All language subtitles for Monsieur.Spade.S01E06.720p.WEBRip.x264-GalaxyTV.srt - eng(2)

Little bitch.

Look at her.

Can I bum one of those?

I put it on your tab.

You okay?

Never better.

Knock it off.

I'm already in a foul mood.
Let's not make it any worse.

Where's the guy who
belongs to the motorcycle?

What motorcycle?

That motorcycle,
and the guy who rode in here.

What guy?

You think
I'm fucking playing?

Another idiot with a gun.

Good morning, Henri.

How about you put
the shooter away

before you shoot someone
in the street behind me?

I'm sorry, Monsieur Spade,
I didn't know you were you.

You thought I was a robber
come to steal these old tires?

It's hard to see in the dark
with the helmet on.

Oh, Jesus.

I didn't think there could
be a worse liar than Teresa.

Get over here!

Someone took a shot
at Teresa and me,

the same someone who's
been following me

on a Norton Commander ever
since Philippe showed up.

- Listen--
- Don't embarrass yourself.

I knew that Anatole was
into something stupid

when I first came here
and saw the motorcycle.

There are many things you don't
know about me, Monsieur Spade.

Oh, yeah, you're
a real man of mystery.

So what, you're using
Teresa to get to Philippe?

I was trying to warn you off.

I know how much you care
about your tranquility.

Well, I care about Teresa.

You care so much about her
that you took a shot at her?

I didn't shoot at Teresa,
I shot through the window,

which I know
could be fixed.

We discussed it beforehand,
and we decided that--

Oh!

I'm talking to him
right now.

- And if you missed?
- I never miss.

Oh, you have that much
experience, do you?

I do.

Enough to kill
someone like Philippe?

My superiors
believe I do.

And we all know what good
judges of character they are.

However good a shot
you think you are,

you could have killed Teresa,
and trust me,

I don't think you could
have lived with that.

You don't know what
I can live with.

No, what I meant, Henri,

is that I would've
fucking killed you.

I'm not what you think I am,
Monsieur Spade.

You're exactly what
I think you are.

You're a sap who's been sucked
into Anatole's OAS bullshit.

I'm not OAS,
I'm Action Française.

Oh, Jesus, how many
fuckin' dogmatic maniacs

can you have
in one country?

Are we maniacs because we simply
dream of another France,

of the country we loved?

Versus what,
the one you wanna blow up?

Well, I can see that
the France in front of us

is nowhere near
the glorious France behind us.

And just how far back

are you and your fellow
romantics dreaming?

We are monarchist
- and anti-Communist.
- Ugh.

I love my country.
I would die for my country.

Do you have to do all of your
loving and dying in Bozouls?

Aren't there are plenty of your
fellow patriots in Argentina

that you can write
angry manifestos

and compare
kill lists with?

Leave me to enjoy my cognac
and foul cheese in peace?

You are not French.

You're just an American enjoying
the fruit of French sacrifice,

but without any
understanding of our history.

You make your
smart-ass comments

and tell your stupid jokes
about France and French people,

ignorant of all those who fought
and died for their country.

You don't fight for
anything but yourself.

You sound like a leaflet someone
dropped from an airplane.

I mean, you may
not have noticed,

but I do nothing but fight

for the people in this,
our place,

and all the people who
live around Le Truel,

including you two
ignorant dimwits.

And, yeah,
I have a swell life.

Or at least I did
until you all fucked it up.

I can't even go for a swim
in my pool anymore.

Yeah, it is
a fucking tragedy.

Does your grandmother know
about your new affiliation?

Didn't think so.

Are you going to
tell her?

You wanna break her heart,
that's on you.

Oh, and Henri,

for the love of God,
stop trying to protect us

before you
get us all killed.

What's wrong with you?

You've got that
tigress-at-the-gate look.

Who is he?

Mr. Kahn?

Monsieur Spade, I bring
greetings from a mutual friend,

Detective Dundee.

I heard Dundee was dead.

A rumor, one no doubt
started by Mrs. Dundee.

- You and he met in the war?
- What makes you say that?

Dundee fought
in North Africa.

I was 12
and living in Syria.

No, the detective and I met
on a different matter.

You want to sit down?

Lovely instrument.

My wife thought so.

I never had the ear.

I had the appreciation,
but not the talent.

Not for music, anyway.

For what, then?

Ah, finding things that
don't want to be found.

I don't read Arabic.

I'm a private investigator,

something else
we have in common.

