All language subtitles for Sleuth (Mankiewicz_ Joseph L. 1976)_BDRip.720p.x264.AAC_EN

"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.

Ideal 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 awful.

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

Good.

Tell me,
do you agree that the detective story

is the normal 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 deal
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 Jovial 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 successful 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 continental 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
architectural 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.
- Survival 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 appeal
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 sexual 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 girl 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 fail 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 total 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 steal 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 criminal.
- Well, of course it's criminal.

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 steal 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...

Steal 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 prodigal.

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 evil
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 real.

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
steal the bloody jewels

and simply hand them over to me?

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

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 detail.

£170,000.

Cash, tax free.

It'd take an awful lot
of Tindolini's tonsorial 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 ecclesiastical 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 feel 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 fool.

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 girl.

- 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 deal 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 tinsel, 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 beautiful 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 animal
as Inspector Plodder

outside your detective stories.

It'll probably be some sharp-eyed bloke

who knows his job down to the last detail!

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 professional

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 personal possessions...

It'd be a bit suspicious,

a professional 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 steal 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 jewel 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 school.

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 real?
- Naturally.

When the police come,
I'll have to show them a real 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 original 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, until 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 professional 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 usual 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 cholesterol.

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, cool 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
steal the jewel 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 final fatal 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 beautiful 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 real man!
Don't you understand?

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

a real 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 supernatural 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 control 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 snivel.

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 oil.

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 local 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?

These old antiques
are very interesting, sir.

You have quite a collection of toys.

Autometer, Inspector. And they all work.

I wouldn't have thought there was much
point in having them if they didn't, sir.

And now, as the cliché has it,
what can I do for you, Inspector?

I am investigating the disappearance
of a Mr Milo Tindle.

Do you know him, sir?

Vaguely.

He walked out of his cottage
late last Friday afternoon

and hasn't been seen since.

Really, I'm afraid
I'm not very much interested

in the migratory habits of hair dressers.

So you do know the gentleman then, sir?

Well, I know his profession.

I think my wife has mentioned
he had a shop in London.

When did you last see Mr Tindle, sir?

Some months ago.
I wouldn't remember, exactly.

I'd have no reason to, really.

That doesn't quite
accord with our information.

I wonder if you could put some water
in this brandy for me please, sir?

In fact, two nights ago,

he told Jack Benn,
the licensee of the White Lion,

he was on his way up to see you.

Barmen are notorious opponents
of exactitude, Inspector.

Vinous gossip is their stock in trade.

Vinous, as pertaining to wine,
I assume, sir.

Very good.

And I was wondering
if there was something else

- you could correct for me, sir.
- What is that?

The impression, gained by a man,

who happened to be passing
your house on Friday night.

- That shots were fired in here.
- Shots?

Three, our man thinks.

- A car backfiring?
- Oh, no, sir.

I'm afraid that sort of
occurrence only comes in,

saving your presence, sir,
detective stories.

No, these were shots from a gun.
Our man is positive.

I see.

May I ask why you've taken two days
to come round and ask me

- about all this?
- Well, sir, these things

always take a little longer
to check out than you think.

Your local man wanted to be sure
of his facts before calling me in

and before troubling
a gentleman like yourself.

- Facts? What facts?
- Well, after our informant

had reported the incident,
we thought we'd better

have a word with Mr Tindle

to see if he could
throw any light on the subject.

And could he? The way to turn that off
is to press that stop in, Inspector.

- Thank you.
- Thank you.

He wasn't at his cottage,
all day Saturday, nor all day today.

We must've called there
at least half a dozen times.

By Jove, sir.
Merridew would've been proud of you.

Your detective, sir.

That's praise, indeed, sir.
I'm a great fan of his lordship.

Are you really?

Well, you must tell me
which is your favourite.

I, myself, have always
had a special affection

for The Case of the Crucified Countess.

When we stepped inside Mr Tindle's cottage

to make sure that no harm had come to him,

we found this, sir.

"Urgent we talk.

"Come on Friday evening, about 6:30.

"Wyke."

May I ask, is this your handwriting, sir?

- Yes, it's mine, all right.
- So Mr Tindle was here then, sir.

- He was.
- And was there an incident

two nights ago, as a result of which
shots were fired?

In a manner of speaking.
It was a game we were playing.

A game, sir? What kind of game?

- It's called "burglary".
- Burglary is not a game, sir.

Isn't it about time you told me,

I don't know
the seriousness of my position?

A man comes here. Shots are heard.
He has disappeared.

Now, what would you make out of that,
if you were me, sir?

An open and shut case,

but things are not always
what they seem, Inspector.

