Original subtitles

So we have no idea who he was?

Nope.

No doubt we'll end up having to circularise the laundries.

Or a photograph, perhaps, in the London and provincial papers advertising our requirements.

I doubt if that would produce anything.

Oh, yes.

A gentleman whose clothes are so well cut and yet who deprives his tailor of the credit

is like ourselves, Charles, not of the advertising sort.

This, I see, is amazingly undamaged.

Yes, it was knocked away by the train onto the platform.

And here again, the maker's golden imprint has been removed.

One does not, however... At least you and I and this gentleman

do not consider the brand to be the guarantee of quality.

For us, the quality guarantees the brand.

You will doubtless have already noticed that the crown is markedly dolichocephalic

and the curve of the brim is equally characteristic.

I just thought it looked a bit out of date.

It is a trifle behind the current fashion, but undoubtedly of recent manufacture.

There are only two hatters in London who could have made this hat -

Liversedge of Savile Row and Hartley's of Bond Street.

Send one of your sleuths to each of those establishments

and ask for the name of the customer with the elongated head,

who has a fancy for that type of brim.

Thanks. I rather thought you might be able to put your finger on either the tailor or the hatter.

And while you're tracing the owner of the silk hat,

I think I shall have a chat with Mr Tallboy's stockbroker.

Tallboy? Is that the chap that leaves bundles of treasury notes lying around all over the place?

I'm surprised he's got anything left to stockbroke.

Which is one very good reason why I want to talk to him.

And he is a Mr T Smith of 127, Old Broad Street.

MAN: Can I help you, sir?

Ah! This is 127, Old Broad Street?

- That's right, sir. - I'd like to speak to Mr Smith, if I may.

Mr Smith doesn't live here.

Ah. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to let me leave a note for him.

If I've said it once, I've said it 500 times.

There is no Mr Smith here and never was to my knowledge.

Oh, yes, well, I did rather wonder when I saw "Cummings" on the door.

If you're the gentleman who addresses those letters here,

I'd be glad if you'd take that for an answer. I'm tired of handing them back to the postman.

I don't know Mr Smith myself. I was asked by a friend of mine if I'd leave a message for him.

This isn't an accommodation address, by any chance?

I've already said it isn't and you can tell your friend that.

It's no good sending letters here.

People seem to think I've got nothing better to do than hand out letters to postmen.

I'm sure you have.

If I wasn't a conscientious man, I'd burn the lot of them, and I will if it goes on any longer.

Tell your friend that from me.

I'm very sorry. There just seems to have been some mistake.

Mistake? I don't believe it's a mistake at all. It's a stupid practical joke, that's what it is.

If it is, I'm the victim of it. I shall speak to my friend.

You tell your friend to come here himself. I'll soon know what to say to him.

Oh, what a jolly good idea. Then you can tell him off, what.

Well, I'm uncommonly grateful to you for your help.

If your friend should turn up, what name will he give?

Milligan.

A Mr Milligan.

Milligan?

- Mean anything to you? - Should it?

Well, he told me to come and see you for a... spot of the doings, if you know what I mean.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I've never heard of this Major Milligan and I don't want to. I think you'd better go now.

Yes, of course.

Well, good day to you.

Incidentally, you're absolutely right, you know. My mistake. He is a major.

Yes, sir.

I did see Mr Mountjoy go out last night.

About 7.45.

And he was wearing evening dress.

- Did you see him return? - No, sir.

He was not, strictly speaking, my employer, sir.

That is to say, I act as valet for all the tenants.

So you can't say positively that he was at home last night?

No, sir. Nor can I say positively that he wasn't.

His bed hasn't been slept in.

That is not at all unusual.

Mr Mountjoy was frequently out all night.

Though he generally returned for breakfast at 9.30.

I see.

And you're quite certain that nobody else has been in this flat today?

To my knowledge, sir, nobody except myself and the chambermaid.

- Unless you count the man from the post office. - Oh. What did he want?

- He brought the new telephone directories. - Did he come into the room?

No, sir. He knocked at the door while I was brushing Mr Mountjoy's suit.

He gave me the new books and I handed him out the old ones.

Was Mr Mountjoy a rich man?

He appeared to be in very easy circumstances, sir.

Well, what was his profession?

