Confidentially Yours Page #2

Look here Vercel...

I may be younger than you,

but I'm not intimidated!

It's going to be a long night.

Tomorrow too.

Then, I'll call my lawyer.

I can detain you for 48 hours

without a lawyer.

Who is your lawyer?

Mr. Clement.

Go ahead, then.

I won't answer any question

till he gets here.

You won't get a peep out of me...

not even the right time!

Good evening, Mr. Clement.

Bring in two chairs

and some sandwiches.

Massoulier's been killed.

I know.

These idiots suspect me.

They want to detain me.

It's their right, but...

I think I was denounced.

Not exactly, but accused

by a loony anonymous phone caller.

- Did you tell them?

- Not yet.

What do you want here?

One day,

I'll find you in my bedroom.

We'll see this with Mme Santelli.

Listen to me...

You two, come here.

No conspiracies.

Sit down.

- Commissaire Santelli?

- What is it now?

He's an Albanian.

She's his interpreter.

They insisted on seeing you.

I want to live here,

in this country.

I don't want to be sent back.

He wants political asylum here,

Inspector.

Political asylum at 11 p.m.!

I'll see what I can do.

You kept us waiting!

I know, I'm sorry. Killings

don't happen everyday in this town.

Massoulier died this morning.

Neither a suicide nor an accident.

He was hot pointblank

in the head.

They've got a prime suspect.

When they went to get him...

Vercel was about to flee.

Julien Vercel.

- Is he arrested?

- No, detained!

Do you feel better?

Yes, thanks to you.

But why does that cop

go on and on

about being younger than I am?

That's to overcome his timidity.

But he's no fool.

I doubt the killer

is a local resident.

What about those phone calls?

Just another maniac.

Listen Clement,

I'm sure my wife

was Massoulier's mistress.

You've got no proof.

I can't believe it.

It's true.

I'm considering a divorce.

No, not now!

It would look bad.

Have you told your wife?

No, she's in Nice.

She's coming back tomorrow.

Then wait.

You may work things out.

The word "divorce" is ugly.

Both the word and the act!

If things reach that stage...

I'd feel wretched...

really wretched.

Here we are.

Thank you for everything.

Come in for a drink.

No, thanks.

My daughter's feverish.

I want to make sure she's okay.

Don't worry.

Calm down and get some sleep.

"You're so kind, father."

"Are you not my own flesh

and blood?"

I'm fed up:

Bertrand keeps on pawing me!

Old Hugo didn't mind

a little incest.

"How can we stage out play...

If she won't meet me half way?"

Your attitude isn't professional.

We're not professionals.

We're amateurs!

We play for fun and charity.

Who decided Bertrand

would play Triboulet?

We're wasting time.

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