Dark Passage

They'll catch the truck,

question the driver, search the barrels.

Inside five minutes

they'll be starting back this way, slow...

combing the road, looking sharp.

Take maybe 10 minutes.

See that? Gives me 15 minutes.

I've got to start taking chances.

What I wouldn't give

for some ice water or a smoke.

I've got to get out of here.

Hope I buried my shirt deep enough.

It's a dead giveaway.

Here comes something.

I've got to take that chance now.

How did you get your feet wet?

Been wading?

Crossed the stream back there.

Couldn't see a bridge, so I waded across.

-Where you going?

-San Francisco.

-Whereabouts in Frisco?

-Civic Center.

In your undershirt?

I like to be comfortable.

-Where did you get them pants?

-What do you want to know for?

Never saw any like them before.

What's funny about them? They suit me.

They give me a lot of wear for the money.

-Where you from?

-Arizona.

-Whereabouts in Arizona?

-Maricopa.

Very fancy seat cover you got here.

That's a piece of a carnival tent.

Seems to me, you'd be more sunburned

not wearing a shirt than you are.

As I was saying,

you ought to be more sunburned.

How come you're not? Lose your shirt?

Why are you going to Frisco?

What is this, a quiz program?

Stop this jalopy and let me out.

I'll hitch another ride.

Don't get excited, pal. All I said was--

I'll hitch a ride where I don't have to

tell my life history.

Flash! We interrupt this program to warn

all listeners in the North Bay Area.

Look out for a convict who escaped

from San Quentin 15 minutes ago...

probably on an outbound truck.

His description follows:

The escaped convict is 5' 10'',

hair:
dark brown, eyes: brown...

last seen wearing gray prison trousers,

black shoes.

His name is Vincent Parry,

sentenced for life...

for the murder of his wife three years ago.

Well, what do you know?

Please, stop! I won't tell!

All right, climb in my car

and get out of here, fast.

What is this?

You're lucky he's still alive.

Let's go. I want to help you.

Why?

Please, we haven't much time, Vincent.

-How did you know my name?

-Does that matter?

-You're with the police?

-If I was, I'd have a gun.

Look, I'm trying to give you a chance.

I don't get it. But all right, let's go.

Get under here. I was out painting.

I heard the flash on my radio.

Don't worry about the painting stuff,

I'll fix it.

Where are we?

In the tunnel

leading to the Golden Gate Bridge.

-Where are you taking me?

-San Francisco, to my place.

It's a roadblock.

Don't move, Vincent. Don't make a sound.

Got your license, miss?

What's the matter, Officer?

Have I done something wrong?

I don't know yet, miss.

Where are you going?

San Francisco.

What have you got here in back?

Just my painting stuff.

I'm an amateur landscape painter.

-I'll have a look if you don't mind.

-Go right ahead.

But don't get the oil paints on your sleeve,

they're still wet.

Okay, miss.

You can start breathing again.

You told them to go ahead and look.

I knew they would anyway.

I had to take the chance.

-What were you doing near San Quentin?

-Painting in the hills.

How did you know I'd be on that road?

The radio said

the truck was headed south.

I figured you'd head for the county road.

Then I passed the empty car

with the door open...

so I turned around and came back.

And there I was.

I'm supposed to believe that?

All right, don't believe it.

But I got you past the police.

If you'd taken that jalopy...

you'd be on your way back

to San Quentin by now. That's one thing.

If he'd lifted that tarp

another three inches...

I'd be letting myself in for

a few years of prison.

That's another thing.

Right now, I'm letting myself in for

a broken jaw.

What do you mean,

"a broken jaw"?

You're all set to clip me one, aren't you?

I can't afford to make mistakes.

-Maybe I've made one.

-Why?

There's a motorcycle cop

coming up behind us.

He's dead ahead of us now.

He's stopping at the tollgate.

Lie still.

Hold your breath and cross your fingers.

Hear there's a roadblock on the other side.

-A killer's loose.

-So they say.

We're at my place. You ready?

-What's next?

-You're going to stay here.

-That's no good.

-Can you think of something better?

Then get ready, count 10.

By that time I'll be inside

and have the elevator ready to go up.

It's one of those pushbutton kinds.

When you've counted 10, get out,

walk in fast, but don't run.

I'll be waiting inside, on your right.

Okay, start counting.

...eight, nine, ten.

When we get to my floor,

let me go on ahead.

-I'll make sure nobody's coming.

-All right.

-Wait here.

-Okay.

You just make yourself at home.

I don't get this.

Why are you doing this for me?

I have no money, nothing.

There can't be anything in it for you

except a jail sentence.

Wait here. I want to show you something.

And turn on the music if you like.

-I see you like swing music.

-Yes, legitimate swing.

I wanted you to see this.

It was printed in the Record

at the time of your trial.

"Letters to the Editor."

"I think it's time someone spoke up

on behalf of Vincent Parry.

"The prosecution daily steers away

from the facts of the case...

"makes every effort to picture Parry

as an unfaithful husband, a vicious killer.

"I know nothing

of Parry's marital difficulties...

"or the finality of the evidence of murder...

"but I do know he is being

treated shamefully in the papers.

"I don't know this man, but I, for one,

protest your scandal-sheet tactics."

Signed, Irene Jansen.

Why, that's you.

-Why did you write this?

-I suspected you were getting a raw deal.

When I get excited about something,

I give it everything I have.

I'm funny that way.

But this is no good for you,

and it's certainly no good for me.

The police will be busy

while I'm doing nothing.

But you have a little time, Vincent.

Hello?

-It's Bob.

-Hello, Bob.

-Like to have dinner?

-I'm sorry, not tonight.

Got a date?

Not a date.

I just want to finish some sketches.

-Somebody there to help?

-No, just alone.

You're making me jealous. I'll bet--

Don't talk like that, Bob. It's not true.

Call me tomorrow night, about 7:00.

-Okay.

-Bye.

I'm getting out. That phone call did it.

But I didn't want to see him, anyway.

There'll be times you will,

and I'll be in the way.

-I'm going.

-Wait until tonight, please.

You can't go out dressed like that.

Let me get you some good clothes.

The police won't look so closely

at a well-dressed man.

Now, what size suit?

Forty, I guess.

-Shirt?

-Fifteen and a half, 34 sleeve.

-Shoes?

-8B.

-Hat?

-Seven.

That's a lucky number.

I'll be back soon.

You'll have to get rid of those clothes.

There's some wrapping paper

in the kitchen.

Wrap them up in tight bundles and

throw them down the incinerator chute.

Treat yourself to a hot shower.

And you'll need a shave.

Irene, let me in.

That's Madge's voice.

You know I'm out here.

Are you going to let me in?

Is someone in there with you?

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