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Memorandum to Paramount Pictures,

Hollywood, California,

from Alexander Meyerheim. Subject - my latest production.

Gentlemen, while you sit back safely in your air-conditioned offices,

we here... in the trenches are progressing brilliantly.

As to your anxieties about the script, dismiss them.

l talked to the author in Paris.

He assures me that he has at this moment 138 glorious pages,

which are even now being typed. l plan to join him in Paris on Sunday.

Period. Paragraph.

Gentlemen, success is inevitable.

An Alexander Meyerheim production

of an original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

- Richard Benson? - You know him, my angel?

Know him? (rapid Spanish)

l hate him! Richard Benson, phooey!

lt seems there are facets of him you know even better than l do.

l cannot imagine when he finds time to write.

Unfortunately, he had time to write a script for me.

The last ten pages were found

floating off Malibu, in a vodka bottle.

Send the usual telegram to Benson.

Richard assures me that for all practical purposes he's on the wagon.

(buzzer)

lt's open. Come in.

- Yes? - Mr Benson?

You are the young lady from the typing bureau?

l am.

lf we are to have a happy and harmonious relationship,

l beg you, never answer a question with a question.

- ls that clear? - Did l?

There you go again, answering a question with a question.

My yes when you opened the door was a question.

Question mark implied, of course.

You know the difference between implied and inferred?

lsn't that a question?

Yes.

Then you answered my question with a question.

To imply is to indicate without saying openly or directly,

to infer is to conclude from something known or assumed.

- My name is Gabrielle Simpson. - ls that a bird?

l was told the job would take several days. l had nobody to leave him with.

Well, this is it. The office there,

l live up here, the terrace is out there.

That grotesque object so prominent on the horizon is the Eiffel Tower.

l had it moved there to remind me what town l'm in.

lf it offends you, l'll have it taken away again.

You live through here. lt's an adjoining room,

which no doubt to your mind has terribly sinister connotations.

- Not at all... - lf so, dismiss them.

l would have got you a room down the hall

but the joint's filled up. Bastille Day weekend, all that.

lt's quite alright. l once worked for an American novelist

who only wrote in the bathtub. l'm used to anything.

You can unpack. ln the bathtub?

Yes. l gave him a packet of bubble bath and we got on swimmingly.

l see.

Does that imply that the bird's name is Richelieu?

lt's inferred, l believe, rather than implied.

Swimmingly. lnteresting figure of speech.

You call the canary Richelieu because you wanted a cardinal?

That's very funny.

No, it isn't. Just one of the hazards of being

a famous international wit, which l am. Have to keep trying.

l can't tell you how delighted l am by this assignment, Mr Benson.

And to have the opportunity to work with a screenwriter of your stature.

l'm interested in cinema myself. l'm sure l can learn a great deal.

Thank you.

Last month l worked for Roger Roussin the New Wave director. You know him?

l'm more of an Old Wave man.

The picture's terribly interesting. Very avant-garde.

About people who go to this party and decide not to play Scrabble.

lt was called The Scrabble Game Will Not Take Place.

His next one's about a girl who won't have a birthday party -

Blow Out No Candles.

Roger believes what's important on screen is what doesn't happen.

Does your film have a title yet?

Of course.

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower. lt sounds fascinating.

The title is symbolic?

She doesn't really steal the Eiffel Tower. Does she?

What's the story about?

lt's an action-suspense, erm,...

..romantic melodrama. With lots of comedy, of course.

And deep down underneath a substrata of social comment.

Oh. Well, if l could see the pages you've written,

l could estimate the size of the typing job.

The pages, my dear girl, are right here.

An Alexander Meyerheim production.

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

Original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Here, with a page or two of interestingly photographed

establishing shots, possibly from a helicopter,

- a boy and a girl meet. - But, Mr Benson...

Now, after some chitchat,

getting-to-know-you stuff, which l do so brilliantly,

we feel an unconscious attraction between the two.

An indication to the audience of the tremulous beginnings of love.

And then, conflict!

