Sherlock Holmes and the Woman in Green


I won't forget

that morning.

Not if I live to be 100.

I counted the men as they

marched out of the Yard.

They'd hardly

slept for weeks.

We at the CID had

slept even less.

For the nightmare

that kept us awake

was all the

same nightmare.

That's why we

weren't surprised

when the Commissioner

had asked us up to

the conference room

for a bit of a talk.

He would talk to us

plenty. We knew that.

It didn't help any

to know what

was ahead of us.

Must we have that

window open. Gregson?

Oh shut it if you want to.

The Chief will be in

enough of a temper

without having

a ruddy blast

down the back of his neck!


The Commissioner.

Stuffy in here.

Be seated. Won't you?


If you wish to know

what able men you are.

Read any of the works

of popular fiction

that glamorize

your achievement

but don't. I beg of you.

Read the daily papers.

They might give you

an inferiority complex.

I hate to mention it.

But we're confronted

with a series of

the most atrocious murders

since Jack the Ripper.

And in the meantime.

The CID might as well be

playing at (unintelligible)

For all the good

we've accomplished.

Now. look...

here. Here and here.

Each of these red flags

scattered through the city

stands for a woman

brutally murdered.

A woman's terror.

A woman's death agony.

These are no

ordinary crimes.

These are the works of

a fiend who kills first

and mutilates afterwards.

A ghoul who hacks off a

part of his victim's body

and carries

it away with him.

A loathsome souvenir

of his butchery.

Three women

murdered so far.

And you haven't

turned in one clue.

You haven't

given me one lead.

Here you sit and wait for

news of a fourth victim

with your arms folded.

Well. We hadn't

long to wait.

It was down

Lamberth Way where

a young woman

was hurrying home

late last night.

She saw

something and stopped.

It was a Constable.

He spoke to her.

And he walked along

with her just in case.

He saw her go

down the stairway

to the basement

lodging where she lived.

I can only surmise

what happened after that.

So I put my

pride in my pocket

and went to see the man

that so often helped out

Inspector Lestrade

and myself in the past

Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

If ever a man

needed help. I did.

This makes

four. Inspector.

Four defenseless women

here in the

heart of London.

And every one

with the right

forefinger hacked off.

Not hacked.

Inspector Gregson.

Cleanly. Expertly severed.

The work of a

skilled surgeon.

That's our only clue.

Much about the age

of my sister's girl.

Is there no way of

stopping this Mr. Holmes?

Yes. There's

a way somehow.

A fiend did this.

I promise. I promise.

We've nothing go on.

That's the

rotten part of it.

We can't get far

without knowing

the motive.

Well. At least we know

what the motives were not.

It wasn't robbery nor

passion. Nor vengeance.

Because they

all came at totally

unrelated families.

Steady Inspector. Steady.

Sorry. Mr. Holmes.

I don't turn a hair

when it's a bloke that

can protect himself.

But a little slip

of a thing like that.

Yes. It's horrible.

Come on.

Let's get a drink.

Good evening.

Mr. Holmes.

Good evening. Vincent.

Whiskey and soda. Please.

And a double for my friend

here. Inspector Gregson.

There you go. Sir.

Make mine Irish.

It's noble to give

me a hand on this

thing. Mr. Holmes.

Always a pleasure to

be of help to Scotland

Yard. Inspector.

A little out of my line.

looking for a maniac

that murders just for

the fun of the hunt.

Or perhaps just to

get a human finger.

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Bertram Millhauser

Bertram Millhauser (March 25, 1892 – December 1, 1958) was an American screenwriter. He wrote for 61 films produced between 1911 and 1960. He was born in New York City, New York and died in Hollywood, California from a heart attack. more…

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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