Why, in The Mystery of the Grand Dummy,

- your favourite, Lord Merridew...
- I am waiting for an explanation, sir.

Well, Tindle arrived about 6:30
and left about an hour and a half later.

- I have not seen him since.
- And nor has any one else, sir.

But this is absurd.
You're not suggesting I killed Tindle?

Killed Tindle, sir?
I never mentioned the word "kill".

Come now, Inspector.
You can't pull that old one on me.

"Garrotted, sir. May I ask how you knew
her ladyship had been garrotted?"

"Surely, you told me so, Inspector."

"No, sir.
I never mentioned the word garrotted."

I am sorry you find us so comic, sir.
On the whole, what we do is necessary.

You're just doing your job
is the overworked phrase, isn't it?

Possibly, sir. Very possibly.
The overworked phrase that is, yeah.

Your wife and Mr Tindle
have been associating closely

- for some time, sir.
- I thought you'd know about that.

You can't keep anything quiet
in a small village.

Perfectly true, sir.

You're not suggesting a crime passionnel?

I do hope. Not with Marguerite.
Oh, God.

That'd be like knifing somebody
for the sake

of a tablespoon full of cold rice pudding.

I'm very partial to rice pudding, sir.

- I find it a great standby.
- That's perfect.

"All of you had either the means,
motive or opportunity,"

said Inspector Doppler,
as he thoughtfully digested

another spoonful of his favourite pud.
"But only one of you had all three."

Exactly so, sir, and that person is you.

I suppose I better tell you what happened.

That would be helpful, sir.

Perhaps another drink
would be helpful, too.

I'd love another drink, sir, but I think
you'll find that the bottle is empty.

Quite right, Inspector.
That, too, can be corrected.

Do come with me, won't you?

Now, as you seem to know,

Tindle was having an affair with my wife.

Now, I belong to that rare breed of men

who genuinely don't mind losing gracefully

to a gentleman who plays the game
by the same rules.

But to be worsted by a flash,
crypto-Italian lover boy,

who mistakes my indifference
for inadequacy is altogether too much!

You mean you couldn't bring yourself
to accept the situation, sir?

Is that what you're saying?

I mean, it was a situation I refused
to accept, Inspector.

Playing the game is very
important to you, is it, sir?

Playing the game
and games playing, yes, Inspector.

I'm not quite sure
I see the difference, sir.

It's perfectly simple, Inspector.

Playing the game
is what every gentleman does.

Playing of particular games
is my special passion.

In a way, my whole life.

That sounds a bit sad to me, sir.

Like a child not growing up.

What's so sad
about a child playing, Inspector?

Nothing, sir, if you're a child.

Let me tell you, Inspector,

I have played games of such complexity
that Jung and Einstein

would've been proud to have been
asked to participate in them.

I have achieved flights of the mind
and flights of the psyche

unknown in ordinary human relationships.

And I've had a very great deal
of not altogether innocent fun.

Is there nothing
you would not consider a game, sir?

Duty, work, even marriage?

Please, Inspector.
Don't include marriage.

Sex! Sex is the game.
Marriage, the penalty.

Round and round,
we jog towards each futile anniversary.

Pass go. Collect two hundred rows,

two hundred silences, two hundred scars.

In the deep places.

Are you saying, sir, that because
of your indifference to your wife,

you had no motive for murdering Mr Tindle?

I'm simply saying, Inspector,
that in common with most men,

I want to have my cookie and ignore it.

That was rather witty, I thought.

And what have we here, sir?

It's just an old dressing up basket.
That's all.

A traditional place of concealment,
I'm sure you'll agree.

Only of the identity, Inspector.

In a game.

Shall we go?

- Shall we go?
- Yes, sir.

Coming.

Anyway, I thought I'd teach
young master Tindle a lesson

for his presumption.
Test his mettle, as it were.

You may not agree with this, Inspector,
but you take it from me.

The shortest way to a man's heart
is through humiliation.

You soon find out what he's made of.

And how did you plan
to go about this humiliation, sir?

To begin with, by convincing him that
as my wife has expensive tastes,

and he was virtually a pauper,

he could solve that problem
by stealing some valuable jewellery,

which I had in my safe.

I further persuaded him to take off
his clothes and wear a disguise.

Appropriately enough, he chose,

out of that basket you examined,
the costume of a clown.

In that ludicrous outfit, he broke
into the house and blew open my safe.

The jewels were in this box.

Good thinking, Inspector.

- Bravo.
- And where are they now, sir?

I put them in the bank, yesterday.

- On a Saturday?
- Yes, Inspector, on a Saturday.

I drove over to Salisbury
and I put them in the night safe.

How very provident, sir.

