Original subtitles

THEME SONG PLAYING...

Mystery Mile, a remote village on the east coast of England.

Cut off by the sea at high tide.

...my cards.

Just the place to hide Judge Crowdy Lobbett

from the murderous attentions of the Simister gang, or so I thought.

But already a visit from the fortune-teller Anthony Datchett

seems to have led to the mysterious death of the Reverend Swithin Cush.

And now Judge Lobbett himself has disappeared into thin air.

George is here, miss.

Anything for the post, Miss Biddy?

These letters. Thank you, George.

Would you be kind and write out a label for me?

- Now, the old Parson's gone. - Of course.

It's for me son-in-law, Reg Hatton.

- Two T's? - That's right.

The Beck Garage, Canvey Island.

Essex.

Thank you kindly, Miss Biddy.

Sorry to bother you.

Wreathing and writhing and fainting in coils.

Hardly any of them can write.

Why don't you do something, Albert?

Well, like finding the Judge.

All you do is sit around making asinine remarks and smirking

and telling the Lobbetts not to call the police,

when it's clear they're both ill with worry.

I used to be pretty fond of you.

But now I think you're just cold and horrible and callous.

- Rough stuff. - How dare you?

♪ The sun has got his hat on

♪ Hip, hip, hip, hooray!

♪ The sun has got his hat on and he's coming out today

♪ We're over the moon We're up in the sky

♪ Not a moment too soon, we'll... ♪

- It's good to see you, man. - Filthy things, trains.

As for that one, should be in a museum.

Been wandering round the country like it was lost.

- Will a drop of the local brew cheer you up? - That all depends, dunnit?

- Find that Yankee Judge you've gone and lost? - No.

Not too clever that, is it? For a professional.

Yours is not to reason why, Lugg.

As long as I don't have to do or die.

I got your clean clobber like you asked me.

Thanks.

- How far is this Mystery place you're at? - Oh, 20 miles or so.

Twenty miles. Do the locals still wear wool?

Just about.

You're not going to make me go there, are you?

No.

A messenger boy, that's all I am.

Left in Bottle Street, like a discarded toy.

Not bad. A bit thin. Expect they water it in this sort of place.

What's the news from your end? Did you speak to Oates?

The Chief Detective Inspector begged me to inform you

that Datchett is a con and blackmailer.

Sometimes he sports a red beaver,

other times his chin's as bare as a baby's bum.

Once upon a time he worked the oars, legitimate.

Have I got time for another?

Anything on Mr Barber?

I spoke to your poncey mate.

Him what pawns. Something to eat, no more.

He says this Barber bloke's rolling in it. He's got harems all over the place.

- He says he's an art expert. - That's right.

The bloke did say he was connoisseur of art.

Perhaps women don't satisfy his every passion and desire.

The Simister gang?

Look. I've come to warn you.

You are ignorant compared with me, you don't know.

They're a nasty lot. Leave them alone.

Your own mother couldn't give you better advice.

- There's me train. - Tell me if you know anything.

Down the club, they say there's a noticeable

absence of the really nasty customers.

Ikey Todd and that lot.

- I did hear Ropey's back in the country. - Ropey?

It is an infamy that such a bloke should exist at the peak. You know him.

Hmm.

What do you suggest?

Well, in my opinion, sir, though you won't take it, I'm sure,

I'd apply to Thomas Knapp.

I'm hanged if I will. I do not associate with Mr Thomas Knapp.

What did I tell you? It's too late now.

We best go separate, just in case.

I shall wear the black band round me head for you and the funeral card'll cost a bit.

Thanks for the drink.

Here. Don't forget your clobber.

Thank God you're back, Albert. They found the Judge's clothes.

- Who are "they"? - Kettle's daughter actually.

And where did Miss Kettle make this interesting discovery?

Saddleback Creek.

Albert.

Do try to be a little less...

Clinical.

- Definitely Dad's suit. - Soaked in sea water and torn.

- That's blood, isn't it? - Possibly.

- Nothing in the pockets? - No, nothing at all.

All the pockets were pulled inside-out.

I'm wanted in there! Show me in immediately!

I'll do no such thing.

They're a bereaved family. They don't want to see you.

- I'll go and send him away. - Uh, no.