Had.
Who's paying you?

I cannot divulge
the name of my employer,

but I can say that my specialty
is industrial sabotage.

Should I worry
about my grapes?

This work has brought me
into close contact

with some of the richest, most
powerful people in the world.

And let me guess, the rich
and the powerful want the kid.

I'm in Bozouls to find Zayd
and bring the boy to safety

while punishing those who have
taken him from his family.

Get in line.

A plan is,
as they say, afoot.

Do you understand?

I understand that
the child is valuable.

And dangerous.

A very sharp knife that only
those skilled in such things

will know how to use.

A knife will cut
for anybody.

All more reason that
no one person, country,

or organization
should have him.

But you just said you're
cuddling up to these people.

Quality of my bedfellows
is not relevant

if I retrieve the boy.

Happily, I'm ahead
of all of them.

I know where he's--

If I cared, I'd applaud.

Well, to tell the truth,
I knew where he was.

Do you know where the word
sabotage comes from?

The dictionary.

The word derives
from the French saboter,

meaning to bungle,
or botch, to wreck.

It originated when workers
would go on strike,

something of
a national pastime here.

They would use
a wooden shoe they wore,

called sabot,
to disrupt the machinery.

And this relates to me how?

You are, in this case,
the sabot.

And what machinery
am I disrupting?

The machinery that
will enable me

to bring Philippe
and his terrorist concubine

into custody,
yet keep the boy alive.

So far, the boy seems pretty
good at taking care of himself.

Yes, one could even say that
someone is watching over him.

Lady Luck.

Not much of a believer,
are you, Monsieur Spade?

A risk I'm willing to take.

Well, it was neither luck,
nor God,

nor even instinct that saved
your life the other night.

It was me.

Too bad you couldn't have
done the same for Jean-Pierre.

Sadly, he too
had wooden shoes.

I observed him entering the
same harkey home as the imam.

If you think Jean-Pierre

is part of some
subversive conspiracy,

you owe your employers
a refund.

I think Sergeant Devereux
went up those stairs

to make amends.

I think he made them
on the way down.

I had hoped
Sergeant Devereux

would exercise
some restraint.

Restraint was never
Jean-Pierre's brand of gin,

nor mine.

I'm assuming that's why we're
having this conversation.

As I have just said, I'm part
of coordinated effort to,

in the very near future, bring
all of this to a quick end.

I'm not your problem.

I'm not worried about you.

Chief Michaud has been somewhat
reluctant to cooperate.

He's only reluctant
when people lie to him.

The church feeding him a story
that they're looking into it,

a suit from army intelligence
posing as a cop from Paris,

that kind of thing.

- And the girl.
- What about her?

She tells the truth?

Not on purpose.

Might she be
a possible sabot?

More like
a fly in the ointment.

Are you sure?
Because until this boy is found

and safely returned,
we are on the edge of an abyss,

one far more precarious
than the truth.

I have a parachute.

And I see, a wise crack
for every occasion.

I will then handle
this on my own.

I will, likewise,
see myself out.

- Voila.
- Voila what?

Notice
anything different?

You filled the pool?

You really are something.

Well, give me a hint.
What's different?

Everything. The chair,
the pillow, the umbrella.

Try it.

The pool was always
too far from the house,

so no one ever
took advantage,

but I think it will
be good for you.

Ah, I'm not
much of a swimmer.

That was the old you.

And now
I'm the older me.

There's only one.

You stay up
at the house all day.

It's a beautiful house.

Sometimes you sit
outside on the patio,

but you never wander.

Why would I
wander down here

when everything I want
is up there?

I want you to know
the whole place.

Not just the house,
but the land.

The only way down here is past
the cellars in the vineyard.

You're bound to meet Basem,
or the other workmen

who you have not yet
bothered to know.

I don't need
to know them.

They can teach you
what we do.

Why do I need to know
about making wine?

I don't even
drink the stuff.

Although I'm told the la vin
claret is pretty good.

God, that name.

I've wanted to change
that awful name since--

well, maybe you can
come up with something.

Where was I?

Wine,
which is your business.

Making you happy is mine.

And you've done
your job well.

These have been the happiest
four years of my life.

I hope you will stay.

I hadn't planned
on going anywhere.

You're the one leaving.

I told you once
that if we married,

I would not be
much of a wife.

Well, you lied.

I think
we're at the end.

Like hell we are.

Could be six months,
could be three,

but Pouchol says
there's nothing to be done.

