All language subtitles for Murder Must Advertise (1973) - S01E02

(Cheering)

(Lively music)

Woo-hoo!

Den of iniquity, one might say.

- Was it like this last time you were here?
- No. No, it wasn't as bad.

It is pretty foul.

Here's Dian de Momerie now, on the stairs.

Oh, yes.

And that, if I'm not mistaken,
is Major Todd Milligan.

- Do you know him?
- We've met once, but that's all.

Since he was cashiered from the Guards?

Let's have a drink, shall we?

(Revellers cheer)

Thank you.

I beg your pardon. After you.

Thank you.

- I say...
- What?

Isn't that the sister of that Dean chap,
over there?

- Where?
- There.

Oh, yes, I believe it is.

- I'd like you to get to know her better, Dian.
- What on earth for?

She's one of the world's worst bores, darling.

I want to find out what she knows
about that place where Dean used to work.

That advertising place?
How frightfully yawn-making!

- Why do you want me to do that for?
- Never mind why.

- But she's about as wet as a drowned eel.
- Now.

- Well, if you insist...
- And who's that chap that she's with?

- The Harlequin?
- I've no idea.

Put that in my car, would you?

Thank you.

- Pamela, darling! It's been ages.
- Hello, Dian.

Aren't you going to introduce me to your escort?

I should think he prefers to remain a mystery.

How boring!

You're hurting me, Harlequin.

(Laughs)

(Cheering)

(Cheering)

(Cheering)

(Laughter)

(Laughs)

(Laughter and cheering)

(Laughter and chatter)

(Cheering)

(Laughter)

Spoken to that Dean girl yet?

Just briefly. Don't be such a bore, Todd.

(Laughter)

(Onlookers laugh and cheer)
- Is he drunk? What is he doing?

He's either a tightrope walker
or he's too drunk to fall.

(Cheering)

- He'll break his neck!
- Leave him, Todd. Leave him alone.

Come down, you damn fool!

Harlequin, come down!

Well done, Harlequin. Keep going!

For God's sake! If he kills himself,
I'll have the police around, asking questions.

(Cheering)

- Dive in! I dare you.
- Shut up, Dian.

He'll dive. I want him to dive!

You wouldn't do it, but he will.
Come on, Harlequin!

(Crowd eggs him on)
- Come on, all of you! Shut up!

Shut up!

Don't be a damn fool, man!

(Onlookers remain silent)

Aaahh!

(Splash)

(Cheering)

Oh, you're marvellous! Marvellous.

I adore you, Harlequin. Take me home.

Run. Run! Let them catch us if they can.

A prize! A prize!

(Cheering)

Ooh!

Come along, Mr Willis.
Mr Bredon said I should escort you home.

How the devil did Bredon know?

(Engine drones)

(Engine revving)

(She giggles)

- Here we are.
- (Continues to giggle)

Steady, the Buffs.

Down we go.

(They chuckle)

- I love you, Harlequin.
- Pity.

Your lovers seem to have a knack
of coming to bad ends.

- What?
- Well, there was young Carruthers...

I couldn't help that.
Drank too much, the little idiot.

- Arthur Barrington.
- I told him it was no good.

Not a bit of good, but he tried, all the same.

Then he blew his brains out.

Not that they were very good brains,
but they were the only ones he had.

Then, there was Victor Dean.

That little rotter! That was nothing to do with me.

- Wasn't it?
- He fell down a staircase.

Oh, yes, so he did.

- I wonder why.
- I haven't the faintest idea.

I'm sorry, I thought you might have.

Why did you send him about his business?

(Giggles)
He was so terribly boring, just like all the rest.

Harlequin...

- You like them to be different?
- I like everything to be different.

And when you find them different,
you try to make them all the same.

Why do you want to know about Victor Dean?

- How did you pick him up?
- (Drowsily) Oh...

We all went out one night
to some frightful suburban dancing place.

We thought it'd be such a scream,
but it was all really rather dull

and...he was there and...he fell for me

and I...I thought he was rather a pet.

That's all.

A simple story, in words of one syllable.
How long was he your pet?

Oh... About six months,
but he was so terribly boring!

Such a prig. (Laughs)

Imagine, Harlequin. He got all cross
and wanted bread and cheese and kisses.

He wasn't any fun. He was...all wet.

My child, you're telling the story very badly.