May I ask what you did
after he blew the safe open?

Tindle pocketed the jewels.

We struggled convincingly
around the house as part of the game,

and he was about to make off,
when I turned nasty and revealed

the true purpose of the evening.

This was, of course,
that I had manoeuvred him

into a position where, by pretending
to mistake him for a burglar,

I could legitimately shoot him.

When you revealed your intentions, sir,

what was Mr Tindle's reaction?

Electrifying!

He swallowed my story,
hook, line and sinker.

He fell to his knees
and pleaded for his life,

but I was implacable.
I put the gun against his head

and shot him

with a blank cartridge.

You shot Mr Tindle
with a blank cartridge, sir?

Fainted, dead away.

So my game was over.

It was a most gratifying one.

You actually put a gun to his head
and pulled the trigger

as a game?

Call it his initiation test, if you like.

He came here aping the gentry,

hoping for acceptance,
but he had to be taught.

You don't join just like that.

There's such a thing as breeding!
The quality that breeding brings.

It cannot be acquired.

Of course, he failed his test abysmally.

He may well have done, sir,

but he also must have been put
in fear of his life.

Such irresponsible action
warrants a serious charge of assault.

I suppose that's marginally better
than the charge of murder

you were contemplating a few minutes ago.

I still am contemplating it, sir.

Come now, Inspector,
I told you what happened.

After a few minutes, he came to his senses,

realised shrewdly
that he wasn't dead after all,

and after only a few too many brandies,
lurched off home.

I'm sorry you appear
to find this all quite so funny, Mr Wyke.

We may not take quite the same attitude.

Now, look here.

Why can't you see this
from my point of view?

In a sense, Tindle was a burglar.
He was stealing my wife, wasn't he?

Which justified your torturing
and then murdering him, sir?

Of course not. Don't you see?
It was a game.

- Just a bloody game.
- Bloody indeed, sir.

I achieved what I set out to do,
and that was all.

You may well have achieved murder, sir.

- No.
- I believe so, sir.

No, I told you everything that happened.

Would you mind if I had a look around, sir?

Crawl about on all fours, if you like.

Get out your envelope and imprison hairs.

Gather ye blunt instruments while ye may.

Now, I ask myself,
if I wanted to conceal Tindle's body,

where would I put it?

In my good friend,
Jolly Jack Tar the Sailor.

Very amusing, sir.

May I ask how you did that?

No.
Jolly Jack and I have our little secret.

Then may I ask
how you made those holes in the wall?

That one over there.

And this one over here.

- They look like bullet holes to me, sir.
- Quite right, Inspector.

So they are.

I understood you, sir,
say that you used a blank.

Two live bullets to set up the trick
and one blank to complete it.

I had to persuade Tindle I was in earnest.

I see, sir.

One blank.

Then would you just show me please, sir,

where Mr Tindle was when you killed him?

- Pretended to kill him, you mean.
- Quite so.

Then would you show me exactly
where he was when the bullet hit him?

I keep telling you,
it was not a real bullet.

So you do, sir. So you do.

Very well, then. Where was he
when the blank cartridge was fired?

He was standing, or I should say kneeling,

or, more accurately, cowering here.

About here you say, sir?

Two steps down.

That's it.

Were you close to Mr Tindle
when you fired the gun?

Very. I was standing over him, in fact,
with the gun against his head.

You see, it was the actual feel of the gun,

coupled with the noise
of the explosion that did the trick.

The traditional tool
of your trade, Inspector?

Joke blood, sir?

I don't think I quite follow, Inspector.

Here. On the banisters,

and underneath the carpet.

- It's dry blood, sir.
- Blood?

Where?

Don't touch it.

That's dried blood, all right.

Some more, over here.

Someone's been rubbing the carpet,
you see that?

Deep in the pile.

That's blood, sir.

It's still damp.

Will you explain to me how that got there?

I have no idea.

Tindle wasn't wounded or hurt in any way.

You must believe me.

With real bullets and real blood?

Isn't it about time
we stopped talking about games, sir?

Look! Look at the window.

There, you can see the pane of glass
he cut out in order to break in.

And down there, the imprint
of the ladder in the flower bed

and the size 28 boots, or whatever
the hell it was he was wearing.

Look, I can show you.

Over the years my eyes
have been adequately trained

- to see things for themselves, sir.
- I'm sure they have, Inspector.

I'm just trying to point out a few facts
to substantiate my story.

Like the blown safe
I showed you in the study

and like the dressing up basket
you found in the cellar.

You say that Mr Tindle
disguised himself as a clown.

I saw no such costume in that basket,

nor have you pointed out
that mound of earth in the garden,

- have you, sir?
- Mound of earth?

