the two young men stumbling around the apartment in the dark.  Since they're not actually breaking in, I don't see why on Earth they can't put on a light.  Finally, they do, at which point they discover...they're in the wrong flat.  Briliant guys, seriously.  You're lucky you weren't greeted by a shotgun.  Oh wait, this is England.  Billy club?

The two seem rather more amused than anything else by their mistake.  At this point, I can only assume that the four young people are permanently stoned.  They find a letter addressed to Ernestine Grant, at which point, they realize that they've got off the coal lift on the third floor instead of the fourth.  They hear what sounds like somebody snoring and the smarter of the two then suggests that they rectify their mistake post-haste, but just then they spot a body on the floor.  A closer inspection reveals it to be Ernestine Grant.  Hmmm...a rather fortuitous mistake then.

Pat and her friend are still singing on the stairs when the young men exit apartment 36B and call up to them that they've found a body.  It turns out that Pat's friend is named Mildred.  Well, that's unfortunate, though no worse than Ernestine, I suppose.  Above them, Poirot and Hastings overhear the information about the body and you just know that Poirot is through the roof with excitement.  Plus, now Hastings is distracted from the money Poirot owes him.  Win, win.

Next thing we know, Pat is showing Poirot and Hastings into the third floor flat--I mean, it's not like it's a crime scene or anything--and introducing them to Mildred's date, whose name is Jimmy.  It turns out that Jimmy has heard of Poirot and is quite pleased to meet him, which allows Poirot to point out to Hastings that he is still, like, totally relevant.

Poirot then examines the crime scene--is anyone going to call the police?--noting that the doors to the coal lift were unbolted.  I guess all the tenants in the building figure that with Hercule Poirot in the building no one would dare rob the place.  It turns out that there was a reason Donovan and Jimmy were stumbling around in the dark as one of the guys informs Poirot that the light switch in the kitchen didn't work; the bulb must have been burnt out or something.

Poirot flips the switch and the light comes on immediately.  Hmmm...

Suddenly the snoring sound the boys heard earlier starts up again.  Following the sound, they find Mrs. Grant's maid asleep in her room.  Apparently she's one of those people who could sleep through WWIII.  Poirot decides to let her keep sleeping for the moment.  Sure, because why would you bother informing anyone about the murder you've just discovered?

And then--finally--the police arrive outside the building, led by our old friend, Chief Inspector Useless...I mean, Japp.

Japp: You'd better watch your step lads.  This is where the famous detective, Mr. Hercule Poirot, lives.

And, once again, I can't tell whether or not he's being sarcastic.  The guy either has the driest sense of humour on the planet or no sense of humour at all.

Back inside, Jimmy and Donovan are leading Poirot and Hastings through the flat and explaining how they came to find the body, which they show them.  Poirot comments that Mrs. Grant has been dead for some time.  He then notices blood on the hand and sleeve of Jimmy, who has sat down at a table near the body.  When Jimmy vehemently denies having touched the body, Poirot concludes that Mrs. Grant was killed at the table and then moved to the ground nearby.  Noticing a letter on the table, Poirot sends Hastings to find out when the last post was delivered.  Uh, didn't we just have an episode where the delivery of a letter was a major plot point?  Let's not get repetitive here.

At this point, Japp arrives at the apartment.  Geez, what did he do, stop in the lobby for a nap?

Japp: You'll be having murders in your back bedroom next, Poirot.

Yeah, maybe he should move to Cabot Cove.

Poirot introduces Japp to the victim, explaining that she had only moved in that day.  Wait, this entire episode so far has taken place in one day?  And Poirot's been bored?

Japp, of course, wants to know how the body was found.

Donovan: Well, I'm afraid that's rather a long story, Chief Inspector.
Japp: It would be.

Especially if you let Poirot tell it.

Next we see Poirot and the four young people sitting around a kitchen table having a midnight snack courtesy of...Pat?  She can cook?  And here I'd dismissed her as completely useless.  Anyway, it turns out that Poirot is starting to feel much better.  Well, of course he is; nothing like a murder to perk a man  up.  But only a real murder; Poirot is still bitching about the play they all saw earlier in the evening.  Dude, get over it.  It's not like you lost real money. 

Just as Poirot is complaining about the play's dimwitted policeman, Japp shows himself in and tells Poirot that Mrs. Grant's murder is a cut and dried case and of no interest to Poirot.  Seriously, Japp?  You know there's no such thing as a cut and dried case when Poirot's around.  If nothing else, I'm pretty sure that someone being killed in his own building is going to be of interest to Poirot.  I mean, that's just bloody cheek!

Anyway, it turns out that Mrs. Grant has been dead for 5 or 6 hours.  The maid--whom Japp has thankfully woken up--was out for the evening and failed to notice the body when she returned.  Poirot thinks it odd that the killer hid the body, though it makes sense to Japp and, for that matter, to me: delayed discovery of the crime gives the killer more time to get away.  And clearly the killer needed it, since he left not only a hankerchief with his initials--J.F.--but also a note, arranging a meeting with Mrs. Grant at 6pm and signed "Frazer".  He may as well have just taken a picture of himself with the corpse and taped it to the wall.

Mrs. Grant's maid stops by to ask if she can leave, since she can't imagine she could stay in the apartment.  I can't imagine the police would let her, what with it being a crime scene and all, but then preservation of evidence doesn't seem to be a big priority for Japp.  Poirot takes the opportunity to ask the maid if she went into the sitting room when she returned in the evening and she tells him she did and in fact put the evening's mail on the table.

Japp then confirms my suspicion that he cares not for preservation of the crime scene when he agrees to allow Poirot to root around in Mrs. Grant's apartment.  He doesn't think it matters since all they need to do to find the killer is track down "John Frazer".  And why he's convinced the first name is John is beyond me.

In fact, Poirot not only returns to the crime scene himself, he leads a virtual parade through the place, including not only Hastings, but the four young people in his investigation.  Leading everyone into Mrs. Grant's kitchen, Poirot describes the cornucopia of evidence the killer left behind.  Then he starts going through the garbage.

Hastings: Poirot, why are you rummaging around in the dustbin?

Uh...because obviously the police neglected to do so?  Honestly, where's Gil Grissom when you really need him?

Poirot emerges triumphant with a very small bottle.  Citing his cold, he asks Donovan to smell it.  Donovan removes the lid, sniffs and immediately drops to the floor.

Poirot: No, no, no!  Why did he take off the lid?  That is stupid!

Oh, SHUT THE FUCK UP, POIROT!  You didn't bloody tell him not to take the lid off, now did you?  You just told him to smell the bottle.  I might have taken the lid off myself.

Honestly, between Pat being an obnoxious bitch, Poirot being a whiny ass and Japp being even more incompetent than usual, Hastings is coming off as the least irritating person in this entire episode.

