All language subtitles for Sleuth (1972) 1080p H.264 CD1 8GB Xtended vers (moviesbyrizzo upl)

"Here, of course, it is the same,
apparently, without rational explanation.

"But it's quite easy, when you
come to think of it logically, in fact.

"Doctor Grayson was never in London
at the time of the murder.

"In fact, the good doctor stayed
at a small hotel in Melksham

"on the night in question

"and then returned to Broughton Gifford
on the 2:40 train,

"disguised as
Sir Mortimer Turret's valet, Burton,

"making sure his arrival
was noted by the ticket inspector.

"From then on,
his plan was simplicity itself.

"Knowing it was Burton's day off,

"he had no difficulty
in entering Hellrate Hall unobserved

"and murdering Sir Mortimer
with the arrow from the astrolabe,

"which he had previously sharpened
on the stone-knife grinder

"by the scullery window.

"Remember my query
about brass knives, at the time?

"I was worried
about those metal shavings. "

"By Jove, Lord Merridew, sir.
You don't miss a trick,

"but since you appear to know so much,
sir," continued the Inspector, humbly,

"I wonder if you could explain just
how the murderer managed

"to leave the body of his victim
in the middle of the tennis court

"and effect his escape without leaving
any tracks behind him in the red dust.

"Frankly, sir, we in the police force
are just plain baffled. "

St John Lord Merridew,
the great detective, rose majestically,

his huge Father Christmas face
glowing with mischievous delight.

Slowly he brushed the crumbs
of seedy cake

from the folds
of his pendulous waistcoat.

"The police may be baffled, Inspector,"
he boomed,

"but Merridew is not. "

"Thirty years ago, the murderer,
Doctor Grayson,

"was a prominent member
of the Ballet Russe,

"dancing under the name
of Oleg Graysinski.

"Though the years had altered
his appearance somewhat,

"yet his old skill had not deserted him.

"He carried the body
to the centre of the court,

"walking on his points

"along the white tape
which separated the service boxes

"and from there
he threw it seven feet into the court,

"close to the base line,
where it was found,

"and then,
with a neatly executed fouetté,

"he faced about
and went back the way he had come,

"thus leaving no traces.

"And that, Inspector,
is Merridew's solution. "

Hello?

Are you there?

Mr Wyke?

Mr Wyke?

- Who's there?
- It's me, Milo Tindle.

I think you're expecting me.

Yes indeed, so good of you to come.
Won't you join me?

Well, I have been trying to do
exactly that for quite some time.

Here we are.

Yes, my outdoor inner sanctum.
I designed it myself.

Provides for me just that extra bit
of privacy that an author requires.

I must say
you're not an easy man to drop in on.

Just so. So, you're Milo Tindle.
I'm Andrew Wyke.

- Welcome to Cloak Manor.
- Thank you.

I found your note when I came down
from London this afternoon.

Oh, good, yes.
I hoped you'd be here this weekend,

so I pushed it through your letter box
a little earlier today.

Well, now, what will you have to drink?

- Vodka and tonic, please.
- Of course.

How are you settling in here
at Laundry Cottage?

Very well, thank you.

Using it for weekends
and that sort of thing?

Yes, that sort of thing.

Vodka,
I don't seem to have any out here. Is...

- Gin will do.
- Good.

Yes, a charming little place,
Laundry Cottage.

IdeaI for relaxations of all kinds.

Unfortunately,
I don't have time for them myself.

As a matter of fact,

I've just dictated the dénouement
of my new book,

Death by Double-Fault.

I must say it's gone extremely well.

Now then, soda, soda, soda...

Dear.

I don't seem to have
any tonic here either, it's awfuI.

- Here, shall we go indoors?
- Whatever you like.

Good.

Tell me,
do you agree that the detective story

is the normaI recreation
of noble minds?

I'm afraid I don't know
very much about noble minds.

Is it supposed to be?

I'm quoting from Philip Guedalla,
a biographer of the '30s.

The golden age
when every cabinet minister

had a thriller by his bedside
and all detectives were titled.

- Before your time, I expect.
- Somewhat. Let me carry that.

Thank you so much. Very good of you.

Yet, you know, even today,
I still set my works among the gentry

and a great many ordinary people
seem to enjoy them

in spite of our classless society.

I imagine they do a great deaI
of your stuff on television.

God forbid, I'd never permit it.
And, incidentally, it's not "stuff".

No,
television is not my line of country at all.

That's detective fact,
not detective fiction.

And therefore,
no recreation for noble minds?

You have it in a nutshell, my dear Milo,
if I may so address you.

You might as well, we're all on
first name terms these days, Andrew.

Of course we are, and you and I
do need to be friendly, do we not?

How would you like your drink?
With ice?

With ice?

Yes, please.

What does he do?

That's Jolly Jack Tar, the JoviaI Sailor.

