All language subtitles for Kolchak.The.Night.Stalker.S01E18.The.Knightly.Murders.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-squalor_track3_eng

Tuesday, 11:15 p.m.

If you know anything
about Chicago politics,

you'll understand why
a 63-year-old ward captain...

was braving the ungentle hour
and the less-gentle streets.

You see, Ward Captain
Leo J. Ramutka was returning
home from a wake--

an auf Wiedersehen
to a loyal registered voter...

he knew would one day
meet him in that great
polling station in the sky.

What Ward Captain Ramutka
failed to foresee...

was just how soon
that meeting would be.

- No!

No! No!

Roger, David-Niner.
Your request is a roger.

Coroner's unit
at 113 Petrosky,
North Side.

See Captain Rausch. Over.

Wednesday, 11:42 p.m.

113 Petrosky. It wasn't
a celebrated address,

the sort one gets
excited over or stores
in his mental trousseau,

but the name
on the radio was--
Captain Vernon W. Rausch.

To a reporter,
he was the Edward R. Murrow
of homicide.

His list of credits reach
back into the mid-'50s...

and the infamous
Mercer-Dobrantz murders.

He was a good cop,
allegedly great.

So what do you say
to a living legend?

- Hi there.
- Mmm? Hey.

- Carl Kolchak, I.N.S.
- Carl.

I was wondering, just
what's underneath there?

Leo Ramutka,
ward captain, 44th.

Ward captain? Really?

Please,
no political questions.

- I'm not an authority.
- Yes, but--

Yes, Carl, an arrow.

An arrow?
It looks like a V-2.

On the face of it,
a crude atavistic device.

Retrogression,
one might suppose.

But you consider this,
if you will.

- Yes, yes, sure.
- Good.

A missile this size can be
as deadly as it is silent.

Recall, if you would,
its extensive use
by British commandos...

- throughout
the Second World War.
- Oh!

You mean, you suspect
some guy who thinks he's
a British commando?

- No.
- Well-- Oh.

I guess
I'm a little confused.

You think you know
who did it, don't you?

- Yes--
- Uh-huh.

- And no.
- Eh?

As you well know, Carl,
Leo Ramutka was
a ward heeler,

and like any human being
in public life, he was prone
to antagonism.

- They collect...
like river silt.
- Mmm.

Not that I'm speaking
ill of the dead,
you understand.

Oh, certainly not.
Certainly not.

Let me tell you something, Carl.
Think of Greater Chicago.

Six million personalities
pressed together
in a configuration--

Could I get this on tape?

- as complex and--
- Excuse me. Just--
There we go.

Would you mind?

- Six million personalities
pressed together--
- No. "Think of Chicago"--

Think of Greater Chicago.

Six million personalities
pressed together...

in a configuration
as complex and as
dynamically rigorous...

as it is alienating.

Six million sets of needs,
wants, desires,

cries in the night.

"Want me. I want you.

Understand me.
I am a person."

Disintegration
of the family,

unbridled
vertical mobility--

the pressure cooker
of human disappointments.

Carl, understand the apathetic
atomized personality.

And, well,
sooner or later, he...

or she... erupts.

"She, she." You said she.
You think it's a woman?

Well, I like to call
him or her Mr. X.

Mr. X.? Why Mr. X.?
John Doe?

Yeah. It's a lot more
professional than calling
him a nut or a freak...

or something like that.

- No, you've gotta respect
people's feelings, Carl.
- Yes.

The next night, 10:20 p.m.

If Leo Ramutka's
popularity, or lack of it,

was born of ballots
and political patronage,

Rolf Danvers got his
more directly.

His was the allure
of ready cash...

and the deeds to
several square blocks
of prime Chicago real estate.

However, within seconds,
the only real estate...

that would matter
to Rolf Danvers would be
a small plot he owned...

in a memorial park
near Old Town.

Negative.
Last night's statement...

is no longer
functionally descriptive.

And a negative
is also appropriate
to the second part...

of the second question
you asked.

There is no--
I repeat-- no reason
to believe that the death--

Did you know
that there's a rumor going
around the pressroom?

Homicide is a very
democratic institution.
One more question.

- Allow me to rephrase that--
- Negative. One more question.

Captain, regarding the death
of Ward Captain Ramutka.

