Original subtitles

Hey mister, you got change of a half a dollar?

Yes.

Would you mind parting with a quarter of it?

Thanks, mister.

You're a good scout.

I'm not leaving the country!

Why me?

Why do I have to get out of the country?

Because those are the instructions, Carlton.

Things get messy, we follow instructions.

It was no fault of mine.

You know that.

I'm not leaving.

I don't make the rules, Carlton.

Barcus, someone has been listening outside that window.

Now, I want you to bid us all a cordial goodnight,

go outside, and take care of that person.

It's a little late.

See you guys later.

Good morning.

Good morning.

May I help you?

You know, a day begun with a kind word

always ends with a kind word.

You're in luck.

I'd like to see Mr. Joseph Mannix, please.

May I have your name and I'll see if Mr. Mannix is able...

Peggy, you better run down the phone numbers...

Boston, coast-to-coast and border-to-border.

All railroad tracks lead, sooner or later, to Boston.

And that's me, just plain Boston.

Joe Mannix.

Used to be Boston Boiler,

but everything's diesel now, so I dropped the "Boiler.”

Well, is there something I can do for you?

Indeed, there is.

You can save my vagabond life.

Oh...

Uh...

No, no, no, please.

I'm deadly serious.

I'd like to ask you to gamble a few moments of your time.

That wouldn't be a fresh coffee, would it?

Oh yes, would you like some?

And don't spoil it

with any extract of sugar cane or cow, please.

Deadly serious, you say?

Oh yes, yes.

I might as well start from scratch.

I haven't any.

Scratch, that is.

I suppose the fee is one of the first things

that crosses your mind when you take a case.

No, it's not the first, but it's right up there.

Oh, thank you.

Joe?

No, thanks.

Oh, there's something extravagant about coffee

that's only gone through the grounds once.

Let me put it to you this way, Mr. Mannix.

I would like to panhandle your services for a spell.

Flat out, that's it.

Widows and orphans only.

Except under special circumstances.

Widows and orphans will be with us always, Mr. Mannix,

but I am the last of a dying breed.

I'm offering you an opportunity

to preserve a touch of Americana.

I am a hobo.

One of the last, you may be sure.

Ah, I see I have touched a chord of longing

that exists in all red-blooded men.

Steel wheels on the steel rails, free and moving

from Ft. Lauderdale to Seattle.

Well, I don't know about that.

But what it gets down to is this, Mr. Mannix:

I'm offering you a rare opportunity.

If this proposition became public knowledge,

there are people who would consider it your duty.

Uh, you say that you're the last of a dying breed,

and that somebody is trying to rush things.

Someone is trying to kill me, that's a plain fact.

Oh.

Anyone with a reason?

I haven't laid a straw in anyone's way in 40 years.

Just how are they trying to kill you?

Gunshots.

I was walking up 7th Street, on my way to Marcel's.

The restaurant?

Yes, it was almost time for the nightly backdoor buffet.

Marcel, as you know,

is very generous with his unclaimed entrees.

I was about a block away and I heard this noise.

I thought at first, of course,

that it was the backfire of some passing automobile,

but then I noticed the pungent odor of gun smoke.

You see, backfires don't cause bullet holes, Mr. Mannix.

Are you sure they were shooting at you?

Well, as there was no one else

within a block of me at the time,

I jumped to that conclusion, yes.

A shot in the dark.

That's really not very much to go on.

Would it help to know that this is not the first time

that foul play has been attempted?

You mean somebody tried to kill you before?

Not me.

Gully Anderson, Old Steam Whistle, as he was known,

rest his soul.

He was killed?

Cheap whisky and a rainy night in St. Louis.

Pneumonia.

That would have been three weeks ago Tuesday.

What has that got to do with your being shot at?

Well, Gully was shot at in the same neighborhood

just before bad weather and bad habits done him in.

That's a dangerous world for hobos, Mr. Mannix.

I'd like you to find out why.

Oh.

I'll tell you what, Boston.