I believe he was a gentleman of independent means, sir.

I never heard of him being connected with any business.

Did you know that he had a silk hat from which the maker's name had been removed?

Had he, sir?

No, I can't say I'd noticed.

Really? Well, I suppose it's the sort of thing that's easily overlooked.

How long had he lived here?

About six or seven years, I believe, sir.

I've only been here four years myself.

And when did he purchase the hat?

About 18 months ago, sir, if I remember correctly.

As long ago as that? I fancied the hat looked newer.

He didn't wear it more than once or twice a week, sir.

And Mr Mountjoy never troubled about the fashion of his hats.

There was one particular shape he fancied and he had them all specially made to that pattern.

Yes, I know. I've spoken to his hatter.

Tell me, did Mr Mountjoy... roll his own cigarettes?

I never saw him do so, sir.

He smoked Turkish Abdullahs as a rule.

So he did.

Thank you, Mr Withers.

As you've probably gathered, there will have to be a police inquiry into Mr Mountjoy's death.

So if I were you, I'd say as little as possible to any outside person.

I quite understand, sir.

And you're quite certain that nobody else has been in this flat?

- Quite certain, sir. - I see. Thank you. That's all.

Strange, very strange.

Have you enquired into Mountjoy's income?

Yes. He had a regular investment income of about �1,000 a year.

But no irregularities.

You know, Peter, I'm beginning to wonder if we've discovered a mare's nest.

Then what knocked Puncheon out? A kick from the mare's heel?

Perhaps Mountjoy merely got fed up.

You'd get fed up if you were pursued all over London by a Puncheon.

Possibly. But I wouldn't knock him out and then leave him to his fate.

- How is he, by the way? - Puncheon? He's still unconscious.

Concussion, probably. He must have banged his head up against the wall

when Mountjoy got him with the cosh or whatever it was he used.

It's odd that Mountjoy should have been snuffed out so inconveniently for you.

That's what you think, is it?

Old lad, your grey matter ain't working as it ought.

"Are you tired at the end of the day?

Do you suffer from torpor and lethargy after meals?

Try Sparkletone."

Thank you.

No, Charles, some accidents are too accidental to be true.

When a gentleman removes his tailor's tab,

and takes the trouble to slice his hatter's imprint away with a razor,

then skips about from Fleet Street to South Kensington

in dress clothes in the middle of the morning, he has something to hide.

And if he tops off his odd behaviour

by falling underneath a train without the smallest apparent provocation,

it's because somebody else is interested in getting things hidden, too.

The more risks that somebody else takes in the process,

the more certain it is that the thing is worth hiding. Cheers.

What are you grinning at?

You're a great guesser, Peter.

Would it surprise you to learn that you're not the only one?

No, it would not. You're holding out on me, Charles. What is it?

A witness to the assault. Someone on the platform.

- A witness? - Yes, a woman.

A woman? Ah! A middle-aged hysterical spinster?

Exactly.

We didn't get much sense out of her for about an hour or so.

And we weren't inclined to believe her at first, but she said she saw Mountjoy being pushed.

No, tripped, to be accurate.

- By whom? - The description could fit 50,000 men.

Nondescript is what it amounts to.

But the point is, Peter, why?

Why did Mountjoy have to be suppressed?

Wait a moment, Charles.

He must have been going to fetch the dope when friend Puncheon butted in.

He obviously collects the stuff himself in bulk, then he parcels it out into smaller packets

before he hands it on to Milligan.

Then why have none of the gang tried to get into the flat to remove the evidence?

This chap...Cummings.

- You say he knew Milligan's name? - He certainly did.

And Tallboy is mixed up in it somewhere, too.

I enquired at the returned letter office and they told me

that a letter for Mr Smith was delivered and returned to them regularly every week.

It never carried the sender's name and when opened,

it was either empty or contained just a blank sheet of paper.

I must say the post office johnnies

were uncommonly helpful when I mentioned your name.

It's one thing being a...

The post office!

Charles, what imbeciles we have been. Of course!

Where do all good telephone directories go when they die?

- Telephone directories? - Pulping mills, probably.

They did remove something from that flat, and that was where Mountjoy kept his secrets.

- In the telephone directory? - Precisely, Charles.