If you don't mind, I think it might be a good idea

if we interviewed old Clever Science ourselves.

Certainly.

Come in, Mr Kettle.

Thank you, Cuddy.

I saw the car turn in the drive, Mr Campion,

so I've run straight over knowing you'll be wanting the truth.

It was my daughter who's found the remains, as you might say.

Is your daughter here?

Oh, no, sir. You can imagine the condition she's in.

The shock and the horror of it.

And I may mention, though I have offered myself,

no one has as yet sent for the police.

It'll look very suspicious when they do come.

Even though you're the son of the dead man, sir, it will look nasty.

- What dead man? Have you got the body? - Me, sir? Oh, no, sir.

No, when we find that, then I dare say we'll know who killed him.

- And how was he killed? - With a dagger, sir.

How do you know that?

Well, it's a question of deduction, isn't it, sir?

Look at this jacket hole, right over the heart.

See these stains?

If you don't know what that is, I can tell you. It's blood.

Heart's blood. The victim was stabbed to death

with a knife.

And look at these clothes. Sopping wet. Now, what does that show?

- That they've been in water. - Ah, exactly. You've hit it in one.

Mr Lobbett was taken out to sea in a boat, stabbed through the heart,

and thrown in the water.

Where he undressed, being careful to remove his braces, yes.

So far I think that's perfectly clear.

But there are one or two little matters to be explained

before we call in Scotland Yard.

First, the knife thrust. A rather curious incision, don't you think?

A little hole nicked with a pair of scissors

and then made larger with a table knife.

And the blood stains. The poor man seems to have bled from outside his clothes.

The inside, you see, is quite clean.

I wonder if anyone's killed a chicken lately.

There's something fishy about this. A whole load of fishiness you might say.

Someone's been playing the fool with you, Mr Kettle,

I should go back to your post office if I were you.

I'm sorry about that. But I had to find out how much Sherlock knew.

- What do you make of these? - Whole thing's an extraordinary bad fake.

Amateur stuff. Definitely not your father's New York friends.

Probably local talent.

But that was the suit Dad was wearing.

That's the only thing that makes it interesting.

Look, it's getting late now. But first thing in the morning,

I think I'd better do some sleuthing of my own around the place.

You haven't seen Biddy anywhere, have you?

- No. - We arranged to meet in...

To go for a walk together.

She was gonna show me Saddleback Creek.

- But I can't find her anywhere. - Really?

- You haven't seen Miss Biddy, have you, sir? - No.

Why?

Well, Miss Biddy said she'll go down the shop and get me some baking powder.

Well, that was more than an hour ago and I've got the oven hot.

Yes, all right, Cuddy.

I think I've been rather stupid. Come on, Marlowe.

You don't think anything's happened to Biddy, do you?

- Yes. - If it has, I'll commit murder.

That's the spirit.

What can I do for you gentlemen?

Um, did Miss Pagett leave her purse here, Mr Kettle?

No, no. She left nothing, sir.

Fine. Now we know where we are.

Is she still in the house?

Oh, don't be a fool, man. All we have to do is turn you over to the police.

Where is she?

How dare you come here threatening me, accusing me!

You call the police, sir. You call the police.

I shall have something to tell them.

Where is Mr Lobbett?

Why don't you show them clothes to the police?

Because you daren't, that's why!

- Look, I'm not having this, sir. - Shut the door.

It's a pity the window won't open,

you could've gotten rid of the smell of chloroform.

If she's been hurt, I'll break my rule and kill you.

Now, Mr Kettle, the story so far.

You make a mess of faking the Judge's clothes.

That not only sets us buzzing around your head, but your own dirty employers.

They order you to kidnap the first of us that comes in here.

You apply the chloroform...

Innocent sort of delivery van waiting outside.

Where have they taken her?

If they find out you know all this, they'll kill me. Don't let them know.

Where? Where?

I don't know! Honest I don't! I never seen the men before.

I had to do as they said.

I wouldn't have done it if I could've helped.

I believe him.

The nastiest thing we can do now is leave him to his pals.

Are you all right, sir?

Well, if it isn't Albert himself.

May I introduce you to Mr Thomas Knapp. Mr Lobbett.

But I thought that... Oh, it was your dad worked on the punk.

- Pleased to meet you, sir. - How do you do?

What I've been through to get here.