It has been rumored
among the press that you're
combing the 14th Precinct...

looking for a woman
disguising herself
as a British commando?

- What do you have to say
about that? Any explanation?
-

- Is that true?
- Captain, please,
I need something.

That'll be all,
ladies and gentlemen.
Thank you very much.

Please, no more questions.

Carl, I see you're
making yourself at home.

- Yeah.
- Coffee?

I imagine you're here
by way of journalistic
endeavor, right?

Uh, yes,
as a matter of fact--
those murders, remember?

You've got a quick wit,
Carl. I like that.

It shows a proclivity
to cope.

- Yeah, well,
thank you, Captain.
- Don't mention it.

Now if I read your
body language correctly,

you want to ask me
what killed Rolf Danvers.

- Right.
- He was stabbed.

- Stabbed.
- You know.

Yes, of course,
but stabbed by what?

Fair question.
Something round and sharp.

I'd say a structural
facsimile to an ice pick.

Ice pick. Uh-huh.

There is, however,
one disconcerting wrinkle
to that premise.

This particular instrument
would have to have
a three-inch diameter.

- Then it isn't an ice pick.
- All right. I'll buy that.

I can buy a direct question,
and I respect you for it.

Thank you, Captain.

Now then--
what killed him?

- Captain?
- Hmm?

What killed him?

- Society.
- Soc--

In a manner of speaking,
naturally.

Captain,
in a manner of speaking,
two gentlemen are dead...

of two very bizarre means--
an oversized arrow
and an obese ice pick.

Now I cannot minimize
the concern that I have...

that these murders
are somehow interrelated...

if for no other reason
than that you're handling
the investigations of both.

Ah! That last one
is an excellent point.
Excellent point.

It shows an inherently
lucid administrative
insight, Carl.

Yeah, but how about
the first one, huh?

That the murders
are intertwined,
interlocked?

Do you know there
were one-seventh as many
ice-pick killings...

last year
as there were in 1942?

- In 1942?
- Technology, Carl.

Um, ice comes in cubes
these days.

Ready-made, you see?

Wait a minute.

Are you telling me
that there were ice cubes
at the scenes of both murders?

- No, not at all.
- Then what?

Not at all, Carl.
Look. All right.

Perhaps we can approach this
a little less directly.

Less directly?

Thursday, 2:12 p.m.

Extricating myself from
Captain Vernon W. Rausch...

cost me two hours
of precious time
wherein I learned...

that the only thing
more maddening
than certain cops...

was certain educated cops.

I was in the mood for
some fast, straight answers,

so I headed for
the straight arrow
himself, Pop Stenvold.

- Hi, Pop.
- What do you want
this time, Kolchak?

Oh, Pop, is that any way
to talk to me?

Look,
it's your old collaborator,
your old friend Carl.

Something's
new around here.
What is it?

Oh, you've got
a new eagle, right?

Same old eagle,
same old line of bushwa.

- When do we start, Kolchak?
- Later, later.

- Could you tell me
what this is?
- It's an arrow.

I know it's an arrow,
but what kind of an arrow?

All right. Chapter three.

In the 11th summer
of my life--

You don't know, right?

Okay. If you don't know,
you don't know.

Harry Truman
said that in 1949.

- Ol' Harry really say that?
- Ol' Harry really said it.

- All right. I do know.
- Aha!

It come from a crossbow,
Middle Ages.

I couldn't sell that
item in here if I tried.
You know what they want?

They want guns and elevator
shoes and karate lessons.

- Suppose I want a crossbow?
- Use your head, will you, Carl?

- You see the size
of that arrow?
- Yeah.

It'd take a winch to cock
the mechanism. About 300
pounds of pressure at least.

- I don't care about that.
I want one.
- Nah, no, you don't.

Yes, I do.
Where do I get one?

All right.
I'll tell you what you do.

- You walk out that door.
- Yeah?

- You get in your car.
- Yeah?

- And you start driving.
- Uh-huh?

And when you come
to the 14th century,

- ask your social worker.
- Social worker?

Yeah, a social worker.
A little 23-year-old chippie
comes in here and tells me,

"Any man can afford
his own business
can afford his own teeth."

That's what's got your nose
out of joint!

Why didn't you tell me?
Here, you need some dollars
for some molars.

No, no. Keep it, and we'll
do a couple more chapters
of my biography.

