Ouvert contre X... (1952) - full transcript

THE CASE AGAINST X

Good morning, sir.
- Good morning.

Sir undoubtedly has an appointment
with sir.

Mr. Dorgères' secretary
gave me an appointment here at 8.30.

Announce Mr. Phalempeau.

Phalempeau...

That's right.

Friend, I live in Saint-Cloud.
I had to get up at 7am, it's no joke.

Sir must excuse me,
but sir has strict instructions.

I have to warn him.
- I suppose he's still asleep.

Sir hasn't been to bed.
He's worked all night in his office.



He does this occasionally.
Would you like a seat?

A doctor, quick! Quick!
It's sir!

What about sir? Is he sick?
- No. He's dead.

Eh? What? Dead?

Dorgères is dead?

Yes, chief.
Forensics are here, of course.

The judge too.
The world and his wife it seems.

Ah, no.
No idea yet.

"Knife wound up to the hilt
in the neck", according to the doctor.

Oh no.

No, it's not yet found.

Wouldn't you rather I wait for you?

Okay. I'll continue operations.

Cheesed off, me?
I've never been happier.



Can I go now?

No. Chief inspector Bonnardel
will want to see you. It's routine.

Again? But the commissioner
has already seen me, as have you.

You uncovered the crime.
- Not at all.

It was uncovered because of you.

Is that a reproach?
- We don't hold a grudge.

Listen, I'm a businessman, tomorrow is
the liquidation on the stock market...

The liquidation of Dorgères
is enough for me.

I have appointments
that you're making me miss.

All because somebody killed Dorgères.
So what?

Was he a friend of yours?
- Dorgères? Heck no.

He hadn't a friend in the world

That narrows the range of suspects...

I understand everyone hated him.

If all his enemies
put a flag in the window,

it'd be like Bastille Day.

When's the chief inspector getting here?
- In a few minutes.

He'll see you first.

It's the least he can do.

What about me then?
- You?

My dinner won't make itself.

Sir is dead.
Right. So what?

I still need to eat,
as do the butler and chauffeur.

You want me to light the stove?

Heck no!

I'm a good looking sensible young man
who started out as a policeman.

However
I'm capable of leaving you with

the worst memory of a cop in your
whole life. Want to try me?

It's always a pleasure to talk
to someone wise.

When I think I almost married
one of them...

Is Bonnardel coming?
- Yes, judge.

I can't hang about,
I've work to do.

In any event, you'll receive
my letter for judicial assistance.

I'll see Bonnardel this evening.

Perhaps
you'll have uncovered something...

Thanks. It looks
a straightforward case to me.

Really?
- At first sight, of course.

Dorgères's life was a hurricane,
hence the shipwreck.

You think a woman did this?

I think nothing.

An investigator
mustn't have preconceptions.

It's one of the possibilities.

Women give up on the bankrupt,
not billionaires.

Forget anything I said
and be cautious.

He was a bigwig, Dorgères.

He might turn out to be
a bit like the Duke de Guise,

even greater dead than alive.

Goodbye, dear commissioner.
Goodbye, my friend.

Tell Bonnardel to call me.

He always gives me the impression
of having come from a marriage mass.

What do you think of his suggestion?

Nothing. It's all up in the air.
I'll wait for something to land.

Oh, very droll.

Thanks.

11.20. Blast, my wife
is making some mayonnaise.

I'll have to call her.
- Mind out for any fingerprints.

Have you discovered anything, doctor?

Forensic medicine doesn't discover,
it observes.

The blade penetrated to the level of
the medulla oblongata

and followed a slightly oblique path,

plunging from right to left

ending up in the
in the superior vena cava.

I'll be able to tell you more
after the autopsy.

Me, you know, and medicine...
- Yes, and me too.

Dorgères is a big cheese.
Don't let him choke you.

You're not stopping for Bonnardel?
- So he can cadge my cigarettes?

Can we send him to the institute?

Yes. I'll take care of him
after lunch.

I'm off to the commissariat.

Hunting for truffles?
- I've found something.

The murder weapon?
- That would astonish me.

A button?

So it seems.
Funny sort of button though.

Why funny?
- It's quite unusual.

Question of the weight perhaps,,
or the material.

This button tells us nothing.

Need to know where it came from.
- We'll look into it.

Hello everyone. Okay?
- Yes.

Hello, chief.

Anything new?
- Nothing.

The weapon hasn't been found.
The doctor and the judge have gone.

Have you questioned the servants?

No. Phalempeau neither.
- Phalempeau?

He had an appointment with Dorgères.
The butler received him...

Don't tell me the whole story,
leave me some surprises.

Do you have a cigarette?
I've forgotten mine.

This is what the doctor said...
- Oh yes?

You can keep the packet.
- No. Where's the fun in that?

Attractive place, eh?

There's enough room in here

for the entire
social insurance department.

We must tread carefully.
Dorgères was a bigwig.

The press will have a field day.

This had to fall in my lap.

Nothing you
haven't seen before, chief.

This is my first billionaire,
that's what worries me.

It reminds me of a case.
- Oh yes?

Oh, from a while back.
It was winter 1937.

Dorgères was leaving a night club:
2 shots were fired.