Telephone directories in the plural. And since when, old Parker bird,

has the post office taken to exchanging both telephone directories,

the A-K and the L-Z at one and the same time?

What's the matter with you?

I don't like being summonsed to meet anyone.

I had a visit today from a friend of yours.

- Who? - That's for you to tell me.

He said you'd sent him.

I didn't...

I hope you haven't been trying anything foolish, Major Milligan. I did warn you.

I-I give you my solemn word.

Hell, I wouldn't know where to send anyone.

I don't even know who you are.

He knew your name.

He knew what business we were in.

Now, I want to know who he is.

What did he look like?

It'll be midnight before we get through this lot.

My dear Charles, you should thank providence for post office efficiency.

If the last official exchange of the L-Z volume hadn't been executed a fortnight ago,

our masquerading friends would have lifted the old one from underneath our noses

and we'd have had no chance whatsoever of catching up with it.

Do you seriously think Mountjoy marked his directories in some way?

I seriously hope he did, Charles.

Nine out of ten people mark their directories, Peter.

Count your blessings, old lad. We're lucky this lot hasn't been pulped already.

Temper, temper, temper.

How does he come to be involved with us?

Er...

I've no idea.

He... He's been seeing a lot of Dian -

the de Momerie girl.

- Perhaps she's let something slip. - I correct other people's mistakes very quickly.

I-I'll ask her. I'll have a word with her.

That will hardly be necessary.

Bredon.

Pym's Publicity.

- Look... - Get out, Major.

Yes.

(Big Ben chimes)

You know, Peter, I'm beginning to wonder if we're on the right track here.

Charles.

Charles, I think this is it.

What?

There is a whole list of public houses in the central London area that have been ticked off.

There are three towards the end of the "L"s, two in the "M"s, two in the "N"s,

and so on, so on, so on and two in the "W"s. Look, see for yourself.

The White Stag in Wapping.

And the White Stoat in Oxford Street.

Now find me the next one.

All right. Well...

The next "W" after that is the...

Good heavens.

The White Swan in Covent Garden.

- Exactly. - Just a minute.

Why hasn't that one been ticked off?

Because the post office had already taken that volume away.

And I will bet you any money you like that in the new volume that the gang carried away,

the White Swan was duly ticked off in turn.

I'm not quite sure what you're driving at.

I'm making rather a long cast, but what I'm suggesting is this -

that when the stuff comes up to London,

it is delivered to whichever pub stands next on the list in the directory.

You mean, one week it'll be a name in the "A"s, say for instance, the Anchor.

Next week it'll be a name in the "B"s - Bricklayers Arms.

The following week in the "C"s and so on through to X, Y, Z.

And the people that have to call for their dope, wander into the pub indicated

where it is passed to them by the head distributor or his agent.

Good Lord. And since it never goes to the same place twice,

my men can go and talk about dogs and parrots at the White Swan till they're blue in the face.

They should have been at the Yellow Peril or the York and Lancaster. Oh, really!

Hang on a minute. Now, if you're right,

and this was a "W" week, then the next week must be an "X" week.

- That's not very likely. - All right, we'll say "Y" week.

There we are.

Now, the next pub after the last one ticked...

Yelverton Arms in Soho.

Yes, but wait a moment, old lad.

If they've been taking these in alphabetical order,

how is it that they've got three in the "L"s, two in the "M"s, four in the "N"s, so on, so on, so on,

two in the "W"s, but absolutely none whatsoever have been ticked in the "O"s and the "V"s?

No, we are missing something, Charles, old lad, and that is important.

Well, Peter, I'm too tired to think about it tonight.

Let's leave it, shall we?

Maybe you're right.

If I can't be of any more help to you, I'll toddle off home to bed.

I have my Whifflet scheme to get out early tomorrow morning.

Good night, Mr Pym.

Good night.

Ah, Mr Pym.

I want a word with you, Bredon, on the matter you are really here about.

What progress has been made?

So much, Mr Pym, I don't see how I can take even you into my confidence.

I happen to be employing you.

It ain't a matter of employment now, I'm afraid. It's a matter for the police.

Police? I don't want any scandal.

Possibly not, but I don't see how that could be avoided if it comes to trial.

Look here, Bredon, I don't like your behaviour. I put you in here as my private inquiry agent.