Anything but that.
Here, take the money
for the teeth.

As you may recall
in our last chapter--

As you may recall
in our last chapter,
Cousin Rusty and me...

was spending our 11th summer
in Green Lake, Wisconsin.

Thursday, 11:59 p.m.

There was a saying amongst
the hallowed data banks
of industry...

that when
Brewster Hocking slept,
so did "K.A.L.C.,"

an acronym
for the Canadian-American
Leisure Corporation.

In 12 short years, CALC--
C.A.L.C.-- and Hocking...

had risen from a humble
catering truck company...

to the world's 14th fastest
rising conglomerate,

digesting a plethora of
diverse industries from whiskey
distilleries in Scotland...

to that nationally
famous analgesic
for the morning-after.

Charles.

Charles,
stop that blasted clanking.

-

What is this?

Is this some kind of joke?
Charles!

Charles!

Oh, my God!
No, please!

For the Lord's sake, don't!
Take anything you want!

Look, I'll give you money.

Charles! Oh, no!

Don't just stand there,
you idiot! Help me!

One does not mix
one's centuries, madam!

You're destroying
continuity, all of it!

You're telling me
about continuity?
Me?

That's genuine Provençal,
13th century!

Provençal, schmovençal!

That thing is blue.
That thing is black.

I will not tolerate
a black-and-blue
cocktail lounge.

Unless someone
has decided...

to rename the Camelot Bar
the Bruise Room.

- Hi.
- What do you want?

- I'd like to come in.
- Who are you?

A recorder of events
great and small, an instrument
of the free press.

- I'm a reporter.
- More of that wretched
prepublicity, huh?

Prepublicity? No, no.

All I'm interested in is
to get a little information
about arrows.

"The steady hand
upon the string, the silver
shaft about to spring."

- Sir Walter Scott.
- Mendel Boggs.

- Huh?
- Mr. Boggs!

Oh.

Now, our sound engineer
will be arriving today,

and you will let him in
this time,

and you will tell him
for me that the stereo
components will go in here.

- Inside? Inside
Garrick of Orange?
- Mm-hmm.

- I protest!
I will protest!
-

You do that.
And while you're protesting
to whomever you protest,

I will be seeing about
your removal to whomever
removes custodial help.

My title is curator!

Have a nice day, Boggsy.

- What was that?
- Minerva Musso.

- What's a Minerva Musso?
- An interior decorator
of ill repute.

- What's happening around here?
- I thought you were here
to write it up.

- Me? No, no.
- The grand march of progress--

How some soda pop company
is transforming all this
into the Camelot Discotheque?

- May they all rot in Camelot.
- It's gonna cost you
your job, huh?

Unless I learn how
to be a bartender
or operate a strobe light.

Oh, one must
have faith and hope.

- They all did, you know.
- Who's "they"?

"The knights of yore,
though ten on one,
a lance they bore."

Oh, that's terrific!
That's really very good.

Tell me. Would you
consider this to be
an authentic medieval arrow?

The collection here
was so extensive.

They've taken away the best,
the oldest armor, to paint it.
Paint it!

They want me
to put in speakers,
tweeters, woofers.

That's absolutely dreadful.
The arrow.

Bolts. A crossbow
arrow's called a bolt.

- Bolt.
- If this was focused properly,

I might be able to make
an intelligent comment.

- Well--
- It has medieval styling.

- It's probably a replica.
- But, uh--

Uh--

What happened
to the arrows in here?

Attrition over the years.

High school field trips.

Little thieves,
nasty gum-chewing ferrets.

- Please don't touch.
- Excuse me. I'm sorry.

Let me ask you.

Would a bow and arrow--
a bolt like this fit
on a crossbow like that?

Bows are built
to shoot bolts, aren't they?

I'm very busy.
If you'll excuse me, Mr.--

- Kolchak.
- Yeah, whatever.

Easy there, boy. Easy.

- I asked you not to touch!
- All right, all right,
all right!

Hi there. Real good to see
you again, uh, "Lester."

Good to see you too, man,
except I don't know you.

- I bet you know him.
- Oh, yeah.

He used to be some kind of
federal employee, didn't he?

- Yeah, president.
He made out pretty good too.
- That's right.

Ah, ah. Brewster Hocking
checked in here last night,
didn't he? Didn't he?