A jealous husband but clumsy.

He missed Dorgères,
who refused to press charges,

hence the whole business was buried.

The investigating judge had an inkling
along those lines.

Really?
I must be mistaken then.

Is the paper knife on holiday?
- Excuse me?

These things are always sold
with a matching paper knife.

You didn't know that?

No. Yes... I mean,
I hadn't made the connection.

Do it, it'll keep you busy.
Photo the top of the bureau.

Okay, chief.

Find out where that came from.
It's almost new.

Want to bet 50 packets of Gauloises
that it was a gift from his chick?

No.
- Pity.

It's the sort of boring gift
women give to men.

???

Right, send for me to the small lounge
the 4 zigotos over there

moldering in the hall.
One by one, obviously.

Phalempeau first?

One has to start somewhere.

- Oh, sorry.
- Hello. How's it going?

Everything's going okay.

Mr. Phalempeau, please.

We're going to remove the body.
Can we?

I suppose.
Nothing remaining?

No, it's all done.
We've seen enough.

Sylvestre.
- Yes?

Try to find out where
this desk set came from.

Okay.

It should be easy,
it's high end.

Have you mentioned the button
to the chief ?

We need to be certain it didn't belong
to Dorgères. Ask the butler.

Okay.

You don't know much.

You had an appointment with Dorgères,

you arrived at the set hour,

the butler opened the door for you

and he found his boss dead
in the office.

- Is that all you can tell us?
- Not even that.

Pardon?

As I didn't go with the butler,

I can't testify to what he found

nor even that he went into the office.

Ah, bravo.
You like precision.

You're an ideal witness, dear sir.

The ideal witness who saw nothing.

If I'd had
the misfortune to see something,

I'd still be here at 8pm.

You'd never been here before?

Never. I always saw Dorgères
at his office on Rue de Tilsitt.

And this summons to his domicile

didn't seem strange to you?

Dorgères was a law-unto-himself
who worked in fits-and-starts.

When he was at it,
it was for 20 hours a day.

He cared as little for his own rest
as that of others. A brute.

A weird chap.
Were you in business together?

Yes, a planned cotton mill in Africa

that had been dormant for some time.

Do you want the details?
- Oh, not in the slightest.

Fine.
Then I'm free to go?

Be my guest.

Goodbye.

Tell me, regarding Dorgères' love life,

nothing of note to tell me?

His love life?

You might as well talk of heart sickness
in a milestone.

No, come on...
When I said "love life",

it was in a manner of speaking.

He had a mistress?
- One a month, yes.

I see.
A seducer, in other words.

No. A buyer.

I see. You know
his most recent acquisition?

Vaguely. I saw her briefly
at a cocktail party.

She's called Catherine...
Catherine something.

But there may have been
another one since.

On that note, inspector...

You'll be summoned in due course
to police HQ

to give your official statement.

Again? I've already done it
three times since this morning.

Sorry sir, regulations.

Good grief... this'll teach me
to get up at 7am.

The butler, chop chop!

In the good old days,
it was always ladies first.

These days, you're lucky
if they do it in shipwrecks.

I stumbled upon it last year
by chance with my wife.

A marvel, old pal.

Good.

800F board, wine included.

And you eat like gods.

Are there fish?
- Trout as big as your arm.

I'll give you the address
for your vacation.

Great!

If you have kids,
it's 550 instead of 800.

The press are here, inspector.

Tell them the arrest of the guilty
is imminent.

Like usual?
- Yes.

Is that all?
- It's too soon for the address.

I'm very interested
in what you've told me...

So Dorgères left home

yesterday evening at 8pm
in a dinner jacket.

Sir always wore a dinner jacket,

even when dining alone.

So do I.
Do you know where he was going?

No. I know
he was meeting up with Miss...

Miss Catherine?

I know plenty,
don't let it alarm you.

It's Catherine...
Catherine what, by the way?

Villard, inspector.
- "Villard", that's it.

She lives in Rue...
- 60, Rue Lauriston.

That's it. Is she jealous?
- Pardon?

You never
witnessed a violent scene,

even through the door?

I don't listen at doors.
- One can hear without listening.

Yes, indeed.

But I never thought miss...

You're not here to think,
and neither am I.

He wanted to dump her?

I don't know about that, inspector.

I recall a conversation
sir had with Mrs Le Mesles

a fortnight ago.
It was in the grand salon.

The door is very thin,

and I was in the process
of arranging sir's wardrobe.

So, obviously...

Of course.

Mrs Le Mesles, you said.
Who's she?

A relative of sir's.

She's a nice lady,
most elegant.

Her husband is an industrialist.

Not the Le Mesles
of the blast furnaces?

I believe so, yes.

And they were talking about Catherine?

Yes. I first heard the phrase...

You handled it well.
- I know, chief.

You're so intelligent,
some nights it keeps me awake.

So, this phrase?
- Pardon?

Oh yes, yes.
Mrs Le Mesles said:

"Believe me, Dorgères, that bitch
Catherine is leading you on.

"You're becoming ridiculous."

How did he reply?

Well, my goodness,
he said something like:

"And all thanks to you.
Thanks very much."

Well, well.

What followed?

I had to leave.
The phone rang.