I had to pinch this thing in Colchester or I'd never have got here at all.

How did you know I was here? It was Lugg, wasn't it?

Shall we say that me and Magers have interests in common.

Your interests.

I happened to overhear something about you and this Lobbett business.

- What? - Confidential.

- Interested? - I might be.

What did I tell you? Me and Albert have worked together in the past.

We're in the same star. We understand one another.

- Well, what is it? - Oh, that's not like you, sir.

Ain't I gonna get offered any refreshment?

All the way from Colchester on this thing.

That's much better.

Yesterday afternoon I happened to overhear a very curious conversation

on one of my new lines.

I should explain. Mr Knapp used to work for government on telephone repairs.

Then he and the postmaster general had a slight misunderstanding,

and he retired from public life for a few years.

Since then I've been on me own.

Using my electrical knowledge to my own advantage.

If you know the way, it's easy to listen on the line.

You'd be surprised the things I pick up.

Filth in high places, you wouldn't believe it.

Yesterday...

There was these two blokes talking.

One said, "Who sent the clothes?"

And the other said, "There was no message, only the handwriting on the label".

"Ooh", says the other. "That's who you want".

Didn't mean nothing to me till the first bloke says,

"Who's this Albert Campion, when he's at home?"

And the other says, "I'll find out about him".

Then the first bloke says,

"If it was the girl, get her up here and we'll put her through it".

Sounds as though one of your ladies might get into trouble.

- Miss Pagett has already disappeared. - Oh.

How much?

I'll make you a gentlemanly offer,

what I wouldn't if I didn't know you.

Oh, come on now, Thomas. Cut the cackle.

It's no use to us unless you know where they were speaking from.

But I do.

Twenty-five quid for the address and another 25 when we get the girl back.

Now, I can't say fairer than that.

You're on.

32 Beverly Gardens, Notting Hill Gate, Kensington.

- You got a scrap of paper on you? - Hmm.

I heard the butchers, they're there, all right.

Two heavies on guard outside.

Now, the house where I hang out with my old mum

backs on to Beverly Gardens. You could make it your headquarters.

We could nip across them roads as easy as kiss your arse.

- Who's the boss? - Calls himself Datchett.

You know, as far as intelligence is concerned, Thomas, you're coming on.

It's the picture man back. He's the limit.

Sir Giles, may I be the first to congratulate you.

Proof. Proof positive your Romney is genuine.

I should like to arrange for the sale with you. Let us talk to Judge Lobbett.

- He's not here. - Still not back?

- He's disappeared. - Oh, you're joking, Sir Giles.

My father's blood-stained clothes were found yesterday.

- But this is terrible. - I'm sorry, Mr Barber.

This is terrible. I thought he was just away.

My commission, all the work I have done.

Just send me your account.

Thank you. If I can be of any help.

Ah, my friend, I...

Giles.

Biddy's been kidnapped, taken to London. We think we know where she is.

We've got to get there quickly, all of us,

without the whole village finding out.

- But, Isopel? - She'll be safe in my flat.

Mr Barber, we'd be eternally grateful

if you could give three of us a lift to London.

A pleasure! I'm an excellent driver.

And if you can persuade Sir Giles

to let me handle the sale of his picture,

- the gratitude would be entirely mine. - Thank you, Mr Barber.

If you get hungry just shout down the lift.

If you get scared, just shout at the policemen out of the window.

And if anyone calls, don't, whatever you do, open the door.

Especially not if it's an old gentleman with an aerial to this top hat,

and natty black gators. That's my wicked uncle.

Oh. You won't let Giles do anything silly, or Marlowe either.

- You will look after them? - As if they were my sons, madam.

Both young gentlemen will be under the direct care of matron.

You see, you don't know how worrying it is to be in love.

That's all you know, young woman.

Make room on the bed for Mr Barber, Mum.

He don't look too happy in the corner there.

Think you're clever, don't you?

Just when you're going into a really nasty business, who do you get around you?

Two ready amateurs and something out of a carpet shop.

Gold.

Oi, Thomas.

Don't lean against that wall, it's me who looks after your clothes, remember.

- Did Mr Barber come willingly? - Bit of gentle persuasion you might say.

He knew too much. Besides, we might need his car.

Mother will keep him quiet. She's as good as a bull pup.