He and I
have a really splendid relationship.

I make the jokes and he laughs at them.

Here, mein freund,
put that behind your necktie.

- He didn't laugh.
- No, he wasn't meant to.

- I thought you were trying to be funny.
- No, you'll know it when I am.

I see.

- Cheers.
- Prost.

- What's this?
- That is an intensely complicated

4th Dynasty blocking game,
called Simera.

I've been studying the thing for months,
but I'm still only a beginner.

I wonder if you'd mind putting that back.

It's taken me rather a long time
to get it there.

That's the centre column,
fourth from your right.

Well, now,
I understand you want to marry my wife.

Forgive me raising the matter,

but as Marguerite is away for a few days
in the North, visiting relatives,

I thought this might be
an appropriate moment for you and me

to have a little chat.

I see.

Well, is it true?

- Yes, with your permission, of course.
- Why not?

You seem to be a personable enough
young man, nicely spoken,

neatly dressed in brand new
country gentlemen's clothing.

I'm sure you won't mind me
asking you a few questions

about your background, parents,
and so forth.

My mother was born in Hereford,
a farmer's daughter,

and my father is an Italian, who came
to this country in the '30s from Genoa.

- In the '30s? Is he Jewish?
- No, Catholic, very devout.

Of course,
I'm not religious at all myself.

My dear boy,
you don't have to excuse yourself to me.

We're all liberals here.
I have no prejudice against Catholics.

Not even the lapsed Catholics.

In fact some of my best friends
are lapsed Catholic.

Tell me about your father,
was his name Tindle, too?

No, his name was Tindolini,

but if you had a name like that
in those days

you had to "make-a the ice-a cream-a".

He was a watchmaker
and he wanted us to become English,

- so he changed it.
- Become English?

- Was he a successfuI man?
- No, as a matter of fact, he wasn't.

You can't expect to make a living
these days just repairing watches.

He went broke in the end.
I always told him he would.

That must make him
something of a burden to you.

Yeah, it does a bit.

He never went back, you see.

He's still in Soho, still thinks
he had it good all those years.

And you, what do you do?

Don't you know?

I have a hair dressing salon
in South Kensington.

Casa Tindolini.

You can use that word these days,
can you?

People don't take it
for an ice cream salon?

No, the birds... The ladies seem to like
the continentaI touch.

- English too wholesome for them, eh?
- Yeah, well, it's not chic, you see?

We found that it pays
to provide the Latin lover atmosphere.

Of course, we lay it on a bit thicker
in the Brighton shop,

they're less sophisticated down there.

I mean to say, in London,
half of them have actually got...

Latin lovers?

And where do you live?
Above, behind or below your shop?

I lease a mews house nearby.
It's convenient and attractive.

It's Georgian, actually.

From Genoa to Georgian
in a single generation, eh?

Not bad.

But I doubt whether an 18th century
architecturaI gem in South Kensington

whispers quite the same magic
to Marguerite as it does to you.

She adores old houses.
She can't wait to live in it.

I understood she was already living in it,
once or twice a week at least.

I'm not mistaken, am I?

And that your motive
in renting the cottage down here

was to increase the incidence
of this bi-weekly coupling.

Is that what you've asked me over here
to chat about?

Never speak ill of the deadly, eh?

If I choose to say
that my wife converses like a child of six

and makes love like an extinct shellfish,
I shall.

And I don't need to ask
her lover's permission to do so either!

- Thank you for the drink.
- Oh, now, now.

I thought you were
brought up in England.

Surely you know
it's not done to be rude.

You were being rude
about a woman I'm in love with.

On the contrary,
I was reminiscing about my wife.

- It comes to the same thing.
- Things mostly do, you know.

I'll wager that in a year's time it'll be you
who'll be being rude about Marguerite

and I will be being rhapsodic,

and have quite forgotten
how intolerably tiresome,

vain, spendthrift, self-indulgent
and generally bloody crafty she really is!

Can you afford
to take her off my hands?

- Afford to?
- Support her in the style

to which she was not accustomed
before she met me, but now is?

Well, I'm not a millionaire,
but I'm not starving either.

The shop in London's doing all right,

the one in Brighton's
almost breaking even.

- By this time next year...
- This year, next year, sometime, never.

What you're really saying is
that, at present, you're skint.

- We'll survive.
- SurvivaI is scarcely the point.

Presumably,
when you're married to Marguerite,

you'll want a place on the Riviera,
a fast car, couple of mistresses.

Presumably?
Just because you need those things?

Oh, no, just this fading mansion,
the slowest Bentley in Wiltshire,

and only one mistress, I'm afraid.

Tea, the Finnish bird,
who runs the sauna in Salisbury.

You know about Tea, do you?

Marguerite and I have no secrets
from each other.

Not even mine, it seems.

Tea is a Grelian goddess.