You came back?

Yes. Mrs Le Mesles and sir
were leaving the grand salon.

Sir had a face like thunder.

He said:

"I'll see to it, don't worry.
But are you sure about these people?"

What people?

I don't know.
But Mrs Le Mesles replied:

"Absolutely.
They're specialists.

Their offices are somewhere
on Rue Caumartin."

That was it.

That's interesting.

Now...

if you can tell me what time
Dorgères returned last night,

I'll give you the medal
for old servants.

I'm afraid there, honestly,
I don't know.

Certainly after 10am.

That's the time I went to bed.

Thanks.
You can go.

One more thing: how many sets
of keys are there for the house?

Three, inspector.

Sir had one, I have one...

And the third for flavour of the month?

That's not for me to say.

No, I worked it out myself.
Goodbye, my friend.

Dorgères' secretary is here.
You want to see him?

And how!

This is starting to take shape.
The lackey is no fool.

He has good ears.
- Yes.

By the way, chief,

we found this in the office.

It's a button.

As I was saying to myself.

This button will lead us to the killer?

Is this what you're thinking?
- I'm thinking nothing.

You might have a career yet.

Look after it carefully,
one never knows. Check it out.

I have a thought.

It doesn't commit me to anything
and it keeps me company.

You think it was a crime of passion?
- Something like that.

Disappointed, eh?
You find it banal.

Find something more banal than a crime
and I'll buy you a meal.

You're confident you're right.

Bertrand Moal,
secretary to Mr. Dorgères.

Divisional inspector
Bonnardel, I suppose.

Exactly.
Hello, sir.

Thanks for coming. You know
about the tragic events

of last night?

If you're alluding to the murder,
I know about it.

You don't seem too upset.

I'm not the emotive sort.

Bravo! With that and rheumatism,
you could live to a ripe old age.

Sit down, please, Mr. Moal.

Were you his secretary for long?

32 months.

You knew him well?
- Let's say I knew him.

Did he have any enemies?

Not exactly,
he didn't have friends.

As a general rule, all the great
financiers tend to be loners.

Really?
Loners can kill themselves.

Rarely each other, in any event.

To what end? The man disappears,
but the money remains.

It's the money that matters.

It's better to ruin them.
9 times out of 10, they commit suicide.

Thanks for the hint.
It could come in useful.

And yet, someone killed Dorgères.

And I have the feeling we should
be looking in his entourage.

What do you think?

I've no opinion on the subject.

We know...

We know Dorgères
went out for a meal at 8pm,

but we don't know where.

I'd booked a private room
for him

for 8.30 at Lasserre.

Interesting.
A private room, you say?

This irresistibly evokes
the thought of a feminine presence.

I might say that Dorgères seems
to have liked that sort of distraction.

What do you think, Mr. Moal?

After all,
you were his secretary.

His secretary,
not his clean-up crew.

Ah, I see.

I have great respect
for others who show discretion,

except in the matter of murder.

That's your business, not mine.

Can I go?
I've a lot of work to do.

My gratitude, Mr. Moal.
Thanks all the same.

Gentlemen.

Say...

Dorgères leaves an enormous fortune.

He was a bachelor.

Who gets their hands on the stash?

He had family?

He had a solicitor: Mr Delpiot,
140, Boulevard Malesherbes.

Good day, gentlemen.

If he killed someone,
it would be tightly crafted.

Yes. Curious personality.

What are we going to do?
- You know the score.

It never changes.
Proceed with your little tune.

I'll grill the servants.

After that,
I'll visit the investigating judge.

Meet at 5pm at HQ.
Okay?

Okay.

Tread carefully at Le Mesles.

They could be impressionable.

I'll be preceded
by a gypsy orchestra.

And confirm the timetable
for last night for Phalempeau.

Get Sylvestre to help you.
Send me the cook.

Better make it the chauffeur:
he smokes.

I'll leave it to you.

Inspector.

Why so many questions
on that Villard babe?

She wants the Légion d'honneur,
hence we must investigate her.

Want one?

That item set was delivered
on 24th December to Ms Villard.

60, Rue Lauriston.

With a paper knife?

Naturally. Paper knives
are part of our ensembles.

Is that all?

No.
What are you doing Saturday?

I'll be praying for you.

Kind of you.
Goodbye.

Our offices don't open until 2pm.
Didn't you see the notice?

I'm highly myopic...

Police.

Is this the
Intercontinental Agency?

Yes, but I'm only minding the store.

Our director general is
actually in New York.

Don't bother.
You're called Bouteiller, Henri.

You are at once the director
general, the legal department

and the whole crew
of the Intercontinental Agency.

We had to make some staff cuts.

Oh yes... It's burning.
- What?

Oh...
- Give it a stir.

I always add an onion sliced very fine.

Good. Now let's chat a bit.

One of your clients, Mrs Le Mesles,
recommended you to Mr. Dorgères.

And that gentleman got you to tail

a certain Catherine Villard.

We'd like to know what that was about,

and what you discovered
about that girl.

Go ahead.

We know that Dorgères turned to

a tracking agency on Rue Caumartin.

And the thing is, there's only one:
yours.

Bad luck.

Inspector,

have you heard of
professional confidentiality?