What mound of earth?

That one over by the far wall.

In the shade of that cedar tree.

- I can't see anything.
- Well, it's there, all right.

I saw it before I rang your bell.

I think we'd better go
and have a look at it.

Together, sir.

Here we are, sir.

Now, would you say
that had been freshly dug, sir?

How do I know?

It's probably something
the gardener's been doing. Ask him.

You'll find him somewhere,
maundering about,

aching for an opportunity
to slander his employer. They all do.

For my part, I've always found

that gardeners make excellent witnesses.

They're slow,
they're methodical, and they're positive.

Inspector, I've had just
about enough of this farce.

Do you really think I'd be fool enough
to bury Tindle out here, in the garden,

leaving all that newly turned earth
for everyone to find?

If you weren't expecting us, sir, yes.

In a couple of weeks,

with a little grass seed, or a few bulbs,

it'd be very difficult
to tell it had ever been disturbed.

We in the police force
know just how fond murderers are

of their back gardens, sir.

One's as near a murderer's heart
in the garden

as anywhere else on earth, Inspector?

Excepting the bedroom, sir.

I think you'll find
that's still the favourite.

There's no mistaking
whose room this is, sir?

My wife showers.

I bathe.

Clothing all screwed up
on the floor of the wardrobe.

That's not like you, sir.

Here's an interesting monogram. I W.

Or have I got this the wrong way up?

M T.

Let me see that.

Made by Owen and Tancredi of Percy Street.

For Mr Milo Tindle. November 12.

Tell me, sir.

When Mr Tindle lurched off, as you put it,

did he lurch naked?

And did he subsequently lurch naked
through the streets of the village?

He changed back
before he left into these clothes.

Do you still maintain, sir, that Mr Tindle

changed into the clown's costume
in the cellar?

- Yes.
- Another part

of the humiliation process, I suppose.

Then someone must have
carried his clothing up from the cellar,

and placed them in this wardrobe.

- I did.
- Why?

Because I thought they'd be better off
in a wardrobe

than a dusty old cellar.
More convenient.

All screwed up on the floor
of a wardrobe? Why?

I didn't think it wouldn't be long before
he'd be changing back.

- It's all so baffling.
- Not at all, sir.

You threw those clothes
on the floor of the wardrobe

because you knew that Mr Tindle
would not be needing them again.

Ever! That's right, sir, isn't it?

He changed back before he left
and wore them when he went away.

I think you started this

exactly as you say you did.

As a game, in order to play
a diabolical trick on Mr Tindle,

but that it went wrong.

Your third shot was not a blank
as you had supposed,

but a live bullet, that killed Mr Tindle

stone dead!

Spattering blood
on the banisters in the process.

Then, when you realised what you'd done,

you simply panicked,

like a thousand murderers before you,

and buried the corpse in the garden.

It was very silly of you

not to clean the blood
properly off the banisters

- and burn his clothes.
- I swear, Tindle left here alive!

At the risk of appearing facetious, sir,

you had better tell that to the judge.

Look, there's only one way
of dealing with this.

If you think Tindle's out in the garden,

for Christ's sake,
why don't you go dig him up?

We don't need to find him, sir.

If Mr Tindle is not beneath
that newly turned earth,

it would merely go to indicate
that in your panic

you first thought of putting him there,

changed your mind
and buried him somewhere else.

- Where?
- That's not important, sir.

He'll turn up, sooner or later.

And if he doesn't, it scarcely matters.

We have your note summoning Mr Tindle here.

Shots were heard, bullet holes made.

Blood is on the banisters and the carpet.

His clothes were hidden in your wardrobe,

and he had disappeared.

Who needs a body?

Sir.

Come along, then.

- It's time to go, sir.
- No. I can't believe it...

I'm afraid, sir, that I must insist.

There is a police car
at the end of the driveway.

I don't care if there's
a fleet of police cars,

I'm not bloody well going!

Now, let's have no...

- Please, don't make it difficult.
- Christ, you're hurting my arm!

Really, you give me no alternative, sir.
If you'll just cooperate.

Let me get my lawyer. It's my right!

We can make a call from the police station.

We wouldn't want
to do anything unconstitutional.

Come now, sir. Don't despair.

You may get off
with as little as seven years.

Seven years!

Seven years to regret
the playing of silly games

- that go wrong.
- Spare me the sermon if you don't mind!

It didn't go wrong,
it all went bloody well right.

You think so, do you, sir?

We real life policemen are not as stupid

as we are sometimes portrayed
by writers like yourself.

We may not have our monocles,

or our orchid houses, our deer stalkers
or our shovel hats,

but we are reasonably effective,
for all that, sir.

