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I've been thinking a great deal and I've decided on my last request.
Yes, what is it, my son?
I want to see Mr. Holmes.
Who?
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective.
If there's any chance to prove my innocence, he's the one who can do it.
You've got to bring him to me, Father.
Very well, Edwin.
If the man can be found, I'll be happy to do it.
I'll be glad to do it.
Very well, Edwin. If the man can be found, I'll have him brought here.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Watson.
I want you to assist me in a rather unusual experiment.
Experiment? What kind of experiment?
I want you to stand by while I drink this.
Oh, and you'll need your stethoscope.
I say, Holmes, is it... is it lethal?
Of course not. You don't think I'd take a chance like that, do you?
Are you ready?
Oh, thank goodness. Whoever you are.
Oh, dear.
Come in, Lestrade. Come in. Delighted to see you.
Well, this is a warm welcome.
Well, now, sit yourself down. Make yourself at home.
No, I won't. Thank you very much.
Tell me, social goal?
No, not exactly.
Oh, what's the trouble, Lestrade?
Do you remember the Phyllis Brighton murder?
Oh, yes, of course. Brighton. She was stabbed, wasn't she?
That's right, by her husband, Edward Brighton.
But an hour ago, he made known his last request. Rather an unusual one.
Oh, what was it?
You.
Me? Why?
Well, no explanation. Simply wanted to see Sherlock Holmes.
And you know, Holmes, wherever it's humanly possible,
we try to fulfill these last requests of condemned men.
Naturally. And I take it that his execution is imminent, then, Lestrade?
Yes, at dawn. He has about, um, seven hours to live.
Come on, then, Watson. We have little time to lose.
If a man calls to me in his final hours,
it may mean that we, too, shall be called upon to fulfill a final request.
And seven hours is little enough time when a gallows is at the end.
He's gone.
Suddenly, it came to me, Mr. Holmes.
I was lying here on my cot, and suddenly I remembered.
Something that happened the night of the murder.
It had entirely escaped my memory until now.
What was that recollection, Mr. Brighton?
I'm afraid it won't make sense to you
until you understand some of the other facts in the case.
Oh, yes, yes, of course. Well, please go on.
It was a Sunday afternoon, last April, when I first met Phyllis.
We hit it off together immediately, and three weeks later, we were married.
She was very beautiful, Mr. Holmes.
Blonde hair, perfect nose, delicate little mouth.
And her background? Her family?
We never spoke about that.
Phyllis made me agree not to inquire into her past, nor she into mine.
I knew it was an unusual request, but I consented readily.
Mr. Holmes, I'd been just a bank clerk, and very lonely.
I didn't want to lose my one chance at happiness.
Of course. Tell me, what was Mrs. Brighton's maiden name?
Levay, Phyllis Levay.
But she told me her friends called her Bobo.
Bobo.
I thought that awfully charming.
Mr. Holmes, I wouldn't kill her.
I bought her a little home in Benedict Lane.
I insured my life for 2,000 pounds, so she'd be well protected in case I should die.
I gave her everything she wanted.
Every moment counts, Mr. Brighton.
Now, you must tell me what happened the night of your wife's death.
Oh, yes. That night, we had our first argument.
And it was over a very trivial matter.
Forgive me, dear, for saying so, but don't you think it's just a little too much?
What's a little too much?
You know, the...
As a matter of fact, I think it's too little.
Now, really, Phyllis, it doesn't improve your appearance.
It makes you look, um...
Cheap?
I didn't say that. I merely said...
You're afraid I'm going to shock the Kimbells, and I simply won't go.
You know very well the Kimbells are expecting us.
There's no need to carry on like this.
I'm not carrying on, Edward. You're the one.
I think I'd better take a breath of air before I say something unkind.
Suit yourself.
You're really a sweetie, Edward, but sometimes you're just so stuffy.
That was the extent of it, Mr. Holmes.
It was just a nile's little row.
But at the trial, the neighbors testified we had a violent argument that night.
To this moment, I can't understand why they should say such a thing.
After you left your wife, what did you do?
I merely walked.
I don't know exactly where.
I just walked.
After a while, I began to think of some way to apologize to Phyllis.