The Intercontinental Agency
has only one motto:

"absolute discretion".
I'm sorry.

What did you say?

I'm a little hard of hearing.

Well, yes...

Mr. Dorgères did hire me
8 days ago

to follow a young lady Villard,

60, Rue Lauriston.

The love life of that person

was causing him some disquiet.

However I discovered nothing,

except that walking is a pastime
best left to the young.

She led you a merry dance?

She made me walk round Galeries
Lafayette 3 days in a row.

In sum, you know nothing.
- Yes, just one thing.

Last Tuesday she received
a letter from Barcelona

and replied to it immediately.

That letter was addressed to whom?

Impossible to find out.

If you think
that sort of thing's easy...

You spoke to Dorgères?

Yes, the day
before yesterday on the phone.

He called me a fool,
said he'd do it himself

and that I should go hang myself.
The ceiling's too low for that.

Thanks, grandad.

Are you sure there's nothing else?

There's not another word
I could tell you.

You've wrung me dry.

I'm telling you
this is a disgusting job.

I'm speaking of my own, obviously.

I understood very well.
Thanks.

Bon appétit by the way.

Pardon, madam. Is this the
apartment of Ms Villard?

Yes.
- Is she out? There's no answer.

You the police?
- I'm a fridge salesman.

It's like I always say...

Gelolux Ltd,
happiness is in the cold.

This was bound to happen
sooner or later to that hussy.

You mean Ms Villard?

Don't call her "Ms"?
That slut.

Never in bed before 3am,

never up before two in the afternoon,

boozing, the radio blaring
so much it makes you deaf.

And with a handsome brown guy who
goes down with his shoes in his hand.

It's that doctor on the 3rd floor,
another oddball.

Did Ms Villard come back last night?

No. She left at 7pm.
Nobody since then.

She had her coat on,
the one she hasn't paid for.

How do you know this?

An employee at Fath told me.

She'd asked her 4 times,
but nothing doing.

Yet, she has money.

She'd had enough of him,
her industrialist.

The only thing is:
handsome brown men don't come cheap.

To sum up, she hasn't been back
since yesterday evening?

I'd stake my life on it.
- Good idea. Goodbye, madam.

I hope she's croaked.
It'll teach her to hit my Kiki.

Ah, it's because of Kiki.

I though it had to be
something of that sort.

Come in.

Can I help you?

Are you the concierge?

That's my wife.
I drive the taxi.

Is she here?
I'd like to speak to her.

Do you know her?
Why do you want to see her?

So she can tell me about her time
in Hollywood.

It's for 'Cine Review'.

Police.
Get on with it.

A cop?
Has she done something?

Are you going to move it or not?

Étiennette!

What's up?

This gentleman from the police
wants to see you.

Blimey, I'd never have guessed.
- I'm better than the usual, eh?

It's about your tenant,
Mr. Phalempeau.

He's done something?

No. He was in an accident
yesterday evening at 11pm.

A car ran off the road.

A passer-by noted the number.
It matches his car.

They're sorting it out,
but we have to check.

Mr. Phalempeau went out
yesterday evening?

He never goes out in the evening.
- Including yesterday?

He never goes out in the evening!

You were in your lodge?

Obviously.
Where else would she be?

I am the concierge, you know.

Fine. Thanks.
And sorry to disturb you.

Think nothing of it, inspector.

Don't tell Mr. Phalempeau.

He'd take it the wrong way.
- Étiennette minds her own business.

Good idea.

I recommend that you do...

Oh!

Yes, Amélie?

A gentleman is asking
to speak to Madam.

At least a man is.
- A gentleman or a man?

He says he's from the police.

Then he's a policeman.
Show him in.

Very well, madam.

Hello, sir.
You want to speak to me?

Yes, madam.
Inspector Richard.

Delighted to make your acquaintance,
inspector.

You've got me very intrigued.
Sit down, please.

Port, cognac, whiskey?
- No alcohol, thank you.

It'll be our secret.
Not even now?

Not even now.
- So, fire away.

What's this about?
- About a murder, madam.

I think you're read about it
in the newspaper,

the one under the cushion.

Well, bravo, inspector.
Most impressive.

Yes, of course I've read about it.
It's curious all the same,

this perverted need
to lie to the police.

It's well known.
We call it a guilty conscience.

It's an affliction of the innocent.

You reassure me.

So, you want to interview me
about poor Dorgères?

Yes.
I gather he was a friend of yours.

That's putting it a bit strong.

No, Dorgères was an associate
of my husband's.

He had dinner here about ten times,
but as for being a friend...

What about Catherine Villard?
She was Dorgères' mistress.

Did you know her?

Yes. This is why
I didn't want to look like

I had a particular interest
in the death of Dorgères.

I don't want to talk about Catherine.

For fear of having too much to say?

If you like.

She was a model in the fashion house

that dressed me at the time.
I thought she seemed interesting.

She must have gone to a lot of trouble
to give that impression.

I fell for it,
and she became my friend.

Was she doing drugs

at that time?

You're making me very uncomfortable.
Am I obliged to answer?

But you have answered, madam.
Thank you.

She had every other vice,
so why not that one?

I liked Catherine very much.