Stanton Elliot Collier for your files.

You will start a file?

Well, I will canvas the area for you and check with the police,

but I'm afraid that's about the best I can do.

Well, that's all I can ask: your best.

Well, I suggest that you get back to where you're staying...

I'll give you a lift.

Al right.

But first, I have an engagement for brunch

at the Hollywood Bowl.

It was an old Tchaikovsky program last night.

After a rock concert,

there's nothing left but empty potato chip sacks

and "no deposit” bottles.

But after a Tchaikovsky program,

well, the picnic remains are strictly dining car fare.

Oh, Boston, you're back!

Just in time!

I'd day that I've employed Mr. Mannix

on behalf of all of us, right, Mr. Mannix?

You might say.

Well, I sure hope you find them, buddy.

Any goodies?

Oh yeah, in that bag right there.

You know, if the streets ain't safe for a hobo,

they ain't safe for...

At least you know I'm not feeding you

some gandy dancer yarn, Joseph.

Someone's aiming to kill me.

And this all took place during a brunch at the Hollywood Bowl?

Well, there was a Tchaikovsky program last night,

and the food the next day is a real banquet.

And Boston here has no idea who might be taking potshots at him?

None whatsoever.

Total enigma.

An old enemy, maybe, from another town?

Another time?

I only have old friends, no old enemies.

There seems to be a pattern, Art.

One of Boston's friends was shot at a couple of blocks away

about a month ago.

No complaint that I can remember.

Gully wasn't much of a complainer.

Gully?

Gully Anderson.

All right, Joe.

I'll go back over the squad sheet if you want.

In the meantime,

I'll keep Boston here in protective custody

until I can do some checking.

Locked up?

I'd rather be dead.

From what you've told me, that may be your second choice.

No jail cells, never.

Bad for the digestion.

I'll find the place, Art.

If that complaint file turns up anything, I'd appreciate a call.

Sure thing, Joe.

Of all of the troubles in Ireland,

whisky is the least of them.

Thank you, Ruby, we'll be over in a little while.

All right, Boston, anytime you're ready.

Ruby Preston has a room you can use for a day or two.

It's against my nature, Joseph, to be cooped up like that.

It isn't against your nature to stay alive.

Now, if you hired me to keep you alive,

you've got to give an inch or two here and there.

Well, could we at least stop by the camp and pick up my bindle?

Your what?

Bindle!

Bedroll.

What do they teach you in school these days?

You're not going to need a bindle at Ruby's.

The sheets and pillowcases come with the room.

Ah, sheets and pillowcases.

Gully would have rolled over in his grave

if he'd known there was a bullet hole in his coat...

What'd you say?

Mink or sable never got the care this coat did.

Are you telling me that this isn't your coat, it's Gully's?

Well, it's mine now by inheritance.

Gully left it to me.

You said Gully was shot at a few weeks ago.

Did he say exactly where?

In the alley.

Gully was always first in line for the 10:00 goodies.

At Marcel's backdoor buffet?

Exactly.

He was a bit early, just idling about,

glancing across to that office with the men in it,

just standing there, counting the toes in his shoes.

And then this fellow came at him with a gun.

And Gully was wearing this coat?

Day and night.

He only took it off to die.

Boston, it's entirely possible that whoever is shooting at you

isn't shooting at you at all.

They're shooting at this coat.

We'll just leave this here.

I've got a windbreaker upstairs you can use.

Windbreaker?

Yeah, that coat could get you killed.

There, the window, exactly as Gully described it.

The only person who'd use this as an office

is a janitor.

Four men, smartly dressed.

That's what Gully said.

One of them came out and took shots at him

as he ran up the alley.

I don't think Gully would have made it up.

He was rather shy on imagination,

meaning no offense to the departed, of course.

Exactly how long ago was this?

July 14, Bastille Day.

Marcel always puts little red, white, and blue flags

on his French pastries.

Gully got run off without his decorated Napoleon.

Yeah.

Maybe Marcel can tell us something.