I didn't want to make her unhappy, even over the smallest thing.
I must have traveled a good long distance, when suddenly I began to feel ill.
Ill?
Yes. I'd contracted malaria as a young man in South Africa.
I knew I was in for another one of my seizures.
Dr. Watson, you know what malaria does to a man?
Oh, yes, indeed. High fever, sweats, chills, and sudden fainting spells.
That's it. With the first chills, I instinctively turned back towards the house.
I had medicine there that would lessen the effect of the attack.
I wasn't aware of the street or anything around me.
Each step I took became a struggle.
I barely made it to my home.
I stumbled onto the front steps.
There it was, on the ground.
I knew it didn't belong to me, but instinctively I reached for it.
And that's all I remember.
When I came to, the house was swarming with police and Phyllis was dead.
This object you saw on the ground, what was it?
That's the man in the park.
I don't remember. I'm only positive there was something, and it didn't belong to me.
Mr. Brighton, have you any recollection of his general shape, size, or color?
No, sir. Nothing beyond what I've told you.
This has been most illuminating.
Good night, Mr. Brighton. Come, Watson.
I realize I haven't given you very much to go on, Mr. Holmes.
Perhaps not even the slender thread you require.
But a man will pray for a miracle when he's only a few hours remaining on this earth.
Ah, Holmes, come in.
What did Brighton want?
Mr. Strain, may I see the items that you took from Edward Brighton's pockets when he was arrested?
Hmm?
No, I said, may I see?
Oh, very well.
Wilkins, bring over Brighton's effects, will you?
Well, I don't want to seem pessimistic, Holmes, but do you think this poor chap's got a chance?
No, I'm afraid all the evidence proved conclusively that he had a violent quarrel with his wife, then murdered her in a fit of rage.
These mild-mannered clerks are always the ones.
Oh, thank you, Wilkins.
There you are, Holmes.
There's nothing unusual in there.
Keys, handkerchief, wallet, and so forth.
Yes, just what the Strain says. Nothing there but common to garden personal effects, Holmes.
Well, I for one wonder where we go from here.
We go to 14 Hanover Place, Watson.
I beg your pardon? What have we come here for?
That's the address of the tobacconist who prepared this mixture.
Yes, I can see that's the address, but I still don't understand.
Quite obvious, Watson.
Brighton and his cell were smoking the inexpensive, ordinary sea shanty brand of tobacco.
Well, that's a specially prepared blend only made for the well-to-do connoisseur.
You will note at the burly base a touch of rattiqueur, and a certain amount of yennejay leaf.
Hmm, extraordinary old factory perception, Holmes.
But what has the man's smoking habits to do with the case?
Perhaps everything, Mr. Strain.
It's my guess that Phyllis Brighton had a visitor that evening while Edward Brighton was roaming the streets.
And this is the something that he picked up on his return.
The something that he couldn't recall.
Come, Watson.
The scent of this tobacco may very well lead us to the real murderer.
And we have little time to lose.
Good night, Inspector.
The package of tobacco was a thin thread to follow, and it seemed a desperate chance for Holmes to take.
After only a few hours standing between Brighton and death, there was no time for false leads that would have to be abandoned.
A mistake now would mean disaster.
Don't you see the shop is closed?
Come back tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be too late.
We must see you now.
What about?
Murder.
Murder?
Murder.
Oh, well, I could do with a good cigar.
I don't believe we'll have time for that, Watson.
You choose a cigar like another man chooses a wife.
Oh, I say, really, Holmes.
Murder?
Yes.
My name is Sherlock Holmes.
This is Dr. Watson.
May we come in, please?
Oh, yes, sir.
Mr. Holmes, if indeed you come in.
Come in.
Thank you.
My shop is at your disposal.
Mr. Carullo, a man's life is at stake.
The information you may give us may very well save him from the galleys.
I'd like to have a look at your client's ledger with the names and addresses of all those who smoke this blend of tobacco.
Why, certainly, Mr. Holmes.
It's my own special mixture, you know.
Not many of my clients have the discernment or the cash to smoke it.
I hope this will be of some help to you.
But I say, Holmes, there's at least 50 names on that list.
It'll take days to check through all of them, and time's getting desperately short.