Her golden hair smells of pine

and her cobalt eyes are
the secret forest pools of Finlandia.

I hear that she's a well-scrubbed blonde

with all the sex appeaI
of a second-hand jeep.

Not so, dear boy,
you can take it from me.

Tea is an engaging little trollop
and suits me mightily.

Mind you,
she takes a bit of keeping up with.

It's a good thing I am pretty much
of an Olympic sexuaI athlete.

Yes, I suppose these days you are
concentrating more on the sprints

than on the long distance stuff.

Not so, dear boy,
I'm in the pink of condition.

I could copulate for England
at any distance.

Red.

Well, as they say in the Olympics,

"It's not the winning,
it's the taking-part that counts. "

Are you going to marry her?

Oh, no, no, no.
I just want to live with her.

So, what's stopping you?

Basically,
the firm of Prurient and Pry Ltd,

whom you and Marguerite
have seen fit to employ.

Now, now, don't be so innocent.

Those nicotine stained
private detectives

have been camping outside Tea's flat
for the last week.

It was an insurance policy

to keep you from changing your mind
about the divorce.

How did you know
I wasn't having you watched?

Why not?
Afraid of what you might find out?

- Or didn't you think that was possible?
- Now, don't start doing a fertility dance.

Of course I knew
that they'd find you and Marguerite

rutting away like crazed weasels,

but why should I pay good money
to have something confirmed

which I'd known for months?

Black.

And, if you knew,
why didn't you do something about it?

Of course, I had to assure myself

that you and Marguerite
were going to be a fixture.

You see,
I want to lose the dear girI for life.

Not just a two week Tindolini perm,
set and touch-up.

- Good shot.
- Yes, it was. Yellow.

You see,
you don't know her as well as I do.

You think you do, but you don't.

If you faiI her, by which I mean
cancelling the account at Harrods,

or short-changing her on winter
in Jamaica,

she'll be back to me in a jiffy,
mewing for support.

And guilty wife or no,
she may be entitled to get it.

- Green.
- Money isn't everything.

And what if she is used to luxury?
Whose fault is that?

It's not a fault, if you can afford it,
but can you?

Knowing you to be hard up. Brown.

Has she shown any signs
of mending her ways

in these last idyllic three months?

Blue.

When, for instance,
did she last turn down

a Dom Perignon in favour of,
no offence, mind you,

the persuasive charms of Dago Red?

Black.

No, I'm not joking.

How much has this brief liaison
cost you, so far?

And that old dad of yours in Soho,
when did you last send him any money?

We have talked about money.
Often, I've told her we spend too much.

She takes no notice?

None.

A silvery laugh,
a coquettish turn of the head.

Something like that.

Well, it's to solve this little problem
that I've invited you around here tonight

and this, as they say,
is where the plot thickens.

What plot?

Whatever are you doing
with that cue in your hands?

- I was waiting for you to miss.
- Foolish boy.

Once upon a time, my dear Milo,

there was an Englishman
called Andrew Wyke,

who, in common
with most of his countrymen,

was virtually castrated by taxation.
To avoid totaI emasculation

his accountants advised him
to put a considerable part of his money,

some £250,000, into jewellery.

His wife, of course, was delighted.

Marguerite never told me
that you had given her any jewellery.

Nor did I, of course, it's still mine,
as well she knows.

We just thought it would be
more amusing for her to wear it

than for me to bank it.
After all, it's fully insured.

I see what you mean
by the plot thickening.

I'm glad you follow me so readily.

You see,
I want you to steaI that jewellery.

Tonight a choice, with Marguerite away,
it's an admirable opportunity.

What about the servants?

I've sent Mr and Mrs Hawkins away
to the seaside for a 48-hour paddle.

They won't be back till Sunday night,
so, you see, the house is empty.

Cheers.

Well, what do you say?

- It sounds distinctly criminaI.
- Well, of course it's criminaI.

All good moneymaking schemes
in England have to be these days.

Now, the jewellery,
when it's not in the bank,

lives in an ingeniously hidden safe
somewhere here in the study.

Where, for instance,
would you look for it?

A good likeness, would you say?
Of course, it's 17... No, 18 years ago.

I don't think
you'd hide your safe behind it.

I've seen that in too many movies.

Good thinking! All right, then where?
Are you up to finding it?

There are certain skills
best acquired in public bars, I suppose.

- But whatever made you think?
- You and your games.

That is the only game in this room.

Very clever.
Anyway, the jewels are in there.

All you have to do is steaI them,
sell them abroad,

and live happily ever after
with Marguerite.

AII I have to do is claim the insurance
and live happily ever after with Tea.

Is that what you asked me over to hear?

A grotty little plot
to defraud the insurance company?

I'm sorry you found the plot grotty.

Personally, I thought it was all
rather nicely clear and simple.

Look,
supposing I do as you say and nick...

