All language subtitles for The.Deadly.Affair.1967.1080p.BluRay.H264.AAC-RARBG eng

Mr. Fennan,
we know it's idiotic,

but when
the Foreign Secretary finds

that sort of letter
in his in-tray,

it's like London airport getting
an anonymous phone call

to say that there's a bomb
on the Prime Minister's plane,

and somebody's
got to do a check.

Was the letter anonymous?

Yes.

Was it literate?

Oh, yes, properly spelt,
properly punctuated.

No cranky stuff.

Handwriting?

It was typewritten.

An Olivetti portable.
Westminster postmark.

And what exactly did it allege?

It said that you were a member

of the Communist Party
at Oxford in the '30s

and that you were still
secretly sympathetic

with the communist cause.

But my dear Mr...

Dobbs, Charles Dobbs.

Practically everybody was a member
of the Party at Oxford in the '30s.

Half the present
Cabinet were Party men.

Please!

You know, Mr. Dobbs,
when you're young,

you hitch the wagon of
whatever you believe in

to whatever star looks likely
to get the wagon moving.

When I was an undergraduate,

the wagon was social justice,

and the star was Karl Marx.

We perambulated with banners.

We fed hunger marchers.

A few of us fought in Spain.

Some of us even wrote poetry.

I still believe it was a good
wagon, but an impracticable star.

We had faith and
hope and charity.

A wrong faith, a false hope,

but I still think
the right sort of charity.

Our eyes were dewy with it.

Dewy and half-shut.

Who opened them?

- Ann?
- No, no, Appleby.

Oh, Bill! I'm sorry.

Well, I hope you're
wide awake, old boy,

because your subject
Fennan has shot himself.

But when I was in the
park with him this morning,

he was as happy
as a bloody lark.

I liked him.

We had a perfectly
satisfactory interview,

and I as good as promised
him full security clearance.

What on Earth makes
them think it was suicide?

Body position.

- Yes. I'll be right over.
- How long?

In, well, about 20
minutes if I can get a taxi.

Ann took the car

and I don't think
she's back yet.

Does the Adviser know yet?

Yes.

Oh, hell.

Well, I'll be as
quick as I can. Bye.

Ann?

I want to go to...

Oh, well, that's
my own car coming back.

There you are,
five bob, all right?

Oh, thanks.
Thanks very much.

Good night.

Good night.

Are you arriving
or leaving, Charles?

Leaving. Just the office.
There's a flap on.

You have a good evening?

Yes,

I'm afraid so.

Who was it this time?

Oh, I see.
Somebody I know.

Do you want the car?

- Darling...
- Get back to bed, darling.

Back?

I turned your fire on.
It's bloody cold.

Oh, Charlie,
you're in the nick of time.

What for?

To stop the Adviser from
having kittens, darling.

He just left Scotland Yard in a
state of advanced pregnancy.

There's a squabble going on about
which department handles the case.

- Special Branch says...
- Special Branch.

CID says CID.

Poor old Surrey Police
don't know what's hit them.

Well, what does
the Foreign Office say?

Oh, Foreign Office think
they do know what's hit them.

The death of a loyal and talented
staff member, blah, blah, blah.

Well, he was, Bill.

Worried sick and
driven to suicide

by the Gestapo methods

of a brutal intelligence
officer, blah, blah.

You know that's a load of bull.

I had a perfectly
friendly interview

with this man in the park.

I left him happy.

Well, if you tell that to the
Adviser, you'll leave him unhappy.

He's scared enough about the
newspapers splashing a suicide.

If this department
starts even hinting

that Fennan might
have been murdered,

and then it turned
out to be wrong...

I warn you,
he'll want to play it safe.

Tell us exactly what happened.

Fennan and his wife
lived down in, um...

Surrey.

At Walliston, I know that!

She went to the local
theater alone this evening,

well, yesterday evening now.

She came home about 10:45,

found he'd shot himself
in the living room.

He left a sealed letter addressed
to the Foreign Secretary.

Has it been opened?

Appleby.

Has Dobbs arrived?

Yes, Adviser.

At once, please!

Save a kitten for me, darling!

Thank you.

The police believe it to
be a clear case of suicide.

Do you?

What I believe is
not the point, Dobbs.

The point is, the Foreign
Office believe the police.

It's unfortunate that in
this distressing matter

we are now answerable
to the two public bodies

with whom our current
relations are most,

shall I say, uneasy.

If, of course, there are facts

not included in
your confidential report

which point to Fennan's
suicide for reasons

other than his interview
with you,

I shall be happy to hear about them.
Are there?

Have they opened
his suicide letter?

They're Photostatting
the original.

It was typed on
Fennan's own machine

and signed with what's
indubitably his own signature.

It carries not only the date,
January the 3rd,

but also the time,
10:30 p.m.

That's a little unusual.

A methodical man could
still be methodical in extremis.

"My dear Minister,
after some hesitation

"I have decided to take my life.

"I cannot spend
my remaining years

"under a cloud of
suspected disloyalty.

"I realize that I am the victim

"of paid informers and
that my career is ruined.

"Yours sincerely,
Samuel Fennan."

May I have your comments?

Yes, you may.

He must have been raving mad.

The letter sounds
perfectly sane.

But so did he
when I interviewed him!

He was a little
over-talkative perhaps,

but I put that down to
understandable nervousness.

Quite.

That's why I suggested
we clear out of his office,

which was rather public anyhow,

with people coming and going,

and conduct the interview
less formally in the park.

Then I may take it that his
suicide and, of course, his letter,

came as a complete
surprise to you.

You find no explanation?

No.

You have no idea
who denounced him?

No, neither had he.

He was married, you know.

Yes.

A somewhat unusual woman.

Foreign.
Jewish, too, I gather.

Suffered rather badly in
concentration camps during the war,

which rather adds
to our embarrassment.

It seems conceivable that she might
be able to fill in some of the gaps.

I think you ought
to go and see her.

Me?

But she thinks
that I'm responsible

for her husband's death.

If you want police
cooperation at Walliston,

we've put in Inspector Mendel
down there as our liaison officer.

I don't think you've
worked with him before.

He's a CID man.
I thought he'd retired.

He has.

That makes it easier for him

to serve two
masters impartially,

the police and us.

Sir, the Minister is calling.

Put him on.

- Martin?
- Yes, Minister.

- Any progress?
- Yes.

I have the man in
charge of the case

with me now.

He will be with the widow
at 8:15 this morning.

Good.
Keep me informed.

Yes, naturally.
The moment I have his report.

Right. Right.