Aha.
Mr. Langsley Prime, 8 Groverley Square.
Langsley Prime?
Who's he?
I haven't the slightest idea.
But we must get to him immediately, Watson.
But now, why Langsley Prime amongst all those names?
Because 8 Groverley Square is in the docks section of the city,
and all the other addresses in the ledger were in the more fashionable neighborhoods.
Doesn't that strike you as unusual?
Yes, it does now you've come to mention it.
Whereas you may recall, Watson, that the late Mrs. Brighton didn't wish to reveal her background.
I think we may therefore assume that it was of a somewhat questionable nature.
That's true.
And 8 Groverley Square is in a questionable neighborhood.
Well, these are slight leads, I grant you, Watson.
But we haven't the leisure at our disposal for more thorough investigation.
Our one critical factor now is time.
Thank you very much, Mr. Carruthers, for your assistance, and good night.
Good night.
Ten o'clock.
Six more hours.
Inspector Lestrade, do you really think Mr. Holmes will discover anything?
If there's anything to be discovered, he's the man to do it.
I wonder where he is now.
It seems impossible.
All I can give him are a few hours of vague memory.
This was Mr. Priam's room, Mr. Holmes.
He left me two weeks ago, and he mowed me back red with a scoundrel.
Did he leave you an affording address, Mrs. Chivvy?
Not him.
He just left a note saying he was gone and got a job, that's all.
Tell me, Mrs. Chivvy, what sort of a man was he?
I mean, what did he look like?
Well, he was tall and quite handsome, you might say.
Then again, you might not.
What do you want him for?
He's not in some kind of trouble, is he?
Not necessarily.
You're not here to give him the 2,000 pounds.
2,000 pounds?
He was always talking about how he was going to get his hands on 2,000 pounds.
And he lowered me rent.
Thank you very much, Mrs. Chivvy.
You've been most kind.
Yeah, but when you see him, you tell him I spent my money.
From now on, all rent in advance.
Well, Watson, that's one more link in a strange chain of events.
Tell me, what's the time now?
Must be after 10.
Ah, then we just have time to get to the theater.
The theater?
Yes, we don't want to miss the last act.
Now, look here, Holmes, you can't do a thing like that.
You can't come into the theater at a time like this.
Really, Holmes, your desire for entertainment is most callous.
What do you make of this?
Hmm?
Well, it's hair.
And just the same, I can't see how you can go on sitting there reading the paper
with apparent indifference to the matter at hand.
It's not ordinary hair, Watson.
It's crepe hair, used to make false beards and mustaches.
Oh, nonsense.
I mean, if a man wants a mustache, he can grow one like anybody else.
Well, Watson, actors often have need of simulated beards and mustaches.
Actors?
Yes.
Do you mean it's an actor?
Well, after...
I'd wage you so.
Inasmuch as I discovered that in Mr. Priam's dressing table drawer.
I see.
But even then, Holmes, how are we going to find out what theatre he's performing in?
I mean, there must be at least two dozen plays being presented in London this evening alone.
That is precisely my reason for reading the theatrical page of the newspaper.
And I noticed that only one play opened at the same time our Mr. Priam
suddenly departed from Mrs. Chivvy's lodging house.
I hope you like Shakespeare, Watson.
Nobody goes backstage. Those are my orders.
But my good man.
If you're from the costumes company, you can't touch a thing until after the show.
Mr. Pettiford says he'll be able to pay by the end of the week.
I am not here for the costumes.
I'm here on a very much more important matter.
One in which every moment counts.
Mr. Pettiford says...
See here.
This gentleman here is...
Was Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes, the detective?
Yes.
Checkmate.
It's the audience.
The final death scene is just starting.
I can't drink down the curtain until it's all over.
And how do you know that Mr. Priam is the man that you are looking for?
No, no, no, no.
I'm very sorry.
You'll just have to wait until the end of the play.
The show must go on.
My dear sir, a man's life is at stake.
With all due respect to the bard, I may be forced to tread the boards myself.
Holmes?
Holmes, where are you?
I nearly broke my neck to find you.
Watson, this is Mr. Pettiford.
Pettifoot.
What?
Foot.