You know Marcel?

Ever since he was a busboy at Romanoff's.

Joseph.

How long has it been, huh?

Since the trout meringue went up to $8.50.

Supply and demand, Joseph.

Marcel, I'd like you to meet Stanton Collier.

Pleasure.

Have we met, Mr. Collier?

Not inside.

Marcel, that building across the alley...

was there ever an office on the ground level?

Next to the alley?

Uh-huh.

You knew Carlton West?

Carlton West?

It was his office, until he closed it--

Boom--

Permanently.

Carlton West, stocks and bonds.

Mm-hmm.

There was a something a little...

Crooked?

Carlton West committed suicide.

There was some talk about stolen securities.

It happened, let's see...

On Bastille Day?

Yes.

You also knew Carlton West?

We had a mutual acquaintance.

Marcel?

Excuse me, please.

The sauce.

When I was a boy, I had a blooded hunting dog

that had that same look when he got the scent.

You know, maybe your friend Gully

overheard something in that office he shouldn't have.

Well, not likely.

Gully was a fountain of gossip.

He'd have spouted.

Well, then maybe someone in that office

thought he overheard something,

and it was important enough to try and silence him.

All they saw clearly was that overcoat.

Well, as sure as rain, I'm going to keep that coat.

Finest garment I ever owned.

Now look, Boston, I want you to do me a favor.

You wear that windbreaker

until I can find out why Gully's coat turned into a target.

I send you out to hit a lousy hobo, what do you do?

You break up some crummy picnic!

I thought I had a clear shot.

The hunting is going to get more difficult.

The old guy has taken his troubles

to this private cop, Mannix.

I want that old guy found and eliminated.

Mannix must have him stashed someplace

until he can check out his story.

Put the word out

to every fleabag in a flophouse in the area:

there's $1,000 in it

for anybody who can finger that old guy in the coat.

Boston?

What line are you in?

I am a hobo, madam.

That'll be two dollars up front, Joe.

Is this really necessary?

It is.

202, upstairs.

I tell you, Joseph, I know a nice, cozy boiler room

that beats this place all hollow.

Forget it, Boston.

You're going to stay here and keep your head down

while I go out and check on Mr. West's suicide.

If I have to stay here any length of time, I may join him.

There's a very good chance that whoever's gunning for you

may recognize you on sight now, with or without that coat,

so you stay put.

I'll catch up with you in the morning.

In the morning, I may well be dead

from breathing the foul air in this place.

Carlton West was doing a flourishing business

in stocks and bonds that didn't belong to him.

A warrant issued for his arrest on July 14...

he killed himself the same night.

Why suicide?

I mean, the papers say there's a small fortune missing.

Now, what ever happened to South America as a retirement spot

for guys with a suitcase full of hot money?

Joe, suicide is not a rational act.

We don't explain them; we just record them.

I don't suppose that record explains what happened

to the missing money, either.

What are you getting at?

Well, there's millions in stolen securities.

Someone has got to be a pretty fat cat right about now.

An operation that big usually takes more than one man.

Not necessarily.

Our experience shows

that a suicide is someone who is desperate, desolate,

with a sense of being all alone.

Is that what the suicide note says?

Yeah, pretty much.

"There's no other way out.

I cannot bear for you to live in years of disgrace.”

Routine last words.

Let me see that note.

This was typed.

Yeah.

It was still in his typewriter, next to his desk in his study.

Why?

Well, suicide is not a rational act, Art,

but it is very personal.

Now, don't you think he would have written this note?

People do funny things

when they're going to take their own lives, Joe.

But the coroner's report was plain and simple.

Cause of death:

contact gunshot wound in the right temporal area.

Approximate time of death between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m.

July 14.

Who did he leave the note for?

His wife.

Mrs. West found her husband when she came home from the theater.

There was one close friend that took it hard,

a certain Burt Sands.

Why Burt Sands?

Mr. Sands' portfolio of stocks and bonds

was the one that West had been dipping into.

