All language subtitles for Monsieur.Spade.S01E01.WEB.x264-TG

Hello?

Is anybody home?

Philippe Saint-Andre, is he in?

Do you speak English?

Parlez anglais?

Quite the pepper gun
you got there, Madame.

Philippe...

Where is he?

Patrice: I would
consider that one

of Audrey's warmer welcomes.

But she tells the truth,

I do not think Philippe
has ever married,

and frankly, I do not
know who would marry him.

Sam: You haven't met Brigid.

Sadly, I have met many Brigids.

She paid me a lot of money

to make sure the kid was
handed over to her father.

She wasn't one to
part with money,

much less a lot of it.

So do you know where this
Philippe Saint-Andre is?

Who knows? Philippe
is a vagabond.

Sometimes he's here,
sometimes he's there.

So why the will instructed you

to bring the girl
here is a mystery.

All I know is I was
sent a plane ticket,

first-class Pan Am to
Istanbul, to pick up the kid,

and two more tickets, coach
this time, to Marseilles.

And then so instructed,

you come all the way
to our little village,

just to knock on a door

and hand over the girl
to whoever answered.

I was told her
father would answer.

You did not wonder if the
child would even be welcome?

I was paid too much to wonder.

This was strictly
a business matter

between you and
Miss O'Shaughnessy?

She didn't pick my
name out of a hat

if that's what you're asking.

We knew each other.

I see.

When you say "knew each other,"

you mean you knew
each other... well.

Well enough so she trusted me.

You were lovers, perhaps?

Oh, Jesus, you French.

- So yes?
- Briefly, didn't end well.

They never do.

Hearts break, one moves on,

the other one becomes
lonely and bitter.

We didn't get that far.

- Why not?
- I put her in jail.

So, this Brigid O'Shaughnessy,

she trusted you because
you put her in jail.

She trusted me because
I got her out of jail.

Got her out?

How?

I knew who to talk to.

A most useful skill.

And the reason you felt
so compelled to free her?

She was two years into
20 when she got sick

and found out she was
dying, or so she thought.

Turned out even
her body could lie.

They paroled her and she
lived another four years

before she died in
that train derailment

outside Istanbul
a few months back.

Irony has always been my
favorite form of justice.

Not to mention the
time it saves you.

What was she doing,
may I ask, in Istanbul?

Antiquing.

After her release from prison,

did you two pick up
were you left off?

It didn't last much
longer than the car ride

from the prison to the motel.

Then she broke her parole
and lammed off to Europe.

You did not feel as
if no time had passed,

that despite all the
heartbreak and the bitterness,

you could still find a
small ember to reignite?

I have to say, Chief,

you've got a funny
kind of curiosity.

I am a police officer.

I am curious about everything,

especially about men with
guns looking for trouble

or perhaps that
bulge in your coat

is a lollipop for
the little girl.

I'm looking for someone, is all.

Then I have mistaken you

for the sort of man
who pays attention.

I couldn't tell you
what sort of man I am,

other than I keep my promises,

particularly when I'm paid to.

My advice...

take the child back
to the United States.

If Philippe Saint-Andre
is her father,

she's better off an orphan.

All the same, I
need to find him.

And all the same, I am
suggesting, politely,

you look elsewhere.

Samuel Spade.

What do you call her?

Has she got a name?

Betty Bertha. Mama made her.

Looks like rain.

Sounds like rain, too.

You can finish that in the car.

We're going nowhere for a while.

Might as well get some sleep.

Sorry, I-I don't speak French.

- American?
- Since birth.

I don't suppose you know
how to fix one of these?

I was always under
the impression

one just threw them away.

Well, hello there!

Shall I take you and your
daughter back to the village?

She's not my daughter,
and it'd be great

if you could take us
anywhere but the village.

I understand. Please!

Charlemagne can get in the back.

I wouldn't dare.

First time in a Rolls-Royce?

First time in one that
smells like roses.

I've been working in the garden.

I never had the feel.

I find water to be the key.

Now you tell me.

You speak perfect English.

I had a good teacher.

Another talent I lack.

Teaching? Learning.

You just have to be
taught by someone

you want to listen to.

I'm all ears.

Madame Huchet.

What?

Let's talk in my office.

See this here?

You've got the early
stages of emphysema.

Meaning?

You have to quit smoking.

Forget what you read,

forget the TV commercials
with the sexy girls.

Cigarettes are bad for you.

Am I dying?

No, but you're killing yourself.

How much time do I have?

Depends on you.

Stop now, you'll live
another 30 years.

Don't stop, you'll
live another 30 years,

but you'll be in an oxygen tent.

Otherwise, you're
in great shape.