Yes. Goodbye, Minister.

Could you see her at 8:15?

Do you really think
that this woman will...

I'll telephone you at 8:45.

You better go home now and
get some sleep while you can.

If I can.

My dear Dobbs, you know
you have my support.

We authorized
the security check.

You conducted it.
You've nothing to worry about.

Except Mrs. Fennan.

Quite so.

I'm sorry, love.
I was in a huff.

About me?

No.

There's a fellow at the Foreign
Office seems to have shot himself.

They want me to go down
to the wilds of Surrey in, oh,

four hours.

Poor darling.
When will you be back?

How long would you
like me to stay away?

I'll phone you
before I start home.

Do you want to know who it is?

No!

Why not?

We tried that before.

Knowing gives
a shape to the jealousy.

I don't want that sort of
distraction when I have to be busy.

I suppose I ought to shave.

You ought to kick me out.

We tried that before, too.
Remember in Stockholm?

Yes.

We missed one another.

Good night, then.

Mrs. Fennan?

My name is Dobbs.

I see.

The police rang
and asked if I minded.

I didn't know what to say.
Come in.

Who can one ask to
clean such things?

Sit down.

If you're too warm, you
can take your coat off.

Oh, thank you.

You're the man

who interviewed
my husband about loyalty.

I'm the man who recommended
that your husband be cleared.

Cleared? Of what?

Your husband was a communist
when he was at Oxford.

His recent promotion
at the Foreign Office

gave him access to
highly secret information.

Some busybody wrote
us an anonymous letter,

and we had no option
but to follow it up.

I was only doing my duty.

To whom, Mr. Dobbs?

We had to check.

Check.

Sounds like a game, doesn't it?

It's not a game,
Mrs. Fennan.

No.

You treat people
like wooden pawns.

You plot their moves.

You write their names on papers,

and then you put
the papers into files.

But sometime the names
have wives and children,

as well as records.

And generally

very ordinary human motives

to justify
their sad little dossier

and their make-believe sins.

And when that happens,
I'm very sorry for you.

Yes, when that happens,
I'm very sorry for myself.

Then go back to Whitehall

and look for more spies
on your drawing board,

because you have no
place among real people.

You dropped a bomb from the sky,

but don't come down here to look
at the blood and hear the screaming.

Mrs. Fennan, you've had a terrible loss.
You must be exhausted.

You can't have slept all night.

Thank you, but I scarcely
hoped to sleep today.

Anyway, uh, sleep is
not a luxury I enjoy.

I am conscious of my body
20 hours a day.

As for my loss...

Are you married,
Mr. Dobbs?

Yes.

Maybe you would describe your
wife as a precious possession?

I don't possess her.
I love her.

You see, for six years in
camps, I had no possession,

except for a comb
and a toothbrush,

and a comb was of no use because
my head was shaved those days.

I see.

I loved my husband.

But I have the experience

of suffering losses
with discretion.

Mrs. Fennan, my interview with
your husband was almost a formality.

I'm sure that he enjoyed it.
We got along very well together.

Well, that's not
the impression he gave me.

What?

No, he was terribly upset

when he came back home
at 7:00 last night.

He said he couldn't
face the theater,

and made me go by myself.

He took a sedative tablet.

Who's that now?

It could be my chief.

He said that he might
ring me down here.

Would you like me
to take it for you?

Yeah.

Walliston 294?
Yes?

Good morning, sir. Exchange here.
Your 8:30 wakeup call.

- My what?
- Your 8:30 alarm call.

Oh, yes!
Thank you very much.

Yes, it was for you. It was your
8:30 alarm call from the exchange.

What?

Somebody who cannot sleep
and ask for an alarm call,

did that surprise you,
Mr. Dobbs?

Yes, a little.

It shouldn't.

You see, I have
an appalling memory,

so the call was not to
wake me, but to remind me,

like a knot in a handkerchief.

What was it that
you had to remember?

You see,
I almost forgot that, too.

I had to remember

that Samuel was short of sherry,

and that I should call the wine
merchant for a morning delivery.

It won't be necessary anymore.

Well, I've already intruded too long, Mrs.
Fennan.

If my chief should call,
will you please tell him

that I shall be at
the Walliston police station

with Inspector Mendel
until 9:15?

After that,
I shall take your advice

and return to Whitehall
to my drawing board.

Stand up.

Good morning, sir.

Charles Dobbs.

Mr. Dobbs, sir.

Stand up!
Good morning, Mr. Dobbs.

I've a message
from your department.

You're to ring
the Adviser at once.

- Thanks.
- Use my office.

Here's Mendel.
Asleep on duty.

Kick him out, if you want to.

He's not a proper
policeman anymore.

He's an old-age pensioner.
Make yourself at home.

Thank you.

Would you like me out, too, sir,

while you phone the Adviser?

No. We'll let the Adviser
have another kitten or two

while we do something
rather more practical.

Someone at the Fennan house

asked to be called by the Walliston
Exchange at 8:30 this morning.

I want to find out what
time the request was made

and, if possible, by whom.

Number, please.

Walliston Police.
Supervisor, please.

And I want to find out if
it was a standing request

for a morning alarm call,

and if so, let's
have all the details.

- Can I help you?
- Walliston Police.

- Supervisor?
- Yes, sir.

Walliston CID here.

There's been a burglary
in Merridale Lane,

and we think they may have
used the house opposite,

that's Walliston 294,
as an observation point.

Would you find out
whether that number

called the exchange any time
after, say, 6:00 yesterday evening?

6:00. I'll check that,
sir.

Right. Thank you. I'll hang on.

Photostat of the suicide note.

Super said to give you a copy.

They're sending the original
to the Foreign Office

and a copy to Marlene Dietrich.

Marlene Dietrich?
Who's that?

Sorry, sir.
That's what we call your Adviser, sir.

Pretty general in the Branch
and in the Foreign Office, too.

Very sorry, sir.

I think it's beautiful.
Don't be sorry.

And don't call me sir.

Typed on his own portable.

- What make?
- Olivetti.

Well, so was the anonymous
letter that denounced him!

Well, it's a pretty common make.
We'll check, of course.

- Hello, caller?
- Hello. Yes?

- I have some information.
- Yes, I'm ready.

The only thing we have down for
Walliston 294 last night was an alarm.

Oh, yes?

It was made for
8:30 in the morning.

I wonder when
she asked for that.

7:55 last night.

7:55 last night?

It was a man who
made the call, sir.

Oh, it was a man, eh?

Girl's quite sure it was a man?

Yes, she's absolutely definite.