I admit you've made yourself useful in other capacities, but you are not indispensable.

If you insist on exceeding your authority...

You could sack me, of course, but would that be wise?

But damn it, can't you give me some idea if your suspicions point to any particular person?

I'm afraid I can't, Mr Pym.

A few days ago, I thought I knew.

But due facts have come to my knowledge that suggest that it might be somebody else.

At the moment it could be anybody. It might even be you.

This is outrageous.

You can take your money and go.

If you get rid of me, the police will almost certainly want to put somebody else in my place.

If the police were here, I should at least know where I was.

I know nothing about you, except that Mrs Arbuthnot recommended you.

I never did like the idea of a private detective.

Switchboard.

This is Mr Pym.

Yes, I am speaking from Mr Bredon's office.

Get Scotland Yard on the phone and put the call through to me here.

In view of your uncooperative attitude, Bredon, I've no alternative.

When the call comes through, ask for Chief Inspector Parker

and tell him that Lord Peter Wimsey would like to speak to him.

- He'll understand what it's about. - What the de...?

I'm sorry, Mr Pym, I didn't realise that Mr Bredon was in conference.

I remembered leaving these here.

- Good night. - Good night.

How long was...?

Oh, well.

Talking of cigarettes,

would you care for one while you're waiting?

"Wimsey.

Peter Death Bredon, Lord.

DSO.

Born 1890."

Thank you. Yes, I see.

Thank you.

Why didn't you tell me?

Hello, Charles.

I gather you've established my credit.

Most grateful, old lad.

I suppose he's entitled to know what's going on.

But I wouldn't tell him everything if I were you, Peter.

Anyway, I'll leave that to your discretion.

By the way, young Puncheon has recovered consciousness. Yes.

It seems that Mountjoy must have realised he was being followed.

Well, yes, he made a phone call from Piccadilly.

Also, it would seem that it was not Mountjoy that attacked Puncheon.

No, no, no, it was another chap,

a man in a chequered cloth cap.

Taxi!

Argh!

It's finished, finished!

And look, Peter, I know accidents can happen, but you've really got to try and be more careful.

I shall, Polly, I shall.

Of course, Tallboy could merely be the cat's paw for somebody else.

Mr Pym, perhaps? He's rich enough, isn't he?

No, no, no, no, Charles. No, I don't think it's Pym.

Not unless he was trying to find out through me exactly how much Victor Dean really knew.

But what I cannot get over, you know, is what Milligan said.

That the whole show was being run from Pym's.

I don't see why the whole firm has to be brought into it, anyway.

You say the show is run from there.

Well, it could be someone at Pym's is just using the organisation for something. Couldn't it?

Yes, but how?

I mean, crime doesn't want to advertise, far from it.

I don't know. If you want to get in touch with the maximum number of people

all over the country in the shortest possible time, there's nothing like a press campaign.

Polly, I am not so sure that you haven't said something useful and important.

Everything I say is useful and important.

(Child crying)

Just think it over while I see to the children.

You know, we could perfectly well afford a nurse.

Don't worry, Charles. When she wants a nurse, she'll ask for one.

Seems to me, you'll be wanting a nurse if you want to avoid any more accidents.

It wasn't an accident, Charles.

What?

I didn't say, because I didn't want to alarm Polly. That taxi came straight at me.

The driver was a repellent-looking individual in a chequered cloth cap.

- The devil. I'll get onto that straight away. - No, don't. You'll only give the game away.

Once you've made your arrests and the gang has been rounded up,

our repellent individual will be harmless.

Well, I don't really like leaving it that long, Peter.

It may not be too long, Charles.

- In fact, I think that I'm close to something. - What?

Come and sit over here.

Now, look at this.

I found that in Dean's desk on the day I arrived at Pym's.

It's a list of dates with a letter of the alphabet opposite each one.

Now, I've been comparing those dates with the calendar.

- And? - They are all Tuesdays.

Now, I recall that I joined Pym's on Tuesday.

And on that day, Tallboy came into the typists' office with a letter for a stamp.

After he'd gone, Miss Rossiter read out the name on the envelope

and it was to a Mr K Smith.

Now, on the Tuesday preceding Mr Puncheon's adventure at the White Swan,

he came in with another letter.

