Playback Page #28

KILLAINE:

Other people always know so much

more than we know--so much more

than they're willing to tell us.

MARGO:

It was Clarendon. He knew I had

the gun in my bag.

Killaine just stares

MARGO:

You couldn't possible have traced

it this soon--not possibly.

KILLAINE:

(dryly)

Of course not. Thanks for telling

me. I haven't seen Mr. Clarendon.

MARGO:

I am a fool.

KILLAINE:

That depends upon your motive.

You were in love with Mitchell,

weren't you?

MARGO:

Yes--and he's already becoming

vague to me. Funny! Last night I

was furiously jealous. Jealous of

what? I out that gun in my bag

deliberately. Who was I going to

kill with it? A girl I didn't

even know? A man I knew to be a

thief and a forger? A half-man?

A gigolo? It's already ludicrous.

Love! What a comedy!

KILLAINE:

You didn't play it for laughs last

night.

MARGO:

Did you ever have a serious

operation?

KILLAINE:

Mortar shells are not funny, either.

MARGO:

At first, it doesn't hurt at all.

That's shock. Then it hurts

terribly--you wouldn't believe

such pain could exist--and six

months later you can't remember

what pain felt like.

(pause)

It hasn't taken six months this

time. It hasn't even taken twenty-

four hours. Is that a beastly

thing to say?

KILLAINE:

Not if it clears the air.

MARGO:

It does. May I go now?

(she stands up)

KILLAINE:

I'll investigate Mr. Clarendon's

financial position--

MARGO:

I don't understand.

KILLAINE:

Perhaps a rich widow would have

solved all his problems.

MARGO:

Now, you're being beastly.

KILLAINE:

Sure. You didn't come here in

person just to tell me about the

gun. You wanted me to be looking

across the desk at you while you

talked about Mitchell.

(he pauses; Margo

nods--admiration

in her eyes)

If I believe you, it would be

psychologically impossible for you

to have killed him last night.

MARGO:

And if you didn't believe me?

KILLAINE:

You would still have planted

information that Clarendon knew

about the gun--and not as an

accusation, but in the process of

defending yourself by making a

confession. Very neat. Good

morning, Mrs. West.

Her expression changes. She gives him an icy stare, and

goes out quickly. Dictagraph BUZZES. He depressed key.

KILLAINE:

(into speaker)

Killaine here.

SUPT. MCKECHNIE'S VOICE (ON DICTAGRAPH)

Come into my office, please,

Killaine.

KILLAINE:

(into speaker)

Right away, sir.

He releases the key, starts out

INT. VANCOUVER POLICE HEADQUARTERS - CORRIDOR -- DAY

As Killaine comes out of his office, walks along briskly,

comes to a door, stops.

CLOSE SHOT OF DOOR

It is lettered SUPERINTENDENT J. McKECHNIE.

Killaine KNOCKS, then starts in without waiting for an

answer.

INT. VANCOUVER POLICE HEADQUARTERS - MCKECHNIE'S OFFICE --

DAY:

McKechnie is at his desk. He is a military-looking Scotch-

Canadian, with a white mustache. Beside the desk sits an

elderly, prim-looking man in a dark suit with a black tie.

Killaine comes up to desk.

MCKECHNIE:

Killaine, this is Mr. Mitchell,

Senior. Young Mitchell's father.

He just flew in from Toronto.

KILLAINE:

(to Mitchell)

How do you do, sir.

Mitchell nods.

MCKECHNIE:

I've explained the situation to

Mr. Mitchell up to a point. Now

about this Mayfield girl?

KILLAINE:

She's a suspect, naturally. But

not the only one.

MCKECHNIE:

(harshly)

She's the only one who had a dead

man in her room. The only one who

won't give an account of herself.

The only one who tried to run away.

And the only one, so far, I've

been told, who went to such lengths

to disguise her identity that she

even removed the labels from her

clothes. What more do you want?

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