SteaI the jewels.
If I sell them under my own name,

I'll get picked up
the moment you report the loss.

If I sell them to a fence,
always presuming I could find one,

he'd carve me up,
I'd get a fraction of their value.

- Not with the fences I know.
- What fences would you know?

The finest in Europe.
Prudent, yet prodigaI.

I first met them when I was researching

for The Deadly Affair
of the Druce Diamond.

Surely you've read it.

Pity. It was an absolute corker.

In any case, on your behalf,

I have already contacted
a certain gentleman in Amsterdam.

He'll treat you very well.

You won't get the full amount
for the jewels, of course,

but you'll get about two-thirds,
say, £170,000.

You'll get it in cash.

- A hundred and seventy thousand quid?
- Cash.

Why should this fellow pay so much?

Because he will get
what no fence ever gets,

title to the jewels.

You see,
in addition to stealing the jewels,

you have also to take the receipts
I got for them.

Now, what does
my insurance company discover

as it swings ponderously into action,
antennae pulsing with suspicion?

It discovers that someone
impersonating Andrew Wyke

sold the jewels for £170,000 cash,
but they still have to pay me.

Hard cheese!

Think it over. Take your time.

Look, I know this sounds stupid,
but have you had any experience?

I mean, have you ever
actually committed a crime before?

St John Lord Merridew
would have a pretty lean time of it

if I didn't think up any crimes
for him to solve.

St John Lord who?

- You're joking.
- What about?

Who is St John Lord Merridew?

Why, even Marguerite,
when I first met her,

knew and adored him.

He's my detective, known to millions
throughout the civilised world.

With a nose for smelling out eviI
superior to anything on the force.

Oh, yes.

The police are always stupid in
the kind of books you write, aren't they?

They never solve anything.

It's always the amateur sleuth
who knows what's going on.

But that's detective fiction.
This is fact, this is reaI.

I'm well aware of the difference,
my dear Milo,

but I'm also aware of my own
not inconsiderable capabilities.

Of course, if you doubt them
or don't trust me...

I'm not sure that I do.

That's why it's a very difficult decision
to make.

Not at all difficult, perfectly simple.

You have an expensive woman
and no money.

Yeah, but why don't you
steaI the bloody jewels

and simply hand them over to me?

I should have thought that was obvious.
The burglary has to look reaI.

This house has actually
to be broken into.

Then why don't you break into it?

It's a question of agility for one thing,
dear boy.

Milo, baby, hey, do me a favour.

Let me handle this,
you know what I mean?

Crime is my bag. I got this caper
all worked out to the last detaiI.

£170,000.

Cash, tax free.

It'd take an awfuI lot
of Tindolini's tonsoriaI teasing

to raise that kind of money.

All right, I'll do it.

- Where do you want me to break in?
- Oh, no, no. Not so fast.

- You've got to get disguised first.
- What for?

Well, suppose somebody saw you
climbing in?

Here? In the middle of nowhere?

I could hardly find this place
with a bloody map!

You never know.

A dallying couple,
a passing sheep rapist.

Besides, dear boy,
don't forget the clues we've got to leave

for the police
and the insurance company.

We don't want your footsteps
in the flower beds,

or your coat button
snagged on the window sill.

No, no, no! You must be disguised!

All right, how?

Please to follow me, number one son.

You know, my dear Milo,

in the good old days, before television,
that is,

people constructed the pleasures of life
for themselves.

They amused each other
and were in turn amused.

They didn't just sit and stare.

Why, in this house
there was scarcely a weekend

without its treasure hunts, charades,

games of infinite variety,
make up and dress up.

There was virtually no end
to the concealment of identity,

but surely Marguerite has told you.

Actually, she never mentioned it.

It was all some time ago.

A few scenes from some of my books,
lovingly recreated by an artist friend.

The necrophilic barber
of Tunbridge Wells

and the doltish pie poisoner
from the Simple Simon murders.

And here's my favourite.
Now, this really is ingenious...

Andrew, we were looking for a disguise.

Quite so, dear boy, so we were.

Now, here we are,
the old dressing up basket,

our old treasure chest of make-believe.
Let's see what we've got.

This should suit. Item, one black face
mask, one black flat cap,

a striped jersey
and a bag marked "swag".

Why not a neon sign
with "burglar" on it?

You may have a point.

One of my favourites,
the ecclesiasticaI house breaker,

Brother Lightfingers.

Perhaps we shall never know
the identity of the cowled figure

seen haunting the grounds
of the old Manor House

on the night of the terrible murder.

If living identity had happened.

There are those to this day
who claim to hear

the agonised screams of the victim

echoing through the chimney pots!

For Christ's sake, Andrew,
stop mucking about!

Haven't you just got
an old pair of sneakers, a raincoat

and a sock I can pull over my head?