Donovan is quickly revived and Poirot instructs Hastings to take him upstairs and make sure he's okay.

Once Hastings and Donovan have left, Poirot informs Jimmy that the case is now solved.  He explains to him that all the evidence indicating a J. Frazer in the crime was planted (duh) and that there was nothing wrong with the light in the kitchen, it was just a ruse to get Jimmy into the sitting room.  Poirot points out that had the light in the kitchen been on, it would have been obvious to Jimmy that he and Donovan were in the wrong apartment; there would have been no need to go into the sitting room.  Poirot then pulls out the key to Pat's flat and explains that Donovan stole it out of her bag so that he would have an excuse to get himself and Jimmy into the third floor flat.

It turns out that the bottle Poirot had Donovan sniff was full of ether chloride, a powerful anesthetic.  Moreover, Poirot did not find it in the dustbin, he had it in his pocket.  Because....apparently he carries that stuff around with him at all times?  That...has some unfortunate implications.  Anyway, he knocked Donovan out and sent Jimmy out of the room for brandy, giving him time to go through Donovan's pockets without anyone noticing.

Poirot then discusses the hiding of Mrs. Grant's body.  He has deduced that the killer was looking for something in the flat and didn't find it.  He therefore needed to return to the flat, but only after the evening post had been delivered.  So, he hid the body in order that the maid would not notice anything amiss when she came in.  Poirot then shows Jimmy a letter that he also took from Donovan's pocket.  That guy has big pockets.

Jimmy: Are you saying then that Donovan murdered Mrs. Grant?

You're just getting that now?  Keep up, dude!

Jimmy, needless to say, wants to know why Donovan would kill Mrs. Grant when he didn't even know her.

Yeah, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say maybe he did.

Before Poirot will answer, he insists on asking Jimmy a personal question: is he in love with Pat?  Not only does Jimmy admit that he is, but Poirot says that if he were Jimmy's age, he'd be in love with her too.  WTF!?  Seriously, what is it with this girl?  She's not good looking, she's not charming (I'd go so far as to say she's an obnoxious bitch) and yet everyone is head over heels for her!  It's like that House episode where all the male doctors are charmed by their new female patient and it's up to the one female doctor to point out that she's clearly a psychopath.  And at least in that case, the patient in question was actually attractive.  Quite frankly, Mildred--awful name aside--is much better looking and far more pleasant that Pat and yet no one seems to give a crap about her.  Men!  That's all I have to say.  Men!

Anyway, it turns out that Donovan is engaged to Patricia and that she is the motive for this murder.  sigh  Of course she is.

Just then, they hear Hastings yelling.  Apparently, Donovan is making a run for it.  I guess he's discovered the letter and key are missing.  The lift is descending and Hastings races down the stairs.  Poirot sends Jimmy and a police constable after him, then slowly saunters down himself.  Meanwhile, we see Donovan above him looking down.  Sending the lift down empty; oldest trick in the book.

Hastings and co. catch up with the empty lift, while Donovan sneaks back into the third floor flat.  He opens the letter that Poirot apparently just left lying around, then climbs back into the coal lift.  In the lobby, Poirot catches up with his compatriots and actually explains to them that Donovan pressed the button in the lift without going down himself.  And I'm really rather surprised that nobody responds, "No shit, Sherlock."  I mean, I'm pretty sure even Hastings could figure that one out on his own.  Then they hear the squeak of the coal lift.

They run into the basement, but Donovan, hearing them, hides in the coal lift shaft and when they fail to find him, Jimmy figures it must have just been something else they heard.  Hmmm, on second thought, maybe he really does need Poirot to spell out every little detail for him.  Poirot, for the record, looks seriously pissed, but he follows the others out of the basement.

Donovan makes it outside and tries to escape...in Hastings' new car, which is awesome on several levels, not the least of which is the look on Hastings' face.  In fact, Hastings actually does the big, "Noooooo!" and jumps out in front of the car, forcing Donovan to swerve and crash.  Everyone is terribly concerned about Donovan's well-being, except, of course, for Hastings who is concerned about his car.  Can't say that I blame him; car trumps murderer.

Anyway, Donovan seems to have suffered nothing more than a scratch on the head (the same cannot be said for the car) and they take him back inside.  Why they don't take him straight to jail (they have a police constable with them, after all), I don't know.  Poirot retrieves the stolen letter from Donovan and has Jimmy read it.  It's from a solicitor telling Mrs. Grant that a marriage performed abroad is still perfectly valid.  Also in the envelope is a marriage certificate for Ernestine and Donovan Grant.  Well, Donovan not being a terribly common name, I assume you can guess the connection.

Jimmy: Who's Donovan Grant?

Okay, somebody clearly took the short bus to school.

Donovan then rather pathetically tells his story of how Ernestine refused to grant him a divorce and threatened to tell Pat everything.  When she took the flat right beneath Pat's, Donovan realized she was crazy enough to do anything.  I'm not really sure that qualifies as crazy.  Vengeful perhaps or pathetic, depending on why she's doing it, but not really crazy.   Anyway, Donovan went to see her--he was the mysterious visitor we saw earlier--and she told him about the letter she was expecting from her solicitor.  Donovan had tried to convince her that since they were married in Switzerland, it didn't count under British law, which is moronic.  Ernestine had already been told verbally by her solicitor what a crock of shit that was and was just waiting for written confirmation before she confronted Pat.  When Donovan couldn't convince Ernestine not to go to Pat, he shot her.  A bit of an overreaction, really.  I mean, shooting someone over Pat!?  Plus, Ernestine did have a valid point: proposing to one woman while already being married to another is a pretty asshole move.  Though, in all fairness, refusing a divorce when the marriage was clearly over was also very petty behaviour.  Come to think of it, these two should have stayed together, they deserved each other.

Donovan: I couldn't let her hurt Pat like that, could I?

Yeah, right, you were only thinking of Pat.  Couldn't you have killed her instead and saved me having to put up with her the entire episode?

Finally, Japp arrives and takes Donovan away.  Outside, as they watch Donovan being driven off, Poirot approaches Jimmy and convinces him to go to Pat and comfort her.  Sure, Poirot, she's already driven one man to murder, let's convince another guy to ruin his life over her.  If it was me, I'd suggest she join a convent; at least the habit would cover up that God-awful hairdo.

The next day Hastings contemplates the ruin of his car, which Japp refers to as "very expensive scrap metal".

Hastings: Hanging's too good for some people.

That would be funnier if Donovan weren't likely to actually be hanged.

Poirot: Hastings, my friend, Poirot is as magnanimous in defeat as he is modest in victory.

Which is to say, not at all?  Actually, what he's trying to say is that he's decided to pay up on the wager they made about the play.  Uh, I thought you agreed to do that half an episode ago.  And I wouldn't call not shirking on a fair wager "magnanimous".