You seem to know a hell of a lot
about detective stories, Inspector.

Yes, I have read quite a few
in my time, sir.

And in recent years, I have come
to believe that the detective story

is the normal recreation
of noble minds, sir.

Who or what the hell are you?

Detective Inspector Doppler, sir.

It is spelt like "doppel",

which, as I'm sure you know,
means "double",

in German.

And for those whose minds
run to these things,

it is virtually an anagram

of the word

"plodder".

So

Inspector Plodder

becomes

Inspector Doppler,

if you see what I mean,

sir.

Milo!

The same.

You shit.

You all-time, knock-down,
champion bastard, Milo.

You're too kind.

I'm not saying it wasn't well done,
it was extremely.

Yes, well, the thing was brilliant.

Incidentally, you forgot
to take out your left eye.

Now he knows I'm funny.

Do have a drink, Milo.

I'm sorry. Do help yourself.

I'll have a wash first.
I'm covered in makeup and spirit gum.

- Of course, use the kitchen.
- No, I prefer the master bathroom.

Your very good health, sir.

I must say, I must congratulate you, Milo.

It was first class.

You sure had me going there for a while.

For a while?

Well, it was quite a while, I concede.

But I got a bit suspicious
towards the end, you know?

You did go on a bit, I thought.

What did you think of my performance?

The anguish of the innocent man
trapped by circumstantial evidence.

- It wasn't a performance.
- Of course it was.

I had to be convincing.

Apparently I succeeded.

You just don't know how to lose at all,
do you, Andrew?

All that crap you gave old Doppler

about the gentry losing gracefully.

Jesus!

I told you, you did well.
It was really good.

I loved your Inspector Doppler.

I'm glad you view the trifling
masquerade in that light, sir.

Your makeup was damned good.
First class.

- You didn't do that yourself, did you?
- I am a hair dresser, don't forget.

I do have friends in the arts.

I suppose you sneaked...
Slipped in here yesterday

- while I was in Salisbury.
- Yes.

Dumped your clothes into my wardrobe

and sprinkled a little sacrificial
blood onto the banisters.

It wasn't my blood,
I know you'll be relieved to hear.

I got it from a pig's liver.

Thought you could've used
almost any dago wine.

I'll have that drink now.

- Of course.
- Gin and tonic, I think.

Well, you richly deserve it,
my dear fellow. Come along.

You know, I haven't congratulated you
yet on your game.

- It was jolly good.
- You really think so? Good.

Must say I was rather
delighted with it myself.

I say,

did you really think
your last moment on earth had come?

Yes.

You're not cross, are you?

Cross?

I don't understand.

That's one of your words.

Look, as I explained to you
when you were playing Doppler,

I had to test your mettle to see if,
as I suspected,

you really were my sort of person.

- The games playing sort of person?
- Exactly.

- And am I?
- There's no question about it.

Compare your experience
this weekend, my dear Milo,

with any other moments in your life.

Now if you're honest with yourself,
you'll have to admit

that you lived more intensely
in my company than in anybody else's,

not even with Marguerite.

Now, we know what it is to play a game,

you and I.

That's so rare.

Two people brought together,
equally matched,

having the courage and the talents

to make of life a continuing charade

of bright fancies, happy invention.

To face out its emptiness

and its terrors by playing.

By just playing.

Haven't you forgotten

the jumped-up pantry boy
who doesn't know his place?

We are from different worlds,
you and me, Andrew.

In mine,

there was no time for bright fancies
and happy inventions.

No stopping for tea.

The only game we played was to survive.

Or go to the wall.

If you didn't win, you just didn't finish.

Loser, lose all.

You probably don't understand that.

Understand or not,
nothing you've said disproves my point.

Look at the way you chose to get back at me

by playing Inspector Doppler.

Simple revenge.

Paying back in kind.

Every wop knows about that.

Well, is honour satisfied?
Score even? One set all?

Honour?

That's another one of your words.

I know

that you stripped me more than naked.

I know
that you actually terrified me to death.

I stood on those stairs, looking down,

and realising that my coat sleeve button,

the banister,

the nail on my fourth finger

were absolutely the last things
I was gonna see. Ever.

Then, I heard the sound

of my own death.

Now, that changes you, Andrew.

Believe me.

And I still owe you for that.

It'll pass, it's shock, my dear fellow.

- Here, let me give you another...
- I don't want

an even score.

And don't you give me any of that
"one set all",

or "The game's the thing,
it's enough to take part" crap.

My father just took part,

and his father,

and his father.

Losers! As far back as you can go.

Well, it stops with me!

With me, the Tindles start winning!