When the company employing her closed,

I wanted to find her
a stable job.

Since she spoke English and Spanish,

I asked Dorgères
if he could put her to good use.

Which he did, subsequently.

I didn't know
the police had a sense of humour.

We do everything we can
to keep it secret.

Was it from when
she became Dorgères' mistress

that your disillusionment started?

Probably.

I thought she was a friend.
She was a gold-digger.

She didn't even have the excuse
of caprice or seeking an adventure.

Dorgères repulsed her,
but he was rich.

You sought an explanation?

I told him what I thought.

She then revealed her true colours,

venal, mean, ready to do
anything for 1000F notes.

Dorgères was a brute.

I'd rather talk about something else.

So would I. And you learnt
that she had another lover.

And you went to inform Dorgères.

You're decidedly well-informed.

That's correct. Almost.

Dorgères asked me to visit.
He was getting suspicious.

Catherine was spending money so quickly.

You advised him to contact
the Intercontinental Agency?

Why question me
if you know it all?

We don't know it all, madam.
One last question:

do you happen to know
Catherine Villard's other lover?

No.

I knew he existed.
I know he exists.

Catherine extracted money
from Dorgères to give it to him.

You'll have your proof someday.

She'll confess it in the end.

With 2 testimonies like yours,

she could even have the luxury
of denying it until the end.

You questioned me,
I answered.

I'm ready to repeat everything
in court.

I don't doubt it.

Thank you, madam.
My respects.

Good evening, chaps.
- Good evening, doctor.

Your manhunt, is it going well?

Slow down.
I've 2, 3 questions.

The judge has just sent me
your conclusions from the autopsy.

Cervical bulb pierced,
rapid death, etc.

Perfect.

They couldn't have hoped for better.

You say the blade followed
a slightly oblique path,

from down to up.
- Yes.

We can assume the killer
was shorter than the victim?

Assume what you like.
I observe.

It could be a woman?
- Why not.

Dorgères was stabbed
like a bull in the ring.

And women toreadors do exist,
my friend.

On that thought, I'm going.
My wife's taking me to the cinema.

Enjoy your evening, doctor.
Do you have a cigarette?

Ah, I don't smoke.
- Why's that?

It makes you cough.

Chewing-gum, chief?
- Why not a lollipop?

It's starting to get a human face,
this Dorgères' business.

You have a favorite?

The Villard kid, 3-1.

Ah, there...
She's in the frame, that doll.

It's open-and-shut.

Only a woman would stab a guy
in the back.

She buys him a small gift
with his dough,

and 2 months later,
uses it to kill him.

Life's funny.

The prosecutor will have a field day
with the jury.

"She killed him with the paper knife
that she had given him!"

She'll cop the maximum sentence.

That depends if she's a cutie.

In that respect,
nobody could blame him.

Oh, pardon.
- You see?

Pity to remove her
from circulation.

24 years old and a corpse
on her hands.

Good grief. One wonders
what the world's coming to.

Ah, it's you.

20 journalists are waiting.
Give them their crumbs.

I saw.

Before anything else,
give me a cigarette.

Drat, I forgot to pick them up.
Sorry, chief.

Right. If this is a set-up,
we'll never mention it again.

Catherine Villard indeed dined
with Dorgères at the restaurant.

It didn't go well.
They were heard shouting in the corridor.

They left together around 9.30.

I'll put the details
in my report.

The old geezer at the Intercontinental
Agency gave me a crumb.

Dorgères asked him to follow Villard.

She received a letter from Barcelona
and she'd answered it.

He alerted Dorgères.
- Return of the gigolo.

And Mrs Le Mesles?

She knows nothing.
Simple character witness.

She'd recommended the babe
to Dorgères,

but not as a bedmate.

Her opinion on the girl?

Lamentable.
I thought she was overdoing it.

According to her, Catherine uses drugs
and she supports a gigolo.

On top of that,
she's fled the scene.

She's not been back to
her apartment since yesterday evening.

Gauthier stands sentry
on her doorstep.

Nothing will come of it.
She must be with this other guy.

How would you explain that?

It could be coincidence.

Why not?
I could be Greta Garbo.

She wanted to kill the guy

the moment she was holding
the paper knife.

No need to reinvent the wheel.

Background,

motive, opportunity:
it all points to her.

Couldn't be better.

We should glance at
the alternatives though.

Phalempeau, for example.
- Oh no.

He was snoring. I saw the concierge.
- And the secretary? He has an alibi?

Who? Moal?
- Yeah.

None. If he committed murder,
he'd have one made of cast-iron.

And why would he kill Dorgères?

He's the guy
who buttered his sandwiches.

You're still in the romance stage
of this job.

Flair, intuition...

"The guilty are innocent."
Yes, I've been there.

You'll get over it
before it recaptures me.

Look at Sylvestre.
He does the job well.

Later, he'll go home to sleep.
He won't have any dreams.

He has as much imagination
as a breeze block,

but he's one of the best.

And how.

Yes, I know.

It wouldn't hurt to check
a few small things.

Moal, Mrs Le Mesles...

and this button,
it might offer a new lead.

2 days before he was struck down,
Dorgères gave a house party.

His office was used as the cloakroom.