Emphysema.

Not pretty.

- Bonjour.
- Bonjour!

Mr. Spade?

How good to see you, maestro.

As always, do sit down.

Cigarette?

You don't mind if I have one?

Not if you promise to blow
the smoke in my direction.

Your bells are a bit
behind, I have 10:24.

For over 300 years,

we sisters climbed the tower

and rang the bells by hand.

Then a salesman
arrives last month

and convinces me to have
our bells automated.

The mechanism was
installed last Friday.

Since then, the bells now
ring whenever they choose.

Maybe we're better off
not knowing exactly

how much time we've got.

Only if you aren't herding
children day until night.

How are the children?

Oh, thank the Lord,
very healthy and happy,

though, some prefer
their solitude.

There's plenty to be
said for solitude.

God loves her and
keeps her safe.

For his efforts and yours.

As always, we are very
grateful, Mr. Spade.

A long time ago,
someone said to me

that money and gratitude
don't always go hand in hand.

A cynical someone, no doubt.

They were the only
"someones" I knew back then.

Speaking of the past,

her father is coming
home to Bazuel.

You don't say.

I assumed that he was dead,

but the dead don't
write letters.

He has written several,

all confirmed by his mother

to be in Philippe's own hand.

You've spoken with
Madame Saint-Andre?

Audrey has become very attentive

to her granddaughter.

Once a week, she
brings her clothing

she has sewn herself.

You didn't think this was
maybe something I should know?

I'm telling you now
so that you are aware

that he will be here soon.

Audrey could have written
those letters herself.

To what purpose?

The girl's rich.

I assume you mean spiritually.

This isn't exactly
the Hotel Georges V.

There's a trust
fund full of money

that can only be
described as ill-gotten.

Every dime goes to
Teresa when she turns 18,

which I'm sure Philippe knew,

given his part in
separating said money

from its rightful owners.

Oh.

Philippe Saint-Andre is a thief?

What a surprise.

He stole the money with the
help of Teresa's mother,

who apparently knew
Philippe well enough

to put the money in
Teresa's name and not his.

And you were involved
in this how, Mr. Spade?

Peripherally.

Philippe has always
denied paternity

and until evidently,
very recently,

his mother has
never acknowledged

her granddaughter's existence.

But, now as Teresa
gets closer to 18,

he's writing letters and
she's knitting pullovers?

The war changed a lot of people.

Very few for the better.

GrandmamanAudrey
is up to something.

I always hoped that,

with time, Teresa
would warm to you.

I sent her mother
to rot in prison

and her father to
die in Algeria.

It's gonna be a long wait.

But she knows that
you care about her.

Keeping a promise isn't
the same thing as caring.

What I promised was to
bring the girl to Bazuel.

Yes, well, as the
good book says,

"He who promises
runs in debt."

Is that Old Testament or New?

The Talmud.

Aren't we full of
our own surprises?

I do so enjoy our chats,
my dear Mr. Spade.

What are you doing? I
fixed the dishwasher.

I'm on a health kick.

So can I.

Sorry, I don't understand.

Can you speak English?

Do me a favor and start
locking the doors.

Yeah, well, this trouble
needs no invitation.

You don't seem all that worried.

Gabrielle: How would
you like to earn a fee

on top of what you're
already being paid?

Sam: Doing what exactly?

What you're going to do anyway,

talk to Philippe Saint-Andre.

Just talk to him?

He's blackmailing me.

Over what? You
kill your husband?

Okay.

My husband was a Nazi.

He was German?

Worse, he was French.

Jacques was a collaborateur.

And Philippe is threatening
to tell the authorities?

Not only them,

the newspapers, the
international press.

Why would they care?

I'm sure a lot of partisans

killed a lot of Nazi
collaborators back then.

And their children.

That was 10 years ago.

What's different now?

Algeria.

Stopping Hitler was
something we could all agree

was worth whatever the cost.

There is, however,
far less accord

about our recent conflict.

And it certainly doesn't help

when both sides are locked
in some sick competition,

committing one
atrocity after another.

I grew up thinking

that when my family went
on vacation to Laurent,

we were going to
another part of France.

And what do you
feel about it now?

It only matters what
people think I feel.

Just like it doesn't matter

that Jacques had to be punished

for betraying the
town of his birth,

for aiding in the suffering
of his old friends,

just so he could
sleep in his own bed,

keep making his wine,

or drive his
burgundy-colored car.

But now, after this
war, if you're French,

the only thing that matters

is that we punished
him ourselves.

We? Does that mean Philippe

is blackmailing
more than just you?

This is about me.

I don't want the people of
Bazuel involved, please.

