Monsieur Spade
Season 1 Episode 1
Episode Title: n/a
Original release date: January 14, 2024
Follow Monsieur Spade centers around the infamous protagonist of American writer Dashiell Hammett’s 1930 classic novel The Maltese Falcon. The year is 1963, and the legendary Detective Sam Spade is enjoying his retirement in the South of France. By contrast to his days as a private eye in San Francisco, Spade’s life in Bozouls is peaceful and quiet. But the rumored return of his old adversary will change everything. Six beloved nuns have been brutally murdered at the local convent. As the town grieves, secrets emerge, and new leads are established. Spade learns that the murders are somehow connected to a mysterious child who is believed to possess great powers.
* * *
[“Les Feuilles Mortes” by Juliette Gréco playing]
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[Opening theme music plays]
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[Birds chirping]
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[Birds chirping]
Hello?
Is anybody home?
[Speaks French]
Philippe Saint-Andre, is he in?
Do you speak English?
Parlez anglais?
[Speaking French]
[Gun safety clicks]
Quite the pepper gun you got there, Madame.
Philippe…
Where is he?
[Door slams]
Patrice: I would consider that one of Audrey’s warmer welcomes.
But she tells the truth, I do not think Philippe has ever married, and frankly, I do not know who would marry him.
Sam: You haven’t met Brigid.
Sadly, I have met many Brigids.
She paid me a lot of money to make sure the kid was handed over to her father.
She wasn’t one to part with money, much less a lot of it.
So do you know where this Philippe Saint-Andre is?
Who knows? Philippe is a vagabond.
Sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s there.
So why the will instructed you to bring the girl here is a mystery.
All I know is I was sent a plane ticket, first-class Pan Am to Istanbul, to pick up the kid, and two more tickets, coach this time, to Marseilles.
And then so instructed, you come all the way to our little village, just to knock on a door and hand over the girl to whoever answered.
I was told her father would answer.
You did not wonder if the child would even be welcome?
I was paid too much to wonder.
This was strictly a business matter between you and Miss O’Shaughnessy?
She didn’t pick my name out of a hat
if that’s what you’re asking.
We knew each other.
I see.
When you say “knew each other,” you mean you knew each other…well.
Well enough so she trusted me.
You were lovers, perhaps?
Oh, Jesus, you French.
So yes?
Briefly, didn’t end well.
They never do.
Hearts break, one moves on, the other one becomes lonely and bitter.
We didn’t get that far.
Why not? I put her in jail.
So, this Brigid O’Shaughnessy, she trusted you because you put her in jail.
She trusted me because I got her out of jail.
Got her out?
How?
I knew who to talk to.
A most useful skill.
And the reason you felt so compelled to free her?
She was two years into 20 when she got sick and found out she was dying, or so she thought.
Turned out even her body could lie.
They paroled her and she lived another four years before she died in that train derailment outside Istanbul a few months back.
Irony has always been my favorite form of justice.
Not to mention the time it saves you.
What was she doing, may I ask, in Istanbul?
Antiquing.
After her release from prison, did you two pick up were you left off?
It didn’t last much longer than the car ride from the prison to the motel.
Then she broke her parole and lammed off to Europe.
You did not feel as if no time had passed, that despite all the heartbreak and the bitterness, you could still find a small ember to reignite?
I have to say, Chief, you’ve got a funny kind of curiosity.
I am a police officer.
I am curious about everything, especially about men with guns looking for trouble or perhaps that bulge in your coat is a lollipop for the little girl.
I’m looking for someone, is all.
Then I have mistaken you for the sort of man who pays attention.
I couldn’t tell you what sort of man I am, other than I keep my promises, particularly when I’m paid to.
My advice… take the child back to the United States.
If Philippe Saint-Andre is her father, she’s better off an orphan.
All the same, I need to find him.
And all the same, I am suggesting, politely, you look elsewhere.
[Vehicle hums]
[Footsteps echo]
[Car door closes]
[Speaks French]
Samuel Spade.
[Engine starts]
[Melancholy music playing]
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[Birds chirping, insects buzzing]
What do you call her?
Has she got a name?
Betty Bertha. Mama made her.
[Cow moos]
[Liquid gurgles]
[Convent bell tolls]
[Soft ethereal music playing]
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[Thunder rumbles]
Looks like rain.
Sounds like rain, too.
[Thunder crashes]
[Wind howling]
[Bike chain clatters]
You can finish that in the car.
[Thunder crashes]
[Ominous music playing]
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[Melancholy music playing]
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[Lightning and thunder crash]
[Lightning crackles]
[Tires screech, metal crunches]
[Engine sputters and stalls]
[Thunder and lightning crash]
[Door slams]
[Thunder crashing]
[Car hood slams]
[Thunder crashes]
[Door slams]
We’re going nowhere for a while.
Might as well get some sleep.
[Lightning and thunder crash]
[Thunder crashes]
[Lightning crashes][Gasps]
[Melancholy music playing]
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[Engine purring]
[Brakes squeal]
[Speaking French]
Sorry, I-I don’t speak French.
American? Since birth.
I don’t suppose you know how to fix one of these?
I was always under the impression one just threw them away.
Well, hello there![Dog pants]
Shall I take you and your daughter back to the village?
She’s not my daughter, and it’d be great if you could take us anywhere but the village.
I understand. Please!
Charlemagne can get in the back.
[Charlemagne yips]I wouldn’t dare.
[Charlemagne whimpering]
First time in a RollsRoyce?
First time in one that smells like roses.
I’ve been working in the garden.
I never had the feel.
I find water to be the key.
Now you tell me. [Chuckles]
You speak perfect English.
I had a good teacher.
Another talent I lack.
Teaching? Learning.
You just have to be taught by someone
you want to listen to.
I’m all ears.[Charlemagne pants]
[Bells tolling]
[Ethereal music playing]
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[Gentle music playing]
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[Speaks French]
Madame Huchet.
[Speaking French]
What?
Let’s talk in my office.
[Door opens]
See this here?
You’ve got the early stages of emphysema.
Meaning?
You have to quit smoking.
Forget what you read, forget the TV commercials with the sexy girls.
Cigarettes are bad for you.
[Lighter clicks]
Am I dying?
No, but you’re killing yourself.
How much time do I have?
Depends on you.
Stop now, you’ll live another 30 years.
Don’t stop, you’ll live another 30 years, but you’ll be in an oxygen tent.
Otherwise, you’re in great shape.
Emphysema.
Not pretty.
[Indistinct conversations]
[Soft music playing]
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[Dog barks]
[Chicken squawks]
[Children scream]
Bonjour. Bonjour!
[Gravel crunches]
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[Children clamor]
[Teacher speaks indistinctly in French]
[Gate bell ringing]
[Children squeal and clamor]
[Whistle blows]
[Speaking French]
[Speaking French]
[Chuckles]
[Lock and chain rattles]
[Children clamor]
[Speaks French]
[Speaks French]
Mr. Spade?
How good to see you, maestro.
As always, do sit down.
Cigarette?
You don’t mind if I have one?
Not if you promise to blow the smoke in my direction.
[Laughs][Convent bell tolls]
Your bells are a bit behind, I have 10:24.
For over 300 years, we sisters climbed the tower and rang the bells by hand.
Then a salesman arrives last month and convinces me to have our bells automated.
The mechanism was installed last Friday.
Since then, the bells now ring whenever they choose.
Maybe we’re better off not knowing exactly how much time we’ve got.
Only if you aren’t herding children day until night.
How are the children?
Oh, thank the Lord, very healthy and happy, though, some prefer their solitude.
There’s plenty to be said for solitude.
God loves her and keeps her safe.
For his efforts and yours.
As always, we are very grateful, Mr. Spade.
A long time ago, someone said to me that money and gratitude don’t always go hand in hand.
A cynical someone, no doubt.
They were the only “someones” I knew back then.
Speaking of the past, her father is coming home to Bazuel.
You don’t say.
I assumed that he was dead, but the dead don’t write letters.
He has written several, all confirmed by his mother to be in Philippe’s own hand.
You’ve spoken with Madame Saint-Andre?
Audrey has become very attentive to her granddaughter.
Once a week, she brings her clothing she has sewn herself.
You didn’t think this was maybe something I should know?
I’m telling you now so that you are aware that he will be here soon.
Audrey could have written those letters herself.
To what purpose?
The girl’s rich.
I assume you mean spiritually.
This isn’t exactly the Hotel Georges V.
There’s a trust fund full of money that can only be described as ill-gotten.
Every dime goes to Teresa when she turns 18, which I’m sure Philippe knew, given his part in separating said money from its rightful owners.
Oh.
Philippe Saint-Andre is a thief?
What a surprise.
He stole the money with the help of Teresa’s mother, who apparently knew Philippe well enough to put the money in Teresa’s name and not his.
And you were involved in this how, Mr. Spade?
Peripherally.
Philippe has always denied paternity and until evidently, very recently, his mother has never acknowledged her granddaughter’s existence.
But, now as Teresa gets closer to 18, he’s writing letters and she’s knitting pullovers?
The war changed a lot of people.
Very few for the better.
GrandmamanAudrey is up to something.
I always hoped that, with time, Teresa would warm to you.
I sent her mother to rot in prison and her father to die in Algeria.
It’s gonna be a long wait.
But she knows that you care about her.
Keeping a promise isn’t the same thing as caring.
What I promised was to bring the girl to Bazuel.
Yes, well, as the good book says, “He who promises runs in debt.”
Is that Old Testament or New?
The Talmud.
Aren’t we full of our own surprises?
I do so enjoy our chats, my dear Mr. Spade.
[Soft music playing]
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[Gravel crunching]
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[Water trickling]
What are you doing? I fixed the dishwasher.
[Speaking French]
I’m on a health kick.
So can I.
Sorry, I don’t understand.
Can you speak English?
Do me a favor and start locking the doors.
Yeah, well, this trouble needs no invitation.
You don’t seem all that worried.
[Mantel clock dings softly]
[Mantel clock ticks]
[Soft ethereal music playing]
[Paper rustles]
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[Lighter cap clicking]
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[Clicking continues]
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[Child giggles]
[Dog barking, child laughs]
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Gabrielle: How would you like to earn a fee on top of what you’re already being paid?
Sam: Doing what exactly?
What you’re going to do anyway, talk to Philippe Saint-Andre.
Just talk to him?
He’s blackmailing me.
Over what? You kill your husband?
Okay.
My husband was a Nazi.
He was German?
Worse, he was French.
Jacques was a collaborateur.
And Philippe is threatening to tell the authorities?
Not only them, the newspapers, the international press.
Why would they care?
I’m sure a lot of partisans killed a lot of Nazi collaborators back then.
And their children.
That was 10 years ago.
What’s different now?
Algeria.
Stopping Hitler was something we could all agree was worth whatever the cost.
There is, however, far less accord about our recent conflict.
And it certainly doesn’t help when both sides are locked in some sick competition, committing one atrocity after another.
I grew up thinking that when my family went on vacation to Laurent, we were going to another part of France.
And what do you feel about it now?
It only matters what people think I feel.
Just like it doesn’t matter that Jacques had to be punished for betraying the town of his birth, for aiding in the suffering of his old friends, just so he could sleep in his own bed, keep making his wine, or drive his burgundycolored car.
But now, after this war, if you’re French, the only thing that matters is that we punished him ourselves.
We? Does that mean Philippe is blackmailing more than just you?
This is about me.
I don’t want the people of Bazuel involved, please.
I won’t allow the people here to live through such misery all over again, which is what will happen if Philippe carries through on his threats.
They’re not afraid of jail.
They’re afraid of being remembered as war criminals, especially by their children.
I’d like to help you, but if I’m to get my current fee, I gotta sort out what to do with her.
Man of conscience. I understand.
Man of many debts, more like.
To be honest with you, the sooner I get her parked, the sooner I can move on.
I have a thought on that, which will take a few days to work out.
Maybe I can pay you to just think about how I can deal with this situation without killing anyone.
Oh, there’s plenty of ways of getting rid of a man without killing him, especially when there’s a war on.
Interesting.
Your local constable made it pretty clear, he wants me to pick another place to be.
So stay with me.
In the carriage house.
[Ethereal music playing]
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[Water splashing]
[Gentle music playing]
[Coughs]
George: Hello.
My name’s George Fitzsimmons, sir.
What can I do for you, Mr. Fitzsimmons?
Is Madame LaVarone home?
No, I’m afraid not.
Ah, any idea when she might return?
When the sun goes cold.
I beg your pardon?
She’s no longer with us.
Oh.
I see.
I’m not selling.
Good, and I’m not buying.
I could never afford such a lovely property.
That makes two of us.
What did you want with my wife?
Wife?
Oh, dear.
I am an idiot.
My condolences.
I’m I’m I’m so sorry.
I had no idea she’d remarried.
Did you know her?
Yes, quite a while ago.
A young boy right after the World War.
See, my father was a landscape painter.
Syngin Fitzsimmons.
Well, Madame LaVarone allowed him to paint on the estate.
The– the ravine.
The vineyard and cows.
Oh, yeah. There’s a painting hanging in the library.
Yes, it’s a gift of gratitude from my father.
See, we lived in the carriage house for three months.
Still remember the day we departed.
I was desolate, sobbing.
I loved being here.
Well, to tell you the truth, I did have a bit of a heart flutter for the madame.
Understandable.
I’m wondering Mr…
Spade.
Gabrielle Spade. Think of that.
You were wondering what, Mr. Fitzsimmons?
It’s…
Well, I am now an artist as well.
And you want to paint here.
If my clumping around won’t be too much of a disturbance?
Not at all.
Come clump whenever you want.
As long as you’re quiet and I never see you.
Good, consider me just another cow in the pasture.
We sold the cows right after the carriage house burned to the ground.
[Slow music playing]
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You always did have a thing for strays.
♪
[Man on radio speaking French]
Man on the moon.
What the hell for?
[Engine humming]
[Slow music playing]
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[Door opens]
[Footsteps approaching]
Morning.
Oh, Helena… could you ask Henri to come see me?
[Insects buzzing]
How do, Mr. Spade?
George.
What’s the matter, Jean-Pierre?
You got lost in the dark last night?
Maybe you forgot you were gonna stay off my property.
Your property. Oh, Jesus.
Have you been sitting there since last night?
What are you talking about? I wasn’t here last night.
Then who was?
How would I know? I wasn’t here.
Philippe Saint-Andre.
Did you lend him your bike?
Sometimes he just takes it.
He’s an old friend after all.
Oh. With friends like that, who needs friends?
Jean-Pierre.
There’s some things you just don’t ever want to do.
[Scoffs]
We have all heard the stories.
What a tough guy you once were.
There’s no such thing.
I wonder.
Are they true stories, or just things you tell a woman, like my wife?
Hey, wait,
I have a business proposition for you, Spade.
Do not laugh at me.
Then don’t be ridiculous.
I’m very serious. Buy my half of the health club.
You mean Marguerite’s half?
You talk to her about this?
She never has to know.
Funny thing about drunks, they think they make sense.
You buy me out, I disappear.
You get the whole club and my wife completely to yourself.
What makes you think that I want Marguerite, or she wants me?
Think about it.
You tell your old friend Philippe, he wants to talk to me, he can come and harangue me to my face
like everyone else.
[Marguerite singing in French]
Hello, Mr. Spade.
Mrs. Devereux.
Drink?
It’s a little early, don’t you think?
Or a little late, depending on one’s point of view.
Last night I thought I could hear the party
all the way up at my place. Did you now?
But maybe that was just you and Jean-Pierre throwing bottles at each other.
Did he hit you?
Maybe I hit him first.
I can take care of myself.
He came by this morning on his motorcycle.
For once, let’s not talk about Jean-Pierre.
You should have come in last night.
Full house, standing ovations.
You sure this is right?
Like I said, we had a full house.
Your husband already thinks I stole the joint.
Jean-Pierre thinks you stole more than the club.
If he only knew.
But the club is not his. The club is mine.
Ours.
Is this what set him off?
Jean-Pierre doesn’t need much.
[Coughing]You feeling all right?
I’m fine. Never better.
The other night, I’m walking by the cemetery and I see you inside.
Evening’s a nice time to do that.
Must be, as you are there every night.
Oh, you go by the cemetery that often?
I’m shopping for a plot.
Two years have passed, Sam.
I stopped looking at calendars and mirrors a long time ago.
[Bells tolling]
[Indistinct conversations]
[Converse in French]
Patrice.
I’m watching my weight.
Watching it do what?
You might want to put a pin on Mr. Jean-Pierre and Madame Marguerite Devereux.
They had another battle royal last night.
I know, I talked to her.
Sometimes I wish they’d just kill each other and give the rest of us some peace.
Jean-Pierre hasn’t been right since he was discharged.
The war has come home.
Sooner or later, they always do.
This one, this Algerian fiasco, is different.
But Jean-Pierre is a model citizen compared to others.
I don’t suppose you’ve heard the good news.
We’re getting a bowling alley?
Philippe Saint-Andre has apparently returned home.
Do I have to worry about you and Philippe?
[Man speaks French]
[Coins jingling]
If you don’t watch out, Patrice, you’re gonna burn in hell.
I’m a goalist.
So to many, I’m already there.
Answer my question. What’s to worry about?
We’ve discussed two different men who want you dead, and my breakfast hasn’t yet arrived.
Yeah, but only one of those men is a sociopath.
One is enough.
I told you back then that your solution was no solution.
Yeah, but you weren’t paying me.
Gabrielle was.
[Man on radio speaking French]
[Changing radio stations]
[“Qu’il Fait Bon de Vivre Ici” by Paul Bonneau, Pierre Duclos, Eliane Blache playing]
[Motorcycle engine humming]
♪
[Tires screeching]
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[Slow music playing]
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[Speaking French]
♪
Ah.
Hello, Henri.
Military life treating you all right?
Well, the training is difficult mentally, physically.
But what’s hardest is discipline.
I do not take orders easily.
I know what you mean.
You were in the army, Mr. Spade?
No, I was a conscientious objector.
You don’t believe in killing your fellow man?
Oh, I think there’s plenty of men worth killing, as well as plenty of wars worth fighting.
I’d just rather choose myself.
Like the bad penny he is, Philippe Saint-Andre has snuck back into town.
How can I help?
You still spending time
with that little redheaded number?
Uh… which would that be?
Redheads are all I spend my time with.
I’m talking about the redhead you brought to dinner, the one who works as the General’s secretary.
I need you to eyeball Philippe’s service file, his activities in Algeria and everything since.
I don’t want you or the redhead to get in to any trouble over this.
Your grandmother would kill me.
Well, she always said that Saint-Andre was a bully, that he likes to hurt people.
His special gift.
And that he was blackmailing your wife before she was your wife.
Gabrielle had some difficulties with Philippe, yes.
So you sent him away?
Well, I convinced him he might live longer by going off to war.
I’ll see what I can find.
[Utensils clinking]
[Telephone ringing]
Philippe: Stay away from Teresa.
Well, if it isn’t father of the year.
I mean what I say, Spade.
She doesn’t want you going near her.
I hear your mother’s taken up knitting.
If only you knew half as much as you thought.
I’d invite you over here for a drink to explain it all, but I’m guessing you’re up to your neck in shit.
Mind your own fucking business.
[Faint groaning]
[Gun firing]
Philippe?
Patrice: I told you yesterday that Philippe had returned.
I asked you if I had to worry.
And now I’m telling you, yes.
No, you are telling me that you received a phone call from Philippe Saint-Andre, which is I admit, concerning, but not overly so.
And then you say that during this call, you heard a gunshot, fired by whom?
Fired at him?
I am saying that Philippe was in a room where a gun was fired, either by him or at him.
And I would assume that you, legendary bloodhound that you are, would’ve already leapt out of your chair and be sniffing the countryside in search of him.
Your cheap canine comparison aside, I do consider myself expert on all things Philippe Saint-Andre.
And I am telling you that the man will not be found unless he wants to be found.
So what you’re an expert at is waiting.
Oh, so now you insult my professionalism?
Maybe just your courage.
My courage has never been in doubt.
I’ve got the wounds to prove that.
Unlike some of us.
And now you insult my war record?
One has to have first fought in a war to have a war record.
I thought we promised to only have this conversation when we’re drunk.
I’m hungover.
Does that count?
Tell me, Patrice, how would you feel if Philippe hurt someone?
Depends on the someone.
Okay, I will put my best man on the search.
Your best man? Does that mean your idiot brother?
Is nothing good enough?
Maurice is an excellent detective.
Maurice couldn’t find water if he fell out of a boat.
Don’t make me say it.
What? That we’ve been through so much together?
That you owe me.
You got that backwards, haven’t you?
You live here at my pleasure.
[Glass shatters]
Maurice. [Snaps fingers]
[Sam coughing]
No?
[Crickets chirping]
[Slow music playing]
[Coughing]
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[Indistinct conversations]
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Gabrielle: Sam, Philippe Saint-Andre.
That him?
Not tonight.
♪
[Coughing]
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♪
I guess I missed the show.
That better be the ’52.
Sometimes Patrice is right.
I mean, there’s a lot of rocks to look under between here and Algiers.
And you are not a little bit curious why Philippe has come back?
Nope.
Or why he called you in the middle of a gunfight?
It was more like the beginning of a gunfight.
Even given what he tried to do to Gabrielle.
This is still not your business?
Au contraire.
Hearing that gunshot reminded me
I’m allergic to other people’s business.
Since when?
Since moving to beautiful Bazuel.
But before you came, your talent was other people’s business, yes?
“Talent.” That’s rich.
Paid metal as Miles used to call it.
♪
People come to you with their problems, and you end up inheriting those problems.
But you’re good at fixing them, so the problems keep coming, along with the money.
In a very short while, the problems go from small to deadly.
Turns out you’re good at those, too.
Maybe too good.
One day you wake up, you look in the mirror and you see someone you don’t much like.
No big deal.
Just don’t look in the mirror anymore.
The money and the drink are a nice distraction until you finally rot from the inside all the way out.
And no matter how much you drink or how much money you make, you can never get away from your own stink.
That’s very vivid.
But not the reason why you are here.
People don’t just come to beautiful Bazuel.
You’d make a good detective, better than me.
Please, I own a bar. Coown.
The first time I came in this place, you were the only one who didn’t look at me crosseyed.
But I have many times since.
What are you doing here, Spade?
Making sweet love to your wife.
Now I’m going.
You should be more afraid of me.
You don’t know who the fuck I am, which means you don’t know what I’ve done or what I can do.
You think I’m a fool?
I don’t think you’re a fool.
I think you’re like one of those guys late at night in the bar who plays the same sad song over and over again on the jukebox.
[Both grunting]
[Grunting]
I remember the notdrunk version of you.
It wasn’t such a bad egg.
I mean, after all… she married you.
[Coughing]
[Slow music playing]
♪
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Teresa: [Panting] Mr. Spade.
Teresa?
Help me.
[Panting]
♪
I ran the whole way. Tell me what happened and start with whose blood you’re wearing.
My father’s.
Philippe came to see you?
Someone shot him.
Did you see who?
It was before.
Did he tell you who shot him?
He said, “Very bad men.”
As in men worse than him?
I know people don’t like my father, but they don’t know him.
Not the way I do.
Still, we’re sitting here because your father got shot by, and I quote, “some very bad men,” which I can only assume was over some very bad business.
And yet despite the danger, he somehow figures that the best person to run to is his 14-year-old daughter.
I’m 15. [Speaks French]
So I’m told. Where is he now?
Teresa, where is Philippe?
Can I have another? No.
So he knocks on the door with a bullet in him, gives you a hug, and then what, just leaves?
Yes.And during that brief stay, he did what?
Said what?
Stop thinking about what lie he wants you to tell and tell me what actually happened.
The people who shot him, they followed him to the convent?
I don’t know who shot Papa.
Maybe the monk.
He came right after Papa left.
He started banging on the gate with a stick.
He wanted to see the Mother Superior.
This monk, what did he look like?
Ugly face with a with a raspy voice.
Big nose, brown eyes? One of those floppy hoods?
You know him? I’ve seen him.
What did he want with the Mother Superior?
I don’t know.
He barged in and he started shouting at her.
She told him to get out, but he took the Lord’s name in vain and then, and then he hit her.
Is she all right?
I don’t know.
Everything was so confused after that.
Everyone hid. Not everyone.
You came here, why?
‘Cause I’m the oldest and the fastest.
Yeah, but why come here and not the Gendarmerie?
He frightens me.
You stay here. Don’t move.
[Dialing]
[Ringing]
Sorry to wake you.
There’s a problem.
Helena will be here in a minute.
I’m gonna go check things out.
If trouble comes, read the book.
[Door closes]
[Slow music playing]
♪
♪
Woman: [Whimpering]
♪
♪
[Knock on door]
[Woman speaking French]
I’m not gonna hurt you.
Shh. Shh. Shh.
Okay.
[All yell]
Shh. Shh. Shh.
Shh.
[Girls whimpering]
[Suspenseful music playing]
♪
♪
[Eerie music plays]
♪
♪
[Eerie music builds]
♪
♪
[Suspenseful music plays]
♪
♪
[Convent bells tolling]
♪
♪
[Bells tolling]
[Closing theme music playing]
♪
♪
Terribly sad.
Man: do you still possess a working pistol?
♪
Spade: Anyone who wants to shoot me will have to bring their own gun.
Get down!
Could JeanPierre have done this?
Philippe could have taken the shot.
Man: You have many enemies.
I’d like you to meet my mother.
You either saw something you shouldn’t have seen, or you know something you shouldn’t know.
Philippe shows up with a kid.
The boy is the hub of a manyspoked wheel.
That sounds like something you read in a fortune cookie.
We all pretend, Mr. Spade.
If I want you dead, I just have to wait.
Mr. Spade, do you have any specific information you want to share?
Spade: They want the boy.
Everyone from the Vatican to French intelligence to the CIA is after this kid.
Woman: Mr. Spade, you want to be left alone.
And yet, sadly, our pasts are portable.
[Gunshot]
