All language subtitles for Monsieur Spade - 01x06 - Episode 6.AMZN.WEB-DL.NTb.English.C.updated.Addic7ed.com

- Synced and corrected by chamallow -
- www.addic7ed.com -

Little bitch.

Look at her.

Can I bum one of those?

I put it on your tab.

You okay?

Never better.

Knock it off.

I'm already in a foul mood.
Let's not make it any worse.

Where's the guy who
belongs to the motorcycle?

What motorcycle?

That motorcycle, and
the guy who rode in here.

What guy?

You think I'm fucking playing?

Another idiot with a gun.

Good morning, Henri.

How about you put the shooter away

before you shoot someone
in the street behind me?

I'm sorry, Monsieur Spade,
I didn't know you were you.

You thought I was a robber
come to steal these old tires?

It's hard to see in the
dark with the helmet on.

Oh, Jesus.

I didn't think there could
be a worse liar than Teresa.

Get over here!

Someone took a shot at Teresa and me,

the same someone who's been following me

on a Norton Commander ever
since Philippe showed up.

- Listen...
- Don't embarrass yourself.

I knew that Anatole was
into something stupid

when I first came here
and saw the motorcycle.

There are many things you don't
know about me, Monsieur Spade.

Oh, yeah, you're a real man of mystery.

So what, you're using
Teresa to get to Philippe?

I was trying to warn you off.

I know how much you care
about your tranquility.

Well, I care about Teresa.

You care so much about her
that you took a shot at her?

I didn't shoot at Teresa,
I shot through the window,

which I know could be fixed.

We discussed it beforehand,
and we decided that...

Oh!

I'm talking to him right now.

- And if you missed?
- I never miss.

Oh, you have that much
experience, do you?

I do.

Enough to kill someone like Philippe?

My superiors believe I do.

And we all know what good
judges of character they are.

However good a shot you think you are,

you could have killed
Teresa, and trust me,

I don't think you could
have lived with that.

You don't know what I can live with.

No, what I meant, Henri,

is that I would've fucking killed you.

I'm not what you think
I am, Monsieur Spade.

You're exactly what I think you are.

You're a sap who's been sucked
into Anatole's OAS bullshit.

I'm not OAS, I'm Action Française.

Oh, Jesus, how many
fuckin' dogmatic maniacs

can you have in one country?

Are we maniacs because we
simply dream of another France,

of the country we loved?

Versus what, the one you wanna blow up?

Well, I can see that
the France in front of us

is nowhere near the
glorious France behind us.

And just how far back

are you and your fellow
romantics dreaming?

- We are monarchist and anti-Communist.
- Ugh.

I love my country. I
would die for my country.

Do you have to do all of your
loving and dying in Bozouls?

Aren't there are plenty of your
fellow patriots in Argentina

that you can write angry manifestos

and compare kill lists with?

Leave me to enjoy my cognac
and foul cheese in peace?

You are not French.

You're just an American enjoying
the fruit of French sacrifice,

but without any
understanding of our history.

You make your smart-ass comments

and tell your stupid jokes
about France and French people,

ignorant of all those who fought
and died for their country.

You don't fight for
anything but yourself.

You sound like a leaflet
someone dropped from an airplane.

I mean, you may not have noticed,

but I do nothing but fight

for the people in this, our place,

and all the people who
live around Le Truel,

including you two ignorant dimwits.

And, yeah, I have a swell life.

Or at least I did until
you all fucked it up.

I can't even go for a
swim in my pool anymore.

Yeah, it is a fucking tragedy.

Does your grandmother know
about your new affiliation?

Didn't think so.

Are you going to tell her?

You wanna break her
heart, that's on you.

Oh, and Henri,

for the love of God,
stop trying to protect us

before you get us all killed.

What's wrong with you?

You've got that
tigress-at-the-gate look.

Who is he?

Mr. Kahn?

Monsieur Spade, I bring
greetings from a mutual friend,

Detective Dundee.

I heard Dundee was dead.

A rumor, one no doubt
started by Mrs. Dundee.

- You and he met in the war?
- What makes you say that?

Dundee fought in North Africa.

I was 12 and living in Syria.

No, the detective and I
met on a different matter.

You want to sit down?

Lovely instrument.

My wife thought so.

I never had the ear.

I had the appreciation,
but not the talent.

Not for music, anyway.

For what, then?