Same address, but this time it was to a Mr W Smith.

The week after that, following Tuesday, exactly the same thing, but this time to a Mr T Smith.

In fact, on each occasion, it was exactly the same address, but with a different initial.

All right. So far so good.

But the selection of the initial seems to be quite random.

No, there's more to it than that, Charles.

What can be the rule that governs the letter sequence?

Sorry about the row. Your young namesake wants to come down and see you, Peter.

He just can't see why his uncle should be so busy with dull detective business

when his nephew is so much more interesting.

I have often asked myself the same question. I gather that you hardened your heart.

Well, you heard him howling.

Tears, idle tears.

Well, I'd better be off. See if we've had any luck at the Yelverton Arms.

And, Peter, take care of yourself.

Yes, I will.

If the doorbell rings, I'll watch out for the disguised gas inspector,

the slit-eyed Chink, the golden-haired maiden...

Bye-bye, darling.

Great Scott!

- Now what's up? - "Tears" you said, Charles.

"Idle tears." Wait a moment, hang on. Hang on. Don't rush this. Wait one moment, please.

That is it!

I will never say that children are a nuisance again. Sit down and look at this.

- Now, you see that date? - Yes.

Now, that was the Tuesday before the Friday

on which the cocaine was handed to Puncheon in the White Swan.

It was also the Tuesday

that the Nutrax headline was finally agreed for that same Friday's paper.

- And do you know what that was? - No.

"Why Blame The Woman?"

You will notice, Charles, that it begins with a "W".

- And White Swan also begins with a "W". - Go on.

Now, this Tuesday here

the Nutrax headline was then finally agreed as "Tears, Idle Tears".

It was also the date on which Mr Tallboy addressed a letter to Mr "T" Smith.

And that advertisement appeared on that Friday.

I'm sorry, but I can't quite see why...

Look, Tallboy sends a letter to this non-existent Mr Smith every Tuesday.

But it is not always to a Mr "T" Smith. Sometimes it's other kinds of Smith.

But on the day when the Nutrax headline began with a "T", Mr Smith was Mr "T" Smith.

Now, on the Tuesday that I joined Pym's,

the headline was "Kittle Cattle" and on that Tuesday, Mr Smith...

..was Mr "K" Smith.

And on the following Friday, the stuff was distributed from, let's say, the King's Head.

I'll bet my boots it was, Charles. And on the day of the great Nutrax row,

the headline was altered at the last moment.

Something went wrong with Milligan's supply. It never turned up.

Good Lord. Do you know, Peter, I believe you're onto something.

Do you? So do I. Wait a moment. Now, look...

Now, Cummings. Cummings, Cummings. Cummings gets a letter.

He looks at the initial on the envelope. He then passes it back to the postman.

He then gets in touch with his head distributor,

who gets hold of the dope.

He then looks in the telephone directory

and tries to find the next pub on the list whose name begins with that same initial.

- It sounds pretty complicated. - Well, it has to be.

Then the retail agents, if we may call them so, consult the Morning Echo

and the telephone directory.

And they go to exactly the same pub where the stuff is handed to them again in a packet.

You know, poor old Puncheon must have, I don't know,

accidentally mentioned some code name or another.

The dope is not distributed in alphabetical order.

No!

Well, good gracious me, no wonder you've had trouble, Charles.

And we've sent your lads to the wrong place again tonight.

Oh, well, never mind, old lad.

We'll pull it off next week.

If we live so long.

If I've said it once, I'll say it 100 times.

Damn and blast Nutrax for turning Tuesdays into purgatory.

A choice of six perfectly good headlines and they still can't make up their minds.

Well, which is the least unfavoured so far?

They might just accept "Stale, Flat And Unprofitable? Try Nutrax".

Stale, flat and unprofitable? I don't like that much.

It's Shakespeare - Hamlet - so it has to be good.

They have to accept it.

(Excited cries)

What's it for, Mr Willis?

It's for the coffee break, by way of a celebration.

I'm engaged to be married.

(Exclamations of congratulation)

- Who's the lucky lady, Mr Willis? - Miss Pamela Dean.

My dear chap, many, many congratulations.

Thanks, Bredon, thanks.

- Jolly well done, Willis, old boy. - Thank you.