Old pair of sneakers and a sock?
Milo, where's your sense of style?

We must give our crime
the true sparkle of the '30s,

a little amateur aristocratic quirkiness.

Don't you feeI the need
to give your old arch enemy,

Inspector Plodder, of the Yard,
a run for his money?

Monsieur Beaucaire. Milo, this is you.

A full-bottomed wig, lots of beauty spots

and all the snuff you could want.

Groovy!

Look,
I might even do the whole thing in drag.

Kiss me, you fooI.

I can fight it no longer, darling.

If you must go, don't look back,
Andrew...

Jesus Christ! Who's that?

So that's where you've been,
Auntie Borden, naughty girI.

- Shall we decide on the dress, then?
- No, I don't like it.

Well, you are a choosy one, aren't you?

There doesn't seem to be
a very great deaI left.

We'll just have to settle for Joey.

Joey. Now you're talking.

A clown!

Can't you see it all?

The sawdust ring, the tinseI, the glitter,
the lights!

The elephants, the high wire,
the roar of the crowds.

There is Milo Tindle,
the kiddies' delight!

- Now, this is all right.
- Off with your jacket!

That's right,
your shirt and your trousers.

What for?

We don't want the police to find
any fibres from this beautifuI frock.

You've no idea how clever they are
in those laboratories of theirs.

We won't take any risks, you and I.

That's right, down to your smalls.
Don't be shy.

I know a well brought up boy
when I see one.

Folds his trousers at night, huh?

Hey, slap shoes. Do you know
I've always wanted a pair of these?

Yes, my boy.

My father took me to the palladium
when I was a kid.

I might have caught on
in show business, you know?

You never know,
a lot of my friends did.

They got to the top. You know how?
They danced their way through.

You know, I guess vaudeville's loss
was hairdressing's gain.

- Talking of gain, are we ready?
- Yes!

Ladies and gentlemen,
your attention please.

The grand parade.

Make way for Tindolini!

The kiddies' favourite.
Crazier than Kelly, greater than Grock!

And now, ladies and gentlemen,

in the centre ring,
the king of the clowns, Milo Tindolini!

- He thinks I'm funny.
- You are funny. Turn it off!

Now then,
one glass cutter for breaking in with,

one piece of putty
for holding on to the cut piece of glass

so it doesn't clatter to the ground

and awake
the ravenous Doberman Pinscher

you suspect lurks inside
and one stethoscope.

- Stethoscope?
- Safe breakers for the use of.

The theory is you tried to pick the lock
of the safe by listening to the tumblers,

you failed and had to resort to dynamite.

- Dynamite? What for?
- Safes for the blowing open of.

But you can leave all that to me.
Now, how about a bizarre touch?

Perhaps a tear-drenched pom-pom
impaled upon a splinter of glass.

Why not take a full page ad
in The Times

and sell tickets
for the cops to come and watch?

Pom-poms.

Well, I was only trying to lighten
Inspector Plodder's day

for him, but if you don't like it...

There is no such animaI
as Inspector Plodder

outside your detective stories.

It'll probably be some sharp-eyed bloke

who knows his job
down to the last detaiI!

You can bet your bottom dollar on that!

And I can't move in this outfit!
These bloody boots are ridiculous!

But you loved them so. Do keep them
on! Can't you see the headlines?

"Wiltshire paralysed, police baffled,
where will Big Boots strike next?"

Right in the arse, that's where, mine.

All those boots will tell the police
is that a true professionaI

realising that the flower beds
would carry footprints,

decided to disguise his own.

Now, do come along.
Now, have you got everything?

Glass cutter, putty and...

- Yes, yes, yes... I've got everything.
- And the stethoscope?

Milo, you are maudlin.
You are the complete clown.

Thank you.

Very clever!

Now,
come along with me and listen carefully.

Go around the house to your left,
and cross the lawn diagonally.

In the far corner you'll find a shed,
in the shed you'll find a ladder.

Bring it back here and lean it up against
the great window in the main room,

so that you can break in
on the upper landing.

Understanding?

- Upper landing?
- Yeah.

I suppose you couldn't come and hold
the ladder steady for me, could you?

Certainly not. I don't want my footprints
in the flower beds.

- I'm not very good at heights.
- Well, don't look down.

Concentrate instead on thick bundles
of crisp pound notes,

170,000 of them in cash, tax free.

Good luck, Milo.

Don't forget your gloves.

What a way to make a living.

Did you hear a noise, puss?

And was that a footstep in the garden?

No, no. I must be mistaken.
There it is again.

What's that?

Someone outside, prowling around
the grounds. I'm certain of it.

Now, now, now.
We mustn't imagine things.

Who would harm
a kindly old spinster like me?

The front door's locked
and the windows, too.

Hey, no one could possibly
break into our snug little home.

For Christ's sake, Milo, they couldn't
have made more noise on D-day!