Oh, I see.
Well, that fixes that, doesn't it?

We'll have to think again,
won't we?

Thanks all the same.

You've been very kind.
Bye-bye.

You're welcome.

Samuel Fennan asked for
this morning's alarm call

about two and a half hours
before he shot himself last night.

An Olivetti portable!

And so was the letter that
denounced him to the Foreign Office.

Yes, Dobbs,
Olivetti's are two a penny.

But everybody has one.

That is exactly my point!

I think we ought to give
the facts to the police.

And have a murder case plastered

across every front page
in two hemispheres

before it turns out
we misled the police?

Before the department
makes a fool of itself,

let us at least try to
separate fact from hypothesis.

- By all means!
- Fact:

Fennan came home
last night at 7:00

and told his wife he was
upset by your interview.

Fact:
he took a sedative

and sent his wife off
to the theater alone.

Hypothesis, my hypothesis:

he thought the sedative
might make him oversleep,

so he asked the exchange

to give him
an alarm call at 8:30

on the following morning.

And then committed suicide!

It all hangs together nicely,
doesn't it?

I will also hazard
the hypothesis

that the sedative depressed
him rather than soothed him,

and that he accordingly
shot himself

between 10:30 and his wife's
return from the theater at 10:45.

The 8:30 alarm call is
neither here nor there.

Then why did she have
to lie about it?

Why did she say it was
for her and not for him?

Because she thought, as she
might be pardoned for thinking,

that you would
use the alarm call

as a means of evading your
own responsibility for his suicide.

And she meant to have the
satisfaction of denying you that evasion.

She's a bereaved woman, Dobbs,
she needs to be placated.

Like the Foreign Office
and the police,

with whom our relations
are "uneasy."

Have you anything
further to say?

Yes!

Please say it.

By all means.

Fact: you are known
to the Foreign Office

and the police
as Marlene Dietrich.

Hypothesis, my hypothesis:

they may very well be right.

Hello, darling.

Back so soon?

How was it?

Well, it was all right,
pretty hectic.

I'm sorry I forgot to phone.

Morning, Mrs. Bird!

Morning, Mr. Dobbs.

Guess who's blown into London.

I haven't the faintest idea.

- Guess. Please.
- I cannot guess!

Dieter Frey!

Servus, Charles.

Oh, Dieter!

Dieter!

Oh, welcome back!

It must be two years.

Yes. We went to that first
night, do you remember?

Oh, that awful old actor
playing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

at the Lyric Hammersmith!

What did The Times say?

Oh, yes, he said, uh,

"Mr. Aubrey Hunter's
Dr. Jekyll

"was infinitely more
terrifying than his Mr. Hyde."

Why did we ever go?

Well, we went because this illiterate
Austrian had never read the book.

What? That from a man who's
only read 12 lines of Goethe!

Have you, Charles?
I never knew.

Yes, Faust.

I could still quote them.

I'm not going to, though.

We used them as the key
to Dieter's radio code,

when I was operating him in
Austria from Zurich in 1943.

Dieter was only 18 then,

but he appeared to know the
entire works of Goethe by heart!

Well, not to mention the entire
Nazi battle order in the Tyrol.

If it's war memories,
I'll do the laundry list.

I'll give you five minutes.

They were very
good days, Charles.

I hate to say it about a
war, but I enjoyed them, too.

The issue seemed clearer,
so did my conscience.

I had a brilliant agent in play.

Thank you.

And I was happy
about what I was doing.

What are you doing now?

I'm resigning
from the Home Office.

Why?

Civil servant was found shot.

This one?

For reasons which I don't
approve, my boss, my former boss,

wants me to report it
as suicide.

- And you couldn't.
- No.

Can you find another job?

Well, I suppose so.

But I'm so angry

that I've a good mind
to press on with this one.

Unofficially, of course.

You mean follow it up alone?

Yes. Unless you'd care to
join me, like the old days.

And be fired by my boss?

I'll bump off your boss
if you bump off mine.

All right.
Which department?

We cope mostly with aliens.

Like me?

No.

What we call undesirable aliens

who've outstayed their welcome.

Am I outstaying mine?

Ann!

Would you call Dieter
desirable or undesirable?

Desirable.

Two years ago
he was something in zinc.

Now he's something in chocolate.

Amreins from Zurich.

He brought me a sample.

How long you staying?

A few days.

Business lunches,
business dinners,

I even have
a business breakfast.

Who knows, I may actually
do some business, too.

Oh, tycoon?

I have hopes.

Veering to the right, at last!

As the money comes in,

a little further to the right
than when you first knew me.

I'm a socialist capitalist.

Auf Wiedersehen, Charles.

Give me a call if
you can spare the time.

I promise.

Thank you again
for the chocolates.

Bye, Mr. Dobbs.
See you again tomorrow.

Bye, Mrs. Bird.

I must follow her!

Yes, follow her from the
opposite side of the street.

"Using shop windows
as reflectors

"and good cover
for stopping suddenly

"if the suspect stops, too."

Right.

Your pupil still remembers
the handbook.

- See you again, Dieter.
- When?

I'll send you one
of our postcards.

Postcards.

Postcards?

Dieter invented a special way for
us to arrange emergency meetings

during the war.

Did it work?

Infallibly.

He never makes mistakes,
does he?

I think he made one just now.

He kissed your hand.

You offered him your cheek.

And for the first time in...

What is it, seven years?

He didn't kiss you on the
cheek, he kissed your hand

as if he had something to hide.

Does it have to be
Dieter of all people?

Yes.

And in this house?

You never phoned!

Can I only invite people
you have cleared for security,

or do I have to check
them against a card index?

It's my house as much as yours!

It's not my house!
It's not your house!

It's our house!

It doesn't have
to be used for...

We only used it for meeting!
We were going to...

I don't want to hear what you
were going to do or where or when!

I wouldn't mind
so much if it was

one of your six-foot,
randy musclemen

without a thought in
his thick skull except...

It's the...

It's the nice ones
that I'm terrified of.

The ones that could
give you love.

Oh, Ann.

Why does it have to
be Dieter suddenly?

Like this,
after all these years?

He never wanted me before.

And he does now?

Yes, Charles.

When did he tell you?

How did you happen to meet?

He phoned yesterday
morning, about noon,

to ask you and me to lunch.

I said you were out on a
job, so he asked just me...

Doesn't his friendship...

Do you love him?

It's very easy to love Dieter.

Well, we both of us know that.

If I could love one man,
it would be you, Charles.

But you can't, can you?

Are you asking me to try?

No, not again, I...

