The Comedy of Terrors Page #2

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If you make one more sound...

Now, you sit there,

Mr. Gillie...

and don't you make

a sound, Mr. Gillie.

As a matter of fact, don't you

even breathe, Mr. Gillie.

Do you understand me?

Exactly.

I shall return presently.

Fait accompli, Monsieur Gillie.

The stream flowed,

lapping, lapping...

and the leaves stirred,

tapping, tapping...

and the ancient belle

dames napping.

Dreamed of gently

rapping, rapping.

Rapping gently with a hammer

on a baby's skull.

Asleep yet, Mr. Gillie?

How can I sleep when

I know what you've done?

A little medicinal nip?

No, thank you.

More's the pity.

And a white brooch...

Well, thus we end our

lonely vigil, Mr. Gillie.

Forward!

Dear child.

Dear child, what is amiss?

Oh, sir, my master has,

to all appearances...

succumbed in his sleep, and I

must run to fetch the doctor.

Oh, cataclysmic circumstance.

Perhaps I can be of assistance.

Oh, sir, could you?

Well, I believe I could.

Take me to your mistress.

Oh, yes, sir. Thank you.

Oh, not at all, my dear.

Not at all.

It is my pleasure to help.

Hinchley and Trumbull are

always at your beck and call.

I am afraid, madam,

that he has made...

his final crossing to

that Gidgeon shore.

What?

He's dead.

Allow me, madam,

in this moment...

of your most desolate

bereavement...

to lift from your

sorrow-laden shoulders...

the burdensome tasks

of exequy and sepulture.

What?

I'll bury him for you.

For by the most coincidental

of vicissitudes, madam...

I happen to be the owner

and director...

of a local funeral parlor.

You are?

Yes, indeed.

As we like to say

to those we serve...

"When loved ones lie

on the lonely couch...

"of everlasting sleep...

"let Hinchley and Trumbull

draw the covenant."

How tender.

Yes, isn't it?

Remove the carcass.

Where in the name

of blue blazes is she?

Play! Go on.

Now?

No, not now, you old fool!

We have to wait for

the damned widow to get here.

Huh, what?

Oh, yes, yes.

He does look very natural.

Oh, I'm sorry, sir.

Never mind.

Is your mistress here?

No, sir. No one is.

What?

What's happened?

Where is the widow Phipps?

Gone to Boston, sir...

with everything.

She's going to live in Europe.

Europe?

Yes, sir.

She's discharged

all the servants.

They've all gone home but me.

And she left nothing?

- Sir?

- No money?

Not a penny, sir.

Well, what about my fee?

Oh, sir, I don't know.

She didn't even pay me my wages.

Is there no morality

left in this world?

Don't you think you've had eno...

Shut your mouth.

Women!

As soon put your trust in them

as put a pistol to your head.

- You really...

- Be still!

Old Ben Johnson,

buried standing up.

Can't trust anybody these days.

The world is full

of knaves and felons.

Don't you think that

you're being overly...

Be silent!

Edward III...

buried with his horse.

Just because one customer...

Are you gonna shut

your mouth or not?

- Mr. Tremble.

- Trumbull!

I said Mr. Tremble.

Well?

Pardon me.

Alexander the Great, embalmed

in honey, so they say.

Egyptians used to hollow 'em out

and pour 'em full of resin.

Will you shut the old goat up?

Don't you dare

refer to my father...

And you shut up, too.

Egyptians used

to bend 'em in two...

and stick 'em in

a vase of salt water.

Father.

And give 'em false eyes.

Father, please.

- Medicine old man?

- Don't you dare!

Yank their brains

out with a hook.

- Father!

- Huh? What? Huh?

Oh, there you are.

You're eatin' much

too much sugar.

You know that, don't you?

My medicine!

I'll have you arrested.

Mr. Gillie?

In the parlor.

Excuse me.

Of course.

There you go, keeping my

medicine away from me again.

I don't believe you care...

whether your poor old father

lives or dies.

- Do you want me?

- Yes, Mr. Gillie.

We are going out again

tonight, Mr. Gillie.

- Tonight?

- Yes, I said tonight.

- Tonight?

- Don't try to argue with me.

- I said tonight!

- Tonight?

What if the same

thing happens...

that happened to us

the other night?

Well, it's never

happened before, has it?

But what if it does happen?

Are we going to go out another

night and another night...

and look for another

man and another...

We'll pick someone who

isn't married, Mr. Gillie.

And how are you

going to do that?

Wake up everybody before you do

that horrible thing to him...

and ask him whether

he's married?

Or are you just going

to kill off any old man...

that comes your way?

Mr. Trumbull, sir,

Mr. Black wanted...

"Dear sir...

"If total payment for

the past year's rent...

"is not received by morning...

"I shall instigate

proceedings for eviction.

"Signed John F. Black, Esquire."

Mr. Black.

Precisely, Mr. Gillie.

To paraphrase

the venerable adage...

we shall kill 2 birds

with one pillow.

We just can't go on

like this forever.

Oh, nonsense, Mr. Gillie.

This is a sizable community...

with more than

an adequate supply of...

of customers.

Take Mr. Black, for instance.

He's a widower

and therefore no risk

of a mercenary widow bolting

with a plunder of inheritance.

And besides, with him,

there's a double profit.

The only thing

that bothers me...

is why I never

thought of it before.

There must be a little

more honest way...

to conduct a funeral business.

I might expect that kind

of talk from a criminal.

Stop.

Whoa! Whoa!

Having a little

trouble, Mr. Gillie?

This dirty lock was

never made for picking.

Then why don't you take

an ax and chop it open?

Nobody, but nobody, tells

Gillie what to do with locks.

No, I take it back.

What you need is

a keg of gunpowder.

Hey, I have an idea.

Maybe there's a bolt

on the inside.

There's a bolt on the inside

of your head, Mr. Gillie,

and it's loose.

But that has nothing

to do with doors.

Then what about the front door?

Certainly that has a bolt, too.

Then try the windows.

All these windows?

That is not my specialty.

It's an order, Mr. Gillie.

All right. I'll try.

Well?

It's impossible to get inside.

Even the windows?

Every one of them has a bolt.

Why, of all the distrustful...

Well, I will not be denied.

Mr. Tremble...

Trumbull.

Mr. Tremble, I know, but

what are you going to do?

Fly down the chimney?

None of your sauce, Mr. Gillie.

Thinks he can keep

me out, does he?

You're positive

about the front door?

Positive.

And the windows are all bolted?

Bolted.

You refer, of course,

to the downstairs windows?

What?

What do you mean

by "downstairs windows?"

Are you thinking of...

I think you are thinking of...

- No.

- Yes.

No, no.

Ascend, Mr. Gillie.

Well, don't caress it,

Mr. Gillie. Climb it.

We're not doing very well,

are we, Mr. Gillie?

I told you I was not

very good in climbing.

You're not very good

at anything...

are you, Mr. Gillie,

unless it's bungling.

Get up!

It's not my fault...

that all the doors

and windows are closed.

Shut up!

Here.

Thank you, Mr. Tremble,

thank you.

What did you step in?

Well, clean your boots

off, for pity's sake.

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