Huh?

Eh? Attaboy.

Brewster Hocking.
Oh, yes.

- What hit him?
-

That, my friend,
is the $64 question
around here.

- Even the big
medical minds are stuck.
- Yeah?

If I had to say,
I'd say he was stomped on by
a thousand-pound football shoe.

- Or a mace.
- Mace comes in a little can.

- It doesn't weigh anything.
- Mace, M-A-C-E.

You know, Robert Taylor,
Errol Flynn, King Arthur.

It's a spiked ball
at the end of a chain
that swings around and ar--

Yeah.

Friday, 11:39 a.m.

I heard a brief radio interview
with Brewster Hocking's butler.

I say brief because
butler Charles Johnson
refused to make any comment,

except that he loathed
and despised the press.

Rather than face an ugly
confrontation, I made a detour
to the telegraph office,

where an old
and mercenary friend
came through for me.

"Dear Carl. Stop.
Please come to Chicago
as soon as possible. Stop.

"Need to talk to you
in person. Stop.

Fraternally yours, Hock."

- Hock.
- Odd, isn't it?

In my 10 years
with Mr. Hocking, I never heard
him referred to as "Hock."

- Well--
- As a matter of fact,

I don't recall him
mentioning your name either.

Well, Hock was... Hock.

There's no doubt about that.
That hard-boiled
old son of a gun.

I'll never forget our 11th
summer on Lake Wisconsin.

And now to find
that he is dead.

Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah.
Anything stolen?

No. This is the age
of senseless violence.

- Look at the room.
It's hardly touched.
- Mm-hmm. Yeah.

Oh, yeah, hardly at all.

What happened to this?

The police theorize that
the murderer smashed it...

to prevent Mr. Hocking
from calling for help.

Aha! Of course.
Certainly.

Yeah, that's why the phone
on the nightstand there
weren't smashed.

Tell me, Charles.
Was Hocking-- Hock--

- Was he worried about anything?
- He was somewhat concerned...

about a class action suit
against his diet drink
subsidiary.

A man in Michigan
was claiming that...

the sugar substitute
was causing vertigo
and excess hair loss.

Uh-huh.

A diet drink? Really?
I thought that Hock's fortune...

came from cigarette
vending machines and
theater lobby concessions.

- Mr. "Kolchuck"--
- Chak. Kolchak.

Mr. Kolchak,
a full five years ago,
Mr. Hocking's company...

bought out most of
the independent soft drink
bottlers in the Midwest...

and became known
as the Canadian-American
Leisure Corporation.

Oh, of course. Certainly.

Now it was
Mr. Hocking's custom
to send his friends...

case upon case
of mixers at Christmas.

Quinine water, club soda,
ginger ale.

Now why didn't you
ever receive any?

I guess that Hock knew that
I only drank my milk straight.

Oh, sometimes on the rocks,
of course, but usually straight.

Just who are you,
Mr. Kolchak?

I told you.
I'm an old fraternity
brother of Hock's.

Alpha Beta--

Over and out.

Good afternoon. I'm from
the telephone company.

Oh, yeah. Down here.

Are you the gentleman
with the problem?

Yeah, here. No dial tone.

Okay.

- That's right.
No dial tone.

Listen, as long as you're here--
would you mind answering
a few questions for me?

I'm trying to ascertain just how
much pressure it would take to
crush one of these telephones.

You mean to destroy
telephone company equipment?

Hypothetically. Unless
you don't know, of course.

I know. Company specs
says 420 pounds.

- P.S.I.?
- P.S.I.

Huh.

This equipment
has been tampered with.

What? Bugged?
We've been bugged?

Don't give me
that "bugged" stuff.
You're a con man.

You got me up here
just to answer
a few questions.

Why, I-- You ever try to
call that business office?
They're always busy.

The least you can do is
put it back together again.

- Well, what have we here?
- What are you doing there?

I see you have
some unauthorized equipment
on these premises.

I had nothing
to do with it.

- Wait a minute.
What's the problem?
- It's all over.

Well, Carl,
what's going on here?

Two of our bootleg telephones
just walked out that door.

- We've had a good thing going.
- Yeah.

Forget about the telephones.
That's not important.

What is important
is that it takes
420 pounds pressure--

P.S.I.--
to crush a telephone.