Pouchol is
a country doctor,

which is barely a half step
above town barber.

I'm giving you everything.

The grapes, the money,
the house.

Everything I own
is now yours.
Gabrielle.

I will not let you
watch me die.

I'm taking you to
someone in Paris.

I don't want
to go to Paris.

No, I've been reading about some
new treatments we can try.

No, I've tried them,

and I don't want this
to be a thing that we do.

This is about me, just me.

What, so the whole "in sickness
and in health" thing

just goes out the window?

You once told me
that a life

is an easy thing
to walk away from.

Yeah, that's just one of
those fucking stories I tell.

When are you leaving?

If I tell you, you'll
only try to stop me.

Oh, that's adorable.
So why say anything at all?

Why not just go?

You considered that?

Jesus, you are
one tough broad.

Sam... I need you
to let me go.

To wander off
like an old dog?

To die as I please,

with both our memories
of these last years

undiminished by some long,
drawn-out end.

You would rather be alone?

For this next part, yes.

Do I get a goodbye?

That would be awful, no?

So how--
how does this work?

I wake up one day
and you're gone?

Next time I see you
is at your funeral?

Look at me, Sam.

Whenever you want
to see me...

...come down here.

I'll be waiting
for you.

Are you going to
stand there moping,

or are you going to
get in here?

Did you know that
Teresa was doing this?

Altering
Gabrielle's clothes?

You could have asked.

Why does everyone
always think they know

what Gabrielle
would've wanted?

Well, she's not
having this.

Helena?

Are you worried about him?

I could hear you coming
halfway across the city.

You are not the first
to say that.

I have a present for you.

Oh, cold hands.

Warm heart.

He has two tickets
for tomorrow's train.

For me and you
to Barcelona.

First class, I hope.

From there, we go
by car to the harbor

where someone with
a boat takes us...

Mm-hmm.

...takes us... Takes you where?

Somewhere.

I do hope you won't
get too lonely,

sitting all that time
beside an empty seat.

Oh, no, he'll have his broken
heart to keep him company.

But not his money.

You're sure
he's in the dark?

I have invested
much to make sure

the dark is his
favorite place to be.

Why am I such
a personal sacrifice?

And you?

The lady has no suspicion?

None. Between all
the butter and the wine,

she's barely awake
most days.

Soon we'll be doing this
in the daylight.

On the beach.

On a towel, I hope.

I only have 10 minutes.

Well, I only need five.

Oh.

All this time, I thought you
bent more for the blokes.

Maurice?

Maurice?

Maurice?

Maurice!

No.

Shh!

Mm.

Aah!

Aah!

No! Zayd!

Run! Run! Run!

Let's go! Help!

Theresa?

Do something!

I see him.

Aah!

Zayd?

Zayd?

I would appreciate it

if you all would
put those guns down.

Now, please.

My grandfather died of
a cerebral hemorrhage

when he was 59.

His last words to my grandmother
were, "Ruth, I have a headache."

My grandmother's
last words to him...

...were, "Who the hell is Ruth?"
her name being Betty.

So, indeed, who was Ruth?

Some buried secret?

Or some buried nonsense?

That is my job,

to sort the secrets
from the nonsense.

I promise you, if you carry
a secret in my presence,

you won't carry it for long.

Do not fool yourselves,
you cannot lie to me.

You cannot hide
anything from me.

So...

let's just agree
to share then, okay?

Good.

Let's begin.

Sorry I'm late, everybody.

But getting to this town's
a pain in the ass.

- More pain to come, Father.
- Great.

- Have a seat.
- I'm good.

Okay.

My name is Virginia Dell,

and I am a retired
lieutenant colonel

in the Canadian Special
Operations Forces Command

and current
Under Secretary General

of the United Nations Counsel

on Peacetime
Conflict Resolution.

Excuse me, what?

Exactly.

While none of you know who I am,

I am relatively confident
you know perfectly well

why you are all sitting here.

What do we do with this child?

We?

If I may, why the nob
should we tell you anything?

We were off to such
a promising start.

MI6 has clear
authority here.

What is so clear about it?

We've been following
the boy for over two years.

Your Ladyship, you ply
a trade that operates

on a veritable potpourri
of doctrines, tenants,

codes, chief among them
being finders keepers.

The fact of the matter is
no one in this room

has a legitimate claim
on the boy.

So tell me why I should
leave him with you.

Or you, or you, or...

Make your case why I
shouldn't send this child

back to the land of his birth.