The bloody glass came out,
my bloody boot got stuck,

and I fell down the bloody ladder!

Well, the bloody police must've heard it
all the way to bloody Salisbury.

I'm sorry!

Somehow, I thought you'd be better
than that at climbing ladders.

- Now for the jewels.
- Not straight away.

You're not supposed to know
where they are.

You'll have to hunt about a bit first,
disturb a few things.

If you'll be good enough to follow me
Miss Rebecca...

A turnstile to the bedrooms?

One way or another,
one always pays to get in.

The mistress' bedroom,
or would you know your way about?

- The mistress or her bedroom?
- It's irrelevant.

Now, Milo, where to begin?

The bottom drawer,
the trousseau drawer, the frillies!

Take them out, vandalise them.

Come on, Milo,
you're a burglar, not a lady's maid.

Don't pat them, ravage them.

Come on, Milo.

Excellent. Now, tear that.

That's better.

Now, where would
m'lady hide the trophies

of her skilled accomplishments?

Her rubies, emeralds, diamonds,
sapphires interleaved

among her lace-edged underclothes,

stuffed into the false bottoms
of hat boxes,

sewn into the hems
of always the latest, had-to-have,

at-once-discarded Parisian dresses,

or perhaps secretly concealed
in the back of this?

What better safe deposit for deceit?

How often has it reflected
the bright eyes that betray?

The mouth that lied and kissed
and lied again!

I thought it was me who
was supposed to be doing the ravaging?

So it was. So it was.
Merely demonstrating, I was.

Be a good fellow.
Stamp on that, will you?

- Why me?
- I'm afraid if I broke it

I'd get seven more years of Marguerite.

Thank you.

- Now, where's your bedroom?
- My...

- It's my turn to demonstrate.
- My dear Milo,

having failed to find the jewels among
the lady's personaI possessions...

It'd be a bit suspicious,

a professionaI burglar
playing favourites.

No, on the contrary,
an intelligent burglar

would immediately look
for the next most likely hiding place.

- Which is where?
- The inevitable safe.

Just blow it open and steaI what's in it.

Come on, Milo.

Right.

- What kind of charge you got here?
- Enough for the job.

I learnt about explosives for
The Diary of the Dynamited Duchess.

Ready? Stand by for the countdown.

Five, a four,

a three,

a two,

a one,

a blast off.

I've got it. I've got it.

What are you shaking it for?
It's a jeweI box, not a maraca.

I thought it might have a secret catch.
It's locked, you see?

Well, smash it open.

Jesus, you have all the killer instinct
of a 20-year-old Sealyham.

It's a very pretty box,
it seemed such a waste.

- Dear God.
- Moses looks upon the Promised Land.

They're fantastic.

- Look at this ruby necklace.
- Never much cared for it myself.

Always thought it made Marguerite
look like a blood sacrifice.

I wish my old man could see these.
He never knew what it was all about.

Sitting there, every night,
hunched over those watches of his.

Squinting his eyesight away,
and for what?

To give me an education at
a second-rate public schooI.

I suppose he thought he had to.

That he owed it to me

and the brand new
Anglo-Saxon world he'd adopted.

Silly old bugger.

Never thought his son would be tucking
a fortune away into his pocket, eh?

Family reminiscence,
no matter how touching,

is something we just haven't
got time for at the moment.

Do you mind?

Now, this is the fun bit,
where the householder,

wrenched from his dreams
by the sound of the explosion,

surprises the burglar,
and in the ensuing fight,

the house is sacked.

Why is it necessary
for you to surprise me at all?

Because, if I've seen
you at close quarters,

I can always describe you
to the police, wrongly.

"Did you get a good look
at the intruder's face, sir?"

"Yes, Inspector, I did.
I don't know if it was a trick of the light,

"but somehow,
his face seemed not wholly human... "

How much sacking do you want done?

A decent bit, I think.
A few chairs upturned,

ornaments put to the sword,
that sort of thing.

You know,
convincing but not Carthaginian.

You surely don't call that convincing.

Milo.

Let the literature fly to the four winds,

let the contents of drawers
be strewn like autumn leaves.

Hey, that's my new manuscript!

Let my secretary sort it out.

- Enough?
- For a starter.

Now, let's see what accident does
to artifice, seconds out of the ring.

- What seconds? What for?
- The ensuing fight, remember?

- Hey!
- Well, you're the underdog, aren't you?

You got the support of the crowd,
haven't you? What more do you want?

- You've asked for this.
- Don't let me out.

My wife's gonna have a baby.

Now, listen, tiger, don't get all het up.

This fight is fixed, remember?
This is where I take a dive,

and you knock me out cold!

- For reaI?
- Naturally.

When the police come,
I'll have to show them a reaI lump.

Yes, I thought you'd like this bit.

You're dead right.

Now, what shall I use?