It's not much fun being
with you, watching you trying.

But I've never held your
appetites against you.

The un-addicted shouldn't
blame the addicted.

I'm just relieved that it's
less lethal than drink or drugs.

I wish it were curable.

Short of locking you up.

You could lock me out.

I'm going to lock myself
out for a bit until we see...

Darling...
No, look, I'm not being saintly.

I'm just being practical.

I resigned from the department.

What?

And until I clear this thing
up or get myself another job,

I'll just be
hanging around here,

snivelling about
my own personal life

instead of attending
to my professional.

Well, I want to settle
this squalid little mess

with the department once and
for all to my own satisfaction,

and not to the satisfaction
of a bunch of selfish,

sanctimonious,
bureaucratic nits!

There's been an injustice
done and I hate that!

And it'll give me something
different to think about.

- Different?
- Yes!

Until you and Dieter...

Haven't I done you an injustice?

Why don't you settle
our own squalid little mess

by telling me I'm
a nymphomaniac slut!

Kick me out, and let me
do what I'm going to do,

but without the feeling
that I'm crucifying a saint!

How can you be so bloody
aggressive about your job

and so gentle about me?

I've always thought

that being aggressive
was the way to keep my job

and being gentle
was the way to keep you.

Well, I've lost my job,
haven't I?

Mendel?

Mendel.

Trouble.

No, it's these ants.

I was awake half the night

trying to find out
when they go to sleep.

Here, I'll let you in.

Come on in.

I hope I'm not being a nuisance.

No, I was flattered you phoned.

Let's have your coat and hat.

I made up a bed for you.

It's not exactly what
you're used to, but it's quiet.

Come on in.

Oh, God.

- A bit niffy, is it?
- Rather.

Well, it is a bit of a
menagerie, isn't it?

Oh, I like these.

Yeah, I prefer the odd ones.

Exotics, they're called.

Did you say trouble?

Yes.

I was followed,
second time today.

Big fair-haired chap
in a ramshackle MG saloon.

I threw him off
near Putney Hill.

I got the number of
the car though. XEL 390.

He's been booked
twice for tax evasion,

once for receiving and selling
a car known to be stolen,

four times drunk and disorderly,
and once for blackmailing a queer.

He's my type,
so leave him to me.

Have you got 10 quid?

Scarr!

Scarr!

Well, he's got to be here.

Here we are.

Scarr!

Hello, dear.
Who are you?

Eunice.

Eunice? Eunice who?

- Eunice Scarr.
- Is your dad in?

- No.
- Your mum, then?

Which one?

How many have you then, dear?

Two.

Where are they?

In the pub with me dad.

I see.
Thank you, dear.

That's funny.
I smell copper.

Adam Scarr?

That's correct, friend.

Would you care to join
me and my colleague

for a drink at the
other end of the bar?

It won't take a minute.

What'll you have?

A large whiskey, Wilf.

I see the ladies' glasses
is empty, you know.

- Gin and hot.
- A lager and lime.

- Okay, guv'nor.
- Right.

We've got the constabulary
on the premises, Wilf.

I always did say you were
good for business, Mr. Scarr.

They come bloody
miles to see you.

Well, I think you're
better out of this.

Wait for me in the car,
will you?

Sit down.

Your health, friend.

If you are a friend.

That your car?

Well?

Well, in a manner of speaking,
squire, in a manner of speaking.

What the hell do you mean,
"In a manner of speaking"?

It's on hire.

To whom?

Times is hard, squire.

The cost of living,
rising stock.

Five.

- Fifteen.
- Ten.

Done.

Well, three weeks ago,
gent comes into the garage.

A small Scotsman he was.

Good shoes.

Posh umbrella with
a little brass band around it.

He paid the deposit,
took the car,

I've never seen him
nor the car again.

Daylight robbery, isn't it?

When you hired
the car to this Scotsman,

he filled in forms, didn't he?

Insurance, name
and address, so on?

False, all false, skipper.

He gave an address in
Ealing, which didn't exist,

and a name, with which
I doubt he was baptized,

McTavish, Andrew McTavish.

Now, you've a record as long
as the Old Kent Road is, Scarr,

and I know where to find you.

So if you've told
me a pack of lies

I'll break your bloody neck.

Who the hell are you?

Hey, you!
Come back here!

Name's Dobbs, Charles Dobbs.

Broken right hand
and contusions on the neck.

Look after him, he's important.

Right.

I'll be in with the details.
Just now, I got business.

Don't you just stand there.

Scarr! Come outside!

Now look, guv'nor...

Come on,
move along. Pick it up.

Nothing to see.
Come on.

Recognize anything?
Stolen, was it?

By a small Scotsman with
good shoes and a posh umbrella?

Decent of him to bring
it back, wasn't it?

Friendly gesture
after all this time.

You've mistaken
your bloody market, Scarr.

So, the Scotsman called
himself Blondie, did he?

What's your problem, skipper?

Not my problem, Scarr.
It's yours.

The biggest bloody
problem you've ever had.

Contravention of
the Road Traffic Act.

Conspiracy to defraud
the Inland Revenue.

Offenses under
the Official Secrets Act.

Conspiracy to murder,
accessory to murder!

Don't go over the bloody moon.

Who the hell's
talking about murder?

I am, Scarr, I am.

You heard that
ambulance just now.

There's a man dying in it,
murdered by your Blondie.

There's another
one dead in Surrey,

and for all I know, there's one
in every bloody Home County

and you're the poor bastard that
knows what this Blondie looks like.

He might want to put
that right, mightn't he?

Not so bloody loud.

Look, I'm in a nice way
of business round here.

The pickings is small,
but regular.

- At least it were till this bloke come along.
- What bloke?

Oh, bit by bit, copper!

Don't rush me.

Six months ago
he come into the garage.

Dutch, he said he
was, and in business.

If he was Dutch,
I'm a bloody Dutchman.

Look, I'm not pretending I
thought his business was straight,

'cause you're not barmy,
nor am I.

He was cool, cool as charity.

"Scarr," he says,
"I don't like publicity.

"I want a car, not to buy,
but to borrow."

Those weren't his exact
words, 'cause he was foreign.

I'm giving you the
gist of it, you know.

Go on giving me the gist of it.

Look, I owed
the bookies 40 quid.

The coppers were a bit sensitive

about a car I bought on the never-and-never,
and flogged over in Clapham.

And there was Blondie standing
over me like me own conscious,

rifling a wad of notes as thick
as a pack of cards in me ear hole.

"Well, what's your
proposition?" I says.