They piled up
over a hundred overcoats.

If you'd enjoy
working through them...

This is done and dusted.
Unleash the hounds.

We'll take what we've got
to the judge.

It's up to him what he makes of it.
Let's give this to the blood-drinkers.

Oh. I don't want them to write
a word about the paper knife.

Okay.

Let them go to town on the kid,
I'm okay with that.

Front page, mysterious disappearance
of principal witness,

"where is the companion
of dead financier?"

Your career is safe as houses.

We're talking France-Soir.

Thanks.
I owe you one.

Inspector, any news?

Calm down, calm down. Come on.

Is miss retaining the room?

I don't know yet.
Probably.

Are these the Paris newspapers?
- Yes. They've just arrived.

What's the matter?
Miss?

Miss?

Miss?

My God!

Hello, police?
This is Hotel de Bellevue.

I say again, I didn't kill him.

Of course, of course.
He died of old age.

Okay...

Let's try another tack.

Tell me about your meal
at the restaurant, for instance.

How'd that go?

You need a hand?

Dorgères asked you to meet him
at the restaurant at 8.30.

He'd reserved a private room,

because he wanted to discuss
something intimate with you.

He wanted to dump you.

No. It was me
who was going to dump him.

I'd wanted to do it
for some time.

And that evening
nothing was going to stop me.

Ah, here you are... at last!

It's 9.15,
we'd arranged for 8.30.

I don't like being made to wait,
as you know.

I'm sorry.

Where have you been?
Not at home, I telephoned.

The couturier and the hairdresser
close at 8.

Only bachelor pads remain open.

You've been disgusting me
for a while now.

I remember when you were less insolent.
You've learnt quickly.

Just in the time I've known you.

The blossoming of a
young girl's personality

is always something to behold,

even when it's done at your expense.

That said, shall we eat?

I have to talk to you
- So do I. Me first.

Gladly.

On condition it doesn't take too
long. I've work to do.

Are you hungry?
- No.

You're going to ask for money,
I suppose?

No. My freedom.

It's over.

You've found someone better?

Better than us wouldn't be difficult.

Except at the end of the month...

But that's another story.

For the last time,
you've anticipated my desires.

It's a question of profession,
no doubt. Bravo.

So, you've had enough of me.
Well, the same here.

And not just now either.

I was going to tell you this evening,

but you spoke first.
You're free to go,

it's unimportant.
- I wanted to inform you.

Handing in your notice?
There's no need.

I don't need to be prepared
for this great shock.

A girl leaving
is like losing a key.

Changing the lock does the trick.

The door still opens just the same.

Don't try to humiliate me.
You're wasting your time.

That's not one of my habits.

I know where to strike,
and I strike where it hurts!

Don't show off, it's useless.

Be happy to cash in.
That at least you know how to do.

You won't leave me any regrets.

I got what I wanted from you:
your body!

All at a reasonable price.
I've no complaints.

Understand, I'm keeping the jewelry.
It can be of further service.

Find yourself the perfect pimp,
but not with my money.

A pimp will make a change
from a shark.
[N.B. Pimp = mackerel in French]

Men like you
don't deserve to live!

What happened next?

I left.

He rejoined me in the corridor
as if nothing had happened.

Probably because of the maître d'.

We got in his car.

I asked him to drop me off
at the first street.

What street?
- I don't know.

What time was that?
- I don't know.

Okay.

I get the feeling
we've arrived at the moment

where you're not going to know
anything anymore.

It doesn't matter,
continue all the same.

I walked aimlessly.
My head was reeling.

Streets, squares, more streets...

Which proves you walk easily.
I don't.

And this walkabout just happened
to end up at Gare de Lyon,

where there was a train
for Marseilles waiting.

That's how it was?
- No. I caught the métro at l'Étoile.

I wanted to get out immediately,
I didn't care where or how.

I soon got to the station.

It must've been 10.45.

The Marseilles' express is at 11.40.

Is this what you call
"leaving as quickly as possible"?

Why not Gare du Nord
or Gare de l'Est?

Why Gare de Lyon?

And why Marseilles?
- I don't know.

Don't take God's children for fools.

You went to Marseilles
because it's a port

and because they have boats

coming and going... from Spain,
for example.

I don't understand.

And the letter you received from
Barcelona?

Untrue, you're lying!
- Idiot!

Your little boyfriend wrote it,

the one who slept at yours
a month ago

and who went downstairs
holding his shoes.

No!
You need a culprit,

and you've said to yourself
I fit the bill!

I didn't kill him!
I didn't kill him!

Forget the waterworks,
I'm waterproof.

And the Conservatoire
is on the other bank.

I'm offending your sensibilities?

A little.
At least, what's left of them.

Sorry you have to play nursemaid.

I have another version of the story.

Dorgères knew that you'd had
a Spaniard in your bed.

He dropped you off but you went
back to his. You had the keys.

The row kicked off again.
You saw red.

You saw
the paper knife on the bureau...

I didn't kill Dorgères.
I didn't kill Dorgères.

Come on now...
be sensible.

It wasn't your fault. You'd taken
drugs earlier in the day.

They messed with your judgment.

And then Dorgères was a bastard.
What does it matter?

One more, one less...