Well, well, well. We might have a double wedding yet.

What? Who else?

I was only just saying to Miss Parton

that Miss Meteyard has hardly been able to take her eyes off a certain party these last few days.

Oh, look, she's blushing.

When are we to offer our congratulations, Miss Meteyard?

Do you recollect the old lady's advice to the bright young man?

Can't say I do. What was it?

Some people can be funny without being vulgar, and some can be both funny and vulgar.

I recommend that you be either the one or the other.

Yes, well, let's cut the cake, shall we?

- How rude we can be when we try. - I do hate a person who can't take a joke.

Excuse me.

Are you Mr Death Bredon?

I am.

I'm a police officer. I have a warrant here for your arrest on suspicion of murder.

- I must warn you that anything you say... - Murder?

Whose murder?

The murder of Miss Dian de Momerie.

Poor Dian.

Yes, she was found this morning in a wood outside Maidenhead with her throat cut.

A few yards away from the body, we found a black mask hanging on a bush.

Enquiry among her friends elicited the fact

that she'd been going out at night with a masked harlequin.

It would sound funny and absurd if it weren't so tragic.

Somebody knew his name, of course.

Of course. Bredon.

The accused when charged, said...

I done it.

And so in a sense I did, Charles.

If she'd never seen me, she'd have been alive today.

Well, she's no great loss.

Anyway, I'm beginning to see their little game.

You see, they haven't yet tumbled to the fact

that Death Bredon and Lord Peter Wimsey are one and the same person.

Now, their idea is to keep Bredon quietly on ice until they've had time to settle their affairs.

Because they know you can't get bail on a murder charge.

Well, what happens next?

Well, my idea is that we take immediate steps

to confirm that Mr Death Bredon and Lord Peter Wimsey are not one person but two.

My thoughts exactly.

And they put the handcuffs on him and marched him off.

Mind you, I've always known there was something fishy about Mr Bredon.

But murder?

Just think, we might have all have had our throats cut.

What about you, Miss Meteyard, were you surprised?

Yes. Yes, I was.

What I can't understand is why they haven't yet murdered Tallboy.

I've been wondering about that myself.

The only possible answer is that they haven't matured their new plans yet.

They're leaving him for the moment, because they have to deliver one more consignment

and with me out of the way, they can take the risk.

Well, you, as Bredon, will be out of their way until they make their final delivery.

We can't have you murdered.

By the way, Peter, the press are waiting for you downstairs,

already primed with your cousin's arrest and his hideous past.

I shall make it known that your scurrilous cousin is safely under lock and key, leaving you...

- As myself. - ..free to make your statement.

After which I can return home.

How deliciously devious of you, Charles. I shall enjoy that.

Well, first things first, Peter. You'd better think about what you're going to say.

Let me see. How about...

"It would be useless, in view of the remarkable likeness between us,

to deny that there is a relationship between this man Bredon and myself."

In fact, he has on various occasions given trouble by impersonating me.

But if you were to see us together,

you would notice that he is undoubtedly the darker of the two.

MISS PARTON: I can't help feeling sorry for that nice cousin of his.

Arranging Mr Bredon's defence after all the trouble he's caused.

Ooh, and listen to this.

"Bredon had recently taken a post in a well-known commercial firm,

and was supposed to have turned over a new leaf." That's us.

My. No wonder My Pym's phoned in to say he's not well.

Mr Tallboy.

There's something I think you should know.

Hello, Peter? Yes.

Yes, we're all ready to go.

Yes, we've intercepted Tallboy's letter to Cummings.

It was addressed to Mr S Smith.

That's right, "S" for sugar. According to the telephone directory,

that means the Stag at Bay, Drury Lane.

Of course, I'll let you know what happens. You'll be at the flat?

Yes, I'll be here.

Splendid. And, Charles...

Good luck, old lad.

I'm sorry about that.

Won't you sit down?

I've come, Lord Peter...

Bredon... For God's sake, which one are you?

I'm both.

Look, do please sit down.

You're looking rather rotten.

I think perhaps you ought to have a spot of something.

Thanks.

I see that Nutrax finally accepted "Stale, Flat And Unprofitable."

Not exactly one of Ingleby's better efforts.

What?

I'm just proving to you that I really am Bredon.

Now, get that straight down you.