"I'm shy," he says.

"I wanna car that
nobody'll notice,

"with something
fast under the bonnet.

"Keep it teed up for me every first
and third Tuesday of the month."

He give me 500
quid to buy the car,

20 quid in advance for
the first month's garaging,

and he says,
"There'll be a bonus

"for every extra
day I take it out."

How was he to let you
know about the extra day?

Well, there wasn't none,
till today.

Then he didn't let me know.
He just didn't bring it back last night.

Last night? Tuesday?

I told you! The first
Tuesday of the month.

Didn't bring it back till today.

What was to happen
if anything went wrong?

If you got pinched for
bigamy, or something?

I had a phone number.

Primrose 0042.

Did you ever phone?

Nothing ever went wrong, did it?

Has now, though,
hasn't it? Eh?

I think that's my money,
isn't it?

You stay put, Scarr.

I'll be back
sooner than you think.

Why, you can count on me,
skipper.

I mean, wouldn't want to get mixed
up in nothing shady, would we?

Not when jolly old
England is gonna suffer.

Shut up,
you sodden old hypocrite!

Hello, love.

You eat that nice
egg I boiled you?

Yes.

- I gave some to Alice.
- Did you?

- She's dying.
- Is she?

We'll have to go buy you
a new doll then, won't we?

I took the liberty of telling
Mr. Scarr that you were dying.

Oh? Did he cough up?

He coughed. The car was hired
by the man that followed you.

No name, no address,
only a nickname, "Blondie."

An emergency telephone
number that was never used.

I traced it to the East
European Steel Mission.

No reply.

What do you know
about this mission, Bill?

Pure as the driven snow,
on the surface anyway.

Four blameless secretaries
and a watchdog.

- Who's the watchdog?
- I'll find out.

If you could get a photograph?

You never said that.

Alternatively,
I never heard you.

Well, I must go now.

If there is a photograph,
I'll snitch it from files.

I want to live to see the
Adviser eating his own vomit.

Dr. Avers, please. Dr. Avers.

Fog's coming up.

Mendel, I'm going to theorize.

I like facts myself,
but go ahead.

Let us assume, what is by no means
proven, that the murder of Fennan

and the attempted murder
of me are interrelated.

So, what circumstances
connected me with Fennan

before Fennan's death?

One: before the interview
on Tuesday, January 3rd,

Fennan and I had never met.

Two: the Foreign Office
arranged the interview,

but did not, did not, repeat,

know in advance who would
conduct the interview.

So Fennan had no prior
knowledge of my identity,

nor had anybody outside
my own department.

My own department.

Three:
I met Fennan in his office.

And then we went into the park
where anybody could have seen us.

So a possible conclusion
is that somebody did see us.

Somebody who was so violently
opposed to our association

that he did what
Blondie did to me.

Mendel, who is Blondie?

Mendel.

Were you on a job, Charles?

No, you're not to worry.

They're letting me out tomorrow.

Dieter said
he thought you might be.

No, I've resigned.

Then what were you doing at
the pub in Battersea, of all places?

Getting drunk.

Because you couldn't
get drunk at home.

You can come home, Charles.

I'm trying to tell you
if you're really all right,

I'm clearing out, too,
for a bit.

I think it's better.

Where to?

Switzerland?

Zurich.

Is he going back?

He will be, in a day or two.

Would it upset you very
much if I gave you a kiss?

Yes, I think it would.

Don't fly if there's a fog.

Double, double...

Double, double...

- ...toil and trouble.
- ...toil and trouble.

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf.

Witches' mummy, maw and gulf

of the ravin'd salt sea shark.

Root of hemlock
digg'd I' the dark.

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

gall of goat and slips of yew,

sliver'd in
the moon's eclipse...

Slivered!

Slivered in the moon's eclipse,

Nose of Turk

and Tartar's lips.

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,

Make our gruel thick and slab:

Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,

For the ingredients
of our cauldron!

Double, double

toil and trouble.

Fire burn.

And cauldron bubble!

Terry, I presume that
when Shakespeare wrote,

"And cauldron bubble," he
intended the cauldron to bubble.

And it would
help me considerably

to play this scene
from the heart,

if the cauldron were allowed to
blow even one itsy-bitsy little bubble!

Yes, yes, all right.
Okay. Virgin!

Let's have that
dry ice, shall we?

Sorry.

That one's your best bet.

She's the local solicitor's
stage-struck daughter.

You know, it's all the kinky
boots and "get me if you can."

Daddy pays the tuition fees,

so we put her in charge of
props and advance bookings.

- Sorry.
- Virgin!

Where have you been?

At the butcher's.

Buying the tiger's chaudron.

I looked up chaudron
and it means guts. Sorry.

It's calves' liver.

Well, you said you wanted
something that went "plop."

Mummy can keep it in the
fridge till tomorrow night.

All right, witches!

Let's take it from the second
"Double, double," please.

And Bert, let's have
some thunder and lightning.

Now, come on everybody,
put some back into it.

All right.
One, "Double..."

Double, double,
toil and trouble!

Bend your knees as you go round.

Fire, burn.

The fire's gone out.

That does it.
That's it.

Virgin.

Come over here.

Now look, ducky,

it's not very plausible

that if the cauldron bubbles,

the bloody fire doesn't burn.

Well, the lightning blew a
fuse, we're mending it. Sorry.

All right. Bijou coffee break,
everybody.

Bert, I want to run through some
of those sound effects for level,

that's the owl's scream,
cricket's cry, cat...

Not you, Virgin. There's a fan
over here who wants your autograph.

You're back in five minutes,
everybody.

- Miss, uh...
- Bumpus.

Sorry. Oh!

Can I give you
a hand or anything?

Take a rock.

Bert, it's "Thrice the
brinded cat hath mew'd!"

We've only got it twice.

Well, tell
the first witch to say,

"Twice the brinded cat
hath mew'd."

My name's Savage.

I'm a private investigator.
A divorce agent.

Oh, gosh, what have I done?

Nothing, apart
from being able to help me

on a matter of seat booking.

I've a client who wants to check

on the movements
of a Mrs. Elsa Fennan

on the night of Tuesday,
January the 3rd.

Oh, that's easy.
She was here as usual.

As usual?

Yes, she has this
standing order for two stalls,

every first and third
Tuesday of the month.

Was Mrs. Fennan,
would you say,

on intimate terms with the
occupant of the other stalls?

Well, gosh, yes,
I should think so.

I mean, he's her husband,
isn't he?

Is he?

Oh, yes. I know
they arrive separately,

but he's foreign, too, and
they're both madly musical.