Ah, finding things that
don't want to be found.

I don't read Arabic.

I'm a private investigator,

something else we have in common.

Had. Who's paying you?

I cannot divulge the
name of my employer,

but I can say that my specialty
is industrial sabotage.

Should I worry about my grapes?

This work has brought
me into close contact

with some of the richest, most
powerful people in the world.

And let me guess, the rich
and the powerful want the kid.

I'm in Bozouls to find Zayd
and bring the boy to safety

while punishing those who
have taken him from his family.

Get in line.

A plan is, as they say, afoot.

Do you understand?

I understand that the child is valuable.

And dangerous.

A very sharp knife that only
those skilled in such things

will know how to use.

A knife will cut for anybody.

All more reason that
no one person, country,

or organization should have him.

But you just said you're
cuddling up to these people.

Quality of my bedfellows is not relevant

if I retrieve the boy.

Happily, I'm ahead of all of them.

I know where he's...

If I cared, I'd applaud.

Well, to tell the truth,
I knew where he was.

Do you know where the
word sabotage comes from?

The dictionary.

The word derives from
the French saboter,

meaning to bungle, or botch, to wreck.

It originated when
workers would go on strike,

something of a national pastime here.

They would use a wooden shoe they wore,

called sabot, to disrupt the machinery.

And this relates to me how?

You are, in this case, the sabot.

And what machinery am I disrupting?

The machinery that will enable me

to bring Philippe and
his terrorist concubine

into custody, yet keep the boy alive.

So far, the boy seems pretty
good at taking care of himself.

Yes, one could even say that
someone is watching over him.

Lady Luck.

Not much of a believer,
are you, Monsieur Spade?

A risk I'm willing to take.

Well, it was neither luck, nor God,

nor even instinct that saved
your life the other night.

It was me.

Too bad you couldn't have
done the same for Jean-Pierre.

Sadly, he too had wooden shoes.

I observed him entering the
same harkey home as the imam.

If you think Jean-Pierre

is part of some subversive conspiracy,

you owe your employers a refund.

I think Sergeant Devereux went
up those stairs to make amends.

I think he made them on the way down.

I had hoped Sergeant Devereux

would exercise some restraint.

Restraint was never
Jean-Pierre's brand of gin,

nor mine.

I'm assuming that's why we're
having this conversation.

As I have just said, I'm
part of coordinated effort to,

in the very near future, bring
all of this to a quick end.

I'm not your problem.

I'm not worried about you.

Chief Michaud has been
somewhat reluctant to cooperate.

He's only reluctant
when people lie to him.

The church feeding him a story
that they're looking into it,

a suit from army intelligence
posing as a cop from Paris,

that kind of thing.

- And the girl.
- What about her?

She tells the truth?

Not on purpose.

Might she be a possible sabot?

More like a fly in the ointment.

Are you sure? Because
until this boy is found

and safely returned, we
are on the edge of an abyss,

one far more precarious than the truth.

I have a parachute.

And I see, a wise crack
for every occasion.

I will then handle this on my own.

I will, likewise, see myself out.

- Voilà.
- Voilà what?

Notice anything different?

You filled the pool?

You really are something.

Well, give me a hint. What's different?

Everything. The chair,
the pillow, the umbrella.

Try it.

The pool was always
too far from the house,

so no one ever took advantage,

but I think it will be good for you.

Ah, I'm not much of a swimmer.

That was the old you.

And now I'm the older me.

There's only one.

You stay up at the house all day.

It's a beautiful house.

Sometimes you sit outside on the patio,

but you never wander.

Why would I wander down here

when everything I want is up there?

I want you to know the whole place.

Not just the house, but the land.

The only way down here is past
the cellars in the vineyard.

You're bound to meet
Basem, or the other workmen

who you have not yet bothered to know.

I don't need to know them.

They can teach you what we do.

Why do I need to know about making wine?

I don't even drink the stuff.

Although I'm told the le
vin claret is pretty good.

God, that name.

I've wanted to change
that awful name since...

well, maybe you can
come up with something.

Where was I?

Wine, which is your business.

Making you happy is mine.

And you've done your job well.

These have been the happiest
four years of my life.

I hope you will stay.

I hadn't planned on going anywhere.

You're the one leaving.

I told you once that if we married,

I would not be much of a wife.

Well, you lied.

I think we're at the end.