You made him drink,
and it upset his little tummy.

You made him play high,
and he couldn't afford it.

You tried to make him take drugs,
and he didn't like it. Anything else?

He was a little beast.

Honestly, Harlequin,
he was out for all he could get.

- Aren't you?
- Me? (Laughs)

I'm terribly generous.

I gave him everything he wanted.

I'm like that, when I'm fond of anybody.

- Yes.
- (Giggles flirtatiously)

- Did Todd send you out to ask me?
- Nobody ever sends me anywhere.

- I go where I like.
- Well, then,

why do you all want to know about Victor Dean?

"All"?

Too mystery making, isn't it?

- Did Milligan know Dean?
- He'd met him.

- Through you?
- Oh, Harlequin...

- Dian, listen to me. Through you?
- (Drowsily) Harlequin...

- Then how else?
- I'm sleepy, Harlequin.

Leave me alone. Please leave me alone.

Dian, did Milligan know Dean?

Leave me alone!

(Sighs and moans)

Leave me alone...

For the moment.

(Typing)

Your monthly gathering seems to be
well attended, Mr Pym, as always.

- Mr Bredon's late.
- Bredon?

- Oh, yes, the new copywriter. We haven't met.
- Oh, Miss Meteyard!

(Chatter)
- He's perfectly potty.

- Potty?
- Mr Bredon, I mean. Dotty. Blah!

He's always up on the roof
playing with a catapult.

Oh, is he, indeed!

A catapult? That doesn't seem quite the thing.
Arrested development, if you ask me.

Not what you expect
from someone who's been to public school.

Precisely what I'd expect.

- Just six lumps, please.
- (Both chuckle)

- Mr Bredon, I don't think you've met Mr Copley.
- No.

Delighted, I'm sure.

Mr Copley was just saying that a public school
education can lead to arrested development.

By Jove! Can it, really?

Ah, Bredon! I'm glad to see
you could make the little gathering.

- Thank you, sir.
- Mr Tallboy is another one.

- He went to public school.
- Did he, indeed? Which one?

- Er, Dumbleton.
- And doesn't let you forget it.

Well, I shouldn't worry. Dumbleton ain't
a public school within the meaning of the Act.

- Isn't it?
- Not within the meaning of the Act?

You've had a college education, Mr Bredon.

I haven't, so you'd understand
about these things.

What schools do you call "public schools"?

Eton.

Er, well, Harrow...

- Rugby?
- Oh, no, no, no. That's a railway junction.

I'm told there's a decentish sort of place
at Winchester, if you're not too particular.

I once knew a man who'd been to Marlborough.

- Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.
- Bredon, might I have a word?

Oh, Willis!

This room is too small
for these social gatherings, Mr Copley.

Yes, far too small.
I understand, Mr Bredon,

that you're accustomed to seek
the wide, open spaces of the roof.

Oh, yes. Rather! Fresh air and all that.

I've been taking pot shots at sparrows
with a catapult.

(Laughter)
- Crosswords, I'm not surprised at.

Everybody does them.
Nor drawing nursery pictures.

But playing with catapults on the roof
is really childish.

What with Miss Meteyard
throwing paper darts around!

No, really, a catapult's good training for the eye
and all that sort of thing.

You must both come up one day.
We'll have a competition.

Not me. Too old for that sort of thing.

I haven't had a catapult
in my hands for 30 years, I suppose.

High time you took one up again.
How about you, Tallboy?

- Sorry?
- Are you a dab hand with one of these?

Er, no, not me. I haven't the eye for it.

Oh, come, Mr Tallboy.
And you were such a tennis champion!

Yes, well, it's not quite the same thing.

Well, a game's eye is a game's eye, surely?
What I always say is...

Mr Bredon, would you mind telling me
where you got that catapult?

- I bought it, of course.
- Oh. For one moment,

I thought you must have been at my desk.

I most certainly have not!
I mean, I wouldn't dare.

Far too pure-minded
to go burgling a lady's desk!

I should hope so. Miss Rossiter keeps letters
from her gentlemen admirers in that desk.

(Laughs)
- That's quite enough, Mr Ingleby.

No, for one moment, I thought it was the one
I confiscated from Ginger Joe last month.

- Last month? And you've still got it?
MISS ROSSITER: Of course.

What a hard-hearted woman you are,
Miss Rossiter.