Up here.

All given to me by the government

in unconscious recognition of my services.

Over here, Albert.

That's 32 Beverly Gardens. The one with the new chimney.

Just to the right of the big green skylight.

Just stay with me, deary.

...rubber shoes all round.

It's no good till it's dark anyway.

I'll buy for a thruppence.

I'll see ya.

Look, Mother, argue as much as you like, five queens is five queens.

- Are you accusing me of cheating? - All right.

If these gentlemen will accept the fact that packs may have got mixed up a bit.

- Time we went. - Right, gentlemen.

Well, so delighted to have been of service.

The weather forecast and news summary

will follow at once.

Here. A nice drop of rum.

Don't breathe a word, no one. If I whistle, drop.

- Just on the other side of that big skylight. - All right.

London telephone service, madam.

Breakdown gang.

Tracing a fault.

I'm sorry that our conversation hasn't been more fruitful, Miss Pagett.

I've a little work to do, so I'll leave you with Mr Ropey here for a while.

I'm sure we'll speak again soon.

Come on, love, spit it out.

Where is Judge Lobbett?

We're sure you know.

I don't want to play noughts and crosses on your pretty face.

I don't know.

I've told you. I swear, I don't know.

Ugh!

Emergency?

Fire. Number 32 Beverly Gardens, Notting Hill Gate.

It's well ablaze. Could you send someone round to see it?

Thank you. And the police too, of course.

Fire! Fire! Fire! Help! Fire! Police!

Fire! Fire!

Get Biddy out quickly. The way we came.

This way, this way. Trust uncle. Return tickets, please.

Come on.

Good night, Mr Datchett.

Oh, my God! Darling, are you badly cut?

Uh, a few stitches. Lugg knew a jolly good doctor.

Good? Doc Rafton's a marvel.

You'd be walking around in four separate bits, if it wasn't for him.

Now it's all over I think I'm going to cry.

Now, now, don't cry. Here, have a big swig of this.

- Thank you. - And imagine we're a Sunday newspaper.

Spare us nothing, not one single gruesome detail.

Well, there's not much to tell really.

When I came to, I was in that house with those awful men,

That nasty little creep of a fortune teller seemed to be the boss.

Well, he won't trouble us for some time.

They aren't the lot that kidnapped your father.

And they seemed quite sure I knew where he was.

But how could you?

It's 'cause of my writing the label, that address for old George.

They thought I had the Judge's clothes.

George couldn't possibly have had the clothes. It's ridiculous.

You do realise, don't you? This is a death game.

That was quite clear.

In the end, either their leader,

whom I didn't see, or Mr Lobbett,

is bound to die.

I've known it all along.

Right. Duff's up!

I'm afraid the British burger is not a gastronomic success.

What is it?

- Herrings and tomato sauce. - Mmm, delicious.

Bloaters in blood.

Good for the brain. I nipped out and got the first edition.

We don't get much of a mention.

"Mysterious outbreak, arson suspected.

"Several men removed from the house in unconscious condition,

"helping police with their enquiries."

I could have done better me self.

Hey, that looks like Dad.

"Giant Diplodocus found in Suffolk.

"The well-known amateur archaeologist,

"the Reverend Alaric Watts of Reading Knights."

- Reading Knights? - It looks damnably like him...

It is Dad. It must be.

It is, of all the utterly, improbable and wretched pieces of bad luck.

It is your father, I put him there.

- You? - Mea Culpa.

Well, me and your father, not forgetting George, a good old fashioned put up job.

- But if you... - Things were getting too hot.

They pinked us the first evening when Datchett turned up.

Then poor old Swithin pointed the way.

With this. Reading Knights were safe with Alaric Watts.

But he disappeared in front of us.

Mystery Mile magic, into the maze down the ditch,

change into rougher clothes in the hut in the beach.

Henry George's brother waiting in a boat, Reverend Watts waiting down the coast.

George was told to destroy the clothes.

But George said "waste not, want not",

and posted them all to his son-in-law.

And Mr Kettle intercepted the parcel which caused no end of bother.

Look, they are bound to get word of this, so speed is of the essence.

I guess we've got a few hours' start.

You're all going to stay here under Lugg's avuncular wing, while I return to Suffolk.

I'm not.