I won't allow the people here

to live through such
misery all over again,

which is what will happen

if Philippe carries
through on his threats.

They're not afraid of jail.

They're afraid of being
remembered as war criminals,

especially by their children.

I'd like to help you,

but if I'm to get
my current fee,

I gotta sort out
what to do with her.

Man of conscience.
I understand.

Man of many debts, more like.

To be honest with you,

the sooner I get her parked,

the sooner I can move on.

I have a thought on that,

which will take a
few days to work out.

Maybe I can pay
you to just think

about how I can deal
with this situation

without killing anyone.

Oh, there's plenty of ways

of getting rid of a man
without killing him,

especially when
there's a war on.

Interesting.

Your local constable
made it pretty clear,

he wants me to pick
another place to be.

So stay with me.

In the carriage house.

George: Hello.

My name's George
Fitzsimmons, sir.

What can I do for
you, Mr. Fitzsimmons?

Is Madame LaVarone home?

No, I'm afraid not.

Ah, any idea when
she might return?

When the sun goes cold.

I beg your pardon?

She's no longer with us.

Oh.

I see.

I'm not selling.

Good, and I'm not buying.

I could never afford
such a lovely property.

That makes two of us.

What did you want with my wife?

Wife?

Oh, dear.

I am an idiot.

My condolences.

I'm... I'm... I'm so sorry.

I had no idea she'd remarried.

Did you know her?

Yes, quite a while ago.

A young boy right
after the World War.

See, my father was
a landscape painter.

Syngin Fitzsimmons.

Well, Madame LaVarone allowed
him to paint on the estate.

The... the ravine.

The vineyard and cows.

Oh, yeah. There's a painting
hanging in the library.

Yes, it's a gift of
gratitude from my father.

See, we lived in the carriage
house for three months.

Still remember the
day we departed.

I was desolate, sobbing.

I loved being here.

Well, to tell you the truth,

I did have a bit of a heart
flutter for the madame.

Understandable.

I'm wondering Mr...

Spade.

Gabrielle Spade.
Think of that.

You were wondering
what, Mr. Fitzsimmons?

It's...

Well, I am now an
artist as well.

And you want to paint here.

If my clumping around won't
be too much of a disturbance?

Not at all.

Come clump whenever you want.

As long as you're quiet
and I never see you.

Good, consider me just
another cow in the pasture.

We sold the cows

right after the carriage
house burned to the ground.

You always did have
a thing for strays.

Man on the moon.

What the hell for?

Morning.

Oh, Helena...

could you ask Henri
to come see me?

How do, Mr. Spade?

George.

What's the matter, Jean-Pierre?

You got lost in the
dark last night?

Maybe you forgot you were
gonna stay off my property.

Your property. Oh, Jesus.

Have you been sitting
there since last night?

What are you talking about?
I wasn't here last night.

Then who was?

How would I know?
I wasn't here.

Philippe Saint-Andre.

Did you lend him your bike?

Sometimes he just takes it.

He's an old friend after all.

Oh. With friends like
that, who needs friends?

Jean-Pierre.

There's some things you
just don't ever want to do.

We have all heard the stories.

What a tough guy you once were.

There's no such thing.

I wonder.

Are they true stories,

or just things you tell
a woman, like my wife?

Hey, wait,

I have a business
proposition for you, Spade.

Do not laugh at me.

Then don't be ridiculous.

I'm very serious. Buy my
half of the health club.

You mean Marguerite's half?

You talk to her about this?

She never has to know.

Funny thing about drunks,
they think they make sense.

You buy me out, I disappear.

You get the whole club and my
wife completely to yourself.

What makes you think
that I want Marguerite,

or she wants me?

Think about it.

You tell your old
friend Philippe,

he wants to talk to me,

he can come and
harangue me to my face

like everyone else.

Hello, Mr. Spade.

Mrs. Devereux.

Drink?

It's a little early,
don't you think?

Or a little late, depending
on one's point of view.

Last night I thought
I could hear the party

all the way up at my
place. Did you now?

But maybe that was just
you and Jean-Pierre

throwing bottles at each other.

Did he hit you?

Maybe I hit him first.

I can take care of myself.

He came by this morning
on his motorcycle.

For once, let's not
talk about Jean-Pierre.

You should have
come in last night.

Full house, standing ovations.

You sure this is right?

Like I said, we
had a full house.

Your husband already
thinks I stole the joint.

Jean-Pierre thinks you
stole more than the club.

If he only knew.

But the club is not
his. The club is mine.

Ours.

Is this what set him off?

Jean-Pierre doesn't need much.

You feeling all right?

I'm fine. Never better.