I have to be. I mean, he nearly broke a window.
If Mr Armstrong had caught him...

No, let the kid have it back.

I like that boy.

He says, "Morning, sir," in a tone that fills me
with a pleasant conceit of myself.

- If I promise to speak to the lad sternly...
- Well, I'll hand it over to you, Mr Bredon.

- But if any windows get broken...
- It is I who will be responsible.

- So long as that is understood.
- Let me get you a cup of tea.

MISS ROSSITER:
I'll let you have it after the tea party.

Catapults, indeed.

Well, well, well!

(Knock at door)
- Come in.

- You wanted to see me, sir?
- Ah, yes, Ginger. Come in.

Come in, come in.

- Is this your catapult?
- Er... Well, yes, sir.

- Would you like to have it back?
- Yes, please, sir!

Well, I haven't yet decided, Ginger,

whether you're the sort of lad
who can be trusted with a catapult.

- Any of the other boys got one?
- Oh, no, sir. Leastways, not here.

Mm-hm. Ever shoot with it on the roof?

On the roof of the office? Oh, no, sir!

Good, good.

I hope you realise, Ginger,

that a thing like this
could very easily kill somebody.

- Could it, sir?
- I wouldn't like to try the experiment.

You weren't larking around with it
the day Mr Dean fell downstairs?

Oh, no, sir! Wish I may die, sir!

Miss Rossiter confisticated it ages before that!

'Ere, you don't think someone
catapulted Mr Dean, sir?

Well, it's...it's just possible, you know, Ginger.

Can you remember who might have been
standing around or passing by

when she took it from you
and put it on the desk?

Well, no, sir. Not right off, I can't.

Well, if you do remember,
let me know, would you?

- There's a good lad.
- Oh, of course, sir!

And Ginger...

- Mum's the word.
- You bet, sir!

(Knock at door)

- Oh, Mr Tallboy...
- Working overtime, Mr Copley?

Yes. It's a series of cut-price ads for Jamboree
Jellies. I wondered if you'd take a look at them.

Sorry, I haven't time. Leave them in my basket
and I'll look at them tomorrow.

- Well, I was rather hoping...
- Good night, Mr Copley.

(Sighs)

(Telephone rings)

Bredon.

Yes, Miss Dean. Good evening.

Has she, indeed?

Yes, yes. That was the right thing to do.

Where are you calling from?

Oh, that's quite close by.
Why don't we meet and have a drink?

Yes, I know it.

Splendid! I'll see you there, then. Toodle-oo.

(Telephone rings)

(Continues ringing)

Hello?

Well, he's not here.

Oh! Oh, dear!

Well, there's nobody here except me,
and I'm only the char.

Ooh, just a minute. Mr Copley!

Telephone.

Who the devil's calling at this time?
We're closed.

It's the Morning Echo, sir. Very urgent.
Asking for Mr Tallboy.

I told them they'd all gone home
but they said it's important.

Something about an advertisement
for tomorrow morning.

I suppose I'd better speak to them.

Hello, Pym's here. What's the matter?

No, Mr Tallboy's gone home.

Nutrax? Well, I'm Mr Copley
and Nutrax isn't my department.

All right. Hold on.

- Just returning a guard book.
- It's the Morning Echo.

They won't print the Nutrax ad.
They say it's obscene.

What cheek!

- Is it?
- I don't know. I'm looking for the drawing.

Ah, here it is.

- That seems pretty innocent for a nerve tonic.
- They say they won't print it.

- Mm-hm?
- Here's the headline.

(Reads) Are you taking too much
out of yourself?

- Good Lord!
- Oh, I say!

By Jove, I see what they mean!

The drawing by itself is innocent enough,
and so is the headline.

Put them together, and the Morning Echo
can sell for half a crown a copy.

Tallboy should've noticed this.
Someone should've seen the double meaning!

Perhaps I can telephone Tallboy,
or even Mr Armstrong.

They'd hardly be home yet, would they?

(Whispers) Dear, oh dear, oh dear.

- Well, I shall have to do something.
- Well, look, old lad.

Since you can't change the drawing,
why not change the headline?

Without permission?
Yes, well, perhaps I could...try...

Hello. Look, I see what you mean.

Can you reset this headline?

Oh, you can? Could you give me ten minutes?
I'll call back.

I'll get out of your way and let you get on with it.
Good night, old lad.