Like hell we are.

Could be six months, could be three,

but Pouchol says there's
nothing to be done.

Pouchol is a country doctor,

which is barely a half
step above town barber.

I'm giving you everything.

The grapes, the money, the house.

Everything I own is
now yours. Gabrielle.

I will not let you watch me die.

I'm taking you to someone in Paris.

I don't want to go to Paris.

No, I've been reading about
some new treatments we can try.

No, I've tried them,

and I don't want this
to be a thing that we do.

This is about me, just me.

What, so the whole "in
sickness and in health" thing

just goes out the window?

You once told me that a life

is an easy thing to walk away from.

Yeah, that's just one of
those fucking stories I tell.

When are you leaving?

If I tell you, you'll
only try to stop me.

Oh, that's adorable. So
why say anything at all?

Why not just go?

You considered that?

Jesus, you are one tough broad.

Sam... I need you to let me go.

To wander off like an old dog?

To die as I please,

with both our memories
of these last years

undiminished by some
long, drawn-out end.

You would rather be alone?

For this next part, yes.

Do I get a goodbye?

That would be awful, no?

So how... how does this work?

I wake up one day and you're gone?

Next time I see you is at your funeral?

Look at me, Sam.

Whenever you want to see me...

... come down here.

I'll be waiting for you.

Are you going to stand there moping,

or are you going to get in here?

Did you know that Teresa was doing this?

Altering Gabrielle's clothes?

You could have asked.

Why does everyone always think they know

what Gabrielle would've wanted?

Well, she's not having this.

Helena?

Are you worried about him?

I could hear you coming
halfway across the city.

You are not the first to say that.

I have a present for you.

Oh, cold hands.

Warm heart.

He has two tickets for tomorrow's train.

For me and you to Barcelona.

First class, I hope.

From there, we go by car to the harbor

where someone with a boat takes us...

Mm-hmm.

- ... takes us...
- Takes you where?

Somewhere.

I do hope you won't get too lonely,

sitting all that time
beside an empty seat.

Oh, no, he'll have his broken
heart to keep him company.

But not his money.

You're sure he's in the dark?

I have invested much to make sure

the dark is his favorite place to be.

Why am I such a personal sacrifice?

And you?

The lady has no suspicion?

None. Between all the
butter and the wine,

she's barely awake most days.

Soon we'll be doing
this in the daylight.

On the beach.

On a towel, I hope.

I only have 10 minutes.

Well, I only need five.

Oh.

All this time, I thought
you bent more for the blokes.

Maurice?

Maurice?

Maurice?

Maurice!

No.

Shh!

Mm.

Aah!

Aah!

No! Zayd!

Run! Run! Run!

Let's go! Help!

Theresa?

Do something!

I see him.

Aah!

Zayd?

Zayd?

I would appreciate it

if you all would put those guns down.

Now, please.

My grandfather died of
a cerebral hemorrhage

when he was 59.

His last words to my grandmother
were, "Ruth, I have a headache."

My grandmother's last words to him...

... were, "Who the hell is
Ruth?" her name being Betty.

So, indeed, who was Ruth?

Some buried secret?

Or some buried nonsense?

That is my job,

to sort the secrets from the nonsense.

I promise you, if you carry
a secret in my presence,

you won't carry it for long.

Do not fool yourselves,
you cannot lie to me.

You cannot hide anything from me.

So...

let's just agree to share then, okay?

Good.

Let's begin.

Sorry I'm late, everybody.

But getting to this
town's a pain in the ass.

- More pain to come, Father.
- Great.

- Have a seat.
- I'm good.

Okay.

My name is Virginia Dell,

and I am a retired lieutenant colonel

in the Canadian Special
Operations Forces Command

and current Under Secretary General

of the United Nations Counsel

on Peacetime Conflict Resolution.

Excuse me, what?

Exactly.

While none of you know who I am,

I am relatively confident
you know perfectly well

why you are all sitting here.

What do we do with this child?

We?

If I may, why the nob
should we tell you anything?

We were off to such a promising start.

MI6 has clear authority here.

What is so clear about it?

We've been following the
boy for over two years.

Your Ladyship, you ply
a trade that operates

on a veritable potpourri
of doctrines, tenants,

codes, chief among them
being finders keepers.

The fact of the matter
is no one in this room

has a legitimate claim on the boy.

So tell me why I should
leave him with you.

