Original subtitles

Papa said he was being paid to take care of him.

After leaving the boy at the convent,

did Philippe tell you where he was going next?

The boy? They want the boy.

You must be drunk if you think

I'm just going to hand over the vineyard to you.

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

Someone's in the house.

Whoo-hoo!

Shh.

The other one jumped out the window, but I winged him.

You okay?

I was about to shoot this one, too,

but I thought that wouldn't be in our best interest.

At least not until we get information from him.

Not to mention you might have hit me instead.

Impossible. I'm a dead shot.

What are you doing here?

I was asking you.

Oh, you told me to keep an eye on Teresa.

Yeah, when I'm not around.

Well, lucky thing I was here, no?

Hard to say. I'm not used to that kind of luck.

Ah, French Army.

A real soldier wouldn't try to kidnap a young girl.

Who are you calling a young girl?

You all right?

Yes, thanks to Henri.

Henri, do me a favor and go upstairs.

- Go upstairs and do what? - Just go upstairs.

Right.

And take the women with you.

Henri, leave the gun, please.

How's your neck?

How's yours?

Another time, another place, a man tried to kill me,

I would've shot him or thrown him out of a window

and forgotten he ever existed.

But I'm older now.

And mostly wiser.

Do you have a name?

Didn't think so.

Are you a Dean Martin fan?

I figure that you've been well-trained

and won't be easily persuaded to talk,

but I'm gonna ask you some questions, anyway.

Easy questions. And every time you don't answer

or say, "Je sais pas,"

I'm gonna kick you in the head.

You know? Like the song?

And then answer the question myself.

Sound good?

Off we go.

So I don't have to be J. Edgar Hoover

to guess that you're army intelligence

and that your employers at SDECE--

Did I pronounce that right?

That's always been a hard one for me.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. SDECE, army intelligence,

the outfit that you work for,

who I'm assuming, like everyone else in the known universe,

is angry with Philippe Saint-Andre

for stealing something,

or, in this case, someone, he was ordered to protect.

No, that wasn't a question.

But Sergeant Saint-Andre does work for SDECE, doesn't he?

That was a question, and the answer is...

But he went rogue.

So did you and your pal drop by tonight

to see if the girl could tell you where the kid is?

Because the original likely plan

was that Sergeant Saint-Andre was to deliver the kid

to the big boys in Paris.

I'm on a hot streak, but now for the million-franc question.

What is so important about this little kid

that everyone is willing to murder nuns

or kidnap young girls in order to get their hands on him?

I don't know.

Orders were come and search,

and if the boy wasn't there, to take the girl.

But you came dressed for war,

all gunned up like you thought you might get into a firefight.

You have a reputation.

I'm flattered, but...

Please, stop doing that.

I will if you stop talking bullshit.

You thought Philippe might be here.

For good reason.

Do you know what Saint-Andre did in Algeria?

He was with a sniper unit.

A secret spy unit.

Saint-Andre hunted down members of Organisation Armée Secrète.

Yes. And assassinated them.

He had over 30 kills.

Still, that tells me nothing as to why everyone,

from the Vatican, to French intelligence, to the CIA,

is after this kid.

All I know is what I have heard whispered.

Okay, then whisper it to me.

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

That sounds like something you'd read in a fortune cookie.

It's all I've heard.

I swear on my mother's life.

Okay.

You can go now and meet your pal,

who's probably outside somewhere,

bleeding on my grapes.

Really? I can go?

You tell whoever gave you this shit detail

that I would like to find the good sergeant

as much as they would,

if for no other reason than the bata

has spoiled my fucking tranquility,

and that when I find Philippe-- and I will find him--

I will talk to him, and then I will bundle him up in a carpet

and send him up to Paris for you guys

to do whatever you want with.

But in the meantime, if I catch any more armed men

in their jammies sneaking about my property,

I will shoot them in the balls.

I wasn't lying before.

We know who you are.

You say that as if I'm hiding.

You have many enemies.

Okay, so I'm sending you away

with a few dents in your face after you tried to kill me,

and now you wanna stand there and threaten me?

My good friend, you wanna advertise my whereabouts

in the morning Le Monde

or one night on Discorama, be my guest.

But you will find that no one cares about that Sam Spade.

Not anymore.

You tell your bosses we're not enemies.

And they should believe you?

Why?

Get the fuck out of here.

Marguerite?

George and I had just sat down

to do The Times cryptic

when we heard your man shouting.

You could hear him from your place?

Well, we were in the garden.

The fresh air being part of our daily ritual.

That, and the, uh, mimosas, of course.

Here's a possible theory-- In trying to make his escape,

this chap runs this way and tumbles in.

That's my considered opinion.

Might wanna reconsider that opinion.

The road is the other direction.

No moon last night. Darkness aplenty.

He's not familiar with the terrain, so...

Still, one doesn't die from simply tumbling into the pool.

- One does if one can't swim. - He was a trained commando.

Who was also bleeding to death.

I only winged him.

