Murder by Death

- Do you think they'll come, sir?

- They'll come, all right.

Here. Stamp those and mail them.

It's ringing.

Would you walk Myron the other way?

My leg looks like a tree in this fog.

Come on.

What a godforsaken spot to get lost.

It's true. I saw a much better spot

a few miles back.

Hello?

Good.

Tell them we're lost.

- The phone's dead.

- Why'd you say "hello"?

- I could've sworn-

- What?

- Sounded like somebody snipped the wire.

- Really?

What did it sound like?

Snip.

- Some fog, eh, Pop?

- I've already heard the weather report.

Drive, please.

It's as thick as pea soup.

Not a soul around for miles.

Know what I think?

Perfect place for a murder.

Conversation like television set

on honeymoon:

Unnecessary.

Where are we going, anyway, Pop?

Who is this Mr. Twain?

What'd he mean, "dinner and a murder"?

Questions like athlete's foot:

After a while, very irritating.

To stop car, please.

- What's wrong?

- Stop car, please.

To shut engine off, please.

Listen.

I don't hear nothing.

What do you hear?

- Double negative and dog.

- So it's a dog. So what?

If not mistaken...

...dog belong to Mr. Dick Charleston.

- Who's Dick Charleston?

- I am.

You don't happen to have seen

a little white- Wang!

A white Wang?

Sidney Wang! What are you

doing in this godforsaken spot?

No doubt, same as you.

Looking for bridge that lead

to home of host, Mr. Lionel Twain.

You too, huh?

Must be important to invite

two such detectives.

Excuse, please, to introduce

Japanese son, Willie.

Japanese?

But I thought-

Mrs. Wang and I

couldn't have children.

Willie:
adopted number three son.

Careful on this road.

It's treacherous.

Treacherous road like fresh mushroom.

Must always-

Idiot! Not finish mushroom story.

You're idiot!

Sorry, but I see nothing.

This fog's as thick as bouillabaisse.

- Nuts!

- I beg your pardon?

Nuts, nuts! There are

no nuts in my chocolate!

You let that imbecile in the shop

give you raisins.

He didn't have any nuts.

- The man in the shop?

- That's the reason I took the raisins.

Never mind.

We'll soon be there for dinner.

Hot soup.

Something is not right

in all of this, huh?

I can feel it in my bones.

- In your what?

- In my bones.

Buns? You have buns?

You bought buns

and didn't tell me?

- Where are the buns?

- No, monsieur.

The bones in my body.

You shouldn't speak with an accent

when you know I'm hungry.

If you ask me, Sam,

this is a wild goose chase.

- Nobody asked you.

- Yes, they did.

You asked me back there

if I thought-

That was then. This is now.

Nobody knows

what tomorrow will be.

That's the way it is,

whether we like it or not.

Sam, I really worry

about you sometimes.

Cut the malarkey.

This trip is strictly business.

- What do you got on Twain?

- He was born in San Francisco in 1906.

His mother was Catholic,

father an Orthodox Jew.

They separated two hours

after the marriage.

- Any children?

- Yeah, one daughter, 32.

Her name's Irene,

but she goes by Rita.

Just like a dame.

Don't stop, angel. You're doing fine.

He was arrested in 1932

for selling pornographic bibles.

Charges were dropped when the

church didn't turn over the bibles.

There's nothing on him until '46

when he was picked up in El Paso...

...for smuggling a truckload

of rich, white Americans...

...into Mexico to pick melons.

He was sent to the state hospital

for mental observation.

I think we picked ourselves

a queer bird, angel. Anything else?

Yeah. Get this, Sam.

Twain has one interesting physical

characteristic. He has no pinkies.

No pinkies?

Twain's only got eight fingers?

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