For about a half a million dollars.

Well, I'd say that would make him an instant mourner.

Do you have an address on Mrs. West?

Yeah.

I'll say this for you, Joe:

you've got a wide range of clients.

One day a hobo comes in, the next day you're on Wall Street.

Well, who knows, Art?

Maybe Boston and Mrs. West

have a lot more in common than we think.

Thank you.

I don't mean to appear uncooperative, Mr. Mannix.

It's just that I still find it very painful to talk about.

I understand.

Mrs. West, I can't help wondering,

was your husband accustomed to typing things?

Yes, memos and notes occasionally.

He always had a typewriter in the study.

His secretary did the reports and the letters,

things like that.

That's funny...

One of the detectives asked the same thing.

Then he said...

he said,

"People sometimes do strange things under stress.”

Of course, that could explain it.

Did you have any idea at all

that your husband was in that kind of trouble?

No.

I still find it hard to believe.

Carlton always wanted the very best of everything.

The terrible thing I have to live with

is the thought that he wanted it more for me than for himself.

Tell me, are you still on speaking terms with Burt Sands?

Why, certainly.

Why?

Well, he was one of the principal victims

of your husband's business venture.

He's a very good friend.

He was just a shaken as I was

that Carlton would do such a thing.

He's been very understanding, considering the circumstances.

Of course.

Well, thank you very much for seeing me, and...

don't bother, I'll let myself out.

Good night.

Good night.

Boston?

Hey, Boston, it's me, open up.

Do something for you?

You can throw that log back on the fire.

I'm looking for Boston.

You're on the wrong coast, mister.

It's okay, boys.

Come on in, Joseph.

Boston, I thought I told you to stay put.

Staying put is not in my nature.

Besides, there was a suspicious-looking character

who was watching that place you had me imprisoned in.

Can we talk here?

Oh, Whistle Spout and Wood Trestle are old friends

from Coolidge days.

Well, what kind of suspicious character?

Well, this dude, I saw him out the window

when I got up this morning.

What made him look suspicious?

Clean fingernails and matching socks.

Now, don't worry, Joseph.

This is the safest place there is.

You couldn't have taken two steps in here

without my calling your name.

I supposed you noticed that.

Yeah, I noticed.

Well, how's my coat?

Taking good care of it?

Your coat is fine, Boston.

How's yo! u r memory 2

My memory is a clear track back to the day I was weaned.

Well, think back, Boston.

Now, did your friend Gully

tell you exactly what time of night it was

that he saw those four men in that office?

He didn't have to.

It was 10:00, give or take a couple of minutes.

You sure? I'm positive.

Marcel's chef turns off the stove

and puts out the leftovers at exactly 10:00.

Never varies.

Union, probably.

That must be it.

You have that hunting dog look on your face again, Joseph.

Carlton West must have been one of the men that Gully saw

in the office that night.

Gully wouldn't know Carlton West from the Statue of Liberty.

But the men tried to kill Gully, and now you, don't know that.

They think there's a witness on the loose

that can place Carlton West in that office alive at 10:00

on the night he was supposed to have committed suicide.

You don't think he killed himself?

No.

I can't prove it.

If you can't prove it, who can?

Your friend Gully might have been able to do it,

but the police aren't going to take the word of a dead man.

I've got to find some way

to make West's killers do it for us.

Look, Boston, I want you to stay here,

and don't let anyone in this place.

Anyone who's got matching socks, that is.

Joseph!

Take care of my coat.

Carlton West's story reads like poor boy makes good,

then turns bad.

Give it all to me, Peg.

Born in Los Angeles, both parents are dead.

Joined the Navy at 17.

Attended Benton Business School for two years.

Went into the brokerage business eight years with one firm.

Been on his own ever since.

On his own, and doing nicely, in the cleaning business.

Huh?

Laundering stolen securities

runs into the millions every year.

What did you get on Burt Sands?

Travels a lot.

Inkster Travel Service in his building.

Books them in and out of New York like he was a commuter.