And then tell me why you're here.

I came because...

I came because I couldn't stick it any longer. I came to tell you all about it.

I don't think there's very much that you can tell me.

It's out of my hands now, at any rate.

Well, I suppose I'm rather glad in a way.

If it wasn't for my wife and child...

Oh, my God.

I've been a bloody fool.

(Car outside)

We all of us have been at one time or another.

TALLBOY: What put you onto this?

A letter written by Victor Dean.

Yes. The little swine threatened to write to Pym.

Which he did on the day of his death.

His sister found it amongst his belongings at his desk.

If you're going to tell me all about this, I think it would be best if you began at the beginning.

It all started about two years ago.

I was rather hard-up

and I wanted to get married.

I'd been losing money on the horses as well.

I met a man in a restaurant.

He seemed a fairly ordinary, suburban sort of City man.

We got talking.

He seemed very interested in my job at Pym's.

I believe I know him.

I mentioned that I was involved with the Nutrax account.

He listened for a bit and then he asked me if I'd like to make an extra �1,000 a year.

A tempting offer.

In the state I was in.

It all sounded very innocent.

I mean, it didn't sound...criminal.

He said that if I let him know every Tuesday

the initial of the Nutrax headline for the following Friday, I would be very well paid for it.

Didn't you ask him what he was paying for?

Yes, of course.

He said that he was fond of having a bet on one thing or another with some friends of his.

His idea was to bet on the initial of the headline.

I see. So he would be betting on a certainty as often as he liked.

Not actually criminal, but...

dirty enough to require secrecy.

And you fell for it?

Yes.

We arranged a code. I sent him a letter.

- Yes, I know about that. - I fell for it.

There's really no excuse. I was damned hard-up.

I suppose I ought to have guessed there was more to it than that.

But you didn't want to guess.

Perhaps not.

And then somehow Victor Dean found out.

First of all, he wanted fifty-fifty.

And then he demanded more.

If he'd split on me, I'd have lost my job as well as the other money.

My wife was going to have a baby. And I was behind with my tax.

- And... - And then there was the Vavasour girl.

And I got mixed up with Ethel.

One day I decided I couldn't stick it any longer.

I told him I was going to chuck the whole show and he could do as he damn well pleased.

And then he told you what it was all about.

Dope.

He said that I could very easily get 12 years' penal servitude

for helping to run the dope traffic.

Dirty, very dirty.

Did it ever occur to you to turn King's evidence and give the whole game away?

Yes. No!

Well, I was terrified.

I couldn't think properly. But I told him that was what I was going to do.

He said he'd get his shot in first and write to Pym that very day.

I begged him to hold off for a week or two while I thought things over.

Well, I thought things over.

And you decided that Victor Dean was a wart

and the world would be a better place without him.

One day, I...

I saw Miss Rossiter with Ginger Joe.

She'd caught him playing with a catapult,

so she confiscated it and put it in the drawer of her desk.

I'm a good shot with any kind of a missile.

I realised how easily a man could be plugged...

through the skylight... as he was going down the iron staircase.

If the blow didn't kill him, then the fall might.

Anyway, it was worth a try.

I pinched the catapult from Miss Rossiter's desk during one lunch hour.

And during the next few days, I tried some practice shots.

Then one fine, bright day,

when all the skylights were open,

I rang up Dean on my telephone,

pretended I was ringing for Mr Armstrong in the conference room.

Told him to bring down some copy

and the Times Atlas.

While he was looking for the atlas,

I slipped into his room

and pinched the scarab that he always kept on his desk there.

If anybody found it afterwards, they would naturally assume

that it had tumbled from his pocket as he fell.

Then I went up onto the roof and I waited.

And when I saw him...

I stayed on the roof until all the fuss had died away.

And then I came quietly down the stairs.

They asked me for a shilling for the little swine's wreath.

And then you came along.

You started talking about catapults.

I got badly frightened.

And then one night outside this flat,

you tried to dispose of me.

I've-I've made an awful mess of everything.

Wimsey, how much of this has got to come out?

Everything, I suppose.

Even the Vavasour girl?

I don't know.

You didn't fall for my impressive arrest, I take it?

Oh, yes. Yes, I did.

I believed in it implicitly.

