Rope Page #4

(Whispering) - I don't like it anymore.

- Oh, no!

No, I'm just teasing, just teasing.

- You're awful.

- Thank you. Thank you.

You'd better get along with the carving.

The rest of the things'll be here

in two shakes.

Oh, Mr Brandon, I found it.

I haven't the least notion

what it was she lost.

Wonderful Mrs Wilson.

I may marry her.

It looks heavenly.

I hope David gets here soon.

- Yes, where is David?

- I haven't the faintest idea.

But he's so late,

Mr Kentley's getting annoyed.

- And you?

- Me? I'm hungry?

Brandon, exactly what is this?

- A cassone I got in Italy.

- No, I mean why are we eating off it?

Oh, I've turned

the dining room into a library.

Trust you to find a new use

for a chest.

One was always turning up in the

bedtime stories he told in prep school.

"The Mistletoe Bough,"

that was your favourite tale, wasn't it?

- What was that one about?

- I don't quite remember how it started.

- It was about a lovely, young girl -

- She was a bride-to-be.

On her wedding day,

she playfully hid herself in a chest.

- Yes, that's right.

- Unfortunately, it had a spring lock.

Difty years later,

they found her skeleton.

- I don't think I'll get that playful.

- Would you all please help yourselves?

Talking of skeletons, have you seen

that new thing at the Strand?

- Yes, I adored it.

- Did you? Good.

I didn't like the new girl much.

Definitely Scorpio.

No, I didn't like her either,

but her clothes were fabulous.

- Simply divine!

- Absolute heaven!

- I must see it.

- I have a passion for James Mason.

- Is he good?

- Absolutely terrific.

So attractively sinister!

Taurus, the bull, you know.

- Very obstinate.

- Really?

But I have a confession to make.

Do you know, I think I like Mason

as much as Errol Dlynn?

- I'll take Cary Grant, myself.

- Oh, so will I.

Capricorn, the goat. He leaps, divine!

- So much "oomph."

- Yes.

- Absolutely.

- He was thrilling with Bergman.

What was it called?

"Something of the something."

No, that's the other one.

This was just plain "Something."

You know, it was sort of, you know.

It was right on the tip of my tongue.

Mine too. It was just plain

"Something" I'm sure. I adored it.

- And Bergman!

- She's the Virgo type!

- Like all these, you know.

- Oh, I think she's lovely.

I once went to the movies.

I saw Mary Pickford.

I was mad about her!

Didn't you love her?

Well, the Virgo type, like all of these.

- What did you see her in?

- I don't quite recall.

"The Something Something."

Or was it just plain "Something"?

Something rather like that.

I don't believe you ever went.

If I were you, I'd go easy

on the pt, dear - calories.

Phillip,

would you mind helping Mrs Atwater?

I'd be glad to. Sit down, Mrs Atwater.

I'll bring it to you.

Thank you so much, dear boy.

I must apologise for David.

I can't think what's keeping him.

He's only in town for the weekend

and David is very popular.

- Here, let me help. White or dark?

- A little of both on this for Mrs Atwater.

- What about you?

- I don't eat it.

How queer! I never heard of anyone

who didn't eat chicken.

Did you, Brandon? Oh, you probably did.

- Why don't you eat it, Phillip?

- I just don't.

There must be a reason.

Dreud says there's a reason

for everything, even me.

There's no reason, Janet.

As I remember,

you have a very funny reason.

- Doesn't he, Brandon?

- Yes.

- I knew there had to be one. What is it?

- It's nothing too much.

(Rupert) - lt's fascinating.

(Janet) - Come on, Brandon, please.

Well, it happened about

three years ago in Connecticut.

Mother has a place there, you know.

We were going to have chicken

so we walked over to the farm.

It was a lovely

Sunday morning in late Spring.

Across the valley,

the church bells were ringing.

In the yard, Phillip was doing likewise

to the necks of two or three chickens.

Oh, dear!

It was a task he usually

performed very competently.

But on this particular morning, his touch

was, perhaps, a trifle too delicate.

because one of the subjects

for our dinner table suddenly rebelled.

- Like Lazarus, he rose -

- That's a lie!

(Phillip) That's not true.

l never strangled a chicken in my life!

(Brandon) - Now look here, Phillip -

(Phillip) l never strangled a chicken,

and you know it.

(Janet Laughing) Forgive me,

but it just seemed very funny,

you two being so intense

about an old, dead chicken.

(Brandon) Sorry.

We were ridiculous and very rude.

l apologise for both of us and the story.

Well!

- Is it all over?

- I'm afraid so, Rupert.

Oh, what a pity.

In a moment, you might have strangled

each other instead of a chicken.

(Atwater) - Mr Cadell, really.

- But a man's honour was at stake.

And personally, I think a chicken

is as good a reason for murder

as a blonde, a mattress full of dollar bills,

or any of the customary,

unimaginative reasons.

Now, you don't really approve

of murder, Rupert, if I may.

You may, and I do.

Think of the problems it would solve -

unemployment, poverty,

standing in line for theatre tickets.

I must say,

I've had a perfectly dreadful time

getting tickets for that new musical,

what's it called?

- You know.

- "Something" with what's-her-name?

My dear Mrs Atwater,

careful application of the trigger finger

and a pair of seats in the first row

is yours for the shooting.

And have you had any difficulty getting

into our velvet rope restaurants?

- Drightful!

- A very simple matter.

A flick of the knife, madam,

and if you'll kindly step this way -

Oh, no, step over the head waiter's body.

Thank you, and here's your table.

(Janet laughing)

Rupert, you're the end.

(Kenneth) There's a hotel clerk

l could cheerfully flick a knife at.

Oh, no, sorry. Knives may not

be used on hotel employees.

They are in the

"death by slow torture" category,

along with bird lovers,

small children and tap-dancers.

Landlords, of course, are another matter.

You seeking an apartment?

Call on our Miss Sash Weight

of the blunt instrument department.

What a divine idea!

If it suits your purpose, merely...

- But we'd all be murdering each other.

- Oh no. Oh no.

After all, murder is, or should be, an art.

Not one of the seven lively, perhaps,

but an art, nevertheless.

As such, the privilege of

committing it should be reserved

for those few who

are really superior individuals.

And the victims - inferior beings

whose lives are unimportant anyway.

(Rupert) Obviously.

Now mind you,

l don't hold with the extremists

who feel there should be open season

for murder all year round.

No, personally, I would prefer to have...

"Cut a Throat Week."

Or "Strangulation Day."

Probably a symptom

of approaching senility,

but I must confess I really don't

appreciate this morbid humour.

- The humour was unintentional.

- You're not serious about these theories.

(Brandon) - Of course he is.

- You're both pulling my leg.

No. Why do you think that?

The notion that murder is an art

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