Now it says right here
that a medieval knight
in full armor...

and in full weaponry weighs
well over 400 pounds.

I feel much better.
All my life
I wanted to know...

that a medieval knight
could crush a telephone.

I think three murders were
caused by medieval weapons.

Maybe by a guy in armor.
I don't know.

Anyway, I know a place
where there's a whole slew...

of medieval armor and weaponry,
and it's all run
by a very angry man.

So what?

- "So what?"
- Yes.

Well--

So Brewster Hocking,
last night's victim,
owns a soda pop conglomerate,

and they recently acquired
Hydecker Wine Importers
and the Hydecker Museum.

Carl, I didn't understand
anything you just said.

Don't worry about it. You will
as soon as I get through talking
with Minerva Musso.

- Minerva Musso.
- The interior decorator? You?

Yes. We're thinking of
brightening up the office.

You are gonna be replaced
by a Boston fern,
and you, a snapdragon.

Why do I always feel
like I don't belong here?

Friday, 8:58 p.m.
When you're hot, you're hot.

And as I saw a mass
of seemingly unrelated facts
starting to come together,

I knew I was
at least getting warm.

Hello?

Pamela, dear naive Pamela.

Now you have been with
enough ski instructors...

to realize they're
always in a hurry.

It must be something
terribly Freudian
and terribly boring.

- Hello?
- Oh, just a moment, dear.

A strange man has just
walked into my boudoir.

No. No, really.

Come in, dear,
and shut the door.

- There's a draft.

Robbery or rape?

- What?
- No, I'm asking him,
robbery or rape.

- He hasn't said.

Neither one,
so don't get excited.

Oh, he says
I shouldn't get excited.

Depressing little man.

Karl Kolchak, I.N.S.

Oh, he's a newspaper man.

That explains it.

- Ring you back, kiddo.
-

Warning, Mr. Reporter.
I shoot from the hip.

The door was open,
so I didn't break in.

I'm not talking about doors.
I'm talking about David Bowie.

You press people are always
pestering me about whether
or not I'll do his house.

I'm... not sure.

I've met David,
and he's charming.

But I'm not sure
our ideas would gel.

- Well--
- Next question.

I'm not here about
David Bowie actually. I'm here
about the Hydecker Museum.

Yuck. That junkyard?

If it wasn't for being
audited last year,

no amount of money could
get me to take the job.

I'm interested
in the curator, uh,
Men-- Men-- Mendel Boggs.

- What do you know about him?
- Mendel?

- Mmm.
- With diligence, he might
make village idiot.

Do you know that he talks
to those iron things?

- Really?
- Those knights, yes.

- What does he say?
- Well, poetry.

He spouts
that doggerel of his.

I came in one morning,
and he was standing there...

in front of a mirror,
waving a pike...

and frothing about
"cleaving things in twain."

Whatever that means.

"Cleaving things in twain."

Well, I know he's
really pretty upset
about the remodeling plans.

Did you ever
hear him threaten anybody,
like Brewster Hocking?

- Hocking?
-

He owns the Hydecker Museum.
He pays your salary.

Oh, yes. But I'm not salaried.
I've never met Mr. Hocking.

I work with the architect.

- Uh-huh. Uh--
-

Did you hear that?

- Huh.

- You got bad pipes
or something?
- I beg your pardon?

I mean, is your dishwasher
broken or--

Oh, who knows?
Friday night, party night.

What is that noise?

- Don't you have
a lock on this door?
- What's out there?

Now just a minute!
What's going on here?

- Get in the bathroom!
- I beg your pardon!

Get in the bathroom,
you dumb broad,
and lock the door!

No!

- That's enough, John.
Thank you.

- Well, Carl,
where's the pain?
-

- The base of the skull?
- Yeah.

Just rub back here.
Right back here.

- Just loosen up
the trapezius muscle.
- Trapezius?

- Mm-hmm.
-

No, no. Go easy.
Easy with the light.

Most forms of headache
are accompanied by
photosensitivity.

Just keep on rubbing.
Best thing for
a tension headache.

Tension-- Tension headache?

What tension headache?
My head got bashed in.

Carl, neighbors
heard screams,

and we find you
camped out here
on the floor...

and a woman ax-murdered
right in there.

If I was you, I'd have
a big tension headache.