His partner didn't escape. I let him go.

I didn't see much point in hanging onto him.

In the same way there wasn't much point

when I saw you this morning in telling me

that two men had tried to kidnap Teresa?

In my experience, the fewer people know

about something like this, the fewer people get hurt.

Your concern for my well-being is most touching.

A difficult shot in daylight.

This was at night, which makes such precision impossible.

Not if one had a night-vision scope,

like the PV-1 Starlight.

That would do the trick.

George was in the Royal Fusiliers.

Is that where he learned to paint?

Were you a rifleman?

Typing pool.

Yeah. Tepid shot.

I bet you are.

Henri, I suggest you call the base

and let them deal with the body.

General Davou is a man who insists on boundaries.

- The soldier's his. - But the pool is mine.

This problem comes from inside their own house.

Thank you for your time.

Pleasure. We'll be, um, there.

Oui.

Mmm.

Jean-Pierre: Marguerite?

Ah.

The lieutenant will meet the ambulance in Bozouls.

That put you in a spot?

Doesn't seem so.

All's well that ends well, huh?

Just glad I could help.

Yeah, okay.

Knock it off and tell me what's going on.

You're an officer cadet

who shot a fellow soldier, who turned up dead.

Those are the facts, yes, but they're outta--

- Spare me. Who did you call? - The base.

Which base? The one in Léon

or the one in Paris?

Why would I call Paris?

Because your CO is there

and you weren't off duty last night.

You were on duty.

Me? It's a smart play.

It's what I would do if I had a soldier under my command

who knew every inch of the place.

What's your rank?

Sublieutenant.

OK, from now on, if you are gonna be nosing around here,

at least have the fuckin' decency to let me know.

Oh.

Non.

I'm so glad you could join us for a meal.

Your presence is very reassuring.

I can't tell you. After what I saw floating in your pool,

I'm a bit twitchy.

There does seem to be an inordinate amount of killings

hereabout.

I'm at a loss now, as such an idyllic spot

begets so much mayhem.

Well, I can assure you that Bozouls is usually quite safe.

These murders are an aberration.

Or a shift in the pattern.

Please, my dear Commandant, have some more.

Oh, no, I couldn't, I've already eaten too much.

Nonsense, nonsense. I can see you're a man of appetite,

which according to an Italian lover I once had

is a sure sign of being dexterous in bed.

Oh, well, then in that case.

Mm, there you go.

Wait, wait. Some au jus.

Thank you.

Bon appétit.

Yes, of course, I knew you couldn't say no.

I'm thinking of getting a gun for protection.

Is there one you might recommend, Mr. Spade?

Sure. I'd recommend a water pistol.

Scamp.

It's another one of your jokes, but I'm deadly serious.

So am I.

At no point during your wanderings did you carry a gun?

I did, but that's why I know better.

Well, now I am intrigued, please explain.

You keep a gun under your pillow,

odds are about even that sooner or later,

you'll take it out and aim it at someone.

You aim a gun at someone, the odds are even better

that you'll kill them or be killed.

And I'm not that much of a gambler.

A bullet, once fired, can't be put back in a gun.

I think with proper training,

one could have a firearm at home.

One could even carry said firearm

as one goes about one's daily routine.

You seem very interested in guns for a painter, Mr. Fitzsimmons.

Oh, more interested in you, Mr. Spade.

You've led such an exciting adventure of a life.

You're the talk of the town.

And speaking as a woman living in constant fear,

I rely on men like you, dear Mr. Spade.

- I need the bathroom. - Yes, of course.

It's just inside the front door, down the hall,

second door on the left.

Don't be long.

Here we are, more wine for you.

Let's top you off.

Ah.

What did you study, Mr. Fitzsimmons?

Ah, well, school of life, I suppose.

Yes.

Yes, I think the...

Did someone get lost?

Apparently so.

You don't strike me as a man who often gets lost.

I guess I'm getting as twitchy as you

about these killings.

Don't be so hard on yourself.

We all pretend, Mr. Spade. Take my late husband.

Mr. Fitzsimmons pretended to love me and his son,

when all the while he was carrying on with Gabrielle.

I knew something was amiss when she started appearing nude

in one corner or another of his plein air.

Where were we?

Lunch.

Shall we head back?

But of course.

Tasty meal. Thank you.

Well, a pleasure, I'm sure.

Tasty?

"Tasty" as in "tastes bad."

The English do not know how to cook.

I mean, sweet Jesus, why would anyone think

that a dish called "toad in the hole"

would be anything but disgusting?

The wine was good.

The wine was French.

And that man's about as much a painter as I am a milkmaid.

That's an image.

And what about the garage?

I'd love to know why there's no room inside for their car.

I think the little sculpture on the roof

might have something to do with that.

Jean-Pierre?

Excusez-moi, Monsieur?

Well, this is indeed embarrassing.

I know her.

How could someone so smart be so stupid?

We have come to the proverbial fork in the road, Mr. Spade--

whether to reveal all that we know...

or simply finish our tea.