The other night, I'm
walking by the cemetery

and I see you inside.

Evening's a nice
time to do that.

Must be, as you are
there every night.

Oh, you go by the
cemetery that often?

I'm shopping for a plot.

Two years have passed, Sam.

I stopped looking at
calendars and mirrors

a long time ago.

Patrice.

I'm watching my weight.

Watching it do what?

You might want to put a
pin on Mr. Jean-Pierre

and Madame Marguerite Devereux.

They had another battle
royal last night.

I know, I talked to her.

Sometimes I wish they'd
just kill each other

and give the rest
of us some peace.

Jean-Pierre hasn't been right
since he was discharged.

The war has come home.

Sooner or later, they always do.

This one, this Algerian
fiasco, is different.

But Jean-Pierre is a model
citizen compared to others.

I don't suppose you've
heard the good news.

We're getting a bowling alley?

Philippe Saint-Andre has
apparently returned home.

Do I have to worry
about you and Philippe?

If you don't watch out, Patrice,

you're gonna burn in hell.

I'm a goalist.

So to many, I'm already there.

Answer my question.
What's to worry about?

We've discussed two different
men who want you dead,

and my breakfast
hasn't yet arrived.

Yeah, but only one of
those men is a sociopath.

One is enough.

I told you back then

that your solution
was no solution.

Yeah, but you weren't paying me.

Gabrielle was.

Ah.

Hello, Henri.

Military life treating
you all right?

Well, the training is difficult

mentally, physically.

But what's hardest
is discipline.

I do not take orders easily.

I know what you mean.

You were in the
army, Mr. Spade?

No, I was a
conscientious objector.

You don't believe in
killing your fellow man?

Oh, I think there's plenty
of men worth killing,

as well as plenty of
wars worth fighting.

I'd just rather choose myself.

Like the bad penny he is,

Philippe Saint-Andre has
snuck back into town.

How can I help?

You still spending time

with that little
redheaded number?

Uh... which would that be?

Redheads are all I
spend my time with.

I'm talking about the redhead
you brought to dinner,

the one who works as
the General's secretary.

I need you to eyeball
Philippe's service file,

his activities in Algeria
and everything since.

I don't want you or the redhead

to get in to any
trouble over this.

Your grandmother would kill me.

Well, she always said that
Saint-Andre was a bully,

that he likes to hurt people.

His special gift.

And that he was
blackmailing your wife

before she was your wife.

Gabrielle had some difficulties
with Philippe, yes.

So you sent him away?

Well, I convinced him
he might live longer

by going off to war.

I'll see what I can find.

Philippe: Stay
away from Teresa.

Well, if it isn't
father of the year.

I mean what I say, Spade.

She doesn't want
you going near her.

I hear your mother's
taken up knitting.

If only you knew half
as much as you thought.

I'd invite you over here for
a drink to explain it all,

but I'm guessing you're
up to your neck in shit.

Mind your own fucking business.

Philippe?

Patrice: I told you yesterday

that Philippe had returned.

I asked you if I had to worry.

And now I'm telling you, yes.

No, you are telling me

that you received a phone call
from Philippe Saint-Andre,

which is I admit, concerning,

but not overly so.

And then you say that
during this call,

you heard a gunshot,
fired by whom?

Fired at him?

I am saying that
Philippe was in a room

where a gun was fired,

either by him or at him.

And I would assume that you,

legendary bloodhound
that you are,

would've already leapt
out of your chair

and be sniffing the
countryside in search of him.

Your cheap canine
comparison aside,

I do consider myself
expert on all things

Philippe Saint-Andre.

And I am telling you that
the man will not be found

unless he wants to be found.

So what you're an
expert at is waiting.

Oh, so now you insult
my professionalism?

Maybe just your courage.

My courage has
never been in doubt.

I've got the wounds
to prove that.

Unlike some of us.

And now you insult
my war record?

One has to have
first fought in a war

to have a war record.

I thought we promised to
only have this conversation

when we're drunk.

I'm hungover.

Does that count?

Tell me, Patrice,

how would you feel if
Philippe hurt someone?

Depends on the someone.

Okay, I will put my
best man on the search.

Your best man? Does that
mean your idiot brother?

Is nothing good enough?

Maurice is an
excellent detective.

Maurice couldn't find water
if he fell out of a boat.

Don't make me say it.

What? That we've been
through so much together?

That you owe me.

You got that
backwards, haven't you?

You live here at my pleasure.

Maurice.

No?

Gabrielle: Sam,
Philippe Saint-Andre.

That him?

Not tonight.

I guess I missed the show.

That better be the '52.

Sometimes Patrice is right.