Or you, or you, or...

Make your case why I
shouldn't send this child

back to the land of his birth.

He's a British citizen, and
he has a British passport.

I have one of those, too.

French and German as well.

I even have one for San Marino.

Ah, yes, but you weren't born in Leeds.

Neither was he.

He spent two months
there with his family

when he was already three years old.

He was born in Algeria.

And you, sir, are?

Laurent Suchet, French
Army Intelligence.

The child was born in Algeria,

which makes him a French citizen.

Or an Algerian, depending
on your point of view.

He was technically born in France.

One would have to
practically break one's spine

to get into that particular position.

You have my respect, sir.

At the request of his
family, we saved the child

from the Algerian
traffickers who held him.

I think, Monsieur Suchet,

that your English is not
quite what you think it is,

and by "save," you mean "steal."

The OAS stole him from his parents.

Oh, about the boy's
parents, where are they?

His father is in jail.

- You care to elaborate?
- For treason.

Oof! The queen mother of no-nos.

I should like to have
a chat with that man

before you put him down.

I'm afraid that is now impossible.

Now, as in he's already been executed?

Or now, meaning you no longer
have him in your custody?

The second one.

Barring some type of

daring Count of Monte Cristo escape,

am I to assume that an
exchange of some sort

led to this man's freedom?

He alerted us to the boy's
exact location in Algeria.

We sent a man. He confirmed that
the boy was in imminent danger,

so we gave the order to extract him.

To reunite him with his parents.

Because he can break codes.

To keep him safe from harm.

And what better way to
keep a small child safe

than with an Army sniper?

Oh, we didn't send Sergeant Saint-Andre

to Algeria to look after the boy.

We sent him to Algeria to assassinate

a high-ranking FLN operative.

But he became distracted.

I assume you are referring
to the FLN operative

who earlier made that
magnificent leap off the bridge

and is currently somewhere at large

in the French countryside.

Well done.

Sorry.

I was just thinking
about something funny

that I saw one time, during the war.

Funny, like what, Sergeant?

Someone getting hit in
the face with a shovel?

Oh, nothing that funny.

I have to say, I never would
have taken you for a naïf.

Your Mister Kahn was a cover.

Lousy pun of a name, if you ask me.

Cover for who?

Well, seeing that Mr. Suchet
was hiding in the backseat,

I would guess that your
soon-to-be ex-superiors at SDECE

are part of the bargain.

- And the other part?
- Those facts are still murky.

But I wonder,

how did the good Father get
here on such short notice?

Is there an airfield nearby
that I somehow missed?

That's quite the imagination you have.

In our line of work,
imagination and experience

are one in the same, wouldn't you say?

I'm not in your line of
work, so I couldn't say.

Yes, you could.

No, I have no idea what
you're trying to allude to.

Tell me, Father, on
Career Day at the seminary,

did the agency have their own table

with the lemonade and
the plate of cookies?

Let's move on to the
bald Vatican errand boy

who shot five nuns and
an Algerian nanny...

The Church resents such accusations...

... before kidnapping
a 14-year-old girl!

- 17.
- My mistake.

Tell me, Father,

maybe you can shed some light
on exactly what Rome was doing

with Gaylord Rabideaux, one-time monk,

full-time mental patient.

The Church bears no responsibility

for anything that's happened here.

Oh you must have that tattooed

to the inside of your eyelids.

I don't have to listen to this.

No, you don't. You can read
the details later in Le Monde,

"Church Kills Nuns"... it's a headline

that'll translate across
a multitude of tongues.

You put that maniac
cueball on the street,

and as far as the U.N., Interpol,

and a few other honest
engines are concerned,

whatever happens after that, you own it.

And which one are you, huh?

What, are you Interpol?

U.S. Army intel?

You can go now, Setchen Chi.

I mean Father.

I'll bet the latter.

Yeah, hats off to the director at CIA

for getting a man inside the Vatican.

You're a bitch.

You're free to go, too.

I was always free to go.

But not to return.

Go spy on some other
quaint little village.

It's not that quaint.

Where do you think you're going?

I'm leaving with them.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Lady Cynthia, off you go.

I assure you, this matter
is very far from over.

The queen has my number.

Madam, would the two of
you give us some privacy?

And finally, Mr. Spade.

You have an interesting accent.

What part of Canada
are you from exactly?

The South.