I offered up the most heartfelt thanksgivings. I thought I'd got off.

Then what brought you round here tonight?

Miss Meteyard.

Ah, yes, of course.

Dean had tried to blackmail her once over some man or another.

There wasn't much to it, or so she said.

But if Pym had found out, he'd have been down on her like a sledgehammer.

Wimsey, I've been in torment. Why haven't I been arrested before this?

They've been waiting.

You see, you are not really as important as this dope gang.

Yes, yes.

Yes, I do see.

I've been a tethered kid left here to trap the tigers.

When?

Tonight.

Wimsey, you've been decent to me.

Tell me, is there no way out of this?

It's not for myself exactly, but for my wife and child.

Pointed at all their lives,

that would be damnable.

You couldn't give me 24 hours?

You'd never get past the ports.

If I were alone, I would give myself up. I honestly would.

Even knowing that you would hang?

Yes.

There is another alternative.

Oh, yes, I had thought of that. I suppose it is a possibility.

- It would be the public school way out of it. - No, that's not what I meant.

What I had in mind...

..would not do a great deal for you.

In fact, it wouldn't save you.

But it would do quite a lot for your wife and child.

How?

They never need know anything about all this.

In fact, nobody need ever know anything about all this...

if you do as I tell you.

I'll do anything. Tell me.

Then go home now.

On foot.

And don't look behind you.

Yes.

Yes, I think I understand.

Quickly, then.

Thank you.

Good night.

(Engine revs)

Peter, we bagged the whole crew. Picked up Cummings and Milligan,

went down to the Stag and waited for the rest of them to drop into our arms.

- It went off beautifully. (Glass smashes)

Oh, sorry. I...

Careless of me.

Nervous tension, old chap.

- Must try some Nutrax. - That was the codeword by the way.

- Anything to do with Nutrax. - I rather thought it might be.

Poor old Puncheon must have used it accidentally.

Well, either that or he had his copy of the Morning Echo open at the advertisement.

It turned out that Cummings was the top dog of the whole show.

As soon as we'd collared him, he coughed up the whole story, the mangy blighter.

It's very satisfactory. All we have to do now is collar your murderer chap. What's his name?

- Tallboy. - Then everything in the garden will be lovely.

- Top hole. - I tell you what,

I've got some phone calls to make, then we'll go and celebrate.

L-Look, Charles.

Not tonight, if you don't mind, old lad. I...

- I don't feel much like celebrating tonight. - Oh. You all right?

- Yes, yes, yes, I'm fine. - Oh, all right, then.

Well, I hope you've been comfortable.

Give us some more notice next time and I'll put a piano in for you.

Good night, old lad.

Oh, aren't they beautiful?

Ooh, they're lovely. Thank you, Mr Bredon.

Ooh, I mean "my lord".

Well, well, well, who'd have thought we were nursing a cuckoo in the nest?

Well, it's been a pleasure, old chap.

I thought you were turning into a decent sort of a copywriter.

Oh, kind of you to say so.

I just dropped in to see if I'd left anything lying around,

and, well, I suppose I'd better pop off now.

- Goodbye, ladies. - Goodbye, my lord.

- Miss Parton. - Goodbye.

- Goodbye, Willis. Remember me to Pamela. - Goodbye, Lord Peter.

- Yes, I will. - Goodbye, Ingleby.

- Cheerio. - And thanks for all your help.

Oh, yes, and...

Give this to Ginger Joe with my compliments, would you?

I always said he was a gentleman.

MISS METEYARD: Ah! I thought I'd missed you.

So you're off?

Yes, I'm off.

Well, I'm... I'm sorry about... well, you know, all this.

It's not your fault. Things have to happen.

You're the sort that pushes around and makes them happen.

I prefer to leave them alone. You have to have both kinds.

Well, perhaps your way is wiser and more charitable.

No, it isn't. I just shirk responsibility, that's all.

Well, maybe not always.

We were taking a collection on the day you arrived.

I'm taking one on the day you're leaving. Care to make a contribution?

Oh, of course.

Yes, I'd almost forgotten. Young Willis's engagement present.

No. Mr Tallboy's wreath.

Oh, yes.

Yes, I...

I read about the accident.

Goodbye, Lord Peter.

Goodbye, Miss Meteyard.