I mean, there's a lot
of rocks to look under

between here and Algiers.

And you are not a
little bit curious

why Philippe has come back?

Nope.

Or why he called you in
the middle of a gunfight?

It was more like the
beginning of a gunfight.

Even given what he tried
to do to Gabrielle.

This is still not your business?

Au contraire.

Hearing that gunshot reminded me

I'm allergic to other
people's business.

Since when?

Since moving to
beautiful Bazuel.

But before you came,

your talent was other
people's business, yes?

"Talent." That's rich.

Paid metal as Miles
used to call it.

People come to you
with their problems,

and you end up inheriting
those problems.

But you're good at fixing them,
so the problems keep coming,

along with the money.

In a very short while,

the problems go from
small to deadly.

Turns out you're
good at those, too.

Maybe too good.

One day you wake up,
you look in the mirror

and you see someone
you don't much like.

No big deal.

Just don't look in
the mirror anymore.

The money and the drink
are a nice distraction

until you finally rot from
the inside all the way out.

And no matter how much you drink

or how much money you make,

you can never get away
from your own stink.

That's very vivid.

But not the reason
why you are here.

People don't just come
to beautiful Bazuel.

You'd make a good
detective, better than me.

Please, I own a bar. Co-own.

The first time I
came in this place,

you were the only one who
didn't look at me cross-eyed.

But I have many times since.

What are you doing here, Spade?

Making sweet love to your wife.

Now I'm going.

You should be more afraid of me.

You don't know
who the fuck I am,

which means you don't know

what I've done or what I can do.

You think I'm a fool?

I don't think you're a fool.

I think you're like
one of those guys

late at night in the bar

who plays the same sad
song over and over again

on the jukebox.

I remember the not-drunk
version of you.

It wasn't such a bad egg.

I mean, after all...

she married you.

Teresa: Mr. Spade.

Teresa?

Help me.

I ran the whole way.
Tell me what happened

and start with whose
blood you're wearing.

My father's.

Philippe came to see you?

Someone shot him.

Did you see who?

It was before.

Did he tell you who shot him?

He said, "Very bad men."

As in men worse than him?

I know people don't
like my father,

but they don't know him.

Not the way I do.

Still, we're sitting here
because your father got shot

by, and I quote,
"some very bad men,"

which I can only assume was
over some very bad business.

And yet despite the danger,

he somehow figures that
the best person to run to

is his 14-year-old daughter.

I'm 15.

So I'm told. Where is he now?

Teresa, where is Philippe?

- Can I have another?
- No.

So he knocks on the door
with a bullet in him,

gives you a hug, and
then what, just leaves?

Yes. And during that
brief stay, he did what?

Said what?

Stop thinking about what
lie he wants you to tell

and tell me what
actually happened.

The people who shot him,

they followed him
to the convent?

I don't know who shot Papa.

Maybe the monk.

He came right after Papa left.

He started banging on
the gate with a stick.

He wanted to see
the Mother Superior.

This monk, what
did he look like?

Ugly face with a...
with a raspy voice.

Big nose, brown eyes? One
of those floppy hoods?

- You know him?
- I've seen him.

What did he want with
the Mother Superior?

I don't know.

He barged in and he
started shouting at her.

She told him to get out,

but he took the Lord's
name in vain and then,

and then he hit her.

Is she all right?

I don't know.

Everything was so
confused after that.

Everyone hid. Not everyone.

You came here, why?

'Cause I'm the oldest
and the fastest.

Yeah, but why come here
and not the Gendarmerie?

He frightens me.

You stay here. Don't move.

Sorry to wake you.

There's a problem.

Helena will be here in a minute.

I'm gonna go check things out.

If trouble comes, read the book.

Woman:

I'm not gonna hurt you.

Shh. Shh. Shh.

Okay.

Shh. Shh. Shh.

Shh.

-Terribly sad.

Man: do you still
possess a working pistol?

Spade: Anyone who
wants to shoot me

will have to bring
their own gun.

Get down!

Could Jean-Pierre
have done this?

Philippe could have
taken the shot.

Man: You have many enemies.

I'd like you to meet my mother.

You either saw something
you shouldn't have seen,

or you know something
you shouldn't know.

Philippe shows up with a kid.

The boy is the hub of
a many-spoked wheel.

That sounds like something
you read in a fortune cookie.

We all pretend, Mr. Spade.

If I want you dead,
I just have to wait.

Mr. Spade, do you have
any specific information

you want to share?
Spade: They want the boy.

Everyone from the Vatican
to French intelligence

to the CIA is after this kid.

Woman: Mr. Spade, you
want to be left alone.

And yet, sadly, our
pasts are portable.