But anyway, Poirot is cheerful now and, as he tells Miss Lemon, feeling entirely the picture of health.

Poirot: Poirot does not have colds, Miss Lemon.  It is well known that Poirot scorns all but the gravest of afflictions.

Except for when you don't.  Actually, now that I think about it, Poirot treats any ailments he suffers--however minor--as grave afflictions so, in that sense, his statement is entirely true.

So, that's the episode.  I'm going to assume that it was adapted from a very short story, since they had to pad it out with that ridiculously drawn out chase scene.  The biggest problem, of course, was Pat.  I'm sorry, but I just do not understand why everyone was so ga-ga about her.  There was a whole show/tell disconnect here.  We kept being told how beautiful and charming she was, while we kept seeing how plain and obnoxious she was.  Okay, she probably would have looked better without that hideous hairstyle, but nothing would change the fact that she was a self-centered bitch.  Then again, if you really want to see an example of a character that we are supposed to like, but who is truly horrible, tune into to our next recap.  Coming soon to a blog near you.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

And here we have our fourth episode.  We open on a seaside room where an old man is clearly dying.  The doctor tells the man's housekeeper (?) Mrs. Hill, that's there not much time and asks if the old man--Mr. Antony--has any relatives.  It turns out Mr. Antony has a brother, Henry, with whom he hasn't spoken in 20 years and a nephew, Mr. George, who lives in London.  Heh, gotta love family.

We then switch to what appears to be a theatre rehearsal--a very unentertaining one--where Mr. George is informed of his uncle's poor health.  On the phone with Mrs. Hill, George explains that he cannot come to see his uncle until Sunday, even though that may be too late.  The theatre is a harsh mistress.  He also advises Mrs. Hill against contacting Mr. Antony's brother Henry, who apparently would welcome the news of his brother's impending passing.  Well, nothing suspicious about that.

Meanwhile, at Poirot's place, Hastings is listening to cricket on the radio, much to Poirot's irritation.

Poirot: Crickets, the English enigma.  I know not of any other game where even the players are unsure of the rules.

And, thank you Poirot!  My father is a cricket umpire, but I've always found the game completely incomprehensible.  Not to mention insufferably dull.

Hastings blathers on nonsensically about the game, but Poirot is uninterested; not just because the subject is inherently uninteresting, but because he has a dinner date with his dentist.

Hastings: Your dentist?  How positively morbid.

As someone who is currently recovering from two tooth extractions, I have to agree.

Actually, it turns out that Poirot is a man after my own heart when it comes to avoiding dental appointments (a bad idea, as I've now discovered), but finds his dentist quite charming out of the office.

Poirot: Besides, he likes to see the end product at work.

Fair enough, I suppose. 

At the restaurant, while Poirot and his dentist indulge in some "good well-cooked English fare" (which I'm reasonably sure is a contradiction in terms), they hear from the waitress an odd tale about a fellow diner, Henry Gascoigne.  It seems that Mr. Gascoigne is a creature of habit, who always comes in on Wednesdays.  Now, personally, I think it's good to have a routine and I generally do visit the same restaurants on the same days of the week, though I'm not an absolute stickler for it.  Henry Gascoigne, however, is.  Except the previous week, when he came in on Monday instead.  Not only that, he ordered the type of food that he didn't normally like.  Then he came in on Wednesday, same as usual.

Waitress: Anyway, I musn't stand here gossiping.

Bit late for that.

Poirot is extraordinarily interested in Henry Gascoigne's sudden change in habit, which makes sense, given how OCD Poirot is.

Just as Poirot feels a sudden pain in one of his teeth--much to the note of his dentist--the waitress pops by to tell them that Henry Gascoigne has again gone off his dietary rocker.  Poirot looks on with keen interest.

Word of advice, dude: get that tooth looked at now!  Two tooth extractions and a root canal later (with one more root canal still to go) and I have learned my lesson!

The next thing we see, it's day (the next?) and Henry Gascoigne's body is being discovered at the bottom of his stairs at home, the apparent victim of a fall.

And then we see Poirot at the dentist, looking distinctly uncomfortable as the dentist drills away.  Good to see he took my advice, though I'm guessing a visit to the dentist was even less fun in the 1930s (and in England, no less!) than it is today.  The dentist informs Poirot of Gascoigne's death.

Poirot wastes no time in going to Gascoigne's place and talking to one of his neighbours.  Yet again, Poirot gets treated to some English xenophobia as the woman is clearly suspicious of the foreigner.

Woman: Who's he?  He's not English, is he?  Begging your pardon.
Hastings: He's Hercule Poirot, private detective.
Woman: Oh yeah, well they all say that, don't they. 

Um, they do?  Huh.  Who knew?

She then insists on treating Poirot as though he doesn't speak any English, directing the majority of her comments to Hastings and expecting him to translate.  I don't even know where to begin to tell you the problems with that idea.  When she does talk to Poirot, she speaks slowly and loudly, as one does.

Upstairs, Poirot and Hastings find Gascoigne's model (he was a painter).  The woman--Dulcie Lang--can't help them with questions about Gascoigne's behaviour because, according to her, painters are always acting strangely.

Dulcie: They can never make up their mind whether to commit suicide or give a party.

I need to start hanging out with more painters.

Dulcie is able to give them some basic information about Henry Gascoigne.  It turns out that Gascoigne was a fairly successful artist and not hurting for money.  He also had a nephew involved in musical theatre and an estranged brother, Antony.

So you see where this is going.

When Miss Lang asks Poirot what he's thinking, he tells her that given Mr. Gascoigne's uncharacteristic behaviour in the days leading up to his death, he cannot accept that the fatal fall was accidental.  Besides--as we all know--nobody suffers an accidental death when Poirot is around.

Poirot then goes to Scotland Yard to see good old Chief Inspector Japp, who shows him their new Forensics Division, which he says "is where the future of criminal investigation lies."  He's pretty much right, though he's wrong when he suggests that it will put an end to detectives such as him and Poirot.  Way to be maudlin, dude.  Poirot, of course, doesn't buy it, though he doesn't bother to argue.

Japp confirms that Henry Gascoigne died from a fall--he broke his neck--and tells Poirot that time of death has been placed at around 9:30pm; in other words, not long after Poirot saw him at the restaurant.  However, this is based less on forensics and more on the fact that Gascoigne had a letter in his pocket that had been posted that morning and therefore would have arrived in the 9:30pm delivery.  It really is hard for me to get my head around such prompt snail mail delivery.  I can't seem to get anything delivered in less than a week.  Then again, who snail mails these days?