Oh, no. No,
you can't possibly think
that I killed her...

and then knocked myself out
to wait for you to get here.

- You couldn't
possibly think that.
- Of course I don't think that.

No. What about
my photosensitivity?

This isn't third degree,
Carl.

It's only the first.
Can you intuit my meaning?

I got knocked out
before I knew what hit me.

- What transpired here?
-
What is that stink?

- You're the stink.
- What? Me?

Oh!

The perfume
must have spilled
all over me.

My lab man tells me it's
called Temptation of Adam.

- Temptation of Adam.
- Pretty strong medicine,
isn't it?

But to the point,
you are a material witness...
to murder.

- What?
- Ah.

I intuit your problem,
Carl.

Feelings of persecution, ah?

Paranoia.
A sense that I,
as an authority figure,

will take away your angle
and give your big story to
other members of the press.

Listen,
that's not paranoia.
That's fact!

All right.
You just be straight with me,
and I'll give you an exclusive.

I've been watching you,
Rausch.

For the past two years, you've
been sitting on your laurels,
not to mention your brains.

You're lazy.
Police work bores you.

Those long,
thoughtful pauses
of yours--

You're not thinking,
you're sleeping! That's what
you're doing. You're sleeping.

And you don't do
any investigation
anymore at all.

You rely on informants
and tips and ripping off
angles from newsmen.

I wanna know what you got
on those murders.

- Do your own legwork,
you phony.
- Phony?

Picture two weeks
in a drab room downtown,

filling out affidavits,
depositions, forms.

Your traffic record
is pulled. We go over it
with a microscope.

We send your car
through safety inspection.

I didn't see a thing.

Carl, I don't want to work
this weekend.

My wife's
chamber music society
has a supper concert,

and I'm supposed
to write an article
for the police newsletter.

Now, please.

- Nothing.
- Spencer.

Fill that tub in there
with cold water as soon
as Forensics finishes up.

You wouldn't dare.

You'd dare.

All right. If I told you,
you wouldn't believe it.

She was killed
by a knight in armor.

- A knight in armor?
- I told you you wouldn't
believe it.

Merely because you've been
unreliable in the past...

doesn't mean
that your words
have no value.

After all, as the Bard said,
"There are more things
under the sun...

than are dreamed of in
your philosophy, Horatio."

- No, Kolchak. Carl Kolchak.
- But a knight... in armor?

Make me believe that, Carl.

Because if I find you're
shooting me through the grease,

it'll have a definite
detrimental effect on how we
interface with each other.

You know what's funny?
I intuited that.

I suppose this creature
came squealing to you...

that I was arguing with
that wretched woman, eh?

That I'd uttered
epithets against her?

I'm sorry, but they
fried my eyeballs.

Are you sure you
don't want an attorney?

For what? To hold my pants
while I change into that?
This is preposterous.

There's no blood on the ax,
the lance or the mace.

- It's been wiped
or cleaned lately.
- Did you clean these lately?

I don't mean with polish.
You see, we found that...

in Miss Musso's murder,
the killer wiped the weapon off
on a silk pillowcase,

and with Mr. Danvers,
on a piece of his sport jacket.

You mean you actually did
some work in between yoga
classes and book reviews?

I never even
knew a Mr. Danvers
or a Mr. Hocking.

Buxbaum.

Buxbaum, will you please help
Mr. Boggs off with his apron?

Give the boys a hand
with the helmet.

Are you sure this is
the armor you saw?

Yes, that, I am sure,
is the armor I saw.

Oh, enough!

All right, boys.
Thank you very much.

Mr. Boggs, anyone else
have access to this museum
at night but you?

I have the only key.
I have nothing to hide.

That's the one I saw.
Who else could've been
wearing it but h-him-- you?

Maybe it wasn't a knight
you saw at all.

Maybe it was
the Tin Woodsman.

Did it dance, sing?

- Did Jack Haley's voice
come out of it?
-

Careful with that!

All right. Then who's
committing these murders?

- How do you account
for what I saw?
- I account for it thusly.

You are a man
who has resorted
to lies and chicanery...

to the point
of being pathological.

I believe that you suffer
from autosuggestion.

And in an obsessive desire
to win approval,

expressed through the need
for a big story,

you convince yourself
that what you want to
be true is true.