We can tell by the music how deeply fraught with danger

the whole situation is.

And now,... our first switch.

The audience gasps when they realise they've been fooled.

Things are not what they seem. Not at all.

ln fact, the whole situation is completely reversed,

involving the magnificently ingenious

switch... on the switch.

Amazed by the sudden turn of events,

the boy and girl realise how gravely they've misjudged each other.

At that moment,

the music turns ominous once more.

They become aware of the danger that they're in and the chase is on!

Screaming tyres, rooftops,

long shots of tiny figures racing through the fear-gripped city.

When suddenly in a deserted alley we see, seated on a garbage can,

licking its wet rain-bedraggled fur,

close shot, the cat!

Now, as we build step by step to the climax,

the music soars.

And there, totally oblivious

of the torrential rain pouring down upon them,

the two fall happily and tenderly into each other's arms.

And as the audience drools with sublimated sexual pleasure,

the two enormous and highly paid heads come together

for that ultimate and inevitable moment.

The final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying, theatre-filling,

popcorn-selling...

..kiss.

Fade out. The end.

That's it. 138 pages. Why make it longer? We'd only have to cut later.

- Mr Benson... - Yes?

This screenplay, when does it have to be finished?

Well, let's see, today is Friday.

My friend and, in this case, patron and producer Mr Alexander Meyerheim

arrives in Paris from Cannes at ten o'clock on...

..Sunday morning. Which happens to be Bastille Day.

Perfect! 10:01 we hand him the completed script,

and then you and l celebrate. Drink champagne, dance in the streets,

whatever they do on July 1 4th.

You're very kind but l have a date. You haven't written anything at all?

You have a date?

You mean this entire movie has to be done in two days?

Miss Simpson, if you aren't up to your part of the job, tell me now.

- l can find someone else. - No, l didn't mean that.

lt's just that it's, well, rather unusual, isn't it?

Not for me.

l imagine you've given it a great deal of thought.

No, l haven't.

So what have you been doing?

What any red-blooded American screenwriter

would or should have been doing

for the first 19 and a fraction weeks of his employment.

Water-skiing in St Tropez,

lying in the sun in Antibes, studying Greek.

Greek?

There was this starlet representing the Greek film industry

at the Cannes Festival.

Then, of course, a few weeks unlearning Greek,

which involved a considerable amount of vodka

and an unpremeditated trip to Madrid for the bullfights,

which fortunately, since l can't bear the sight of blood,

had long since gone on to Seville.

Weeks 1 7 and 18 were spent in the casino at Monte Carlo,

in a somewhat ill-advised attempt to win enough money

to buy back my $5,000-a-week, plus expenses, contract

from my friend, employer and patron, Mr Alexander Meyerheim,

thus not having to write the picture at all. Take a note.

For the textbook l will someday do on the art of screenwriting,

never play 13, 31 and the corners thereof

for any serious length of time for any serious money. lt doesn't work.

And now l have to. Shall we begin?

An Alexander Meyerheim production.

Caps, quotes. The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

You do like the title?

Oh, yes, it certainly sounds intriguing.

lt intrigued Meyerheim, too. He bought the title, script unseen.

Original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Page one. Fade in. Exterior. Paris, naturally.

Let's see, night or day?

Day.

Begin... with a shot of... of the Eiffel Tower.

The camera zooms in. Standing windswept and alone on a platform

is a mysterious woman in black. She glances at her watch.

And we see...

How the hell do l know? Mysterious woman in black.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Mustn't be obvious. Don't tip the whole story too early. OK. Fade in.

Exterior, le Sacre Coeur. Day.

No...

Make that, erm,...

..the Grand Palais.

Uh-uh.

We've got to give the audience

the taste and smell of the real Paris.

OK.

Exterior. Christian Dior. The camera pans,

and now we see a white Rolls-Royce pull up and come to a stop.

No, wait a minute, make that a white Bentley.

It's chicer.

A chauffeur in white livery leaps out and opens the door.

