The Comedy of Terrors Page #2

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I put it to you.

Who, in your discerning

estimation...

do you think they're

most likely to believe?

Mr. W. Trumbull,

respected citizen...

and entrepreneur of death...

or Mr. Felix Gillie...

wanted fugitive and

confessed bank robber?

I've never confessed!

They just proved it.

One of these days...

One of these days, I...

One of these days

what, Mr. Gillie?

Nothing.

Exactly, Mr. Gillie.

Nothing.

Shall we say...

Midnight?

Midnight it is.

All right.

You are most accommodating,

Mr. Gillie.

Until midnight, then.

He's a perfectly

delightful old gentleman.

Owns a fleet of merchant vessels

operating out of Boston.

He and I enjoyed a most

delightful afternoon...

of conversation together

at the White Bull Tavern.

Later on, I walked him home.

Lives in a marvelous old house

out there on Winkle Road.

Wait till you see it!

Well, come on.

- I have an idea.

- What?

I'll wait for you right here.

Mr. Gillie, without

your cunning fingers...

how should I gain entrance?

Come on!

All right.

Get to work.

You know, the next time they

catch me with these tools...

it can be 30 years.

It's no wonder they

caught you the last time.

You're probably

the most inept...

house breaker in

all of New England.

That's true.

Did you try the knob?

No, why?

Quiet.

Quiet, quiet.

Pardon me.

Quiet!

I didn't mean to do it.

If they didn't hear that...

they must all be as

deaf as old Hinchley.

I didn't mean to.

Come on.

I don't like this.

What are you doing?

- Quiet. Get up.

- My foot...

- Get up.

- Your foot, my fingers.

Get up.

Come on.

If you make one more sound...

Now, you sit there,

Mr. Gillie...

and don't you make

a sound, Mr. Gillie.

As a matter of fact, don't you

even breathe, Mr. Gillie.

Do you understand me?

Exactly.

I shall return presently.

Fait accompli, Monsieur Gillie.

The stream flowed,

lapping, lapping...

and the leaves stirred,

tapping, tapping...

and the ancient belle

dames napping.

Dreamed of gently

rapping, rapping.

Rapping gently with a hammer

on a baby's skull.

Asleep yet, Mr. Gillie?

How can I sleep when

I know what you've done?

A little medicinal nip?

No, thank you.

More's the pity.

And a white brooch...

Well, thus we end our

lonely vigil, Mr. Gillie.

Forward!

Dear child.

Dear child, what is amiss?

Oh, sir, my master has,

to all appearances...

succumbed in his sleep, and I

must run to fetch the doctor.

Oh, cataclysmic circumstance.

Perhaps I can be of assistance.

Oh, sir, could you?

Well, I believe I could.

Take me to your mistress.

Oh, yes, sir. Thank you.

Oh, not at all, my dear.

Not at all.

It is my pleasure to help.

Hinchley and Trumbull are

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