And others start losing.

You, for example.

Me?

- Lose what?
- A new game.

My kind. My rules, played my way.

And to start it,

I have killed someone.

You've killed someone.

Murdered someone. Committed murder.

You're not serious?

Deadly.

It's a real game

and a real murder.

There's absolutely no point in playing
another pretend game, isn't that right?

- Absolutely not.
- We're past pretending now.

We'll leave that to the amateurs.

The gentlemen players, like you.

Look, Milo. I think perhaps another time.

- It can't wait!
- All right, all right.

We'll play your game.

Now whom did you kill?

Whom? Whom?

Who, besides yourself, is the closest
to being someone you care about?

Would it be your girlfriend, Tea?

Possibly.

Why?

She's the one.

You killed Tea?

She, whose cobalt eyes were
the secret forest pools of Finlandia.

I closed them.

- You?
- Yes, I strangled her.

Right over there, on that rug,
I strangled her.

And, yes, I screwed her first.

You raped and strangled...

No, not rape.

She wanted it.

You're Iying.

You can't take me
with a crude game like this.

Honestly, Milo,
I gave you credit for better sport.

When I was here yesterday, planting
the blood and clothes for old Doppler,

Tea showed up looking for you,

so I pitched her a little woo,

as you would've said in your day,
and we danced cheek-to-cheek

to those cornball big band oldies of yours.

I mean, who but you would have them?

Anyway, it worked.

She got itchy,
and I had to scratch, didn't I?

And afterwards, she got sleepy.

And that's when I did it, old boy.
I wrung her neck.

She was under
that freshly dug mound of earth

- that old Doppler took such a fancy to.
- Was? You mean, she's not now?

No, I moved her.

Where to? The flooded gravel pit?

- Fu Manchu's abandoned glue factory?
- It doesn't matter where to.

The police will find her in due course,
if they haven't found her already.

The police?

Yes, I phoned them about an hour ago

and asked them
to meet me here at 10:00.

They should arrive in about 15 minutes.

I'm sure they will, too.

Led, no doubt,
by intrepid, downy Inspector Doppler.

Nope. It'll be a real cop, all right.

Detective Sergeant Tarrant,
is his name. Check it, if you like.

I told him a lot about you, Andrew.

I said I knew you to be a man
obsessed with games playing

and murder considered as a fine art.

Your life's great ambition, I said,
of which you had often spoken,

was to commit an actual, real-life murder,

hide the body, then leave clues
linking you with the crime

scattered about the house.

Convinced that the poor,
simple-minded police

would never recognise them
for what they were.

"Please, sir, Andrew Wyke can't rest
until he's committed a real murder,

"which is gonna make fools
out of all you coppers."

Honestly.

Tell that to the average desk sergeant,

and you'll find yourself strapped
straight into the giggle jacket.

Not so, in fact.

I told them that if they didn't believe me,
one look at your books

and the furnishings of your house
would confirm what I said

about your obsessions.

I also told them that two days ago

your girlfriend
came to my house in great distress,

saying that you suspected her
of having affairs with other men,

and threatened to kill her.

I bet they believed every word of that.

In the end, yes, they did.

My dear boy.

I do appreciate that
in spite of your denials

you've been captivated
by the spirit of games playing,

and the need, as you see it,
to win at any cost,

but frankly, you are trying too hard

to be a big boy, too soon.

Hello.

Hello, Joyce? It's Andrew.

Can... Can I speak to Tea?

She... What?

Been strangled?

Where was this?

When was it?

Where was she found?

What?

Joyce.

I can't understand what you...

Look, do try to control your...

What?

The police...

Asking...

Oh, my.

You should've believed me.

Now, we're gonna play the game.

In a little over 13 minutes
the law will arrive.

It's going to be your giant brain

against their plodding ones.

Concealed about this room

are four clues incriminating
you as Tea's murderer.

Including, as a final expression
of your contempt for the police,

the murder weapon itself.

Now, are you ready?

You can't make a game out of real murder.

We'll see.

Now, remember,

four objects.

Those that you don't find,
be sure the police will.

And they're all in plain view.

And the first object is

a crystal bracelet.

- The... What?
- Yes.

- I tore it off her wrist. It's inscribed...
- All right. All right!

I know how it's inscribed.

- Would you like some help?
- Yes. Damn you!

So soon?

Now, where's my list?

- Oh, God.
- Here it is.

"For any man with half an eye

"what stands before him he may spy

"but optics sharp it needs and keen
to see what is not to be seen."

You said everything was in plain view!

Well, aren't I
the shifty old sly boots, then?

You're not giving me anything
of a chance, you bastard!

Now, think, think, think.