Stock market business?

I can't find a brokerage house that's ever heard of him.

Hmm.

Joe, do you think Burt Sands

was feeding Carlton West stocks that needed laundering?

What did I say?

You said Carlton West served in the Navy.

What rank?

Yeoman, second class.

A yeoman's a seagoing clerk, like a secretary.

He had to know how to type.

So?

So, West had to be a touch typist.

Well, there it is Joe, the last words of Carlton West.

What are you looking for?

Barney, I want an expert's opinion.

Was that suicide note typed by a trained typist?

No, no way, Joe.

Hunt and peck.

Like this.

One finger at a time.

See the even pressure on the line?

That's hunt and peck,

hitting the keys with all the same force.

Now... here's the same letter with touch typing,

courtesy of Molly down the hall.

Touch typing,

that's when you use all the fingers on the same hand.

Except, trouble is,

the little fingers aren't as strong as the others,

and so the keys that they strike

tend to be a little lighter than the others.

Look at this.

The "a" and the "P.”

They're lighter.

That's touch typing.

This is hunt and peck.

The "a" and the "P" are no different.

So the suicide note in West's typewriter

was done by hunt and peck.

Right.

Adding up to what?

Carlton West was a yeoman in the Navy, trained in typing--

Touch typing.

Come on, Joe, that was years ago.

Now look, typing is like riding a bike or playing a piano.

You never really forget.

Exactly what did your hobo friend tell you

that makes you think Carlton West did not kill himself?

I think one of Boston's friends

saw West alive and well miles from home

at the moment he was supposed to be committing suicide.

Where is this friend?

I'd like to talk to him.

No chance, Art.

Why not?

He's in Potter's Field, St. Louis.

Then whoever is shooting at Boston

has mistaken him for the dead witness.

Right.

Great, we've got a case where the only witness is dead.

Yeah, but Carlton West's killers don't know that,

and what they don't know

just might make them nervous enough to get careless.

But that's absurd.

You have no right to come here

and torture me with some wild conjecture.

It's not just wild conjecture, Mrs. West.

The police have been all over this.

Well, the police didn't know

that there was someone who saw your husband downtown,

alive at 10:00 the night he died,

which hardly gave him enough time to drive way out here,

type a suicide note, and kill himself at his own desk.

Then why don't you tell all this to the police?

The police are checking the suicide note right now,

Mrs. West.

It was typed by an amateur.

Hunt and peck.

Now, your husband was a touch typist.

Surely you can't think I knew anything about this?

I only thought you should know

that whoever killed your husband tried to kill again,

to silence the only witness, and, if necessary,

he might kill anyone to cover up his tracks.

I don't know anything.

I don't know anything at all.

Well, if Burt Sands is such an old friend, maybe he can help.

Carlton West was one of my oldest and dearest friends,

Mr. Mannix.

For an old, dear friend, he cost you quite a bit.

If he'd only come to me and explained,

I would have been happy to help him out

of any of his financial difficulties.

Stolen securities are not financial difficulties,

Mr. Sands.

They're a felony.

Grand theft.

Well, I wouldn't know anything about that.

Carlton managed a modest portfolio for me, that's all.

I don't know how to tell you this, Mr. Sands,

but I have information that indicates

West didn't kill himself.

He was murdered.

You must be joking.

No, I'm not.

But that's incredible.

The suicide note, the autopsy report,

the police said there was no question.

Mrs. West had the very same reaction when I told her.

You've talked to her?

Yes, about a half hour ago.

She was very upset.

You see, the police can now place Carlton West

far from the so-called suicide scene,

about the time it was supposed to have happened.

But who would kill him?

Somebody with a lot more than a modest portfolio at stake.

Mr. Mannix, if you find anything

to prove what you've just been telling me,

I'd be more than happy to pay you double your usual fee.

I think I owe that much to Carlton and to Ellen.

Thank you, Mr. Sands, but I have a client.

However, if I do turn up anything new,

I'll be glad to keep you informed.