From inside emerges some classically glamorous star

like, erm, Marlene Dietrich.

And now she... Erm...

Dot, dot, dot.

She sweeps majestically into the store and...

That's all we see of her. Makes no sense but Alex would have loved it.

He could have stolen the Bentley and afterwards charged it to the picture.

- What d'you say your name was? - Gabrielle Simpson.

- How long have you lived in Paris? - Two years.

And you came here to write.

Well, that, too, but mostly to...

l don't know how to say it exactly. Live.

Live?

Would you mind...?

You were saying you came here to live.

Yes. For the first six months l made a comprehensive study of depravity.

No kidding?

Seriously. Never got to bed before eight in the morning.

Who knows how many cups of poisonous black coffee l consumed?

l didn't drink then, so it was hard to get totally into the spirit.

Depravity can be terribly boring if you don't smoke or drink.

But a person must try to grow.

And the guy you're dating on Bastille Day, is he part of the process?

No, he's just a friend. A struggling young actor.

An actor?!

Ewww...

A tragic relationship to begin with.

l hope he's not a method actor who scratches and mumbles and pauses,

thereby destroying the impeccable rhythm of the author's prose.

No, he's a little intense but lots of fun.

Uh-huh? Yeah, well...

And you and this... actor, what do you plan to do on Bastille Day?

We'll spend the whole day together. First, breakfast at a little cafe,

then we'll dance from one end of Paris to the other,

opera at five, then the guards and the singing of the Marseillaise,

off to Montmartre for the fireworks,

then supper and champagne and, you know, live.

- You really like it, don't you? - What?

Life.

Every morning when l wake up and see a whole new other day,

l just go absolutely ape.

l've got an idea.

l got an idea! The first good one in four months.

No, l had an idea to give up drinking - it didn't photograph.

Now this could be good. Very good indeed.

A simple story of a simple Parisian working girl

and how she spends July 1 4th. The whole picture plays in one day.

And l've got two days to write it. Fade in. Exterior, Paris.

As our story begins, it's early Bastille Day morning.

And all the trumpets of Paris are sounding reveille.

Over a shot of the Arch of Triumph,

superimpose ''An Alexander Meyerheim production''.

Cut to the Eiffel Tower. The main title.

The trumpets segue into the inevitable title song.

Maybe we can get Sinatra to sing it.

* (Sinatra) The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower

* Also stole my heart

There follows an interminable list of other credits

acknowledging the efforts of all the quote little people unquote,

whom I shall graciously thank in my acceptance speech

at the Academy Awards.

As the cymbals crash,

''Original Story and Screenplay by Richard Benson''.

OK.

Fade out.

And fade in. A picturesque Parisian square,

where the holiday festivities are in progress.

A simple Parisian working girl,

who looks remarkably like you, Miss Simpson,

emerges from her simple Parisian dwelling

and makes her way through the crowd and across the square.

She seats herself at a table at this little caf� she goes to.

With breathless anticipation, she awaits the arrival of her date.

Some... actor.

Now I suppose we'll have to describe him.

I see him as curiously unattractive.

Not at all. Philippe happens to be very handsome.

In fact, he looks rather like, erm, Tony Curtis.

I see him as one of those mumbling scratching actors

destined only for minor roles and character parts.

And his name is not Philippe. It's Maurice.

Maurice!

Like, er, bonjour, baby.

- Bonjour, Maurice! - Hey.

Oh, l'm so excited. l didn't sleep a wink. Do you like my dress?

Yeah, very groovy.

Would it be too wicked if instead of breakfast

we had a glass of champagne right here?

Thanks.

Erm...

- Look, baby... - Yes, Maurice?

This Bastille Day gig?

Like, erm, we're gonna have to cool it.

But, Maurice, l don't understand.

Well, see, baby, l'm going to have to cut. See, last night,

while l was making the scene at le drug store,

erm, l was tearing an expresso with a couple of local citizens

when, erm, all of a sudden this New Wave-looking stud comes in

and says his name is Roger Roussin

and, like, he's making a film about Bastille Day.