Not my opaline, if you don't mind.

There it is.
The originaI blunt instrument.

The poker.

- Right. Now, where do you want it?
- Now steady.

Now, don't get carried away.

It's not a murder weapon you
are talking about, you know?

- No?
- No.

We're discussing an object
from which I receive,

in the classic formula, a glancing blow,

which will raise a lump
without actually cracking the cranium.

Why don't I just
keep tapping you lightly on the head

with the poker, untiI a lump comes up?

Quite frankly, I've rather
gone off the whole thing.

Now, I know, you can always tie me up
and gag me and leave me

to be found by the cleaning woman.

"Lords of mercy, Mr Wyke!

"Whatever do we be doing there
all trussed up like a turkey cock?

"God bless you, sir.
You're trying out something

"for one of them creepy new books
of yours.

"I know, now don't you mind me.
I won't disturb thee.

"I'll just be getting on with me dusting. "

Andrew, if I don't knock you out,
how have I tied you up?

That's a very good question.

Come to think of it,
you could always hold a gun on me.

We professionaI burglars
don't fancy firearms much.

We are English, after all.

You could always conquer
your Anglo-Saxon scruples.

Besides, it will be my own revolver,
which you had taken from me

during the struggle.

- Is that loaded?
- Well, of course.

What would be the use of it, otherwise?

And I think it ought to go off
once or twice as we tussle,

blowing to smithereens
the usuaI priceless heirlooms.

- Why?
- To lend credence to my story

of your holding it on me,
while you gagged me and tied me up.

- All right?
- Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.

Right. Now, what to sacrifice?

What about this old codger up here?

Put that down at once!

That's my Edgar Allan Poe award,

given me by the
Mystery Writers of America

for one of Merridew's greatest triumphs,
The Slaying of Jack Sprat.

Ironically enough,
for one who would eat no fat,

he was murdered by an injection
of concentrated cholesteroI.

Now.

What do you say to the demolition
of that gaudy, old Swansea puzzle jug?

Puzzle jug?

To solve the puzzle,
pour some water out of it.

- Very funny.
- Marguerite thought it clever.

Which ought to tell you
something about Marguerite.

Let us expose its shortcomings.

Well, you might've said good shot.

You bloody maniac!
You could've killed me!

Tut. Not dead-eyed Wyke,
the demon gunman of Cloak Manor.

Now, what next?

The last tender memento
of our Venetian honeymoon.

I will not resist the temptation.

Shucks. Gosh darn,
if I ain't missed the dog-gone critter.

You hit what you were aiming for,
all right.

Now don't be peevish, Milo.

There's nothing like a little bit
of mayhem to cheer one up.

- Did you ever know Charlie Begby?
- You know damned well I didn't.

He was the very finest shot
I ever did see.

I once saw him bag six ducks
with one shot, when he was blind drunk.

The only thing was,
they were china ducks

in his auntie's drawing room. And I said,

"But Charlie, you can't do that.
It's the closed season. "

Told you he always laughs at my jokes.

Even the bad ones.

True, not as funny as all that.

There's an open season
all the year round for some creatures.

Seducers and wife-stealers,
for example.

Now, that's a bad Italian joke.

You should know,
it's your country of origin, is it not?

No, actually, I'm English.
I was born here in England.

Were you now? Actually?

Born in dear old,
cradle-of-the-parliamentary-system

who-screws-my-wife,
merits-a-large-pink-gin, England?

Sense-of-humour,
fair-play England, I mean.

Don't you believe it.
That's the way a foreigner talks.

What he really thinks in private is,
"Filthy, wet country!

"Ugly, red, cold men

"who don't know how to treat
their pale, pink, cooI women. "

And what brought all this on, then?

- What are you doing with that gun?
- Pretty obviously pointing it at you.

I can see that, but why?

Because I'm gonna kill you.

You are gonna kill me?

Jesus, here we go again
with another one of your games.

Another one? No, it's the same one.

We've been playing it all evening.
It's called,

"You're going to die,
and no one will suspect murder. "

You... You mean all that
steaI the jeweI stuff was just...

I invited you around here to set up
the circumstances of your own death.

The break-in, the disguise,
jewels in your pocket,

the house-holder aroused,
grappled with the thief,

and gun going off during the struggle
and then the finaI fataI shot.

Knock it off, Andrew, for God's sake.

- It ain't funny no more.
- It ain't, ain't it?

- Can you find a flaw in it?
- Marguerite.

The cops'll trace a connection
between Marguerite and me.

- What nonsense.
- They'll know that's why you did it.

How was I expected
to know who you were?

The law will have
every sympathy for me.

Property's always been more highly
regarded in England than people.

Even Marguerite will
assume that you were,

after all, just an adventurer
after her jewels.

A petty sneak thief,

who, in the end, found larceny
less burdensome than matrimony.