Poirot wants to see this letter, but it's been sent to the pathologist and Japp isn't too keen on giving Poirot the guy's name since he considers the case closed.  Because Japp is an idiot and doesn't realize that if Poirot says there is something more to be investigated, there is something more to be investigated.  Seriously, I sometimes think that if it wasn't for Poirot, nary a crime in London would ever get solved.  Anyway, Poirot manages to get the pathologist's name by appealing to Japp's preference for the "camaradarie" of traditional detective work over forensics.

We cut immediately to the pathologist, who gives his opinion about Henry Gascoigne.

Pathologist: Strong looking fellow.  Had years on him, I'd say.  Still had his own teeth.

Yeah, yeah, rub it in.

Anyway, the pathologist confirms (yet again) that Gascoigne's injuries were consistent with a fall and there was no apparent underlying cause, such as a seizure.  Just a simple slip and fall.  Well, they do say most accidents happen around the house.  The examination of Gascoigne's stomach contents was consistent with the estimated time of death, as he had eaten a light meal a few hours before dying.  Poirot asks to borrow the letter found on Gascoigne's body and the pathologist agrees.  Because apparently there was no concept of the chain of evidence in the 1930s.

The next thing we see, Poirot and Hastings are sitting down to an intimate candlelight dinner for two.  O...K...  Perhaps the TV show really is going to go in a different direction than the books.  Poirot serves Hastings a recipe of his mother's.  Wait, Poirot can cook?  I...would not have thought that.  BTW, the meal is some kind of rabbit dish, which would seriously disgust my best friend who's had pet rabbits all her life.  Me, I've never eaten rabbit and I don't think I'd ever want to, but it doesn't creep me out the way eating, say, a cat would.

Hastings asks about the envelope found in Gascoigne's pocket.  It turns out to be an invitation to a gallery showing, so of course Poirot decides they should go.  There they meet Henry Gascoigne's agent.  It turns out that Gascoigne was seriously opposed to selling any of his major paintings, though he gave some to his friends and these paintings will be worth quite a bit now that he's passed on.  In the agent's office, they see a painting Gascoigne made of his brother's wife.  A nude painting.  I'm beginning to understand why the two didn't get along.

Agent: I don't think brother Antony was keen on the idea of his wife's naked body being displayed in public

Gee, ya think?

Outside, Hastings--in one of his rare moments of lucidity--comments that everyone seems to have benefitted from Gascoigne's death.  Poirot agrees.  Then Hastings starts going on another cricket-related blather, something about a game being over before lunch.  I think.  I really can't follow discussions about cricket; it's like a foreign language.  At any rate, the mention of lunch gives Poirot an epiphany.

Poirot: Lunch!  Of course, Hastings!  Lunch!  Don't you see?
Hastings: See what, old man?
Poirot: Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a crumble.
Hastings: I think you mean 'pie', don't you?

You know, sometimes I think Hastings and Poirot deserve each other.

By this time, they've reached Poirot's office and it turns out that Miss Lemon has managed to locate George Lorrimer.  Poirot informs Hastings that the two of them must visit the theatre.  Hastings, for his part, is more curious about the blackbirds Poirot mentioned.  It turns out that Poirot actually meant blackberries as in the blackberry crumble that Henry Gascoigne had for dessert the night he died.  Hard to believe anyone wouldn't make that connection.  Blackberries of course, discolour the teeth, but Gascoigne's teeth were fine.  Geez, what's with the obsession with teeth this episode?  And does it not occur to Poirot that Gascoigne might have brushed his teeth when he got home?

Hastings suggests that perhaps the waitress was merely mistaken.  Of course, Hastings was not at the restaurant and didn't see what a nosey cow the waitress was.  But Poirot has another point: according to the pathologist, Gascoigned died a few hours after eating a "light meal," but the dinner Poirot saw him eat was soup followed by steak and kidney pudding, plus the aforementioned crumble, which is not exactly light.

It's not exactly appetizing either.  I think I'd sooner eat rabbit.

Poirot speculates that perhaps the light meal Gascoigne ate before dying was actually his lunch.  The problem there, as Hastings points out, is that Gascoigne was seen--by Poirot himself, no less--at the restaurant that evening.

Poirot: Yes, but that was not Henry Gascoigne.

Poirot does love his wham lines.

Poirot and Hastings enter a large building as Poirot explains that the man in the restaurant that night was actually Henry Gascoigne's killer, disguised to look like Gascoigne.  Henry Gascoigne was by that point already dead.  Aside from his choice of food, the killer also somewhat gave himself away by ignoring Gascoigne's neighbour as he was leaving the crime scene.  The point of all this was to make it look as though Gascoigne died later than he did.

As I mentioned in an earlier review, Christie did have a tendency to over use the one-character-disguised-as-another-character gag, which must have made things difficult for the showmakers.  Of course, the fact that these plots work in a visual medium I guess shows that they're more realistic than one might imagine.

Anyway, Poirot and Hastings are having this conversation in a mezzanine area.  They look down and see...Dulcie Lang posing nude for a group of artists.  And we see more than you might think.  Gotta say, T and A is not exactly what I think of when I think Poirot.

Poirot and Hastings then turn to speculating about who the murderer/imposter might be.  Hastings suspects the brother, which makes sense given that the two men shared a great resemblance.  Plus, unlike the audience, Hastings doesn't know that Antony was already on his deathbed at the time of the murder.  Poirot, for his part, comments that it's very difficult to imagine Dulcie Lang playing the part of the old man.  He's looking down on her naked form as he says this and Hastings chides him.  Hastings tends to be a bit old-fashioned when it comes to women, but I'm rather with him on this one.  Of course, I'm rather old-fashioned myself.

Poirot and Hastings then go down to see Miss Lang, who fortunately has, by this time, put on a robe.  Poirot apologizes for the intrusion.

Dulcie Lang: Not at all, gentlmen.  As you have already seen for yourselves, I have nothing to hide.

To put it mildly.

Poirot informs Miss Lang that he is convinced that Henry Gascoigne was murdered by someone close to him.  Miss Lang naturally wants to know if she's a suspect, though she sounds more intrigued than offended by the notion.  Poirot brings up the paintings that Gascoigne gave her and points out that she could now sell them for quite the pretty penny.  Or pence, I guess.

Dulcie Lang:  You think I'd part with them?  At any price?

And now she does sound offended. 

It also transpires that Miss Lang does not know how to find Gascoigne's brother and she suggests that they try the nephew.

Cut to the music hall where we see some very scantily clad women on the stage.  Geez, what is up with this episode?  Was it sweeps week or something? 

Finally making it through a sea of half-naked people backstage, Poirot and Hastings discover that George Lorrimer is not even there as he has gone to Brighton for his uncle's funeral.

Hastings: In Brighton?

It turns out, of course, that Lorimer is attending the funeral of his uncle Antony, who died a week ago.