He's a British citizen,
and he has a British passport.

I have one of those, too.

French and German as well.

I even have one
for San Marino.

Ah, yes, but you
weren't born in Leeds.

Neither was he.

He spent two months there
with his family

when he was already
three years old.

He was born in Algeria.

And you, sir, are?

Laurent Sou'che,
French Army Intelligence.

The child
was born in Algeria,

which makes him
a French citizen.

Or an Algerian, depending
on your point of view.

He was technically
born in France.

One would have to
practically break one's spine

to get into that
particular position.

You have my respect, sir.

At the request of his family,
we saved the child

from the Algerian
traffickers who held him.

I think, Monsieur Sou'che,

that your English is not
quite what you think it is,

and by "save,"
you mean "steal."

The OAS stole him
from his parents.

Oh, about the boy's parents,
where are they?

His father is in jail.

- You care to elaborate?
- For treason.

Oof!
The queen mother of no-nos.

I should like to have
a chat with that man

before you put him down.

I'm afraid that
is now impossible.

Now, as in he's
already been executed?

Or now, meaning you no longer
have him in your custody?

The second one.

Barring some type of

daring Count of Monte Cristo
escape,

am I to assume that
an exchange of some sort

led to this man's freedom?

He alerted us to the boy's
exact location in Algeria.

We sent a man. He confirmed that
the boy was in imminent danger,

so we gave the order
to extract him.

To reunite him
with his parents.

Because he can
break codes.

To keep him safe
from harm.

And what better way to
keep a small child safe

than with an Army sniper?

Oh, we didn't send
Sergeant Saint-Andre

to Algeria
to look after the boy.

We sent him to Algeria
to assassinate

a high-ranking
FLN operative.

But he became distracted.

I assume you are referring
to the FLN operative

who earlier made that
magnificent leap off the bridge

and is currently
somewhere at large

in the French countryside.

Well done.

Sorry.

I was just thinking
about something funny

that I saw one time,
during the war.

Funny, like what,
Sergeant?

Someone getting hit
in the face with a shovel?

Oh, [chuckles] nothing
that funny.

I have to say, I never would
have taken you for a neif.

Your Mister Kahn
was a cover.

Lousy pun of a name,
if you ask me.

Cover for who?

Well, seeing that Mr. Sou'che
was hiding in the backseat,

I would guess that your
soon-to-be ex-superiors at SDECE

are part of the bargain.

- And the other part?
- Those facts are still murky.

But I wonder,

how did the good Father get
here on such short notice?

Is there an airfield nearby
that I somehow missed?

That's quite
the imagination you have.

In our line of work,
imagination and experience

are one in the same,
wouldn't you say?

I'm not in your line of work,
so I couldn't say.

Yes, you could.

No, I have no idea what
you're trying to allude to.

Tell me, Father,
on Career Day at the seminary,

did the agency
have their own table

with the lemonade
and the plate of cookies?

Let's move on to
the bald Vatican errand boy

who shot five nuns
and an Algerian nanny...

The Church resents
such accusations--

...before kidnapping
a 14-year-old girl!

- 17.
- My mistake.

Tell me, Father,

maybe you can shed some light
on exactly what Rome was doing

with Gaylord Rabideaux,
one-time monk,

full-time mental patient.

The Church bears
no responsibility

for anything that's
happened here.

Oh you must have that
tattooed

to the inside
of your eyelids.

I don't have to
listen to this.

No, you don't. You can read
the details later in Le Monde,

"Church Kills Nuns"--
it's a headline

that'll translate across
a multitude of tongues.

You put that maniac
cueball on the street,

and as far as
the U.N., Interpol,

and a few other honest
engines are concerned,

whatever happens after that,
you own it.

And which one are you, huh?

What, are you Interpol?

U.S. Army intel?

You can go now,
Setchen Chi.

I mean Father.

I'll bet the latter.

Yeah, hats off
to the director at CIA

for getting a man
inside the Vatican.

You're a bitch.

You're free to go, too.

I was always free to go.

But not to return.

Go spy on some other
quaint little village.

It's not that quaint.

Where do you think
you're going?

I'm leaving with them.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Lady Cynthia, off you go.

I assure you, this matter
is very far from over.

The queen has my number.

Madam, would the two of you
give us some privacy?

And finally, Mr. Spade.

You have
an interesting accent.

What part of Canada
are you from exactly?

The South.

I'm guessing somewhere
below Niagara Falls.