The way you're finding murder
less burdensome than alimony?

Wit in the face of adversity. Good!

You've learnt something
from the English.

And here's something else,
a sporting chance.

Why don't you make a run for it?

And give you the chance to shoot
me down in cold blood?

Hot blood, you mean.
But I'll tell you what I'll do.

I'll close my eyes,
and count up to 20 slowly.

That should give you a reasonable
chance. Go on, Milo, off you go.

One.

One,

two,

three,

four,

five,

six,

seven,

eight,

nine,

10,

11,

12,

13,

14,

15,

16,

17,

18,

19,

and a 20.

- You left them in that beautifuI coat.
- Oh, my God.

Let's have you out of that car, shall we?

Those lovely boots
back on again, please.

Now, of course,
the only question left to be decided,

is where the police shall find you.

Of course, you could be Iying
sprawled over the desk in the study,

like countless colonels,
in countless studies,

or propped up in the log basket
like a rag doll.

Which do you fancy, early Agatha
Christie or vintage S.S. Van Dine?

For Christ's sake, Andrew,
you're talking of a murder!

Of killing a reaI man!
Don't you understand?

I shouldn't use a gun at all.
Perhaps best of all,

a reaI 1930s murder weapon,
the mashie niblick.

I've got one in my golf bag.

Dear, old mashie niblick.

I think you'll be found in the fireplace,
in a fair old mess.

The body lay on its back.

Its limbs, grotesquely splayed
like a broken puppet.

The whole head had been pulped
as if by some supernaturaI force.

"My God,"
breathed the Inspector, blanching.

"Thompson, you'd better
get a tarpaulin.

"Excuse me, sir, but was
all this violence, strictly necessary?"

"I'm sorry, Inspector.

"I'm afraid I lost controI of myself
when I saw him

"handling my wife's
intimate garments. "

It's too bloody elaborate.
I'll tell you what.

I think the scene
the police find is simply this.

After the fight, you flee up the stairs,
back to your ladder again.

Go on, Milo, flee.

Up you go.

Up you go.

I catch you on the landing,

and in the renewed struggle,
I shoot you.

Nothing succeeds like simplicity,
don't you agree, Milo?

On the morning of his execution,
King Charles I put on two shirts.

"If I tremble with the cold," he said,
"my enemies will say it was from fear.

"I will not expose myself
to such reproaches. "

We must also
attempt this Anglo-Saxon dignity,

as you mount the steps to the scaffold.

Look,

I can't give anything back, can I?

I mean, if it hadn't been me,

it would've been somebody else.

Please.

I'll go away.

You won't never hear of me, no more.

Why, Andrew?

Why me?

Don't sniveI.

I must know why!

I'm amazed you have to ask.

I hate you.

I hate your smarmy good looks,
and your easy manner.

I'll bet you're easy in a ski lodge,
easy on a yacht, easy on a beach.

I knew you'd wear a gold charm
round your neck.

And I'll bet your chest is hairy,
and in summer, matted with sun oiI.

Above all, I hate you because
you're a cowing, blue-eyed wop.

And not one of me.

A creeping, hairdressing
seducer of silly women.

A jumped-up pantry boy,
who doesn't know his place!

Did you really believe
I'd give up my wife and jewellery to you?

That I'd make myself that ridiculous?

Why not?

You're not in love with her.

Whether I love her or not, I found her.

I've kept her.

She represents me.

Once, she was in love with me.

And now, she's in love with me.

And that's what you
can't forgive, isn't it?

And after me, there'll be others.

You're gonna kill them, too?

You're mad! You're a bloody madman!

And you are a young man,
dressed as a clown,

about to be murdered.

Put the mask on, Milo.
- No, no.

- Put it on.
- No, please.

Put it on.

Finally, at your moment of dying,
you are yourself.

A snivelling, dago clown.

Farewell.

Puncinello.

Please!

Good evening, sir.

I was beginning to think
there was no one at home.

Indeed. And who might you be?

Detective Inspector Doppler, sir,
of the Wiltshire County Constabulary.

I'm sorry to be calling so late,
but I need to have a few words with you

on a very important matter.

Better come in.

Wiltshire County Constabulary,
you say?

That's right, sir.
I'm normally based in Salisbury,

but your locaI man here asked me
to pop over and give him a hand.

Those were the days, sir.
Tunes you could hum.

There's a time for humming, Inspector.
Would you care for an aquavit?

- No thank you, sir. I've had my supper.
- Well, perhaps you'd prefer a brandy,

or are you going to tell me
you never drink on duty?

No, sir. I always drink on duty.

I can't afford to on my own time.

Caviar.

So that's what that looks like.

I've often wondered.

Can't say I care for it all that much, sir.

Tastes like fish eggs.

Fancy.

Now, let me take that nasty taste away
with a splendid brandy.

Do follow me, won't you, Inspector?