No Dancing in the Streets.

No Dancing in the Streets?

ln Roger's flick it, like, erm,... rains.

Anyway, he offers me the lead.

Oh, Maurice, l'm, like, so happy for you.

See, l have to split. We're gonna be shooting all day. ln the sewers.

l see.

Hey, baby, l got wheels, can l drop you?

No thanks, l prefer to walk.

Crazy.

Erm, � tout � l'heure.

With the almost lunatic narcissism

peculiar to his curious calling,

Maurice rather preciously mounts his motor scooter.

Our heroine is left grief-stricken,

not realising how much better off she really is.

They were going to spend the whole day together!

My dear, you just witnessed the first switch.

Maybe, but Maurice would never behave that way.

Besides, his name is not Maurice, it's Philippe.

So, having successfully disposed of her date for Bastille Day,

we move on to important matters. Conflict.

Conflict?

The other man.

The third corner of the obligatory triangle.

Didn't Roger whatshisname, the No Scrabble director,

teach you anything about writing movies?

No...

- For a moment, Gabby sits there... - Gabby?

We've got to call her something.

For a moment, Gabby sits there.

A lonely and pathetic figure.

But unbeknownst to her, this heart-breaking little scene

has been witnessed by...

..dot, dot, dot,...

..a mysterious stranger.

A mysterious stranger. How exciting.

Miss Simpson, before you escape the confines

of this unpretentious hotel room,

it's my intention to show you

just how exciting a mysterious stranger can be.

l suppose we'll have to describe him.

Yes, l suppose so.

He's American, of course.

l can write him better that way.

Now let's see, what else?

l see him as rather tall, rather suntanned,

rather handsome, athletic looking,

with a rugged but... curiously sensitive face.

Poor sad creature. Little does she realise

that in a moment she and the audience

will have totally forgotten that dull clod Maurice,

or Philippe or whatever his name is.

At this magic moment her life has indeed begun.

Tenderly he folds her into his arms,

and moving with the nimble grace of a Fred Astaire,

he dances her off into the crowd.

ln exactly ten seconds l want you to slap me as hard as you can.

What?

There is unfortunately no time to explain.

And no reason to trust me. But l trust you.

There's something about your big magic eyes, and l am...

Well, the name doesn't matter.

Just think of me as... 1331, American lntelligence.

This must be some kind of a joke.

lf you will look slightly to your left...

Without moving your head, please.

You will see in that window...

ln the bouquet l handed you is a piece of microfilm.

l can't tell you what it is, but should it fall into the wrong hands,

it may mean the end of civilisation as we know it.

The time has come for you to slap me as hard as you can.

(gunshots)

Stop. Stop!

Spies in trench coats?

I'm afraid I got carried away. We'll have to go back.

OK. That brings us back to where we were.

We're alright through getting rid of her date for Bastille Day.

The boy and the girl meet and...

..and they dance, and they dance, and they dance...

And they dance, and they dance...

Mr... Benson?

Now then. The mysterious stranger. Who is he...?

- (buzzer) - There's someone at the door.

What does he do? What suffering, what torment

caused the sadness that lurks behind his eyes?

And why, while we're asking questions,

didn't l listen to my father and learn a useful trade?

Merci.

lt's a telegram.

Well, aren't you going to open it?

No, l'm not going to open it. The reason l won't open it

is l'm fully aware what it says.

The reason for that is because in the last 19 and a fraction weeks

l have received 134 telegrams from Mr Alexander Meyerheim,

all saying exactly the same thing. When will the script be finished?

When will the script be finished?

How can l write with him badgering me this way?

Day and night, wires, messages, telephone calls.

How was it today? Did you work well? When will it be finished?

Talk about men in trench coats! He spies on me constantly.

His people are everywhere. For all l know, you might be one.

Mr Benson!

l'm sorry. Some days l just feel like whatshisname in Les Mis�rables.

- Jean Valjean. - l guess so.

