The Trouble with Harry Page #2

Sam?

- Hi, Calvin.|- You hear any shootin'?

- Nope.|- I did.

And there shouldn't be|any shootin' around here.

- Why?|- It's posted land, that's why.

- Why's that?|- 'Cause I posted it.

What's wrong with people doing|shooting now and then? Let off steam.

Bullets and guns are dangerous.|They kill things.

No one around here could hit|a freight car with a cannon.

I guess you're right, Sam.|All the same, the law's the law.

I got a mind to scout around to find|out who's shooting and level a fine.

And pick up a little piecework?

If I can do anything to make it|any harder for you, let me know.

How'd you want your bacon,|Mr Marlowe?

- What were you saying?|- I asked how you want your bacon.

Sliced.

- Where is Calvin?|- Off somewheres unimportant.

What a wonderful day.

So was yesterday, but you didn't say|anything to me about it.

What you want Calvin for?

These marvellous pictures.

Someone told me they were yours.

Why don't you sell them,|make a lot of money?

Never thought of it. I guess|I'll just have to think about it.

And that song. You sing it so|beautifully. You wrote it yourself?

What do you want to borrow?

I think people need encouragement|sometimes, don't you, Mr Marlowe?

- How'd you know my name?|- It's on the pictures, isn't it?

- It's not supposed to be readable.|- I can tell it's not supposed to be.

They're very professional,|don't you think, Mrs Wiggs?

Well, Miss Gravely,|all I know is nobody buys them.

Thank you for your encouragement,|Miss Gravely.

- Now I wonder how you know my name?|- Easy. Wiggy just said it.

Wiggy. What a perfectly ridiculous|little nickname.

Do you mind if I call you Wiggy,|Mrs Wiggs?

Not if you pay all your bills|on time.

Alright, Mr Marlowe,|Bacon, beans, cabbage,

sugar, salt, tea, oleomargarine.

- $1.95.|- And half a box of cigarettes.

- Ah, yes. Ten cents, two five.|- That much?

I don't seem to be able to find...

I know, Mr Marlowe, as soon as|we sell some of your paintings.

Let me make my position clear -

Shhh.

What do you think?

I think it'll hold coffee.

Will you try it, Mr Marlowe?

Put your finger through the handle,|please.

How about the size?|What about the handle?

Hm?

I mean, does it fit?|Is it the right finger size?

It's my finger size.

- I'll take it.|- Fifteen cents.

- And the saucer?|- Ten.

- That seems a fair price.|- What's important about finger size?

I wanted to be certain|it would fit a man.

- A certain size man.|- A man?

A certain somebody is coming over|to my cottage this afternoon.

- Not really?|- For coffee and blueberry muffins.

Why, you old social butterfly, you.

Old?

That was figuratively speaking.

I think we've got|a nearsighted cider customer.

How old do you think I am, young man?

Hmmm. Fifty.|How old do you think you are?

Forty-two. I can show you|my birth certificate.

You'll have to show more than your|birth certificate to convince a man.

- What do you mean?|- You have to show your character,

the inner self, the hidden qualities,

the true Miss Gravely,|sensitive, young in feeling,

timeless with love and understanding.

I can do it!|At least, I think I can do it.

Do what?

- I'll see what that gentleman -|- At a time like this?

- Where are your scissors?|- Outside.

We're going to cut her hair.

- Hair?|- Cut it short.

Bring it up-to-date,|make a nice romantic styling,

take ten years|off your birth certificate.

- How are you fixed for ribbon?|- Should be some around somewhere.

- Powder, rouge, lipstick?|- I think so.

Nothing cheap, shoddy or obvious.

Just youth, gentility, character.

I'll go out and get the scissors.|You find the other things.

- Ah, here they are.|- Excuse me, young man, I...

Oh, well.

All right, Ernest. Let's go.

Well, always grow back, I guess.

There's Calvin.

- Is he alone?|- Yep. Guess he didn't sell his car.

Hey! Would you mind|getting out of my picture?

Next thing you know, they'll be|televising the whole thing.

Huh.

- This your body, little man?|- Don't turn me in.

It was an accident,|an accident, pure and simple.

I thought he was a rabbit|or a pheasant or something.

- It could've happened to you.|- Suppose we straighten this out?

I guess that's the only way out.

First thing I seen|when I rolled out this morning

was a double-breasted robin|drunk as a hoot owl,

from eating fermented chokecherries.

Right away I knew somebody|was in trouble.

What I didn't know|was that it was me.

The larder was empty and I got to|thinking about a toothful...

Stands to reason|that they can't touch you for it.

Nothing these days|stands to reason.

It was accidental,|an act of God, perhaps.

In a way you should be grateful|that you were able to do your share

in accomplishing|the destiny of a fellow being.

Suppose, for instance,|it was written in the book of heaven,

that this man was to die

at this particular time,|at this particular place.

And suppose for a moment|that the actual

accomplishing of his departure had|been bungled, something gone wrong.

Uh... Perhaps it was meant to be|a thunderbolt

and there was|no thunder available, say.

Well, then you come along,|and you shoot him...

and heaven's will is done|and destiny fulfilled.

Your conscience is quite clear.|You've got nothing to worry about.

Sammy, I haven't got a conscience.

And it's not heaven|that's worrying me

because I don't expect|I'll ever have to face it.

And it's none of those noble things|you were talking about, no.

- Nothing like that.|- Then what is it?

It's me. It's me that's worrying me,

me and my future life.

I know the police|and their suspicious ways.

You're guilty until|you're proved innocent.

I want nothing more to do with him.|Bury him, and be done with him.

He's no good to anyone now.

Lay him to rest.|Put him under the sod. Forget him.

I never did it and you never saw him.

Yes, what about all those|other people who saw him?

How about the woman and the boy,|Miss Gravely and the tramp and...

the man who was reading the book,|Dr Greenbow?

- How about all of them?|- Nobody was interested, I tell you.

Nobody ever cared|until you came along.

Ah, that's what you think.

Suppose someone starts to care|after you've buried him?

I can't wait for people to start|caring whenever they feel like it.

I don't want a little accident|to turn into a career.

Suppose that woman|who called him Harry...

Suppose she decides|she loves him after all.

- She was hysterical with delight.|- Hm? What was she like?

Pretty as a rainbow.|Wish I was two years younger.

- And with a little boy?|- Yeah, about four or five years old.

Hmm. It's got to be Mrs Rogers|and her son.

Why don't we slip him underground|now that you've finished drawing him?

We could discuss|the smaller details later.

I don't like it. The authorities|like to know when people die.

All right, Sammy.

Forget it. You cut off home.

I killed him|and I'll look after his remains.

What'll you do, drag him around the|countryside the rest of the day?

I'll do my best.|That's all a man can do.

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote