All language subtitles for Monsieur.Spade.S01E06.1080p.WEB.h264

Wait.

I'll make coffee.

Jean-Pierre hated cemeteries.

He hated the
monuments and marble.

He called them "a waste
of a good garden."

He always said he
wanted to be cremated

and sprinkled over Edgar's food.

Certainly be an improvement.

So...

This little boy.

Is he why Philippe
shot my husband?

I do not know.

But you brought the boy here?

I found him here.

And, yet, you did not tell me.

I told Jean-Pierre.

But after a day.

I didn't know what else to do.

You could have
brought him to me.

And what would you
have done with him?

I don't know. Maybe talked
to someone in your mosque.

- Which is what I did.
- And?

The imam came to look at him,

but he said he
was being watched,

and so could not do anything

until he spoke to his
people in Algeria.

So why didn't you wait?

- We were also being watched.
- By?

I don't know.

But there was always
a man outside.

So I went to
Jean-Pierre for help.

And why Jean-Pierre?

He once saved my life.

So you thought he
could save the boy's?

He said that he knew someone

who was already looking for him.

To take him home?

That's what I thought
at the time, yes.

Meaning what, now you don't?

Philippe said something
to Jean-Pierre.

Something strange.

He said that...

"The debt was now paid."

Philippe got him out of the war.

Okay. You can go home.

But remain there.

I'll come by later to
talk to your family.

- I am very sorry.
- Stop.

I can't hear that word
"sorry" right now.

You need to leave.

In fact, all of
you need to leave.

Let me sit here and
scream in peace.

Can I bum one of those?

I put it on your tab.

You okay?

Never better.

My dearest Marguerite,

if you are reading this,
it means I am gone.

Either by my own
hand, or another's.

I have no choice
but to disappear

in order to protect
and free you...

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.

How terrible for you.

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 have you got there?
- Firewood.

It was the dogwood I
planted a couple years ago,

to hide the neighbors.

What happened to it?

Lightning, looks like.

When did we have lightning?

I don't know, but something
split it down the middle.

What's wrong with you?

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

You have a visitor.

Who is he?

Mr. Kahn.

K-A-H-N.

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 is.

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 harki 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.

HELLO, MISTER SPADE

- 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 la
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?
- Sam...

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?

Who do you think showed her
how to use the sewing machine?

You could have asked.

Why?

These are not your clothes.

Gabrielle would have
wished for the girl

to do with them as she pleased.

Why does everyone
always think they know

what Gabrielle would've wanted?

You are an idiot.

Teresa just wants
you to like her.

Well, she's not having this.

They don't run.

They hide in the
center of the village.

What were they waiting for?

Brother,

I'm afraid we haven't
seen the worst...

Maurice?

Is someone there?

Helena?

I have not seen her. Nor Henri.

Are you worried about him?

Should I be?

For many French people,
Algeria is France.

We made our lives
there for generations.

So many felt abandoned.

- So you've been there?
- No.

So then why would you fight
for a place you don't know?

Not a place.

An idea.

What is this idea?

You would not understand.

But you and a car
mechanic with a grudge

and a strange sense
of history do?

Stop pretending.

You are OAS. I
stole your notebook.

What did you do that for?

To see if you knew where
Philippe Saint-Andre was.

Don't you think I would have
said something if I did?

You did know and you
didn't say anything.

You were following him.

Writing down where
he went and when.

I read all that, despite
your sloppy handwriting.

You can be mad at me. Now I
just want to know where...

I can't tell you or
Mr. Spade about Philippe.

Because you want to kill him.

There is a plan, one
that is in motion

as we speak,

but I was told
only to follow him.

After you found him
by following me.

If you are a soldier,
you need to decide

who and what you fight for.

Who and what do you fight for?

The only thing I have
ever been sure of.

Myself.

But that was before.

What happened?

I got two years older.

No matter who I
give my loyalty to,

the army or the OAS, they
both want the same thing.

- To kill your father.
- He's not my father.

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.

From Lyon to Barcelona.

First class, I hope.

From there, we go
by car to the harbor

where someone with
a boat takes us...

- 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.

My, my, such 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?

Has anyone come this way?

Only you.

Maurice?

Maurice?

Maurice!

Chief Michaud!

My dear, Madame Huchet.

I don't suppose
you've seen Maurice?

No, but something is
happening in the the Hole.

What are you talking about?

I was on my way to the cemetery,

to lay my Monday Iris
for Mister Huchet,

when I nearly bumped into a
woman and a child on the bridge.

- Okay.
- They were Algerian.

And she had a gun.

When she saw me, she put
her hand in her pocket

and I could see the unmistakable
shape of a Luger PO8.

You know what I've
always liked about you?

No.

- You're observant.
- Thanks. Goodbye.

May I come in?

I'm not sure this is...

Shh!

If you stay very quiet I won't
saw off your lovely head.

Mm.

Aah!

Bite me again,

I will bite back.

A gift to Jean-Pierre,
from Philippe.

Philippe always understood
how Jean-Pierre felt.

Being abandoned by his
father and left with no money

and an angry mother in a place
which wanted no part of them.

Jean-Pierre told me
that he had always

thought of Philippe
as his older brother.

So even when this town
rejected the both of you,

we were always kind to you.

This was important to
Philippe, to Jean-Pierre,

and, therefore, important to me.

Mister Kahn, I presume?

Where is Sergeant Saint-Andre?

Nearby.

I never asked how Philippe
got my husband home.

But saving his life then,

did not give him the
right to take it now.

I imagine Sergeant Saint-Andre
has a rifle pointed at my head.

You imagine correctly.

So what, if I may ask,

is there to stop
him from shooting me

the moment I hand this over?

I would imagine it's the rifle
you have pointed at my head.

He could do with
better training.

I caught him setting up earlier.

You can tell Philippe
when you see him

that I returned his gift.

The gun he gave a young
man to defend himself.

The same gun the older
version of that man

planned on using
to kill himself,

had Philippe not
done it himself.

After I walk out,

you and I need never again
speak to one another.

- So who do you work for?
- The boy's family.

He has none.

And the soldier behind the
rifle up there is French.

The only thing that matters

is this.

Alright?

Feel free to count.

Zayd!

Come to me!

Hurry! Don't be afraid.

Come here!

Zayd, come on.

Come on!

Sorry, Chief...

Good boy.

Aah!

What are you doing? I nearly...

It's your brother.

Go and get Pouchol!

The monk!

He has Teresa.

I have a gun to her head.

If you try to kill
me, the girl will die.

Child of God,

save this girl.

No! Zayd!

Run! Run! Run!

For as in Adam

all die, so in Christ...

Let's go! Help!

Teresa?

All will be made alive.

Do something!

- Mr. Spade.
- I see him.

Aah!

Zayd?

Zayd?

I think you're going
to miss your train.

Too bad.

Ah, if it isn't Inspector
Suchet of the Whatever.

This lump belong to you?

Technically, he's yours.

I don't give a damn.

I've changed my mind.
This mess is all yours.

I'm going to see
about my brother.

Hi there!

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, tenets, 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 Sou'che, 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 Sou'che,

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 naif.

Your Mr. Kahn was a cover.

Lousy pun of a
name, if you ask me.

Cover for who?

Well, seeing that Mr. Sou'che
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
cue ball on the street,

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

and a few other honest
Injuns 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, Section Chief.

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.

Could I have a word, Lieutenant?

Maybe even more than one.

A pleasure.

Where do you think you're going?

I'm leaving with them.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Philippe Saint-Andre,

I am arresting you for the
murder of Jean-Pierre Devereaux.

I have no idea what you mean.

Then I will be more
clear: I have a witness

who saw you murder Jean-Pierre.

- Gazala? Where is she?
- Not Gazala...

You should have died over there.

They probably would
have buried you a hero.

And what's that worth?

You've made a mess of
everything since you were a kid.

Let's go.

Lady Cynthia, off you go.

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

The queen has my number.

Madame, 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, the
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.

And 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 Sou'che 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-Dulin Building

was never that
expensive to begin with.

I'm just saying...

It's not our world
anymore, Mister Spade.

Which is why I am here.

- Geez.
- What?

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

Come along, Zayd.

How's George?

Retired.

Oh, and his name's not George.

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

- What's yours?
- Felicity.

Joy.

Elizabeth.

Calpurnia. 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-oo, 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?

To play dominoes.

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

I have no idea what
you're talking about.

Do any of you even know
how to play dominoes?

Maybe you'll learn to
speak French one day.

We'll be able to have
a real conversation.

What would we talk about?

Your countless flaws!

I think my French is very good.

Hey, Mr. Spade!

Are you coming in or not?