Only last night... Last night l swore to him on the telephone

that l had 138 pages in front of me.

l said, ''Alex, any man who takes your money

and tells you he's got 138 pages in front of him and doesn't

is nothing but a liar and a thief!''

Sometimes l get the feeling he doesn't trust me.

l know who the mysterious stranger is.

He's a liar and a thief.

Sure. A latterday Francois Villon,

who lives by his wits and what he steals.

A jewel thief, maybe.

Expert safe-cracker.

There isn't a safe in the world

he can't open with his bare hands. l've got it!

We have to start all over again

but that's not too serious. We've only got eight pages.

Let's see. We're alright through Alexander Meyerheim production,

Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower, story and screenplay, Richard Benson.

We keep the Bastille Day jazz, only this time we don't start on Gabby,

we start on... Rick.

Rick. That's a wonderful name for the mysterious stranger.

Don't editorialise. Just start typing.

Exterior, day. A picturesque square.

Amidst the throng of merrymakers,

the camera picks up a rather tall, rather suntanned American...

We'd better change his wardrobe for a liar-and-a-thief suit.

You know, various shades of black.

Moving with the grace of ajungle cat, Rick approaches the table

where Gabby is getting the brush-off from her actor.

His almost super-human intelligence takes in the situation at once.

He hesitates. If there's a single chink in Rick's armour,

it's a pretty face.

He comes to a decision and moves to another table,

where two denizens of the underworld await him.

Call them first gangster and second gangster.

Well, Rick?

- Have you thought it over? - l'm considering the proposition.

lt is a plan of simplicity and beauty yet highly original, very daring.

- Voil�, monsieur. - We need you for two things only.

To open the safe and deliver the note.

A few hours' work.

And for this, a million dollars.

Which we will, of course, split three ways.

Half for me. The other half to be divided between you two.

But you already agreed.

Gentlemen, it's a well-known fact

that l am not only a brilliant safe-cracker, but a liar and a thief.

Half for me, the other half divided between you two.

Very well. l will pick you up with the car at four.

Until four, then.

And, Rick, resist at all costs

your continuous and overwhelming impulse to perform the double-cross.

We will not this time be so... understanding

as we were last year in Tangier.

Now, Miss Simpson, having established a climate of suspense,

intrigue and romance, we've arrived once more at that magic moment.

The boy and the girl meet.

OK. Now we need more conflict.

A new character, maybe.

I've got it! Seated nearby is Rick's deadly enemy,

Inspector, erm, Gillette of the international police force.

It is apparent he knows something the audience does not know.

And now, Miss Simpson, we have set the wheels of our plot in motion

and inflamed the audience with a passionate desire

to find out what happens next.

And l don't blame them. l'm dying to find out myself.

We can pause for a few pages of chitchat,

getting-to-know-you stuff, which l do so brilliantly.

The question is, where should this charming little scene be played?

At lunch!

Yes, he takes her to a beautiful restaurant for lunch in the Bois.

Ridiculous. She wouldn't go off with a man who picked her up in a square.

l mean, he's a perfect... stranger.

Miss Simpson, nobody's perfect.

Why, he asks, as they dance and dance and dance,

are you so sad when everyone is so gay?

And then a suggestion from the mysterious stranger.

lf you try raising your upper lip,

you might at least create the illusion of a smile.

That being somewhat of a disaster, he really has to turn on the charm.

Do you know the word serendipity, he asks. She shakes her head.

- What does it mean? - Why, Miss Simpson, l'm surprised.

lt means opening your eyes each morning

and looking at the bright new day and going absolutely ape!

- Serendipity? - Right.

- Are you making it up? - No, serendipity's a real word.

Actually, it means the ability to find pleasure, excitement

and happiness in anything that occurs.

No matter how unexpected.

Serendipity!

He explains the word, in a much more fascinating way than l did,

and at the right moment proposes

a glorious lunch in the Bois. She's tempted.

But don't you think...?

Miss Simpson, he's not asking her for a weekend at a motel

in Asbury Park, New Jersey. He's inviting her to lunch!