With a pretty face like yours

and a good lawyer,
it'll be a cakewalk.

Come on. Confess.

You'll see how much better
you'll sleep afterwards.

I didn't kill Dorgères.

For fuck's sake!

Okay, you didn't kill him...

Can you explain to me
why you fled to Marseilles

by the first train,
in the middle of the night,

without baggage
and without stopping off at home?

I've already told you this.
I wanted to get away from Dorgères,

get away from him quickly,
not see him again, flee.

I knew if I stayed in Paris,

he could find me any time he wanted.

He was having me followed.

Oh yes?

For several days, I'd been
followed by an elderly gentleman.

He runs an agency on Rue Caumartin.

How do you know this?
- I followed him.

Most amusing.
Anything else to declare?

You stand by what you've said?
- Yes.

Okay, this interview is over.

You'll be spending the night with us.

Tomorrow, I'll introduce you
to the investigating judge.

He loves stories from Marseilles.

Am I charged with murder?

That's up to the judge, not me.

For the moment,
it's "case against X".

But you're looking very like this X,
that's for sure.

Put her on ice and come back.

Come on, miss.

Hello. judge Ferrand's office.

If he's already gone,
call him at home.

She wants Landry as her lawyer.

I told her she can write to him
from prison.

Landry? Well...

Hello? Good day, judge.
This is Bonnardel.

Yes. That's right,
she's coming from here.

Oh, well...
The soup is cooked.

Yes, we can eat
whenever you like.

Tomorrow, 9pm? Very well.
Goodbye, judge.

I'm ugly, eh?
I revolt you?

You think I enjoy this?

Your purring
can be heard 3 metres away.

That's right.
So what?

I'm just doing my job.

To be a cop is to be hated
by honest people and scumbags.

It's not a profession for the ego,
it's a profession born out of necessity.

It's my profession, chief.

Not fully yet,
but that will come.

Some day you'll resemble me.

Then it'll be your turn

to smoke the cigarettes
of some young dimwit.

DISCOVERED IN MARSEILLES,
CATHERINE VILLARD IS CHARGED WITH

THE MURDER OF RAOUL DORGESES.
She selects Landry as her defense counsel.

Yes?

Hello, sir.
- Hello.

Have you readied your findings?

Yes. I see
you've heard the news.

Yes. I've even received an official
letter from Catherine Villard.

She has some flair, that woman.

If she's as good with a pen
as she is with a stiletto...

An act of faith
that calls for an act of charity.

Have you decided yet?
- No, not yet.

"An attractive woman compromised
in a high-profile murder

is something never to be refused",
as my old teacher said.

This case looks pretty bad.
What do you think?

There's no doubting the guilt.

Plus it wasn't a crime of passion.

If women start killing their men
as well...

She stabbed him from behind.
- Not very poetic.

A 6.35 is proper, mechanical.
But a knife...

There's also the drugs,

the mysterious Spanish lover
and the flight to Marseilles.

In your opinion, it's a chance
to come a cropper.

Very much so.

In that case,
I can't hesitate. I accept.

I knew you would.

My friend, you are
a genuine Machiavelli.

Make an appointment
with the investigating judge.

I can confirm it to the newspapers?
- Yes.

I'm defending Catherine Villard.
It's official.

One day, I met Dorgères
at the Le Mesles.

After about an hour, I was looking
for a way to be unpleasant to him.

I've found it.

Another settling of accounts.

Hello?

Yes, that's here.

Mr. Landry's secretary speaking.

On behalf of whom?

But, sir...

Okay.
Right, I'll see.

Someone wants to speak to you
about the Dorgères' case.

Thanks.

No, stay.

Hello?
This is Mr Landry.

Really?

Indeed.

I've understood perfectly well,
sir.

Whenever you like.
As soon as possible, obviously.

Okay.

Agreed.
Goodbye, sir.

Tomorrow at 11am,

I'll be meeting the mysterious
Spanish lover of Catherine Villard.

Let me give you some advice.
Sit down.

That's the advice, trust me.
Sit down.

Get over it!
You'll drive yourself nuts.

There are two things to do
in jail:

snooze or talk it over.

I've even known some
do both at the same time.

So, what did you do to wind up
in the slammer?

Nothing.

Neither did I, imagine that!
Nobody's done anything here.

The place is full of judicial errors.
Isn't that right, Mrs Krowski?

Did you do something?
- Not this.

A birth that went wrong.
I ask you...

These things happen.
I said to the judge:

"If you think it's so easy,
you try it."

The problem is she had ten
of them in a row.

She'll have trouble convincing them
she didn't do it on purpose...

Ah, life's a bitch.

What about you?

Me? Me, doll,
I was a manicurist.

"Young manicurist, very experienced,
appointments 2-7pm."

It was working out so well
I had a friend come in

to lend me a hand.
That was my mistake...

She fell asleep on a client's purse.

It was me who got the blame.
It seems I was responsible.

Yes you were, my dear

The law on joint enterprises
is clear.

Oh, all right, drop it.

To you, now.
You should talk. It's soothing.

I'm accused of murder.

Oh...

You, at least,
are no small fry.

You wiped out a guy?
Tell us about it.

I'm innocent.