It's in plain view, yet not to be seen.
An optical trick's involved.

An optical...
A key to see what is not to be seen

by the naked eye. It's microscopic.

Only a fragment of it is showing.
That's it.

The traditional tool of your trade,
Inspector?

Why don't you ask yourself

how your man Merrydick,
would go about the search?

Merridew! St John Lord Merridew!

Calm. Keep calm.

Think.
What are the properties of crystal?

Hard,

brilliant,

transparent.

You look through it, but you don't see it.
That's the trick.

Now, the only place to conceal
a transparent thing,

so as to make it invisible,
and yet leave it in plain view

is on or in
another transparent thing like...

Like!

Clear as crystal.

But I don't need to destroy this, do I?

- She could've left it here anytime.
- True.

Go on. What next?

The next object is much more incriminating.

Here's a little riddle, which I'm sure

one of your nannies must have taught you.

Two brothers we are Great burdens we bear

On which we are bitterly pressed

The truth is to say We are full all the day

And empty when we go to rest

I know that. I know that.
Hold on. Just a minute.

Full all the day, empty when we go...
I know! It's a pair of shoes!

In this case, one lady's left black shoe,
size 6.

The other, I need hardly add,
is on Tea's foot.

God! Poor Tea.

Poor Tea, eh?

That's better.

Do you know that's
the first sign of sorrow you've shown

since you heard of her death?

You wouldn't put it here, anyway.

Or even upstairs among Marguerite's shoes.

- Too obvious.
- Such grief is touching.

You really are the salt of the earth,
you know that, Andrew?

By the way,
that's a clue, if you're interested.

Salt of the earth? Earth?

It's buried... No, you buried the other.

Salt, salt...
Salt and pepper. Saltpeter...

Salt water... Salt... Cellar!

It's in the cellar!

You're really turned on,
aren't you, Andrew?

Even though the game you're playing
is for your own life.

You're practically having it off.

Shoe, shoe!

I ask myself,

"If I was a black shoe, where would I hide?

"If I was as black as your hat.

"If I was as black as the ace of spades.

- "If I was as black as..."
- Coal!

Dirty bastard!

You dirty son of a bitch!

You're getting warmer,

and blacker.

Must be quite a new experience for you.

I don't suppose blacks play much of a part

in the books you write, do they?

Except for the odd, eyeball rolling darkie

to take his place
alongside the swarthy yid,

the oily Levantine
and others of their kind.

Oh, I'm sorry it's so messy.

It's only earth.

From Tea's first grave in your garden.

Not so bad.
We're up of the clock, I think.

- Barely.
- Well, what's next?

What do you find so damned amusing?

What the hell are you laughing at?

- Are you sure you're all right?
- Yes, I'm all right.

- Jack.
- Jack?

Simple minded twit!

You've been handing me the clue all along.

It's Jolly Jack Tar. It's on the sailor.

True!

That's where it is.

But this time,
I am not going to tell you what it is.

All right.

He looked disappointed in you.

But then, it's no laughing matter.

Or is it?

Do that again.

My God, he's never winked at me before.

I suppose the other lash
is on one of poor Tea's eyes.

She won't miss it.

They're both closed.

How much more time?

You've got about five minutes.
Hardly enough, I'd say.

There's one more thing left, I think,
the murder weapon.

You strangled her over there, with what?

- A rope, belt, scarf...
- It bit into her neck very deeply, Andrew.

I had to pry it loose.

You'll pay for that, I promise,
you sadistic bloody wop!

I hope I didn't hear that correctly.

You're certain to need more help.

I'd hate to have to start giving you
difficult Italian clues,

- full of treachery and double meaning.
- All right. All right.

As several wops have remarked
from time to time...

Was that a clue?

Say the damn thing again.

No. Once more, please.

What's the time. No...

No.

Gold, gold!

All gold!

Gold scintillates?

Glitters.

All that glisters is not gold.

There will always be an England.

You strangled her
with something golden and scintillating.

What's that? A musical clue.
Right. Now, golden notes,

golden scales, golden... It's a chord!

You strangled her with a golden cord,
and like everybody does,

you hid it behind the bell pull!

No, damn it, you didn't.

Anything goes in olden days!

In olden days a glimpse of stocking

Was looked on as something shock...

Stocking! Where do you put stockings?

On legs. Legs! The golden legs.

Not a golden leg in the blasted house.

Is it in this room?

Bastard!

In olden days a glimpse of stocking

Was looked at as something shocking

Now heaven knows, anything goes

The world has gone mad today And good...

I think I can hear something.

Andrew!

Andrew!

What?

They're here. The police are here.

It looks like you've had it.