Musical?

Well, he has this
music case just like hers,

and they leave them
in the cloakroom

and then they pick them
up again after the show.

- Could you describe him to me?
- Oh, gosh, yes!

He's big and madly foreign,
and sort of gold crew-cut hair.

I thought he's super.

I was livid when
he didn't turn up.

Didn't turn up? When?

Oh, last Tuesday.
It's the first time his seat was empty.

I thought he must
have flu or something.

Well, thank you, Miss Bumpus.

"What is that noise?"

"It is the cry of women,
my good Lord."

One of them was me.

Very good, too.

Good morning, sir.

Would you care for an aperitif?

A large dry sherry?

Yes, please.

And a lager for me.

Certainly, sir.

How did it really happen?

Didn't Ann tell you?

She said you pretended
to be robbed.

I didn't want her to be worried.

Are you worried?

Is it the Fennan case?

Look, this isn't what
I wanted to speak about.

Oh, Charles, please!

In any other country, we shouldn't
even be on speaking terms.

This is a ridiculously
British scene.

Is it?

Well, I've never
played it before.

I've never played it before

because I was certain that
she didn't love any other.

She just wanted to
go to bed with them.

She told me that.

Did she tell you
that she loved you?

Yes.

Do you love her?

Oh, Charles.

I'm not a child.

I know that real love
doesn't just explode.

If it grows at all,
it will grow slowly.

That's why I thought we could,

perhaps in Zurich,
take some time and...

How long? Her last
longest was 11 days.

I don't want you to be hurt.

She can hurt, you know?

Thank you.
I can look after myself!

Then there's only one
thing that really troubles me.

Can you look after Ann?

Thank you.

Do you wish to order, sir?

No.

The other occupant of
the stalls was Blondie.

It fits.

They always arrived separately.

They carried
identical music cases,

left them in the cloakroom

and picked them
up after the show.

- Switching cloakroom tickets is an old trick.
- But it worked.

Everything that Blondie's
done seems to work,

except that he didn't turn up
on the night that Fennan died.

So, Blondie might
have murdered Fennan

while Elsa was at the theater.

Well, that's
purely hypothetical.

Mention of a photograph
here, eh?

That's him.

Don't wave it about
like a bloody flag.

I snitched it from files.

Who is he?

Well, his name's Harek,
Karl Harek.

He's Hungarian.

Came here as a grateful
refugee after the revolution.

His record's as clean
as a vestal virgin's.

So is the East European
Steel Mission's.

All clear.

If anything has to be touched,
will you do the touching?

We haven't the
remotest right to be here.

One extension telephone on
a table desk with no drawers.

Not even a bloody filing
cabinet, let alone a safe.

However, an Olivetti portable.

Something odd here.

One, two, three, four,

five typewriters all uncovered.

Now it's conceivable
that one secretary

could have left the cover
off hers, but five?

So someone's
been examining them.

- Mendel.
- Mmm-hmm.

We're thinking that somebody
saw the newspaper reproduction

of the anonymous letter
that denounced Fennan.

And that somebody suspects

that that letter could
have been typed

by a traitor inside
their own organization.

Eh, Mendel?

You make me tired.

All we know is five typewriters

have been left uncovered!

Yes, but what do you think?

I think we ought to leave.

The caretaker.

That's Harek.

One of us has got
to report that.

Then we're in trouble.

We could tip them
off anonymously.

That seems to be
the fashion nowadays.

Will you do that, Bill?

"Hello?
This is a friend here.

"I've just seen a corpse
on top of an elevator,

"so I thought I'd give
Scotland Yard a ring, see."

Brilliant.
Are you sure you know the number?

Mendel, I think it's time
I broke Elsa Fennan.

You could have let me
know you were coming.

I thought it safer not to let you know.
Safer?

Can I come in?
We haven't much time.

You hurt your hand?

Harek hurt it.

Who?

Karl Harek.

He was carrying a cosh
instead of a music case.

What are you trying to say?

Night after I left you,
Harek tried to kill me.

Night after that, he killed
the owner of the car he hired

for coming down to
meet you at the theater.

Seems he was trying
to kill anybody

who could connect him
with Samuel Fennan.

Or with the wife
who helped Fennan

to pass documents
to the other side.

Now somebody's killed him.

Somebody who thinks that
Harek betrayed your organization

by denouncing your husband to the
Foreign Office in an anonymous letter.

No.

You told me, Mrs. Fennan,
that spying was a game.

Well, what kind of games did you
and your husband think you were playing

when you started
to feed the bosses?

They get their strength
from daydreamers like you.

Do you really believe
that you can control

the strength that you give them?

That you can stop the dance?

What kind of daydreams
did you dream, Mrs. Fennan,

that had so little
of the world in them?

Look at me.

Look at me.

What dreams did they leave me?

I dreamt of children.

I had none.

I dreamt of a beautiful body.

They marked it.

That's when Samuel found me.

He pitied me, he loved me

and he took me away.

He had dreams.

I had none but him.

One year ago in Murren,

on a skiing holiday,

Samuel met that Sonntag.

Sonntag? Sunday?

Did you ever meet this man?

No, never.

Then how did you
know his cover name?

'Cause Samuel told me.

What else did
your husband tell you?

Well, he told me that
Sonntag was his...

His control?

Yeah, controller.

That he provided the money
that came in Harek's musical case.

But Samuel used to send the
money anonymously to charities,

to the oppressed.

To the poor.

That's the kind of
daydreamer he was, Mr. Dobbs.

In fact, he never quite
grew up after Oxford.

And Sonntag could
lead him like a child.

Did your husband
ever meet him again

after that first time
in Switzerland?

Well, if he did,
he never told me.

Did Sonntag ever
come to England?

- I don't know.
- Could he be in England now?

How would I know?

Could he have seen your
husband and me in the park

and thought that your
husband was betraying him?

Samuel was not a traitor.

He was a traitor
to his own country.

Samuel never thought
in terms of countries.

Could Sonntag have
told Harek to kill me?

It's possible.

Did your husband
ever describe him?

Oh, you're a fool,
Mr. Dobbs.

Why would Samuel give me
unnecessary information?

You don't even know
the rules of your own job.

And your job was
to help your husband

further a cause in
which you didn't believe.

He had helped me.
He needed help,

I gave it to him.
He was my life.

Mrs.
Fennan, I understand, but please...

Take your hands off me.

Now go and kill Sonntag.

Keep the game alive.

Don't think I'm on your side.
I'm on nobody's side.

I'm a battlefield
for you, toy soldier.