(Chuckles) Good luck.

Now, let me see...

Have you got that? Good.

Now, third line: Start at a "W".

Gowdie 24 point, upper and lower.

Lower case: w-a-s-t-e,

capital: N-E-R-V-E,

hyphen, capital: P-O-W-E-R. Screamer.

Is that OK? Good.

Good night.

(Sighs)

You can count on Copley in a crisis.

(Music, chatter and laughter)

Right-ho.

And what did the letter say?

It was just a note from Dian de Momerie.

She wants to know who you are.

You seem to have made a remarkable hit.

We aim to please.
What have you done about it?

I didn't know what you'd like me to do.

- You didn't give her my address?
- No. That was what she was asking for,

but I didn't want to make another mistake,

- so I posted the letter to you.
- Quite right.

Thank you. Well?

- Give it to her. Does she know I'm at Pym's?
- No.

I was very careful to tell her absolutely
nothing about you...except your name.

- I told her that. She seems to have forgotten it.
- Splendid.

Look, tell the bright Dian
that I am the most mysterious person.

You hardly ever know where to find me yourself.

Hint that I'm probably miles away. You know,
Paris, Vienna... Anywhere that sounds fruity.

You can convey the right impression, I know.

Phillips Oppenheim with a touch of Ethel M Dell
and Elinor Glyn.

Yes, I think I can do that.

You might say that she will probably
see me again when she least expects it.

Suggest, if you don't mind being so vulgar,

that I'm a sort of yellow dog dingo,
truly run after but very hard to catch.

Be stimulating. Be intriguing.

Well, I think I can manage all right.

I'm sure you'll do it beautifully.

I rely on you very much, you know.

How's the enquiry getting on?

I know how your brother was killed.

How?

With this.

The charlady found it underneath the stairs and
returned it to Dean's desk - after you'd been.

That's why you couldn't find it.

But I still don't see how...

A short time earlier, she'd found
a small, round pebble lying in the same spot.

I, myself, found a similar one
by the skylight on the roof.

- Pebbles?
- Practice shots.

Mr Bredon, I can't really believe
that it would be possible

to kill someone by throwing a pebble at them
through a skylight.

No, you'd have to use a catapult.
At the best you'd kill him.

At the worst you'd send him tumbling down
a dangerous staircase

where he'd probably break his neck.

But why use the scarab?

So that anyone finding it would make
the same assumption that the charlady made.

That it had fallen out of his pocket.

I see! But who?

Ah. Who, indeed?

(Grunts)

(Muffled grunts and groans)

(Grunts)

(Retreating footsteps)

Cha...!

No, he wasn't a burglar, or anything like that.

This was a deliberate attempt at murder.

The light bulb had been put out of action
beforehand

and he wasn't obliging enough
to leave anything behind to identify him, either,

- except a rather cheap pencil.
- Pencil?

Yes, I found it on the upstairs landing.

One of those pocket propelling things.

You needn't hope for a handy mould
of his front teeth.

- It isn't made of wood.
- Show, Polly. Show.

Now, dear, get the pencil for your little brother.

Peter, there's a letter for you.

Hm?

I'd just taken it out of the Flat 4 box
when all this happened.

- Ah, yes.
- I can't see a letter here for Peter.

Well, that's odd. It was there.

It was a long, mauve envelope with a gilt edge.

A lady's fist, I'd say. Rather sprawling.

- It's gone, has it?
- Apparently so.

Well, that's very remarkable, old Parker bird.

And so is this pencil.

- Huh?
- It's one of Darling's.

- What's so remarkable about that?
- This is where my expert knowledge comes in.

Darling's don't sell these pencils.
They give them away.

If you buy more than �1 worth of goods,
they give you a pencil

as a sort of "good conduct prize".

You will observe that it carries an advertising
slogan: "It isn't Dear - It's Darling."

(Sarcastically) Oh, that's a great help.

It should be easy to identify a criminal
who's bought �1 worth of goods at Darling's.

Wait a moment.
I said that I had expert knowledge.

This pencil didn't come from
any of Darling's branches,

because it ain't on the market yet.

- Well, where did it come from?
- One of three places.

The pencil manufacturer's,
Darling's head office...or our place.

MARY: What, Pym's?
- Mm-hm.

Darling's obligingly provided us
with a gross and a half,

so that we could try them out.

- Just a minute. Are you saying...
- Quite.