You are. You haven't even got a wing.

I'm coming with you.

Yes, all right, Giles.

No, you stay here, Giles. Keep an eye out.

Anything suspicious.

I'm not sure. I really am not quite sure.

I would say that it had never been used. What do you think?

Campion?

No panic, your family's all right in London.

I've got Giles with me.

What's wrong?

This.

"Our special photographer with a long distance camera manages to get a picture,

"archaeologist at work."

Disgusting newspaper people, spying on us. No privacy left.

Anyway, it's an Ichthyosaurus, not a Diplodocus.

They won't spell their own names right next.

Will you excuse me? I really must warn the museum.

Such a darn fine portrait of yourself, that's the trouble.

Yeah.

As we say, my cover's blown, blown sky high.

Even higher.

Yes, and this messes up your whole plan, Campion, I'm sorry.

I've been a fool. Look at it.

You must drop this whole thing.

You know this just might be our chance to bring the big fish himself to the surface.

No, I don't see that.

We had a little bit of a shindig in London.

A schlimazel with some of Simister's people.

It gives us the blessed possibility that the big bezesus himself

will turn up and make a personal affair of it.

What's your idea?

I want you to come back to Mystery Mile with me.

It's our home ground, so to speak.

They'll have to attack us.

Either we get them or they get us.

Any development will be pretty speedy, certainly sensational and probably final.

What do you say?

You're on.

Should be someone here on guard.

Henry!

- Always did drink a bit. - It's not drink.

If the coast is clear I'll give you a signal. In the meantime, wait here.

Campion, I think I better come clean with you.

- Later. - No! Now.

Just in case.

After I retired, I worked on a state prison commission.

One day I was called in to interview a man named Colson.

He was serving a big sentence on a dope smuggling rap.

He was a Simister man.

He was dying of cancer.

I got him out so he could spend his last few days with wife and family,

and in gratitude he gave me a clue to who Simister was.

He'd never seen the man himself.

What was the clue?

This little fairy tale book.

I remember old Sindbad.

Comfort me with apples.

I think your dying crook was having you on, Judge.

Oh, I don't think so.

I read this damn nonsensical little book

through 20 times and I cannot find the clue.

But it's in there some place, now I'm sure of it.

Well, this is not quite the time for a literary discussion.

Keep your eyes skinned, both of you.

The universal Mr Barber.

It's only me from over the sea.

They've beaten us to it, chums.

Barber and Mrs Weibrow are both drugged in the house.

- What? - We're in a trap.

We've gone and put our little necks into it like bunnies in a snare.

Back in the car?

Hopeless. That's their bright idea, I fancy.

We'll have to try the Lobbett way.

I told George to leave a boat on the mooring all the time. Come on.

- Come on, Albert. - Off you go.

I'm not coming.

Don't be an idiot. Come on!

Look, boy, you cannot do this.

Pull away, Giles! That's an order. Or you'll have us all murdered.

It's no good arguing with him, Judge.

"Kiss me, Hardy."

Tell Lugg to lay me out proper and put pennies on me eyes.

"So that all his life he might have reason

"to remember the adventures of Sindbad the sailor."

"In a certain town in Persia there lived once upon a time two brothers.

"Their names were Cassim and Ali Baba."

I've gone mad.

Good evening, Mr Barber.

Or do you prefer Mr Simister?

You are alone.

Judge Lobbett sends his apologies.

He was called away on urgent business.

I am not interested in that gentleman.

I shall have no difficulty in picking him up whenever I wish.

At this moment, my chief interest is in you.

You are a very clever man, my friend.

Very clever.

I have here a most interesting dossier.

I assure you it contains some very remarkable reading.

You and I have both made the same mistake.

We underestimated each other.

Please sit down, make yourself comfortable.

Try the soap box.

I have come to admire you, Mr Campion.

So much so that it may interest you to know

that I now consider it worthwhile to offer you a position in my organisation.

Sign along the dotted line.

Please tear carefully, nothing genuine without this signature.

Always you like a little joke, eh, Mr Campion?

I suppose I should live in. All found.

Washing done by the firm.

Perhaps a Circassian slave or two thrown in when times are good.

You would be well advised to take my offer seriously, young man.

The alternative hardly bears thinking about.

No, Mr Simister. No little Albert on the staff.