Now, don't you think if he were terribly terribly charming, she'd go?

- Well... - Serendipity.

Alright, maybe. lf he promises it's just lunch and that's absolutely all.

He promises. Unless she can think of something she'd like to do after.

- Which she won't! - Seren... Alright, then.

He hails a horse and carriage and they go off to the Bois. Settled?

Settled. And now l suppose we ought to write it.

Not at all. The audience is ahead of us.

They've known she'll have lunch with him for an hour.

But how do we get from the square

through the charm and serendipity you do so brilliantly?

ln motion pictures we have a simple device

which takes care of exactly this situation. The dissolve.

Over the years, the audience has been conditioned

to understand that when a scene fades away,

like an old soldier, before their very eyes,

and another scene gradually appears to take its place,

a certain amount of time has elapsed. So, Miss Simpson,

we dissolve...

We dissolve slowly and lingeringly...

..to the Bois.

A hansom cab bearing our handsome couple

clippety-clops its way past waterfalls and trees

toward a magnificent restaurant.

Notice, Miss Simpson, how cleverly I play

our suspense-filled melodrama against a background

of holiday serendipity in ''gay Paris''.

We will spare the audience the pages of dreary small talk,

and get to the heart of the matter

by the simple use of the device I'vejust explained, the dissolve.

Who are you? What do you do?

Who am l and what do l do? l'm nobody

and l've done everything and nothing.

Driven racing cars, white hunter for a while,

piano player in a rather curious establishment in Buenos Aires.

This and that, everything and nothing.

The curse of having been born too rich.

Oh, l know what you mean. The curse of having been born too rich.

That's why l left the castle for Paris.

The castle?

We've got houses all over the world, but my favourite

was our summer place in Deauville with its own private zoo.

As a little girl, on Sundays, if l'd been good, l could feed the giraffes.

Giraffes? Don't tell me that you had giraffes, too?

- You mean, you...? - But of course.

Oh, what fun! Both of us having had giraffes as children.

lt's a small world, isn't it?

Voil�! Madame. Monsieur.

- To Rick. - To Gabby.

lf l may recommend...?

l prefer to do it myself.

To begin, we'll have paper-thin slices of prosciutto ham

wrapped carefully around well-ripened sections of Persian melon.

To follow, a touch of Dover sole

sauteed lightly in champagne and butter.

With that, a bottle of...

Pouilly-Fuisse?

'59 will do. And after that...

..we'll have a Chateaubriand for two.

Erm, make that for four. Charred and brown.

Nay, black on the outside and gloriously rare on the in.

With the beef, we'll have white asparagus

and a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild '47.

And for dessert, an enormous order of fraises des bois...

Served, of course, with globs of heavy cream

so thick you can put it on with a shovel, s'il vous plait. Mwah!

You heard the lady. And make it snappy, we're starving.

Now, while awaiting the paper-thin slices of prosciutto,

so skilfully wrapped around

perfect sections of ripened Persian melon...

Please, stop, l can't stand it.

Do you think they'll really do the sole in champagne and butter?

Mm-hmm. ln any case, while we're waiting,

l wonder if the lovely Miss Gabrielle Simpson

would join the very talented Mr Richard Benson

for a small dry aperitif? l think she's earned it. They both have.

Alright. l think that would be very nice.

l didn't really like Rick at first

but he's beginning to grow on me.

Mmmm...

So, you find Rick growing on you?

Oh, yes, l think he's very attractive.

lmportant. The reaction of the female audience.

Alright. Lunch is over. The martinis,

the two different wines and brandy have had their effect,

and a glorious dream-like glow is settling over them.

The pages, Miss Simpson.

Those that we have covered so far with our fabulous prose.

Here you will notice, as advertised in our discussion earlier on today,

the opening, a series of interestingly photographed

establishing shots.

And here, the boy and the girl,

if a middle-aged mysterious stranger can indeed be called a boy, meet.

You're not middle-aged, Mr Benson.

ln fact, l think you're remarkably well preserved.