In short,

- I believe your brain
has turned to onion dip.
-

Mr. Boggs,
I'm sorry for the trouble.

You've been
very cooperative,
and I thank you.

I told you
from the beginning
it was laughable.

Unfortunately, I have to
check out all the leads.

It's my duty, you know,
in spite of the source.

Don't go far. We'll still
want to talk to you.

But, uh, I think...

I'll consult with
our police psychiatrist.

Buxbaum.

I'm sorry
about this whole thing.
I really am.

But I did see that armor.

Who was this
Black Cross Knight? Where
did this armor come from?

I wouldn't give you another
piece of information...

if you held me down and
let a pack of rats run through
my clothes willy-nilly.

Not if you made me drink the oil
slick off Lake Michigan would
you get anything out of me.

Now please leave here,
and take that sickly
stench with you.

Hello.
My name's Carl Kolchak.

I'd like some information
about coats of arms.

Kolchak.
That's an old and revered
Russian name, isn't it?

- Actually, no, it's Polish.
- Polish?

Oh, yes, of course. Kolchak.

An ancient lineage there.

You must be descended
from Archbishop Kolchak
of Kraków,

who defended the church
from the Magyar onslaught.

- Really?
- Oh, it's a proud line
you're from.

That's terrific.
I didn't know that.

My grandmother
always told me that we were
descended from Slavs.

Oh, no, Archbishop Kolchak.

Maura, you have
the Kolchak crest
back there, don't you?

- I'm sure we do, honey.
- No. Wait.
That's very interesting,

but, you see,
I'm not interested
in buying a coat of arms.

I'm a reporter.
I need some information
about a shield.

We're in the business
of selling coats of arms.

Mostly mail order.
We're very busy today.

Yeah, well, I guess
I'll buy a coat of arms.

- Twelve dollars
for the pine plaque.
- Twelve bucks, huh?

Listen, the shield I saw
was red, with a black lion
sitting on top of it,

and then there was a diagonal
stripe of black down across it.

- We call that "the lion rampant
and the black bend sinister."
- Uh-huh.

What you're describing
is a heraldic design...

of the infamous Mettancoeur
family of Burgundy.

Infamous?
- Oh, bad people.

The last of the line,
Guy de Mettancoeur,

was particularly a pig,
even by today's standards.

He stayed behind in Burgundy.
He didn't go to the Crusades.

He amassed a fortune,
slaying even women
and children.

Here we are. Of course,
when we mail it to you,

it will have "Kolchak"
emblazoned beneath,

hand-lettered
by one of our artists.

Oh, it has
such striking colors.

I think it really deserves
a walnut plaque...
for only $60.

- Pine'll be fine.
- But if I had your ancestry,
I'd flaunt it.

Did Roger tell you
about Baron the General
Joachim-Meinz Kolchak?

He was the military adviser
for the Emperor Franz Joseph.

They called him
the Lion of Warsaw.

Mm-hmm.

I got a hunch
it'll be a walnut.

Uh-- Hmm.

Could you take a check?

Oh, of course.

You were talking about
Guy, Guy, the--

- Mettancoeur.
- Yeah.

His family had the finest
vineyards in Burgundy.

Château Mettancoeur.

But Guy himself
hated human pleasures.

He became a pariah
in his own time.

Yeah, I've known
a few like that myself.

What do you mean he hated
all human pleasures?

He consorted with dabblers
in the black arts.

He became, uh,

"legendary for
his invincibility
and his unchivalrous acts."

- Here.
Here we are, like here.
- Oh, yeah.

"After he had killed a foe,
it was his custom...

"to wipe the blood
from his weapon...

on the flying colors
of the dead foe,
as a gesture of contempt."

- What are flying colors?
- A silk scarf,
a bright piece of clothing.

How about a pillowcase
or a sport jacket?

I beg your pardon?

Yeah.

Thank you very much.

Guy... de Mettan--

There he is--
the black knight.

Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah.
No, no, no, no, no.

The Hydecker Company
Importers.

Yeah, right, Ernie.
They were bought out by
Canadian-American Leisure.

What were the fancy French
labels they used to import?

You mean they did import
Château Mettancoeur.

Oh, that's terrific.

I'd send you a case of scotch,
only you're already
in the liquor business.