We then cut to Antony's funeral, which Poirot and Hastings observe, noting that their suspects are dropping like flies.

George Lorrimer notices them and goes over to introduce himself.  Poirot claims to be an old acquaintance of Henry Gascoigne, which causes Hastings to look at him askew.  You know, I really don't think Hastings is cut out for detective work; he's too attached to ideas like honesty and chivalry.  From Lorrimer, Poirot and Hastings discover that Antony's infamous wife died ten years earlier and since then Antony had been a recluse.  Lorrimer also confirms that Antony and Henry had been estranged for twenty years.  Leaving Lorrimer, Poirot and Hastings have a chat with Mrs. Hill, Antony's housekeeper.  It turns out that Antony left no will, so all his money will likely go to Lorrimer as his nearest relative...not that he deserves it.  Mrs. Hill is pretty bitter than Lorrimer couldn't find time in his schedule to visit Antony when he was dying.  Antony died the previous Friday and Lorrimer didn't make it to Brighton until Sunday.  Well, the show must go on, as they say.

Back in London, Poirot and Hastings investigate the area around Henry Gascoigne's house, looking for a place where his killer could safely have disgarded his disguise and turned back into himself...whoever that may be.  (Though, once again, it seems rather obvious.)  They eventually come across....a public washroom.  Ugh.  Seriously, ugh.  There they find a janitor wearing some rather suspicious clothing.  It turns out he found the clothes just lying in the washroom.  So he put them on.  Geez, and the residents of Dog River thought it was gross that Oscar wore a pair of pants he found on the side of the road!  Needless to say, the clothes are part of the disguise Gascoigne's killer was wearing the night of the murder.

Some time later--it actually kind of bugs me that these episodes never state how much time passes between scenes that could be hours or days apart--Poirot is back in his office and Hastings comes in to tell him the bleeding obvious, that Dulcie Lang is innocent.  It turns out she has an alibi, not that she needs one, really.  Gascoigne's agent is also out of it, having been in Paris at the time of the murder.

So then we see George Lorrimer entering his theatre, where he finds Poirot, Hastings, Japp and a bunch of those forensics chappies loitering on the stage.  It turns out the forensics team are examining the clothing that Poirot and Hastings found on the washroom janitor.  According to one of the technicians, they've isolated hair from the murderer found on the clothes and should have no trouble matching it.  And no, he doesn't take off his sunglasses and make a witty one-liner.

Poirot then plays narrator--his favourite role by far--and explains to Lorrimer, that after Gascoigne's killer pushed him down the stairs, he retrieved the letter that he had sent Gascoigne the day before--the invitation to the art gallery.  He then changed the postmark on the envelope so that it showed it had been sent on the day of the murder, rather than the day before.  Finally, he put the altered envelope in Gascoigne's pocket so it would look as though he had fallen to his death after the arrival of the 9:30pm mail delivery.

Poirot then asks Lorrimer where he was at the time of his uncle's death.  Lorrimer claims to have been at the theatre for the second showing.  Which he was.  But Japp--Japp of all people!--points out that that was in the evening, while Gascoigne was really killed during the afternoon. 

So, yeah, Lorrimer totally did it.  Why?  For the money, dear boy!  Once Antony died, Henry Gascoigne was all that stood between Lorrimer and the Gascoigne fortune.

So, Lorrimer tries to run, which is pretty stupid as he is in a theatre surrounded by police officers.  You know, no one ever tried to run in the original short stories.  It's just something the tv show put in, I suppose so they could have some action.

Back at the restaurant where all this began, Poirot, his dentist, Hastings and Japp discuss the case.  It was, of course, Lorrimer's acting ability that made Poirot suspect him.  And that's kind of my problem with this episode.  George Lorrimer was just such an obvious suspect.  It was clear from the first that it had to be him.  I mean, really, who else was there?  I was rather hoping that there would be some sort of twist, but nope, just George Lorrimer.  According to Poirot, Lorrimer had been planning the impersonation and murder for some time and his first dinner at the restaurant was a dress rehearsal, to make sure he could pull off the impersonation.  You'd think he might have paid attention to the kind of food his uncle ate.  Why not just ask the waitress for "the usual" or for a recommendation?  I mean, if someone were to mascarade as me and then order cream of mushroom soup, anyone who knew me would be instantly suspicious.  Poirot himself points out that acting is more than just looking the part; one has to actually become the character and Lorrimer failed pretty spectacularly at that.

Suddenly Hastings spots a newspaper, grabs it and starts blathering on about cricket again.  The gist of his amazement--as near as I can tell--is that England won a surprise victory over Australia.  Dear God, who cares!?

Poirot then gives a long and detailed explanation of how England won, the only part of which I understand is that Australians are not used to playing in a rainy climate.   However, the point is clear: when it comes to cricket, Poirot knows his shit.  In other words:

SHUT THE FUCK UP, HASTINGS!

The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly

And so we come to episode #3, The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly.  And here I thought that intentionally misspelling your kid's name was a recent phenomenon.

For the record, this entire episode can bite me.

We open with an annoyingly cute little boy playing.  Since I am completely immune to the charms of children, this does not bode well for my enjoyment of the episode.  The boy is playing outside a huge, freaking house.  Actually, "house" is probably not the right word; you'd have to go with "manor" or "estate".  Anyway, it's probably bigger than my highschool.  Inside, in a luxuriously appointed room, a man and a woman are discussing a letter that's demanding 50 000 pounds.  Apparently, there have been several letters, with the amount to be paid going up with each one.  The woman is quite distressed, while the man appears outraged.

Man: Damn it all, Ada, this is England.  People don't go around kidnapping children!
 
I...am speechless.

The guy grabs the letter and storms off, while the woman goes outside to see the little blonde boy, who, it should be noted, is already under the supervision of a nurse.  The kid really is cute.  And that really does  annoy me.

We then switch to Poirot in his office.  He goes to remind Miss Lemon that his tisane (gag) needs to be served promptly at 11am.  Miss Lemon is in the middle of organizing and cross-referencing all of his files.  It appears that she does, after all, share book Lemon's obsession with the perfect filing system.  

We then see the "this is England!" fellow arrive at Poirot's office where he is introduced as Mr. Waverly.  He shows Poirot the letter from earlier, which turns out to be a ransom note...sort of.  Apparently whoever wrote it hasn't really grasped the concept of kidnapping for ransom, because he's asking for the money before actually abducting anyone.  Apparently the earlier letters demanded that Mr. Waverly pay money or his son would be taken.  This letter says that since he has not paid, his son will be kidnapped at noon the next day and it will cost 50 000 pounds to get him back.  Wow, the letter writer really doesn't understand kidnapping; you're not supposed to give away when the abduction will take place!  Why doesn't he just say, "I'll be the guy in the trenchcoat lurking in the bushes"?  Mr. Waverly's reaction to the whole thing?

