Paris - When It Sizzles Page #6

of this curious calling.

The deep, almost lunatic narcissism.

The lack of personal daintiness.

The appalling grammar.

Pops, it was...

Sir, it was flawless, brilliant.

l came in on a motorbike

in wheat-coloured...

Now, please, don't get carried away.

l remind you,

you are not the star of this drama

but merely a supporting player.

A very minor one, at that.

lf life, like the theatre,

came equipped with programmes,

your billing, way down on the page

and in tiny letters,

would simply be second policeman.

As l was saying,

what he doesn't know, poor Rick,

is that the girl is ours.

Can we trust

a creature of the streets,

with a police record

as long as your arm?

Nothing will go wrong,

my dear Philippe.

There's a tiny chink

in Rick's armour. A pretty face.

One way or another,

using such talent as she has,

the girl will extract from him

the details of the plan.

The plan. But should they not

be followed? l have the car.

There would be no point.

Rick is a master.

No policeman alive can stay on

his trail if he wishes to elude him.

Yes...

- No.

- No.

l shall have a glorious lunch,

everything to be cooked, of course,

in this remarkable

non-fattening safflower oil,

and eventually,

having followed my luncheon

with several digestifs

and a short walk,

rejoin my friend tonight for

the climax of his adventures at...

At...?

The Eiffel Tower?

Brilliant, lnspector. Brilliant.

To the studio, Franois, please.

Studio?

l said, l have to stop at my office

and pick something up there.

Have you been inside

a motion-picture studio?

No. Are you in the movie business?

ln a way.

The studio is particularly marvellous

on a holiday like this.

Silent. Empty.

The vast sound stages

completely deserted.

Like the night before Christmas,

not a creature is stirring.

Wait here, l won't be long.

Hmm, nice-ish.

lsn't it?

l don't understand. Are you an actor,

a writer, producer, director?

Nothing so creative, l'm afraid.

My interest in movies

is purely financial.

Gracious.

l can't tell you

how exciting this is...

This is for me. l just love movies.

Not those terrible New Wave pictures

where nothing happens.

But l like,...

..erm, Westerns.

Good old-fashioned pictures

with switches

and switches on switches.

Things like that.

Do you have an emery board on you?

One of those things

- to file the nails?

- l think so.

Thank you.

l particularly like movies with

complicated robberies in, don't you?

Absolutely.

l know this sounds childish,

but next to pictures about robberies,

l think l like horror pictures best.

l always have.

As a little girl,

l was madly in love with Dracula.

My mother was very upset.

She thought it was somehow...

unhealthy.

She used to say, that vampire's

old enough to be your father!

Whom, she would add,

he in many ways resembles.

l'm glad.

Not that your father

resembled Dracula.

Which he didn't.

Not after he had his teeth fixed.

But that you are interested

in pictures.

That makes two things

we have in common.

Movies... and giraffes.

Here are the keys. Meet you

at the gate in half an hour.

Giraffes and movies...

lt's a small world, isn't it?

Let me see that!

No, no. Please, Rick,

you're hurting me.

The lipstick. lt's been written with.

The napkin! The napkin

you gave Gillette. What was on it?

What was on it?

You...

Stop, Rick, stop.

Or l'll shoot. l swear l will.

Mr Benson, what happens next?

l don't know. l don't know.

That's as far as l got.

- Mr Benson.

- Yes?

You know what l think?

l think we need another...

What would that be?

A switch on a switch

on a switch on a switch. On a switch.

l thought l knew movies, but

Roger Roussin was never like this.

l wonder if he knows about switches.

And switches on switches.

And switches on switches

on switches. l don't think so.

lt would change his whole life.

Not only would they not play Scrabble

they would also not play Parcheesi.

l must say, the mind reels.

Anyway, you know what l think?

Yes. You think she is not a creature

of the streets with a police record.

You think she's an American

intelligence agent.

Well, Miss Simpson,

you happen to be wrong.

Our Gabby happens to be

that most reliable, steadfast,

and you-cannot-miss-with-no-matter-

how-badly-you-write-it character

in all popular literature.

The prostitute with a heart of gold.

No, actually,

the P with the H of G is secondmost.

The most is Frankenstein.

Sure, someone who creates

or remakes another human being

and either falls in love with it

or it destroys him.

lt can go either way.

That's what gives it

such flexibility.

Miss Simpson, did you ever realise

that Frankenstein and

My Fair Lady are the same story?

One ends happily

and the other one doesn't.

Think about that for a while.

You smell wonderful.

That's the bath oil. When l took

my bath earlier, l put bath oil in.

Only a few drops, of course.

For which l am most grateful.

For both our sakes.

Ahem. And now, where were we?

Bang, bang, bang!

That's where we were.

Or rather, where you were.

She was by the bed with a gun,

he was moving toward her.

l don't see how Frankenstein

and My Fair Lady are the same.

Oh, yes, l do.

Professor Higgins created Eliza and

Dr Frankenstein created the Monster.

Oh, yes, of course.

But don't tell anybody.

l'm saving it for the textbook

on the art of screenplay writing.

Ah-ha, yeah, well...

He's chased her through thejungle,

all that. Blah, blah, blah.

Passed the bathtub.

lf you want a Richard Benson movie

without a bathtub, you're out of

your head. And into the bedroom.

She pulls out a gun,

blah, blah, blah, blah, and...

My dear big magic-eyed,

bath-oil-scented Miss Simpson,

is where we are.

Slowly,

Rick continues toward her.

Go ahead. Pull the trigger.

Don't reach for your gun,

l'm warning you.

- Cigarette?

- Thanks. Light?

Well, Rick,...

..d'you mind

if l get out of these wet shoes?

And so my big magic-eyed Gabby,

who came to Paris to... live,...

..turns out to be a spy

for the police. An informer.

A common stool pigeon.

No, Rick, don't say it!

lt's that devil Gillette.

Oh, how l hate him. He is relentless!

He'll stop at nothing

until he tracks you down.

He'll never forgive himself

for last year in Tangier,

or the year before in Hong Kong.

You are his obsession.

He is a mad, overweight Captain Ahab,

searching down you, his Moby Dick.

His white whale.

- And you?

- Me?

l'm nothing. A creature of the

streets with a long police record.

He had me paroled to be

the luscious and irresistible bait

squirming on the hook

he has prepared.

lf l do not extract

the plan you have been building

step by painful step

for the last year,

my life, well, it's over.

Back l go behind the bars,

matron in uniform once more,

no longer Gabrielle or Gabby

but simply... a number.

lf, however, l succeed...

And if you succeed?

Freedom!

What exactly do you have to do

to extract this plan?

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