Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid

1

It was a quiet day at the Rigby

Reardon Detective Agency.

I had a hangover, and business was so

slow I was rereading old newspapers.

I was even thinking of closing

up the office for a few days...

when all of a sudden...

- Mr Reardon?

- That's right.

My...

My name... my...

In all my years in the business,

I'd never seen anything like her.

Was she real? There was

only one way to find out.

But I remembered Marlowe's words.

What the hell does Marlowe know?

She was real all right.

What are you doing?

Adjusting your breasts.

You fainted and they...

shifted all outta whack.

- There.

- Thank you.

You're welcome.

Thank you. I... I apologise

for my dramatic entrance.

It's just when I saw the...

newspaper headlines...

- You must be quite a Dodgers fan.

- No, I saw... the front page.

- What's your name, Dollface?

- Juliet Forrest.

Forrest...

Daughter of the big cheesemaker. You

could use a cup of my famous java.

Cheese was Daddy's hobby.

He was a scientist.

- Quite an accident he had.

- That's what I came to see you about.

You don't think it was an accident.

You think he was murdered.

How did you know?

It's my business to know,

Miss Forrest. Sit down.

What makes you think

it wasn't an accident?

Just before it... it happened...

he behaved very erratically, writing

out lists of names, dozens of them.

He wrote them on blotters and

scratch pads, whatever was handy.

Here's one of the lists...

or part of one.

It's from a dollar bill.

Somehow I got the feeling he was

the victim of a giant conspiracy.

You deducted murder and a

giant conspiracy from this?

You think I'm too impulsive,

don't you, Mr Reardon?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

If you want me to investigate your

father's death, I get $10 a day.

Plus expenses.

Will $200 be enough in

advance, Mr Reardon?

- For $200 I'd shoot my grandmother.

- That won't be necessary.

You never can tell. On my last case, I

had to throw my brother out of a plane.

Where'd your father keep

his correspondence?

He had a small private office

downtown. Here's the key.

Thank you, Mr Reardon.

I appreciate this.

- Miss Forrest?

- Yes?

Save me some shoe leather if you

told me what address this key fits.

It was 429 Firehouse Row.

Pretty seedy part of town

for a renowned scientist.

It was the only place he could

experiment with cheese...

without the smell

bothering the neighbours.

I'll see what I can turn up.

Good day, Mr Reardon.

On my way to Firehouse Row, I tried

not to think of Juliet Forrest.

I hadn't seen a body like that...

since I'd solved the case of the

murdered girl with the big tits.

I had no trouble finding

Dr Forrest's cheese lab.

It smelled like the

number on the door.

Inside, I turned up

something interesting.

"To John Forrest, a dear man who, like

his cheeses, gets stronger with age."

"Love, Kitty."

So the old renowned scientist

was getting a little on the side.

"Enemies of Carlotta."

"Friends of Carlotta."

"Kitty Collins"?

Sounds like company.

Exterminator.

Just a minute.

Come in.

Sit down.

There's some cookies on the table.

Have one.

Good, aren't they?

Guess to be a really good exterminator

you have to enjoy killing things.

Yeah.

- Yes?

- I'd like to see Miss Forrest.

- Who shall I say is calling?

- Mr Reardon. Tell her I've been shot.

Very good, sir.

- May I tell her by whom?

- No. I don't know myself.

Are you all right? You look as

though you're going to faint.

Faint? Ha!

Never.

- Catch me.

- Sorry.

I'm a butler... not a catcher.

Dollface...

What are you doing?!

It should feel better now.

- Where'd you learn that?

- At camp.

- You learned that at girls' camp?

- It's really for snakebite, but...

I find it works for everything.

You mumbled about Kitty Collins and

Swede Anderson being on a list.

- "Friends of Carlotta"?

- That's right. Do you know them?

Kitty was...

Kitty was someone Daddy trifled

with after Mother dried up.

And Swede was Kitty's boyfriend.

Where are they now?

The last I heard, they

were in Santa Barbara.

He used to be a boxer. Now

he works in a gas station...

And she sings in a private club.

You may be interested in this.

I found it in Daddy's study.

"Thanks for the check.

In case I'm indisposed..."

"the dollar you gave me for safekeeping

is in the top of the sugar bowl."

- "Shh."

- Why?

No. This.

No, no, no. That's not "Shh."

It's S-H-H. Samuel H Hastings.

My brother-in-law.

Or at least he was.

He and my sister Leona are

separated. He's a hopeless drunk.

- Where is he now?

- I don't know.

Get your sister Leona for me.

All right.

I'm afraid she may not

be very much help.

- She's very disturbed.

- How disturbed?

She's been diagnosed as a

paranoid hypochondriac.

- Doctors think she may be faking.

- I'll know after one word if she is.

- Hello?

- She's faking.

Mrs Hastings? My name's Reardon.

Sorry to hear your father's passed on.

No, he hasn't. He won't

be back till Sunday.

Sunday? You don't

understand, Mrs Hastings.

I'm investigating

your father's death.

My father called me from Chicago

tonight. He never mentioned a word!

Maybe it slipped his mind.

Look, your father

is dead, Mrs Hastings.

Your sister Juliet feels his

death wasn't an accident.

What are you talking about?

I had a long talk with him

just a little while ago.

- He told me terrible things about you.

- Listen, you phony fruitcake!

Sorry I called you a fruitcake.

I just don't have time to listen to...

All right, don't listen! Who cares?

Your sister has a lot to

learn about phone courtesy.

You got any idea how

I could locate Sam?

You might ask the bartenders

along 5th Street.

I'll call you if

I turn up anything.

... If I'm not home, leave a message

with the butler or the cleaning woman.

Cleaning woman.

Cleaning woman.

Cleaning woman.

Cleaning woman! Cleaning woman!

Cleaning woman! Cleaning woman!

Cleaning woman! Cleaning woman!

Sorry.

Why did you do that?

When I was seven years old...

my father ran off

with the cleaning...

My mother died of a broken heart.

Now every time someone

says cleaning...

- I go berserk.

- You poor dear.

I don't blame you

for strangling me.

I'll never say it again.

Thanks.

So long, Dollface.

I legged it down 5th Street

looking for Samuel H Hastings.

It was a street of frustrated

hopes and broken dreams.

Everything was cheap, cut-rate. Even

the prostitutes were having a sale.

There was no problem finding Hastings.

He owed money to every bartender.

He was staying at the Hotel Ward on 5th

Street. It used to be on 8th Street...

But they took so many rubber checks,

it bounced all the way across town.

I went to his room and knocked.

- Hastings? Sam Hastings?

- Who is it?

My name is Reardon. I...

have a proposition for ya.

But not today. Does

it have to be today?

- Yeah.

- Come on Monday.

- I got that money for ya.

- What money?

There's a dollar bill

hidden in your sugar bowl.

I'll give you five bucks for it.

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