You can march over me,

you can bomb me full of holes

you can burn me,
you can make me barren,

but never pity me,
Mr. Dobbs, never.

Never tell me
you understand my feelings.

Now, go away and kill.

Any news?

Yes, two things.

You were right
about one of them.

Fennan's suicide note and
the letter that denounced him

were both typed on his own
Olivetti, probably by different people.

Key pressures aren't the same.

And the other?

Well, I've seen
the autopsy on Harek.

He wasn't thrown down
that lift shaft alive,

he was strangled
first rather delicately

by what's called a single
degree of finger pressure

on the thyroid cartilage.

Where do you want to go?

Well, will you chaperone
me to my home?

Letters and things like that.

Of course.
Did Elsa Fennan break?

I don't know.

Bill.

Sorry to barge in, love,

but I've been chasing
you on the phone since noon.

Finally I rang here just after you
spoke to Mrs. Bird from Mendel's.

She's gone now,
but she said I could wait.

Something damned odd's come up.

I'll be with you in a second.
Help yourself to a drink.

I have.
What can I get you two?

Sherry. Mendel?

Not before sundown.
Might drop off.

Where the hell has
Mrs. Bird put my mail?

All right, what's odd?

What's odd, Charlie, is the
subscription list to Foreign Office files.

I was there on
a routine visit this morning.

It suddenly hit me that I might as well
check on what Fennan had taken home

in the way of files during the
six months since his promotion.

Do you know,
during the first five months

he took home quite a heap of
policy files and other secret stuff,

but during the last month he
took away nothing but low-grade,

non-secret
digests of foreign policy

that anyone could have read
two days later in Time Magazine.

It fits.

It could fit.

All right.
Mendel's right.

It could fit. It could
mean one of two things.

Elsa told me this morning that her
husband was a communist and a spy,

and that because she loved him she
consented to be his courier to Harek.

All right! Either she
was telling the truth,

in which case Fennan was a spy.

Or Elsa was lying.

She was the spy.

Fennan got wind of it.
He couldn't endure it.

He cut off
her source of information

and denounced
himself in a letter,

which he typed on
his own typewriter.

Now, why on Earth...

To attract the attention of
somebody, anybody, in Security

without burning his boats by
going through official channels.

Perhaps somebody that
he could personally trust

enough to be able to
get private advice from,

instead of a pair of handcuffs

and a life sentence
for the wife that he loved.

Who typed the suicide note?

Oh, it can only have been Harek

when he committed the murder
while Elsa was out at the theater.

And signed it?

You're not going to tell me

that Harek
couldn't have obtained

a specimen signature
through Elsa.

Are you suggesting
that Elsa may have

connived at her
husband's murder?

That's rather a ghoulish
thought, Charlie.

She's had rather
a ghoulish life.

It's quite possible, of course,

she didn't know what Harek
wanted the signature for,

but even if she did know, look,

as a young Jewish
girl gets broken

on the Nazi wheel
like a bloody butterfly,

they pull off her wings,

and when she can only
crawl, they break her legs.

But she survives.

Crippled in mind
as well as in body.

She grows older, she looks
around and what does she see?

She sees that all her
suffering has been futile.

She sees
her persecutors prospering.

Is she a communist?

I don't think she likes labels.

I think she wants to
help build one society

which can live without conflict.

I think she wants peace.

The communists have a way
of using people like that.

I want to find the
communist who's using her.

Mendel, would you be prepared...

Mendel, would you be
prepared to wake up?

Sonntag!

That's our Mendel.
He only likes facts.

That's right.
Sonntag is a fact.

Who the hell's Sonntag?

Sonntag is the cover
name for the man that

Elsa said was
operating her husband.

She said she'd never seen
him, but I think she was lying.

Excuse me, it's from Ann.

I think she was lying.
I think that Sonntag was operating her.

Could we bluff them
into meeting each other?

Sonntag and Elsa?

Come with me.
I want you to type something.

Mrs. Elsa Fennan,

34, Merridale Lane,
Walliston, Surrey.

Wish you were here.

Signed, S.

It's an emergency
rendezvous signal.

How can you be sure you're
using the right conventions,

the right phrase?

The postcard
itself is the signal,

irrespective of what's
written on it.

Now when Elsa gets
that tomorrow morning,

she's supposed to send a
completely innocent and unrelated reply

to a prearranged
accommodation address.

And the ideal reply
would be a ticket

to something that's
bound to happen

at a certain place
at a certain time.

Like a seat for a concert,

or a reserved place on a train.

She's an unusual color.

I'm not sure she's
going to have puppies.

Really?
Well, if you'll excuse me.

Of course.

Goodbye.

Dobbs? She's bitten!

She's taking
the 10:42 bus to Victoria.

I shall be right ahead of her.

17 and 18 in row F.

That'll be £2,
10 shillings, please.

17 and 18, oh, yes, that's fine.

Thank you very much.

Do you have two gangway stalls
for tomorrow's matinee, please?

Yes, we have F-12 and 13.

- Did you see the envelope?
- Yes.

Could you read it?

Short of indecently
assaulting her, no.

But as she posted it in the
"London and Abroad" box,

and as the theater tickets were
booked for tomorrow's matinee,

I assumed she wasn't
mailing it abroad.

Cor, that's the first time I've ever
known you sink to an assumption.

Yeah, it was sustained
by the sight

of a four-penny
stamp on the envelope.

Then Sonntag's in London.

He'll get the ticket first
post tomorrow morning.

I took the liberty of buying us
three tickets for tomorrow's matinee.

Here.

Me in N-18, on the gangway,

six rows behind
Elsa and Sonntag.

A-1 and 2, front row of the
dress circle for you and Bill,

with a view of
row F in the stalls.

Is as Elysium to a newcome soul:

Not that I love
the city or the men,

But that it harbors
him I hold so dear,

The King,
upon whose bosom let me lie,

And with the world
be still at enmity.

What need the arctic
people love starlight,

To whom the sun shines
both by day and night?

Farewell base stooping
to the lordly peers,

My knee shall bow to
none but to the King.

As for the multitude,
that are but sparks,

Raked up in embers
of their poverty...

These are not men for me,

I must have wanton poets,
pleasant wits,

Musicians, that with
touching of a string

May draw the pliant King
which way I choose.

Music and poetry is his delight,

Therefore I'll have
Italian masks by night,

Sweet speeches, comedies
and pleasing shows,

And in the day,
when he shall walk abroad...

She's here, he isn't.