- They're coming up the drive.
- Keep them out!

Keep the police out?

It's just not done, old boy.

But still, I'll try.

Just one more minute.

Stall them somehow. Please!

Remember,

in olden days

a glimpse of stocking.

Mr Tindle?

- Olden days...
- I wasn't expecting to find you here, sir.

- Glimpse...
- Good evening, Sergeant Tarrant.

Olden days...

Before tights, what?

Nylon. Before nylon, what?

Silk.

Well, what else. What...

Clock.

Stockings had clocks.

In olden days...

Glimpse...

Now you see it,

now you don't.

It wouldn't take long to dig up, Sergeant.

Why don't I have a go at it?

Well, surely...

Just let me tell him you're here.

Andrew.

Is it all right if I introduce

Detective Sergeant Tarrant
and Constable Higgs?

Yes, of course. Come in, gentlemen.

Come in, do have...

Or should I say, Inspector Plodder

and Constable Freshface.

Thank you, Sergeant.
We won't be needing you after all.

That's all right, sir.

Better to be safe than sorry,
that's what I always say, sir.

- Good night, Sergeant.
- Good night, sir.

Good night, Constable.

Good night, sir.

First, I suppose
you'll want to know about Tea.

She did call yesterday

while I was setting up the Doppler scene,

and I told her about the trick
that you played on me with the gun,

and she wasn't a bit surprised.

She knows only too well
the kind of games you like to play,

the kind of humiliation you enjoy
inflicting on other people.

I explained to her that I wanted
to play a game and get even with you,

and I asked her to lend me a stocking,
a shoe, a false eyelash

and that bracelet that you'd bought her.

And she was happy to help,

and so was her flatmate, Joyce.

Would you like to phone Tea?

She'll talk to you now.

But then, you wouldn't have very much
to say to her, would you?

She's not really your mistress, is she?

She told me that you and her
haven't made it together for over a year.

She also told me
that you are practically impotent.

Not at all, in fact, the selector's choice
for the next Olympics.

I warned you, Andrew.

I don't play games for the sport!

Particularly not games of humiliation.

I know too much about that.

Where are you going?

I'm going to get Marguerite's fur coat.

- She's not coming back?
- No.

I live

as I want to live.

You know, I've been
thinking of that writer you told me about.

And it is my opinion
that your detective stories

are the normal recreation
of snobbish, out-dated,

life-hating, ignoble minds.

I'll get that fur coat now.

You see.

You see.

Inspector,

I was working in my study

when I heard a noise in here,

so I took my revolver,

and I came in here

to investigate.

Here was this young man

running down the stairs

with my wife's fur coat over his arm.

I shouted for him to stop,

but he wouldn't pay any attention,

but ran on towards the door

hoping to make his escape.

Naturally, I fired.

I aimed low.

Believe me, Inspector, I did.

The most appalling thing happened.

I shot him dead.

That's all right, sir.

Don't distress yourself unduly.

A thing like that could happen to anyone.

I can't let you go now.

What do you mean?

Going about

telling everyone.

It's just not possible.

Who... Whom would I tell?

Who'd be interested?

One person would be too many,
even Marguerite.

Especially Marguerite.

What are you going to do then, Andrew?

Shoot me down?

- Play that old burglar game again?
- That's right.

- It wouldn't work now.
- No?

Why not I wonder.

Because of what really happened
after I left here last Friday night.

What really happened?

I did lurch home

dazed, dirty and humiliated.

And I sat up all night.

And in the morning,

I went to the police station

and I told them what you'd done to me.

And one of them,
Detective Sergeant Tarrant,

yes, he's real.

He took me into a little room,
and we had a long chat,

but I don't think
he paid very much attention

to anything I said.

So I thought to myself,

"He's not gonna do anything about this."

No? Why not?

You know the answer to that
just as well as I do.

In his eyes,
I'm just some common little git

who's been screwing the wife
of a local noble

and got what he deserved.

So perhaps the police won't come by
as I said they would,

but even if they don't,

they'd never believe
that burglar story of yours. Not now.

So, you see, you've lost.

You can't fool me any more, Milo.

I haven't believed a single word
you've been saying.

It's the truth.

Liar.

Phone Sergeant Tarrant
if you don't believe me.

You come here and announce
your intention to steal away my wife.

You pry into my manhood,

you lecture me on ignoble minds

and you mock the creation of my life,

St John Lord Merridew.

Well, they're all real bullets this time.

The game's over, Andrew.

I'm going home now.

Milo, you do see

I'm not really a very good games player.

I mean to say,

never play the same game
three times running.

Andrew?

Don't forget.

Be sure and tell them

it was just

a bloody game.