I'm guessing somewhere
below Niagara Falls.

I would think a man of your experience

would not have gotten within
100 miles of such a rat fuck.

Not to mention, turning the
whole affair into such a mess.

Philippe made the mess. I
just tried to clean it up.

You pick up vomit with a teaspoon,

you make a bigger mess.

What a swell metaphor.

I read a lot of E.E. Cummings.

A small constabulary on
the ass end of a giant hole

is no match for the big guns elsewhere.

One phone call to anyone heavier

would have ended the whole
thing before it got this far.

A call to who, you?

I don't know who you
are or who you work for,

and we both know
you're about as Canadian

as sweet potato pie.

And you're not here saving this kid

out of a sudden spasm of altruism.

No one wants another war, Spade.

In Algeria or anywhere else.

Oh, so you're just snatching
him in the name of world peace.

If that helps you, but then,

I can't imagine that a man
of your particular origins

is all that upset about body count.

I suppose I've just never understood

that whole thing about
diplomacy at the end of a rifle.

You're really gonna
sit there and tell me

that you have never had to be your worst

in order to do your best?

I make decisions, and I live by them,

for better or for worse.

One doesn't go to bed one person

and wake up another
just because one says so.

You mean people are
simpler than they think?

I had no idea.

I mean people know what they want.

The rest is justification.

Take you, for example...
you wanna be left alone.

You live in a quiet, little village

where the locals know just
enough about you to leave you be.

You've read my mail.

And yet, sadly, our pasts are portable.

And you find yourself
continually drawn in

to the lonely, troubled,
and the confused.

Otherwise known as
the entire human race.

But I'm not drawn to anybody.

I'm just dubious about everybody.

Common ground, at last.

- Henri Thibaut.
- What about him?

He's OAS and he killed
a fellow French soldier.

Note the body in your pool.

Henri might have shot him,

but it was the Brit that killed him,

wherever the hell he is.

Oh, you deduced this, how?

From the 303 slug that went
through the soldier's head

and into my dogwood.

My condolences on your tree.

I'm sending the bill to MI6.

Still, I would have turned
him in to the French Army,

but that Suchet was
such a pompous prick.

- Will I regret that?
- Leave Henri alone.

If he is at all abetting those people

and taking another shot at De Gaulle...

He's just going through a phase.

A phase? Like acne?

He's a passionate kid that
watched the fight come home.

He's just on the make
for a sense of purpose.

Well, get him a dog or get him laid,

so he can find a new one.

- I have a long flight back.
- Back to where?

You might be interested to know,

your old office in San
Francisco has a new occupant.

You checked out my old office.

Boy, you Canadians are thorough.

It's a talent agent named Eddie Solomon.

His clientele are all
female impersonators.

What happened to the ventriloquist?

Hung himself.

Anyway, word has it Eddie's
doing rather well for himself.

He's leased the entire floor.

The Hunter-Doolin Building

was never that expensive to begin with.

I'm just saying...

- Geez.
- What?

That's the worst fuckin'
French I ever heard.

How's George?

Retired.

Oh, and his name's not George.

- No?
- No, his name's Reggie.

- What's yours?
- Felicity.

Joy.

Elizabeth.

Calpernia. Take your pick.

Well, now that that's
all done and dusted,

how about we go back to our
place for a little drink?

How about you go fuck yourself

in the crumpet with a cricket bat?

Suit yourself, but you don't
know what you're missing.

Toodle-loo, Mr. Spade.

Will they cut off his head?

More likely they'll
lock him up in a cell,

out of sight for a thousand years.

Nobody wants to be
reminded of their mistakes.

Hey.

You decided what you're
gonna do with the club?

I haven't thought past tonight

and what I am going to sing.

What have you decided?

I thought I would do a set
of my favorite sad songs,

see how many customers I can make cry.

No better way to peddle booze

than to a bar full of sad souls.

You know, I might stop
by and have a little cry

right along with them.

Should I hold my breath?

How would you sing?

I need to protect my investment.

I'll wait, but not long.

She's very pretty.

You know, Mr. Spade, I'll be okay,

if you don't want me around.

Do me a favor.

Call me Sam.

Where are you off to?

You mean to get drunk with all
the other biddies of Bozouls?

Do any of you even know
how to play dominoes?

What would we talk about?

Hey, Mr. Spade!

Are you coming in or not?

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