Mr. Waverly: Damned impertinence.

Um...okay...

At this point, Hastings arrives and Poirot explains to him that someone is threatening to kidnap Mr. Waverly's son.

Hastings: Really? In England? 

And...that should be a Shut the fuck up, Hastings moment, but it's so funny and well-delivered that I'll let it pass.

Hastings: Could be some band of foreigners, you know.  Some gang.

Okay, that one I won't let pass.  SHUT THE FUCK UP, HASTINGS!

Poirot seems a might taken aback by that comment as well and points out that there is no indication the letters were written by a foreigner.  There's no indication they were written by an idiot either, which I suppose lets Hastings off the hook.

This is, in fact, the first glimpse we have in the tv series of something that was made very clear in the books: English people in the early 20th century were remarkably xenophobic.  Actually, I suppose the first glimpse we got of it was back in The Adventure of the Clapham Cook when Annie suggested that Miss Dunn might have been abducted by white slavers, but Annie was clearly such a moron that it was easy to dismiss that prejudice as just personal stupidity.  I can't recall off the top of my head how often this is going to come up in the series, but I can assure you it comes up constantly in the books and Poirot is quite often the target of it.  In fact, in one book, he actually gets indicted for murder simply for having been in the vicinity when it occurred and for being foreign.  On other occasions, he actually uses this prejudice to his advantage, allowing his quarry to underestimate him or dismiss him entirely.

At any rate, Poirot considers the letters to be a credible threat and asks Mr. Waverly if he has any enemies.  Waverly can't think of a single one, though I'm willing to be that every non-English person he has ever met has found him a trifle annoying.  Poirot decides that he should take on the case and informs Hastings that it is time to pay a visit to "the intrepid Chief Inspector Japp." 

Poirot announces that he will take the next train to...wherever it is Waverly lives.  I wasn't paying attention.  Hastings offers to drive him down, but Poirot declines, preferring to meet him there.

Huh, I think I may have discovered the cause of Poirot's love affair with trains: if the alternative was getting into a car driven by Hastings, I'd spend my life travelling by rail too.  Actually, I'd probably just throw myself onto the tracks and have done with it.

On the way to the train station,  Poirot and Waverly stop off to see Japp, who is less than helpful.  He points out that he doesn't have the manpower to investigate every threatening letter that's brought to his attention.  Waverly deems the visit a waste of time, which is true enough, but then he lays into Japp, actually using the whole "my taxes pay your salary" bit, which I guess is an older complaint than I would have imagined.  Just for the record, I'd like to point out that Japp also pays taxes so he is, in effect, paying his own salary.  And if I seem just a little sensitive on this issue, it's because I'm also in a profession that gets this ridiculous accusation thrown at it and it's annoying as hell.

In the end, Japp pretty much tells Waverly to piss off and Waverly does so, though not without promising to have a talk with Japp's superior.

Japp: I hope he enjoys it as much as I have.

On the train, Waverly calls Japp a fool, but Poirot defends his friend, pointing out that it's difficult for the police to do anything before a crime has actually been committed.  Actually, I'm pretty sure that sending threatening letters is a crime and seeing as how these particular letters were threatening a child, it does seem as though Japp could have taken them a bit more seriously.  After all, how much manpower does it take to try to catch someone who's already told you exactly when he plans to strike?  I like Japp, but he really is an idiot sometimes.

Waverly and Poirot eventually arrive at the ridiculously large home seen earlier.  Waverly explains that it's "the new house" having only been built in 1760.  He started renovating it five years earlier, but hasn't been able to finish.  It's also revealed that most of the surrounding land used to belong to the Waverlys.

Waverly: As far as you could see from the roof.  But not anymore.

My heart bleeds.  Really.

Inside, they meet up with Waverly's wife, Ada, and Hastings.  Ada is clearly concerned, but Hastings dismisses the letters as the works of a crank.  Really, Hastings?  I thought it was a gang of foreigners.  Make up your mind, Hastings.  And then shut the fuck up.  Because nobody cares what you think.

Back outside, Poirot comments to Hastings that kidnapping is generally an easy crime, and he wonders why the kidnapper should choose to make it harder by sending the Waverlys a warning.

At dinner that night, Poirot is pontificating on about how all crimes are fascinating because they all hinge on the character of the participants.  Ada Waverly is clearly distressed and points out that's it's a little difficult to participate in small talk when her son might be kidnapped the next day.  Yeah, I'm kind of with her on that one.  Poirot's smart, but he can be a pompous little shit when he puts his mind to it.  Young Johnnie Waverly comes in to say goodnight to everyone and shows Hastings his toy car.

Hastings: I say, that's rather fine.

Just so you know, Hastings has been going on all episode about his car and some race he intends to enter.  I haven't mentioned it because it's to do with Hastings and therefore boring.

Poirot: You see, Hastings, a fellow enthusiast.

Personally, I think Hastings is just glad to have found someone of a similar maturity level.

Thankfully, for those of us who are not child enthusiasts, young Johnnie quickly leaves.  Naturally, his mother breaks down and Poirot reassures her that when the time for the kidnapping comes, Johnnie will be surrounded by people looking out for his safety.

Yeah, I'll take the odds on that one.

In the middle of the night, Poirot hears noise and upon going into the hall to investigate, discovers that Mrs. Waverly has been taken ill.  Well, that's one less person who'll be watching over Johnnie on the morrow.

The next morning, Poirot joins Hastings for the buffet-style English breakfast.  Unfortunately, Poirot finds the offerings a bit lacking.  Hastings agrees and points out that dinner the night before wasn't much to write home about and the fire wasn't lit in his room.  He wonders if the Waverlys might not be having financial difficulties.  Huh, Hastings is making reasonable deductions.  Things are serious.

Waverly joins them, after yelling at his staff for a bit.  It turns out that he's received another letter and this one he found pinned to his pillow.

Pinned.  To.  His.  Pillow.

sigh

Are we--the viewers--seriously not supposed to have figured it out by now?

Anyway, now that we totally know who's responsible for the letters, Poirot takes a look at this most recent one.  It's to the point, containing only three words: At twelve o'clock.

Waverly asserts that the villain must be among his staff.  And so he's going to fire them.  All of them.  Unless one of them owns up.

Say it with me everyone:  ASS.  HOLE.

Even Poirot and Hastings look a little bit shocked at this action.

Actually, Waverly isn't quite going to fire everybody.  He figures the butler and his wife's secretary are both above reproach and can stay.

double sigh

Look, dude, if you're going to be a total asshole, at least commit to it.  Firing your entire staff on suspicion alone only works if you fire the entire staff.  Everyone knows that if you let one person stay because of loyalty or affection or what have you, that person will inevitably turn out to be the culprit.  And you're letting two people stay.  It's almost like you want your son to be kidnapped.  Or you're looking for an excuse to fire your staff.  Or, you know, both.