I think it highly unlikely that you had
a deadly enemy in the pencil manufacturer's

or in Darling's head office.

It seems to me more likely that the gentleman
with the cosh, or whatever blunt instrument,

came from Pym's...guided by the address

which you, with your usual amiability,
kindly allowed me to give as mine.

Well, I'm dashed!
Do you mean to say it's you, you devil?

You ought to be sitting here, all mangled up and
bruised, in place of my poor afflicted husband.

I think so, Polly. I most certainly think so.

Particularly as the assailant seems to have
walked off with my private correspondence.

A letter, by the way, from Pamela Dean

enclosing a note from Dian de Momerie.

This blighter who attacked you -
did you manage to mark him?

No, I'm afraid not.

I did get a clutch on his throat,

but he was all muffled up.

You did that badly, Charles.
You should've biffed him one.

Incidentally, I found the catapult that killed Dean.

CHARLES:
How can you be sure it's the same one?

Because somebody has taken the trouble
to wipe it clear of fingerprints.

- But have you any idea...
- Peter...

Oh, yes, I'm sorry, Polly. You're absolutely right.

Well, I'm sorry, old lad, that you caught a packet
that was intended for me.

Yes, so am I.

I'm only grateful that it's produced
nothing worse than a bad headache.

Yes, and I already had one...trying to sort out
this dope-smuggling business.

Incidentally, I would venture to say
there was enough of the stuff floating around

at Milligan's house the other night
to poison a city!

Where the devil do these people get it?

If I knew that, Peter, I'd be on velvet.

(Hushed conversation)

- Oh, Mr Copley! We thought you were lost.
- My train was late.

Mr Armstrong is waiting for you
in the conference room.

- If you please, sir, Mr Armstrong says...
- All right!

Ah, Copley. Looking for you.
Thinking of sending out the town crier.

- Pop down to see Armstrong pronto.
- Yes.

- Tallboy is furious with you.
- He's what? Yaa!

- See the conquering hero come.
- Jackanapes!

(Chuckles)

I say, that didn't go down too well.

I really don't know, Mr Jollop, but rest assured...

Rest assured the matter will be fully looked into,

after which I shall return your call.

Not at all. Thank you, Mr Jollop.

- Rather late this morning, aren't you, Copley?
- I'm sorry, Mr Armstrong. My train was delayed.

An accident on the line, I believe.

We really must do something
about these "accidents".

Whenever one of Pym's staff travels,
the trains break down.

(Tuts)

Now, Copley, I've just had an angry and very
long telephone call from our client Mr Jollop

about the Nutrax ad.

I understand, or rather Mr Tallboy understands
from somebody or other,

- that you altered the headline last night.
- I have an explanation.

I'm very glad to hear it.

The Morning Echo refused to print
the original headline, because it was obscene.

Obscene?

I have it here.

- I see nothing obscene in there.
- Yes, but consider it in relation to the sketch.

My God! (Laughs)

They have got us there.

Tallboy, who wrote the headline
and why the devil didn't you catch it?

Well, it really never occurred to me. I er...

I think Ingleby wrote it.

Ingleby, of all people?

A sort of sketch of the Schneider Trophy.

And then here, you have a caption, "Ruffle..."

(Pencil lead snaps)
- Oh, damn!

- Point's bust. Can I borrow your pencil?
- Certainly. Keep it. I've got plenty.

Oh! Where did you get them from?

Miss Parton gives them away by the dozen.
Just as well. I'm always losing mine.

- Aah.
- (Knock at door)

- Come in.
- There you are, Mr Ingleby.

We are both wanted in the conference room.

What did I tell you?

(Clears throat)

Morning, Mrs Crump.

(Sobs)

I say, I say, I say! Is something wrong?

He shouldn't have said it, Mr Bredon.

He'd no call to say a thing like that. Not to me.

No, no, I'm sure. Look, I say, er...
Who said what to whom?

(Sobs)

INGLEBY: Yes, well, it is
pretty near the knuckle, but it's not my fault.

My original rough was illustrated
with a very handsome sketch

of a gentleman beset with business worries,

not a couple who look as though
they've been making a night of it!

If the innocents in the studio
turn down my refined suggestions...

Oh, yes. They're rather fond of cashiering
any suggestion put forward by our department.