You know, foot.
Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Pettiford.
My friend and associate, Dr. Watson.
How do you do?
Mr. Pettiford refuses to lower the curtain, Watson.
Absolutely.
The condition of the theater does not permit it.
I must ask you, gentlemen, to leave.
Leave.
Oh, please leave.
Oh, very well.
Come on, Watson.
It is the cause.
It is the cause, my soul.
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars.
It is the cause.
Did I not shed her blood?
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow?
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she betray more men.
Oh.
Oh, please.
Put out the light, and then put out the light.
If I quench thee, thy flaming minister, I can again their former light restore.
Should I repent me, but once put out the light.
Thou cunning's pattern of excelling nature.
I know not where is thy Promethean heat.
But can thy life renew?
When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again.
It needs must wither.
I'll smell it on the tree.
Oh, bar me breath that the storm must persuade justice to break her sword.
One more.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee.
What have you done?
Oh, quick, take us to Priam's dressing room.
Oh, all right, I don't care what happens anymore.
I'll be ruined.
I'll be the laughing stock of the theater.
Detectives in Shakespeare.
Strike when it doth love.
She wakes.
Ah.
Well, the final thread is woven, Watson.
Or should I say rather that every hair is at last in place.
The two match.
Perfectly.
What is going on?
What are you two madmen doing?
Mr. Pettiford, you can be of assistance to us in a drama even more important than the performance on your stage.
In fact, you can help us to save a man's life.
I can?
You can indeed.
Now listen very closely.
When Mr. Priam comes in here...
What time is it now, Inspector?
Twenty past eleven.
It's odd. Each minute's like an hour.
But each hour's like a minute.
There's still time.
No.
I'm afraid it's too late.
Telephone call for you, Inspector Lestrade.
Very important, sir.
Oh, thank you, officer.
I say, Holmes, he'll be here any minute.
You want me to hide behind the door and jump him as he comes in?
No, you needn't do that, Watson. Just sit there and do nothing, whatever happens.
He's coming.
You!
How dare you? You'll ruin my scene!
That, I believe, will only be the least of it.
Well, who are you and what do you want?
In answer to your first question, my name is Sherlock Holmes.
In answer to your second, I want you for the murder of Phyllis Brighton.
Murder? Phyllis Brighton?
Hmm. Better known in theatrical circles as Bobo LeVay.
Get out of my dressing room!
Your acting stands you in good stead, Mr. Priam.
You almost convinced me of your innocence.
However, acting and life are two quite different things.
Tonight, on the stage, you murdered the girl Desdemona...
in make-believe.
A month ago, you murdered a woman in a more sordid drama.
You may as well continue this farce. The stage is all yours.
Thank you. I shall try to be brief.
You and your ex-partner planned what seemed to be a simple but clever scheme.
She would marry some poor, unsuspecting soul...
and you would murder him.
And then a pair of you would share the insurance policy.
Ridiculous!
And it might have worked, but for one thing.
Phyllis fell in love with Edward Brighton.
I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any Phyllis or any Brighton.
Then perhaps, Mr. Priam, you are familiar with Romeo's lines.
How oft, when men are at the point of death, have they been married.
Get out of here! I've heard enough!
Not quite enough, Priam.
It was you who had the vicious argument with Phyllis Brighton...
when she refused to continue with your scheme.
And it was you who, in a fit of jealous rage, stabbed her to death.
And so shall you die!
Holmes!
Let me go! Let me go!
I came here as soon as I got your telephone message, Holmes.
What's going on here and who's he?
No time to explain now, Lestrade.
I want you to arrest this man and order a stay of execution for Brighton.
I'll be able to prove conclusively in the morning that Brighton is innocent and this man is guilty.
All right, Holmes. I'll take your word for it.
You'd better come along with me.
Oh, I must admit, Holmes, I've been far too shaken to think clearly.
But just the same, I can't believe it!
I mean, with my very eyes, I saw him stab you with that dagger!
Holmes, what I heard!
Watson, if actors were allowed to use real weapons on the stage...
...the mortality rate would be something fantastic.
Observe how the blade disappears into the handle.
Holmes! Holmes!
Holmes!
Holmes! Holmes!