- I got it, Tony.
- Carl, did you have to use
the whole bottle?

- Hmm?
- Whew!

- Oh. Uh--
- Carl, look.

You were supposed
to be covering,
among other things,

the death of
Brewster Hocking of Chicago
of the 20th century.

As I read your notes here,
you're trying to
pin this killing,

and several others,
on a 12th-century
French knight.

- Am I correct there, Carl?
- Oh, it's bizarre, Tony.

It's incredible,
but I do believe
that's what's happening.

What rot. And I have
to sit here and write
financial news, and he--

Uh, Ron, Ron.
Look, Carl,

I saw my sister-in-law
have a nervous breakdown,
and it was messy.

- Now I recognize
all the symptoms, Carl.
- Oh.

Fantasy,
the inability to concentrate
on real issues.

Well, it probably runs
in the family, Tony.

Listen, just because
it sounds strange...

doesn't mean there's
any reason for me to go
to the lollipop factory.

Guy de Mettancoeur
was an ogre.

He had a suit of armor
fashioned by a necromancer,
a sorcerer.

It made him impregnable
to attack.

You see what I mean?
Fantasy.

So there's armor
at the Hydecker Museum.

So what does that mean?
It's an empty suit.

It's just a glorified set
of drainpipes. That's all.

Now you come in here
rambling about some
blessed battle-ax...

and Pope Gregory
and smelling like a vase
full of dead begonias.

No, that's
Minerva Musso's perfume.

Carl-- Carl, what is
happening in your life?

Okay.

All right.

The armor and the battle-ax
are both out of the museum.

The whole story is there.
Pope Gregory blessed
that battle-ax...

and asked
the Knight of Strasbourg to
do battle with Mettancoeur.

The holy ax was the only thing
that could pierce Mettancoeur's
armor, and it did.

Mettancoeur died, but he swore
with his last breath...

that music and human gaiety
would never be permitted
around his resting place.

- See, he was a misanthrope.
- What beef could he have...

with Brewster Hocking
or Minerva Musso?

Their great-grandfathers
hadn't even been born yet.

Can you understand that?
Can you see that?

You see,
Brewster and Minerva...

were both parties to a plan
to turn the Hydecker Museum...

into a medieval
steak-and-lobster discotheque.

And this misanthropic knight
took issue with that?

It's all part of a curse, Tony.
I saw this knight walk into
Minerva's bedroom and kill her.

I saw it, man!
He walked in, and I saw it!

All right, Carl. Let us say
that you saw this knight
walk into her bedroom.

- Just let's suppose that.
- That's right.

Must we also assume that
it had to be a Frenchman
out of the year 1227?

Does our logic dictate that it
had to be some superhuman ghost?

I know where you're heading,
Tony, and you're wrong.

- I've already been there.
- Leo Ramutka.

He's a ward boss.
What does he know about
museums and discotheques?

Tony, the Hydecker Museum
is too old to be remodeled.

You see,
it's below building codes.

Guess who was interceding
with the building department
to get a variance.

Leo Ramutka.

And-And Mr. Rolf Danvers,
Tony.

Rolf Danvers owned the lot
next door to the museum.

- Parking, Tony. Parking.
- Why don't you rest
a little bit?

Why don't you
come into my office,
lie down on the sofa...

and relax, take a shower,
clean yourself up?

- Rest, sleep on my sofa.
- No, Tony.

I'll be back with the most
amazing, astounding story
that you ever heard.

And you're gonna beat
your fingers to a bloody pulp
on the Teletypes...

so we can get the whole story
out to our customers!

Carl, please, stay a while.
Stay a while and have
dinner with me.

- Look, I'll buy.
- You'll buy?

- Yes.
- What's the matter with you?

Have you suddenly
lost your mind or something?

Buy? You've never bought
anything in your life.

It's my sister-in-law
all over again.

Oh!

I don't know.

I don't know. Maybe
it's my fault. Maybe I've been
browbeating him too much.

Don't castigate yourself.

Shhh!

A blessed battle-ax and an
iron suit full of thin air.

I knew I'd have a lot of
explaining to do to the owners
of the Hydecker Museum,

to Captain Vernon Rausch
and, of course,

to my own
beloved bureau chief,
A. Vincenzo.

There wouldn't be much
I could tell them,
except what I'll tell you.

It all really happened.