Far be it for me to suggest there could be
any interdepartmental jealousy behind it,

- but the fact remains...
- Never mind, Mr Copley. You did the right thing.

I'll send an explanation to Mr Jollop.

(Chuckles) He'll have a fit!

He'll be surprised you passed it.

Well, he may be.
It isn't often I pass anything indecent.

I must have been...rather off colour that day.
Same as you, Tallboy.

Oh, dear! (Chuckles) Mr Pym is going to have
something to say about this.

I...I rather wish the thing had gone through.

(Laughs)

He'd have sacked the whole department.

- It would've been very serious.
ARMSTRONG: Of course it would.

Well, now, that's settled.
About this whole page for Soaperb...

- I hope you're satisfied with what I did...
- Quite all right, quite all right.

Very much obliged.
You did your best in an awkward crisis.

Now, let's get this Soaperb question settled,
once and for all. Don't go, Miss Rossiter.

I'd like you to take a note.
I'll deal with Nutrax, Mr Tallboy.

I don't see anything indelicate
in those soap bubbles, do you?

Have as many as you like. They're rotten
pencils, anyway. Everybody says so.

- Who's "everybody"?
- Oh, everybody who's got one.

- That's everybody in the office.
- Well, in that case, I won't bother.

(Sighs) Suit yourself.

I bumped into Mrs Crump on the way here.
She seemed dreadfully upset.

So would you be,
if you'd just been called a thief.

No! I say! Who's the bounder
to suggest such a thing?

So you admit you were hugger-muggering
around my desk last night.

- Don't make such a row! I've got a headache.
- I don't give a damn about that!

There was an envelope in my desk last night
with �50 in it.

- Mrs Crump saw you messing with my papers.
- I've got your �50. I'm here to return it.

It was extremely thoughtless of you to leave
your property about for the charwoman to find.

And I did not rummage through your desk.
I was looking for the Nutrax ad. This fell out.

You mean to tell me that you had the cheek
to take my money away?

- In your own interest.
- Interest be damned!

Why not leave it in the pigeonhole
and not be so interfering?

What business is it of yours, anyway?

It's the business of anyone
who had the best interests of the firm at heart.

I'm considerably older than you.

In my day, a group manager would've been
ashamed to leave the building

without checking all was well
with his advertisement for the next day's paper.

I don't need you to teach me my job.
You interfere with my affairs...

- That envelope fell out.
- That's a bare-faced lie!

My God, there's a thought to conjure with.

Pym's in pornography!

Ooh, goody! Butternut.

Yes, and I found out something else.

The block-making people told Tallboy yesterday
morning they thought the headline was a bit hot.

- Well, well! He had plenty of time to change it.
- Bags of time.

Tallboy said that everybody had passed it
and it was too late for any alterations.

Mm! Good thing Copley didn't get hold of that.

I think Tallboy should've done
something about it.

Yes. I wonder why he didn't.

(Laughter)

(Car horn honks)
DIAN: Come on, Todd. It's a race.

Won't you join us?

(Chuckles) Suit yourself.

(Tries to start engine)
- Mind you don't get blood poisoning!

(Engine revs)

(Sighs)

(Sighs)

(Door bangs)
- We're closed for the night. Go home!

I'm aware that we agreed that our last meeting
should be our final one,

but even the best of rules must be broken
in a crisis.

Yes, well, there is a damn crisis!

Your splendid distribution system
seems to have fallen apart.

Look - empty! No supplies, no customers.

- I know.
- Then what the devil went wrong?

I know that, too.

There was one hell of a scene here tonight
when I told them.

One silly bitch went for me with her nails.

Look at that.

Threatened to shoot me!

It's not good enough.

I don't know how to contact you.

- I don't even know your name.
- And you never will, Major.

I said I knew what went wrong.
It won't happen again.

Well, it had better not.

Or you'll make...alternative arrangements?

Why do you say that?

Because I suspect
you've already attempted to do so.

In the course of my enquiries
into the present...mishap,

I've uncovered certain distressing facts.

- Are you trying to double-cross me, Major?
- No, of course not!

I should warn you that an attempt would be fatal,

both to yourself and Miss de Momerie.

Already she's becoming something of a risk.

Dian? Why...she knows even less than I do.

But...in both your cases, that is still too much.

Harry Thorn's Bentley
has much more power than this,

but he's such a rotten driver!

Oh, stop it, you fool! You'll have us in a ditch.