Poirot tries to get Waverly to reconsider, pointing out that the emptier the house is, the easier it will be for the kidnapper to grab the boy.  Waverly, of course, having hired Poirot to keep his son from being kidnapped, doesn't bother to listen to a word the detective has to say. 

Oh, that pain you're feeling?  That's the episode whacking you over the head with the solution.

Stepping outside, Poirot and Hastings witness a most surprising sight: a police vehicle pulling up to the house.  It's Japp with an absolute bevy of uniformed police officers.  Poirot expresses his surprise at Japp's change of heart.

Japp: I don't want to see some poor amateur get himself in a fix.

SHUT THE FUCK UP, JAPP!

Seriously, don't mouth off to your intellectual betters.

We then cut to Waverly laying into his staff, a scene I rather wish they had spared us.  You know, I'm REALLY starting to hate this guy.  We do at least get to see one of the servants--Johnnie's nurse, I think--take umbrage at this shoddy treatment, but in the end, it's for naught as Waverly dismisses her and puts Johnnie's care into the hands of his wife's secretary, a Miss Collins.  (I'm sure that's what she thought she was signing up for when she took the position of secretary.) 

At this point, Japp comes in and offers to station officers around the house.  And he is way too obsequious for my liking.  I rather wonder if his superior did have a discussion with him.

Meanwhile, Poirot and Hastings have taken off in Hastings' car.  Poirot urges Hastings to go slowly and Hastings promises not to go over 80 mph.  They go to see the chap who was doing the renovations to the Waverly's house...and will be doing them again or so Mr. Waverly keeps claiming.  Unfortunately, as the builder reveals, it's Waverly's wife who has the money and she apparently doesn't give a rat's ass about the house.  That's rather odd when you think about it, seeing as she has to live there and, more importantly, so does her son.  Half finished renovations can be a hazard to small children...as my family could unfortunately testify.

As the police disperse themselves around Waverly manor, Poirot and Hastings stop for breakfast.  Complete with a couple of pints.

Poirot: Beer?  For breakfast?

Yeah, even my family usually manages to wait until lunch. 

The next thing we see is Poirot and Hastings driving back, just a  little too....shall we say...happy?  Put it this way, they're singing a song that makes "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" sound intellectual and Hastings is all over the road.  Then again, this is Hastings.  Anyway, I was expecting them to crash into something, but instead the car just...stops.  In the middle of the road.

Back at Waverly Manor, Waverly and Japp are discussing where to post guards.  Japp gives his opinion that when it comes to the rough stuff, Hastings is more likely to be of use than Poirot.  Well, duh, why do you think Poirot keeps Hastings around?  It's certainly not for the stimulating conversation!

Back on the road, Hastings is examining the car's engine and gives his opinion that someone must have tampered with it to keep him and Poirot away.  That was my theory too, but Poirot doesn't see how anyone could have known they were going to use the car.  Well, it damn well better have been tampered with, because otherwise it's just a coincidence and that's lazy writing.

We then switch back to Waverly Manor.  (You know, this switching back and forth between the two locations may work well from a storystelling perspective, but it's a bitch and a half to recap!)  The clock on the wall shows that it's about twenty to twelve and Johnnie's hanging out with his mom, who's still in bed, but looking much better.  Miss Collins is sitting in the room with them.  Mr. Waverly comes in to take Johnnie downstairs.  Mrs. Waverly wants to know why he can't stay with her.  Yeah, no kidding.  It seems to me that'd be the safest place for him.  It'd be a mite difficult for the kidnapper to grab the kid right out of his mother's lap.  But Waverly claims that Johnnie will be happier with him and that Miss Collins can stay with Mrs. Waverly.

*whack*  *whack*  *whack*

Back on the road, Hastings is still trying to figure out what's wrong with the car and Poirot is bitching at him for taking too long.  YOU'RE NOT FUCKING HELPING, POIROT!

Poirot starts walking back to Waverly Manor (and his boots are most definitely NOT made for walking) where the clock shows that it's quarter to twelve and people are starting to wonder where he is.

Twelve o'clock comes with Poirot still not back and Johnnie under the watchful eye of his father and Japp.  The clock chimes...and there's a commotion outside.  Turns out that the zillion and one police officers stationed outside the house have caught someone trying to sneak onto the grounds.  Japp and Mr. Waverly run out.  The culprit is a somewhat raggedy looking man carrying a sack containing chlorophorm, a cotton pad and yet another ransom note.  That note states that Waverly should have paid and now it will cost him 70 000 pounds to get back his son who has--as promised--been abducted at twelve o'clock.  The man in question claims not to know anything about anything; he says a man he met on the road gave him the bag to deliver to Waverly manor.

Just as Waverly is about to lay into him, a car honks behind him and the group turns to see young Johnnie Waverly in the backseat of a car as it goes driving off.  Just then, the clock on a nearby building chimes noon and Japp takes out his pocket watch to see that it is indeed just now twelve o'clock.  Everyone goes running inside--why I don't know since they just saw Johnnie being driven off, you'd think it would make more sense to jump in their cars and chase after him--and sure enough the room that Japp and Waverly just left is empty, Johnnie's toy car is abandoned on the floor and the clock says it's ten after twelve.

Sometime later, we see Poirot sitting and soaking his feet, which apparently are causing him agony.  The kidnapping, he terms "pleasing" and "charming."

Poirot: Someone fools us all simply by putting the clock ahead ten minutes.

Yeah, it doesn't take much, does it.

Mrs. Waverly is not impressed and starts blathering on about her son having been kidnapped, but Poirot assures her that her son will be safe as the kidnappers would not dare harm the source of their income.

Yeah, Poirot, I'll remember that when we get to Murder on the Orient Express.

Japp comes in to update them on his progress, which is, needless to say, none.  The guy they caught on the grounds is sticking to his story.  Poirot decides that he should talk to him.  On the way downstairs, they run into Hastings, who's figured out what made the car stop: it was out of gas.  sigh  Oh, Hastings!  In all fairness to Hastings, the fuel gauge was stuck at full, making it a little more difficult to tell.

Anyway, the ruffian repeats his story: some geezer (his word) stopped him on the road and paid him to deliver the bag to Waverly manor at precisely ten to twelve.  When asked to describe the guy, the ruffian says he was not tall, had a mustache, wore a grey uniform and had a queer voice.  Apparently, he resembled the butler enough to be his son.  Japp, however, alibis the butler, saying he was with Waverly all day and doesn't have a son.