As chilling a compliment as l've ever received, Miss Simpson.

However, to continue, pages eight, nine,

ten of romantic chitchat.

- Which you do so brilliantly. - Why, thank you.

Now you can feel the unconscious attraction between the two,

the tremulous beginnings of love.

You see how easy it is with professional know-how

and experience on your side?

Miss Simpson, l don't think you realise this,

but a writer's life is a terribly lonely one.

- Mr Benson. - Hmm?

Have you any idea at all what happens next?

Do you, Miss Simpson, have any idea what will happen?

Well...

We've got to remember that no matter how charming he seems,

he is a liar and a thief. lt says so right here.

Mr Benson...

l do know what happens next.

What happens next is the second switch.

The audience gasps as they realise they have been fooled.

He has plied her with martinis, white wine, red wine, brandy,

for only one reason. To make her drunk!

Which incidentally she is not. Not at all, whatever he thinks.

Now, as he forces one last brandy

to her unwilling lips...

Poor ingenuous girl. Charmed and serendipitied into believing

she was safe in the hands of this suntanned handsome American.

Alas, things are not what they seem. Not at all.

The music turns ominous.

And she becomes aware of the danger that she is in.

The mysterious stranger. Who is he? What is he really like?

And why does he keep nibbling on her neck?

(bat squeaks)

Don't be frightened, my dear. lt's only a bat.

The creatures of the night are my friends.

l know why you nibble on my neck. You're some kind of werewolf.

No, no, my dear.

l'm a vampire.

(bats squeal)

The inner reaches of these caverns

make an ideal setting for my laboratory.

And yet, there's something about his eyes.

Even though they are rather bloodshot.

A vampire's life must be a terribly lonely one. But no!

Not for nothing has she made a comprehensive study of depravity.

Some girls may let vampires nibble their necks on the first date,

but not our Gabby. She tears free from his evil grasp

and the chase is on!

- Vous etes Peau-Rouge? - Oui.

Moi aussi.

He's caught her, he's caught her. No, Gabby, you can't give in now.

You fought him in the cave, on the beaches,

you fought him on the plains. That's it - planes!

(gunfire)

(crash)

Her face registers terror.

Mr Benson, Mr Benson, she's killed him!

There, there, Miss Simpson, it's perfectly alright.

ln your defence, it's been a hard day

and you've had a good deal to drink.

Anyway, he had it coming to him.

Plying her with all that booze, making her drunk.

Which incidentally she is not. Not in the least.

- Of course not. - Not only did she kill him,

but when l think of that poor horse...

The way she beat him with that terrible whip.

Anyway, l think she had it coming to her.

That was what?

Whatever he planned to do to her. Why did she make such a fuss, anyway?

lt's not as if he was some kind of vampire or something.

Actually, l think he's very attractive.

Miss Simpson, l think you should go to bed and get some sleep.

You do? What about you?

l wish to think. Now, Miss Simpson,

if you'll please go in there and lie down.

Maybe for a few hours. But if you do get an idea,

and l know you will, you must promise to wake me.

Sure.

Promise?

l promise.

Alright, then.

Good night, Mr Benson.

Good night, Miss Simpson.

Good night.

Good night.

Operator, l'd like to place a call

to Mr Alexander Meyerheim in Cannes.

lt's one-thirty. You can probably find him at the casino.

Erm... Ah, Benson. Mr Richard Benson calling.

Person to person.

l'll hold on.

Dear Alex.

Dear Alex,...

..it is my unpleasant duty to inform you

that The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower will not take place.

You see, my friend,

that there's no point for you to come to Paris on Sunday

to read the script, because there is no script.

As l see it, there will be no...

- (voice on telephone) - Yeah? Comment?

Try him at the chemin de fer game. The big table.

Excuse me, l forgot to cover Richelieu.

Good night.

Oh, Mr Benson. Please don't think l'm quitting on you.

l'll be right here when you need me. Good night.

Operator.

Cancel that call.

(typing)

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