Like sylvan nymphs
my pages shall be clad,

My men, like satyrs
grazing on the lawns,

Shall with their goat feet
dance an antic hay.

Sometime a lovely boy
in Dian's shape,

With hair that gilds
the water as it glides,

Crownets of pearl
about his naked arms,

And in his sportful
hands an olive tree,

To hide those parts
which men delight to see...

Give us a kiss.

Shall bathe him in a spring.

Such things as these
best please his majesty,

My dearest Lord...

Here comes my Lord the King
and the nobles from the Parliament.

I'll stand aside.

Why's he so bloody late?

Lancaster!

My liege.

Excuse me.

Thank you.

'Course, there's no reason
why he shouldn't be late.

He's not here for
the fun of the thing.

- Have you seen Mendel?
- Yes.

If they split up when they
leave, I'm to follow her,

and Mendel will follow him.

You're to go home and stay
put by your phone, Charlie.

She knows you.

And you can't follow
Sonntag all over London

waving that thing
like a luminous Indian club.

All this supposing
that he turns up at all.

Ladies and gentlemen,
Act two is about to commence.

And art thou resolute
to kill the King?

Ay, ay, and none shall know
which way he died.

Then do it bravely,
Lightborn, and be secret.

You shall not need
to give instructions,

'Tis not the first time
I have killed a man:

I learned in Naples
how to poison flowers,

To strangle with a lawn
thrust down the throat,

To pierce the windpipe
with a needle's point,

Or whilst one is asleep,
to take a quill

And blow a little
powder in his ears,

Or open his mouth,
and pour quicksilver down.

But yet I have
a braver way than these.

What's that?

Nay, you shall pardon me,
none shall know my tricks.

I care not how it is,
so it be not spied.

Take this.
And never see me more.

I'm sorry.

Look, come on, slosh your
face with cold water. Come on.

He's not that ugly.

Who is he?

His name is Dieter Frey.

I operated him in
the war from Zurich.

Do you mean he's on our side?

He was on Russia's side, and in
those days, Russia's was our side.

For over a month now,
he's been getting

messages that were
absolutely useless,

so he must have come
over to find out why.

He was probably trailing Fennan

when he recognized me
in the park

and thought I might be an enemy.

He found out I was.

How?

I'll tell you about it some day.

One of us ought to go back in.

Wait a minute,
I'm coming with you.

I want to be there
when they realize

that neither summoned the other,

that the postcard was the trap.

All right, come on.

These looks of thine can
harbor naught but death.

I see my tragedy
written in thy brows.

Yet stay awhile,
forbear thy bloody hand,

And let me see
the stroke before it comes.

That even then when
I shall lose my life,

My mind may be more
steadfast on my God.

What means your highness
to mistrust me thus?

What means thou
to dissemble with me thus?

These hands were never
stained with innocent blood,

Nor shall they now be
tainted with a king's.

Forgive my thought
for having such a thought.

One jewel have I left,

receive thou this.

Still fear I, and I know not
what's the cause,

But every joint shakes
as I give it thee.

They know.

O, if thou harbor'st
murder in thy heart,

Let this gift change thy
mind, and save thy soul.

Know that I am a king:

oh, at that name I feel
a hell of grief!

Where is my crown?

Gone, gone,
and do I remain alive?

You're overwatched, my lord,
lie down and rest.

But that grief keeps me
waking, I would sleep,

For these 10 days have
not these eyelids closed.

As I speak, they fall,

yet with fear open again.

Say, wherefore sits thou here?

If you mistrust me,
I'll be gone, my lord.

No,

for if thou mean'st to
murder me, Thou wilt return.

Stay, I will sleep.

He sleeps.

How now, my lord?

Something still
buzzeth in mine ears

And tells me if I sleep
I never wake.

This is the fear that
makes me tremble thus.

Say it, wherefore art thou come?

To rid thee of thy life.

Matrevis, come,
bring me the table.

I am too weak
and feeble to resist.

Assist me, sweet God,
and receive my soul!

Oh, set it down,

and stamp on it.

How say, Lords,
was not this bravely done?

Excellent well,

take this for thy reward.

Come, let us cast
his body in the moat,

And bear the King's to Mortimer, our lord.
Away!

She's not applauding.
She can't have enjoyed it.

It's not a woman's play.

I'll take up my position in the lobby.
Stay by your phone, Charlie.

What's happening down there?

Yes?
I've run him to ground.

Can you meet me at the embankment
end of Lot's Road right away?

Then you followed him?

Of course I bloody followed him.

I nipped out before
the house lights went up.

Hurry.

Before the lights went up?
Then that means that you...

Mendel? Mendel, hello?

This way.

I allowed him to spot me.

We've got to panic him
into giving himself away.

He has given himself away.

While you were leaving,
he strangled Elsa

in the theater, the quiet way.

Single degree pressure
on the thyroid cartilage.

Oh, God.
Did you tell the police?

No, you told me to hurry.

I'll telephone, you wait here.

He can't get out any other way.

Okay.

Servus, Charles.

Tell your friend that
if he tries that again,

I shall shoot him,
not to wound but to kill.

- Can I go to him?
- No.

Me next?

Don't force me.

Without a gun,
and only one hand,

I couldn't even strangle
a defenseless Jewess.

Elsa was trying to defect.

She typed the anonymous
letter about Fennan

and drew
the attention of Security.

Fennan typed it.

He wanted to tell us unofficially
that his wife was a spy.

Somebody else knew.

Somebody else sent a postcard.

You sent it?

The way I used to when we
were friends, and worked together.

You trapped me.

An hour ago,
I hoped it wasn't you.

But now I don't care.

Why?

Because you trapped Ann.

After you'd seen me
with Fennan in the park.

You used her to
keep track of me.

I only did

what many other men with less
justification have done to her already.

How much does he know?

Only that you're wanted.
He's an ordinary policeman.

Then the leaks are plugged.

Fennan. Harek. Elsa.

I've had to hurt you, and I
don't want to hurt you anymore.

In two hours,
I'll be out of the country.

I just want to know one thing.

Are you going back
to her in Zurich?

Charles! Charles!

Dieter!

Dieter!

By the way, the Adviser
indicated his good wishes.

"Indicated?"

He was on the run at the time.

Tummy trouble.

Must have been eating
his own words.

We want you back.

Think about it.

Ladies and gentlemen,
in a few minutes

we shall land in Zurich.

Will you please
fasten your seat belts?

Thank you.

Departure to London
by Swissair Flight 824,

gate number four.

Charles!

I got your wire.

Yes.

Charles, are you a little drunk?

What happened?

I have to tell you.