Poirot seems to believe the ruffian, but Japp decides to arrest him anyway (the ruffian, that is, not Poirot) on a charge of vagrancy.  Because in this episode he's being an officious asshole.  He's also decided to return to London, which is where he's convinced the boy will be found.

So at least we can rule out one city.

Poirot interviews Tredwell, the butler, who it turns out has been working in the house for thirty years.  He has a high opinion of Mr. Waverly, but clearly is not overly fond of Mrs. Waverly, who may be wealthy but apparently was not to the manor born if you get my drift.  And, yes, some servants were every bit as snobby as their employers.

Meanwhile, Hastings is interviewing Miss Collins, asking her about Johnnie's recently fired nurse.  It turns out that she'd only been there six months, but seemed perfectly trustworthy.  And, anyway, she'd been sent packing by the time the kidnapping occurred.

Poirot interrupts and he and Hastings compare notes.  Poirot considers the matter to be fairly clear, but there is one thing that he does not understand.  (One thing!?)  He can't figure out how the kidnapper escaped the house with Johnnie, since no matter what exit they used, they would have run into someone.  Fortunately, Mrs. Waverly overhears and provides the answer: the tunnel!  What tunnel, you ask?  Well, it turns out that Waverly manner is old enough to have a priest hole.  It's accessed through the library and comes out at a mausoleum a half mile away.  Not too many people know about it, but enough do that you would think the Waverlys would have MENTIONED THIS TO THE POLICE!!!  I mean, when your son is being threatened with kidnapping, you'd think you might want to inform the police that your house has a secret passageway!

Hastings and Poirot grap a couple of "torches" and head off into the tunnel.  And I swear, for a moment, I feel like I'm watching an episode of Scooby Doo.  The tunnel is dank and dark, but traversable enough and it comes out at a spot where it would be easy as pie to park a car and thus take off with the child, hitting the horn when they pass by the house.

Poirot:  It is a farce!  Nothing more!

Yeah, dude, that's what I've been saying! 

Poirot reminds Hastings of the bleeding obvious: that there had to have been an accomplice inside the house.  Someone to poison Mrs. Waverly...

Hastings:  Poison!?

SHUT THE FUCK UP, HASTINGS! 

Seriously, I've met kindergarteners who were less naive.
 
Anyway, as I was saying, someone in the house had to poison Mrs. Waverly, pin the note to Mr. Waverly's pillow and set the clock ahead ten minutes.  At the time of the kidnapping, there were only four people (other than Japp who I guess is too dumb to be considered a suspect) in the house: Mrs. Waverly and Miss Collins, who alibi each other, and Mr. Waverly and Tredwell, who also alibi each other.   Hmmm, I'm sensing a conspiracy afoot.

Back at the house, Poirot announces--and I'd say he speaks for all of us--that he is done with this case and taking the train back to London.  Hastings, of course, offers to drive him, but...well, you can imagine Poirot's reaction.

Waverly comes in and when Poirot tells him he is leaving, starts to bluster about how Poirot hasn't done anything.  Poirot tells him that he has done everything and will give him the address where he can find his son.  He hands him a sheet of paper.

Waverly: It's a blank sheet.  
Poirot: Because I am waiting for you to write it down.

Like I said, obvious.

Poirot then orders Waverly to take them to the boy or he will tell Mrs. Waverly what's been going on.

Um...shouldn't you do that anyway?  Her husband poisoned her--granted, he wasn't trying to hurt her, just get her out of the way for a while--and kidnapped her son.  He put her through both physical and mental torment and, personally, I think she has a right to know!  The guy's an ass and if ths was today, she could divorce him and take him for everything he's worth.  Okay, he's not actually worth anything, which is kind of the whole point, but she could take that stupid house and raze it to the ground.  Back in the thirties, I'm not sure exactly what she would be able to do, but at the very least she should be given the opportunity to do something, not remain blissfully ignorant of the kind of man she married.

On the way to get Johnnie, Waverly assures Poirot that he is fine and being well taken care of, which Poirot believes.  Yeah, but that's not the point!  Well, okay, it's a little bit the point.  But to my mind, the victim of this affair isn't Johnnie, but Ada Waverly. 

They arrive at a little house, where they find Johnnie with his nurse, you know, the one who so vociferously protested her firing.  She's wearing the grey uniform that the ruffian described.  It turns out that she is Tredwell's niece, so I guess it's safe to assume that Tredwell was in on the whole thing.   As was mentioned on The Tudors, some people turn loyalty into a vice.

Poirot tells Waverly, that he does not believe he is really a bad father and so he is giving him a second chance.

OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP, POIROT!

First of all, yes he is a bad father since he just used his son as a pawn to extort money from his wife.  And, more to the point, he's a bad husband.  And, while we're on the subject, what about all those poor servants who just got fired for no reason?  The most charitable explanation is that Waverly could no longer afford to employ them and so this was a face-saving way of getting rid of his staff without having to admit his financial situation.  But, if this is the case, it is never explicitly stated.  I seem to be the only person who gives a crap about the fate of these servants and, as Tristam Shandy would say, I haven't even been born yet!

In all fairness, Poirot does read Waverly the riot act about being so obsessed with appearances that he couldn't tolerate his wife stopping renovations on the house.  He also points out that being married to a rich woman is not the same as being rich.  Ha!  No shit, Sherlock.  As the saying goes, people who marry for money end up earning every penny.  Poirot also tells Waverly that he has an old and honoured name that he should not jeopardize.  Ah, the good old Christie class bias rears its head.  So, if Waverly was just some joe-bloe schmuck, it would be okay to expose him?  Fuck off, Poirot.

Finally, Poirot informs Waverly that he will be sending him his bill.  Which brings up the question: what the fuck was Waverly doing involving Poirot in this whole thing?  Did he want to be caught.  Oh wait, Poirot's a foreigner; a guy like Waverly probably just assumed he'd be useless.  And I guess he kind of is, since he's letting Waverly get away with the whole thing.  Geez, this is the second episode in a row where the criminal has been let off scott free because...well, just because.  At least Japp isn't involved this time.  In fact, I bet he'd be quite happy to throw Waverly into a cell after all that I pay your taxes, I'm going to talk to your superiors crap. 

Hastings then drives Poirot to the train station where he asks him to let him in on the secret of how he figured the whole thing out.

Poirot: It was obvious.

Yes.  Yes, it was.

Hastings tries to persuade Poirot to let him drive him back to London.

Poirot: Hastings, the train has one advantage over the car: it does not often run out of coal.

Nice one Poirot.  BTW, I should probably mention that we never got an explanation for Hasting's faulty fuel gauge.  There's no indication that Waverly or Tredwell tampered with it.  So, we're back to the lazy writing explanation.

Bad morals, obvious villain, lazy writing....To paraphrase Bart Simpson: I didn't think it was possible, but this episode both sucks and blows.