I would think a man
of your experience

would not have gotten within
100 miles of such a rat fuck.

Not to mention, turning the
whole affair into such a mess.

Philippe made the mess.
I just tried to clean it up.

You pick up vomit
with a teaspoon,

you make a bigger mess.

What a swell metaphor.

I read a lot of
E.E. Cummings.

A small constabulary on
the ass end of a giant hole

is no match for
the big guns elsewhere.

One phone call
to anyone heavier

would have ended the whole
thing before it got this far.

A call to who, you?

I don't know who you are
or who you work for,

and we both know
you're about as Canadian

as sweet potato pie.

And you're not here
saving this kid

out of a sudden
spasm of altruism.

No one wants
another war, Spade.

In Algeria
or anywhere else.

Oh, so you're just snatching him
in the name of world peace.

If that helps you,
but then,

I can't imagine that a man
of your particular origins

is all that upset
about body count.

I suppose I've just
never understood

that whole thing about
diplomacy at the end of a rifle.

You're really gonna
sit there and tell me

that you have never
had to be your worst

in order to do your best?

I make decisions,
and I live by them,

for better or for worse.

One doesn't
go to bed one person

and wake up another
just because one says so.

You mean people are
simpler than they think?

I had no idea.

I mean people know
what they want.

The rest is justification.

Take you, for example--
you wanna be left alone.

You live in a quiet,
little village

where the locals know
just enough about you

to leave you be.

You've read my mail.

And yet, sadly,
our pasts are portable.

And you find yourself
continually drawn in

to the lonely, troubled,
and the confused.

Otherwise known as
the entire human race.

But I'm not drawn
to anybody.

I'm just dubious
about everybody.

Common ground, at last.

- Henri Thibaut.
- What about him?

He's OAS and he killed
a fellow French soldier.

Note the body
in your pool.

Henri might have shot him,

but it was the Brit
that killed him,

wherever the hell he is.

Oh, you deduced this, how?

From the 303 slug that went
through the soldier's head

and into my dogwood.

My condolences
on your tree.

I'm sending the bill
to MI6.

Still, I would have turned
him in to the French Army,

but that Sou'che was
such a pompous prick.

- Will I regret that?
- Leave Henri alone.

If he is at all
abetting those people

and taking another
shot at De Gaulle--

He's just
going through a phase.

A phase?
Like acne?

He's a passionate kid that
watched the fight come home.

He's just on the make
for a sense of purpose.

Well, get him a dog
or get him laid,

so he can find a new one.

- I have a long flight back.
- Back to where?

You might be
interested to know,

your old office in San Francisco
has a new occupant.

You checked out
my old office.

Boy, you Canadians
are thorough.

It's a talent agent
named Eddie Solomon.

His clientele are all
female impersonators.

What happened to
the ventriloquist?

Hung himself.

Anyway, word has it

Eddie's doing
rather well for himself.

He's leased
the entire floor.

The Hunter-Doolin Building

was never that expensive
to begin with.

I'm just saying...

Geez.
- What?

That's the worst fuckin' French
I ever heard.

How's George?

Retired.

Oh, and his name's
not George.

- No?
- No, his name's Reggie.

- What's yours?
- Felicity.

Joy.

Elizabeth.

Calpernia.
Take your pick.

Well, [claps hands] now that
that's all done and dusted,

how about we go back to
our place for a little drink?

How about you
go fuck yourself

in the crumpet
with a cricket bat?

Suit yourself, but you don't
know what you're missing.

Toodle-loo, Mr. Spade.

Will they cut off
his head?

More likely they'll
lock him up in a cell,

out of sight
for a thousand years.

Nobody wants to be
reminded of their mistakes.

Hey.

You decided what you're
gonna do with the club?

I haven't thought
past tonight

and what I am going to sing.

What have you decided?

I thought I would do a set
of my favorite sad songs,

see how many customers
I can make cry.

No better way
to peddle booze

than to a bar full
of sad souls.

You know, I might stop by
and have a little cry

right along with them.

Should I hold my breath?

How would you sing?

I need to protect
my investment.

I'll wait,
but not long.

She's very pretty.

You know, Mr. Spade,
I'll be okay,

if you don't
want me around.

Do me a favor.

Call me Sam.

Where are you off to?

You mean to get drunk with all
the other biddies of Bozouls?

Do any of you even know
how to play dominoes?

What would we talk about?

Hey, Mr. Spade!

Are you coming in or not?