Well, I'd be grateful, Mr. Mannix, most grateful.

Put a tap on Ellen West's phone, now.

I want to have her followed.

What's up?

Mannix has been to see her again.

Why would she talk?

She made a clean million out of this.

I think he may have shook her up a little.

I don't want to take any chances.

I want to know who she calls,

everything she says, every place she goes.

We'll have a tape running in less than an hour.

Yes?

Yes, go ahead.

Speak plainly.

Look, I'm claiming the $1,000.

But you'll have to pay me first,

because he ain't wearing that coat no more.

I'll have to point him out to you.

$1,000, small bills.

Okay?

Uh-huh.

You sure?

Thanks, Lefty.

If you need anything else, let me know.

Lefty?

He runs a used hubcap business downtown.

There's a street price of $1,000 on your friend Boston

for anyone that can put the finger on him.

Boston's got a phone now?

Lt. Malcolm, please.

Art, do me a favor.

Send one of your black and whites

to meet me at the hobo camp, under the trestle.

Boston's going to eat jailhouse chow

for the next couple of days whether he likes it or not.

And Art, it wouldn't hurt to put a stakeout on Mrs. West's home.

Suddenly she's a very frightened lady,

and if she's involved,

instinct tells me she's going to make a run for it.

Okay, he's in the 'bo camp right now,

but he ain't wearing that coat.

He's got on a kind of a new blue windbreaker.

Yeah.

His name is Boston.

I ain't going back in there again,

but I gave you what you wanted.

He better be in there.

Oh, he's there all right.

Yes, sir.

I've seen him myself.

Okay.

Get the money.

$1,000, eh?

Buy a cellar full of wine.

That's a mighty handsome proposition.

Jail, eh?

Look, Boston, it'll only be for a couple of days.

We've got to keep you out of sight.

If you say so, Joseph.

As long as you keep track of the keys.

Now, don't turn around.

Look, Boston, when I give you the word,

I want you to get behind that truck...

Now!

Take care of Mannix.

I'll get the bum.

Boston!

All right, drop it.

The last the boys heard off the tap,

she ordered a cab for 3:15.

Did she call an airline?

She could have earlier, not since I put the tap on.

She blows town now when Mannix is starting things up,

the police are going to start asking questions all over again.

So what do we do?

We go for a little drive and see where that cab's taking her.

I'm forever in your debt, Joseph.

You've made me a free man again.

Not quite, Boston.

That hired gun isn't going to give anything

but his name, rank, and serial number,

which means all Carlton West's killer has to do

is sit tight and then try again.

Mannix.

Joe, our stakeout arrived just in time

to see Mrs. West leave, bag and baggage.

He called in, looks like she's headed

to the Valley airport.

Stop her.

For what?

Taking a vacation is not against the law.

Flying to avoid prosecution is.

Meet me at the airport.

Boston, you stay here.

Southeastern Airways, Flight 152,

now arriving at Gate 14.

Southeastern Airways, Flight 152, now arriving at Gate 14.

Flight 73 from Cheyenne will be arriving in 30 minutes

at Gate Three.

Biddle!

Take the elevator.

Hold it!

All right, Sands.

Leave the lady and step out.

There you are, Art.

You'll find Mrs. West's vacation plans very interesting.

I think she'll talk now.

I decided not to get this bullet hole fixed.

It should be good for hours of undivided attention

around campfires from here to Saskatchewan, wouldn't you say?

I'd say so, wear it in good health.

Where you headed, Boston?

Well, I'll tell you, dear lady.

Now that I'm free and clear to stay here in L.A.,

I think I'll take off to other parts.

It's the way I am.

That'd make sense.

Well, of course it does, Joseph.

You're catching on.

You're catching on real good.

If ever you decide to hit the road,

don't forget to look up old Boston.

Well, better go.

There's my cab leaving now.

I'll send you a picture postcard, children.

Joe, you didn't happen to borrow

ten dollars from me this morning, did you?

No.

But you paid him back for me?