Foolish!

I must say you've got some cheek.

I mean here you are chucking your weight about in the middle of a marsh,

miles away from home, and mother.

Suppose I bang you on the head and go away and say no more about it?

I don't think you'll do that, I've studied your record closely.

I think a body would be very difficult to explain.

Your friends at Scotland Yard would not like it.

I'd very much liked to know, as one of us is going to cop it shortly,

how you've managed to keep so quiet about yourself all this time.

Ahh!

I am glad this opportunity has occurred.

The desire to confide is very strong in a man of my temperament.

I have never before found myself in a position where it was quite safe

to indulge in that desire.

I am the only man in the world

who has ever turned my particular business

into something as pleasurable as other more legitimate concerns.

I go where I like, live as I choose.

I have many friends in high places. I am universally respected.

If I made my money out of oil or motor cars, it would be exactly the same.

You buy the brains on one side and the executive power on the other.

Exactly.

It is a pity I should have to kill you, my friend. I find you intelligent.

Ah!

The secret of my success is simple.

My father was the original Simister.

Good Lord, you inherited it?

Why not?

As I have been remarkably frank with you, Mr Campion,

perhaps, before we part, you could be frank with me.

How did you stumble upon my true identity?

The clue was in a copy of a children's book.

Completely harmless in itself,

and utterly unintelligible to anyone who did not already suspect you.

The book is in my pocket now.

- May I have it? - No.

Please?

I'm inclined to dot you one.

I'm younger than you are, and probably more gifted when it comes to biffing.

But you are not so well armed.

Let me explain.

I read in your dossier that you sometimes carry a child's water pistol

which looks like a real revolver.

I confess I was amused when I read that.

So amused I thought I too would have my little joke.

My pistol contains a particularly corrosive fluid.

So you planned this little conversatione?

Most carefully.

Page one, I think.

Ah, I had forgotten.

Do you always do your murders like this?

Me? Ho, ho, ho! Never before.

It was only because Judge Lobbett was foolish enough

to write for an art expert that I decided to act personally.

I am enjoying myself immensely, such a delightful conversatione.

What a pity it should have to close.

Don't think me crude, but, um...

The body question is still a worry.

Your body? Not to me.

You may have noted my people have drugged the servants.

I shall return to where you found me,

drug myself properly this time.

Your friends will find the amiable Mr Barber, the art expert.

My alibi will be perfect.

And I shall have a beautiful Romney as a memento of my visit.

As a last favour, will you have my epitaph put on my grave stone?

If it's short.

Oh, yes. No text just this...

Neatly inscribed.

Here lie I, poor Albert Campion.

Death was bad...

But life was...

Aah!

Here is your epitaph for you.

Campion! Help me!

Campion! Hurry!

Campion, I'll give you anything in the world. Campion!

Campion!

Oh.

That's the only mystery left.

Why did that dear old man take his own life?

- Perhaps we shall never know. - I can tell you why.

I'm sure he won't mind you knowing, now it's all over.

Swithin wasn't a parson at all.

Someone's been pulling your leg.

Swithin had a brother, a year or two older, but much alike.

Both orphans and poor.

Swithin's brother became a priest.

But there wasn't enough money there

for Swithin to take the necessary varsity degree.

One summer they were rock climbing together in Austria.

There was an accident,

and the brother was killed.

In spite of the shock and the grief he kept his head and swapped roles.

The right man was buried under the wrong name.

And Swithin took the curacy.

An impersonation story 50 years old. Good Lord.

Last year he wrote to me telling me all about it.

I suppose he wanted to confess to someone in writing.

Unfortunately, that nasty man who kept the post office...

Kettle.

He must have read the letter and passed on the glad news to the gang.

Blackmail, of course.

They tried to make him work for them, but he wasn't having any.

As perfect a parson as ever lived, and a damned old fool at the same time.

God bless him.

Lugg, suppose I retire? This profession of mine puts people off.

You've had a relapse, better get you home.

No, I'm serious.

That's unhealthy in itself. Look.

If you must have a woman about the place,

find a nice sensible, homely, hospital nurse.

Someone who'll do the washing up.

But we don't want that, do we? Wouldn't be the article, would it?

Push away, Lugg, or we'll miss our piece of wedding cake.

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