(Horn honks)

(Horn honks)

Is that all your beastly Dutch oven can do?

(She grunts)

(Revving)

(Horn honks)

(Horn honks)

(Owl hoots)

(Owl hoots)
- Where are you? Where are you hiding?

(Owl hoots)

Where are you? Where are you hiding?
Oh, don't be silly!

(Merry tune on penny whistle)

Oh, he...he's too stupid.

(Groans)

(Penny whistle continues)

(Owl hoots)

(Gasps)

(Penny whistle resumes)

- Who's that?
- A terror induced by forests and darkness,

known by the ancients as "panic fear"

or fear of the great god Pan.

It's interesting that modern progress
has not altogether succeeded

in banishing it from ill-disciplined minds.

- What do you want to behave like an idiot for?
- Advertisement, chiefly.

"One must be different." I'm always different.

- It's a cheap way of producing an effect.
- It is good enough for gin-soaked minds.

On such as you, if you will pardon me,
subtlety would be wasted.

I wish you'd come down here.

Possibly, but I prefer to be looked up to.

Then you can stay up there all night!

I'm going home.

Your shoes ain't very suitable for a long walk,

but if it amuses you, go home by all means.

Why should I have to walk?

Because I have the ignition keys of both cars
in my pockets.

- I hate you!
- Then you're on the high road to loving me,

which is only natural.

We needs must love the highest,
when we see it.

- Can you see me?
- Not very well.

Come down, Harlequin.
I wish you'd come down.

If you came down, I...I could see you better.

And love me better, perhaps?

- Perhaps.
- Then I'm safer where I am,

knowing what happens to your lovers.

Come down, Harlequin, and I'll show you
how to get a kick out of life!

(Thud)

Well?

- Will I do?
- For what?

- For you.
- And what are you good for, to me?

- I'm beautiful.
- Not as beautiful as you were.

And in five years' time, you'll be ugly.

I wouldn't want you for five years.

- I wouldn't want you for five minutes.
- (Chuckles)

Tell me about Milligan.

Where does he get his supplies from?

- Supplies?
- You know what I mean.

You aren't one of Todd's regular lot, are you?

- Not at present.
- Well, don't.

I loathe him.

I'd do anything to cut loose from him.

He knows too much, and besides...

He has got the stuff.

Lots of people have tried to chuck Todd,

but they always go back again

on Fridays and Saturdays.

- Is that when he hands it out?
- Mostly.

(Giggles) But not tonight! (Chuckles)

You weren't there tonight. It was too amusing!

(Giggles) He'd run short, or something.
There was the most hellish row.

And that septic woman, Barbs Woodley,
was screaming all over the place!

(Chuckles) She scratched his face.
It was...too amusing.

Rabelaisian, no doubt.

Now tell me about Victor Dean.

- I told you.
- You introduced him to Milligan, didn't you?

- I'll get the stuff for you, if you want it.
- Why can't I get it myself, direct from Milligan?

Todd's a beast. Keep clear of him.

Are you warning me for my own good?

- Yes, I am.
- What devotion!

I mean it.

Life's hell, anyway.
Worse, if you get mixed up with Todd.

Then why don't you cut loose?

- Are you afraid of him?
- Not of him.

The people behind him.

Todd's afraid, too.

He'd never let me go. He'd kill me first.

How absolutely fascinating.

I must get to know Todd better.

You'd end by being afraid, too.

Should I?

Well, there's a kick in being afraid.

Now, shall I take you home,
as I did once before?

- Exactly as you did before?
- Well, not exactly.

- You were drunk then. You're sober now.
- (Chuckles)

Well, comparatively.

But with that trifling difference, the programme
will be carried out according to precedent.

Darling...it's been wonderful.

What's happened? Where are we?

We're home. Where's your latchkey?

Kiss me. Take off your mask.

My poor child...

Who would believe that Dian de Momerie
could fall for a fancy dress and a penny whistle?

It isn't that. It's you.

There's...something strange about you.
I'm afraid of you.

You aren't thinking about me at all. You're...
you're thinking about something horrible.

I see it. Wait.

You're thinking about something.

A hangman.
There's a hangman in your thoughts.

Why are you thinking about hanging?

Upon my word, that is the oddest aftereffect
of drink and drugs that I've met yet.

Oh...

(Door closes)

(Engine starts)