Of course, my coquette,
of course.

So,
tell us about your innocence.

I'm innocent, you hear?
Innocent!

I didn't kill him!
- Easy, you'll do yourself a mischief.

Innocent! I want someone to believe me!
Someone must believe me!

They must believe me!
They must believe me!

I didn't kill him!

I didn't...

They should create prisons
for the innocent.

These people are insufferable.

Oh, I believe you, come on.

You couldn't be making it up,
or you'd win an Academy Award.

Come on.
You didn't kill him.

Even if you did kill him,
so what?

There are too many men anyway.

And if you really didn't do it,

you might be freed.

With a little luck...

A good lawyer is important,
especially for the innocent.

Who's yours?
- Landry. Landry QC.

At least, I think so.

Landry?

He's a big shot, that guy.
He'd get the devil out of hell.

Don't worry. You're practically
on the Champs-Élysées.

Oh...
Oh, the Champs-Élysées.

They aren't the brightest
in the police,

but it's curious
how they could be so mistaken.

You don't have an alibi, I suppose.
- No.

No alibi.

Well, she couldn't have known
in advance.

That's right.

You want one?

It's easy. I know
a respectable man, a doctor.

He no longer practices,
but he does all sorts of favours.

You send him a note

and he'll testify that at such-and-such
a time you were with him,

doing something you didn't dare say,
out of modesty for example.

You can choose what.

You realise,
he'll do this on oath.

You think he'd agree?

I think so.
It's not free, obviously.

But 50,000F,

one can always raise it
with legs like yours.

And you pay after getting out.

If you're interested,
I know what to write.

I can take care of the letter.
I get out tomorrow.

Hold on. What if it goes wrong?

But he's a good man.
Old colonial doctor and all that...

He almost won the Legion of Honour.

Now this is his vocation.

Are you sure
of your gumshoe doctor?

An innocent, I'm telling you,
like yourself.

You can write the letter this evening.

Ms Villard,

your defense lawyer
wants to speak with you.

The case against you looks bad,

it seems as if you are
the only possible culprit.

Not that you don't know this.

I didn't kill Dorgères,
I swear to you.

And I believe you.

Sadly, it's witnesses
and not the accused

who give evidence under oath.

In this case,
the witnesses are all hostile.

And that's not all...

There's your attitude that seems
curious, not to say suspicious,

in many respects.

I don't understand.

And I want to understand.

You've only told
part of the truth. Why?

This trip to Marseilles, for instance.

The most difficult part of this job

is to win the trust of clients.

Look at me.

I'm your friend, the only one,
the last one you have left.

I must also be your confidante.

It's the only way I can save you.

Talk.

I can't work miracles.
You expect the impossible of me.

I know.

I know I'm a lost cause.

Too bad.
Forget it, forget me.

Thanks for coming.

Hold on.

In the press and at the Palais,
they call me "the bulldog",

because when I've grabbed a bone
I never let go.

Remain silent,
since that's what you've decided to do.

It doesn't matter.

Another will no doubt
speak on your behalf.

Who? Nobody can speak in my place.

Not even this mysterious Spaniard
you've been concealing so carefully?

I have a meeting with him tomorrow.

He contacted me.

Pierre?

Nice to know his first name.

You have no right to do this.
I forbid you.

He knows nothing. He can't tell
anything important in my defense.

She didn't kill this man.
She's incapable of it.

I can't prove it.

This is of no interest.

She wasn't running away,
she was rejoining me in Marseilles.

This is what's held against her.

I'd written to her from Barcelona,
telling her I'd be arriving.

She wasn't fleeing.

Why? Once the blow is struck,
she runs into her lover's arms.

The banal reflex of a murderess.

Otherwise, why would she depart
without luggage?

She'd just broken up with Dorgères,
he'd hit her.

She was shaken up,
she wanted to be with me.

It's possible.

So is the contrary.
Anything is possible.

No need to get upset.

Part of my job is to anticipate
the arguments of the other side.

Thanks.

Now,
fill me in on the background.

How did you meet
Catherine Villard?

In Barcelona, 8 months ago,
in a bar in Boqueria.

I'm Spanish of French Catalan origin.

I sale as mechanic on the trawlers.

Catherine was in Barcelona
as a tourist with Dorgères.

That's how we met.
- By pure chance?

No. At that time,
I dealt a little coke.

Yes, it's a dirty business.

However it isn't always easy
to earn enough for two meals a day.

After we've mixed it with bicarbonate,

it doesn't do that much harm.

That's your opinion.
What happened next?

Some pals in Paris
had tipped off Catherine.

The bar in question was my HQ.

One evening she dropped in
to refuel.

I wanted to see her again.

The next day I had no desire
to sell drugs to anyone,

especially not to her.
It was as simple as that.

I'm in love with her.

And now I've straightened myself out.

You carried on seeing each other?
- Yes, whenever we could.

Last month, I was in Paris
for a few days.

That's when I asked her
to leave Dorgères.

I realise the two of us
was the real thing, serious.

Poor kid.
She wept like a baby.

Why didn't she say
you were in Marseilles to the police?

Because I'm not permitted
to disembark in Marseilles.

I have a three year prohibition.
- Bravo. That explains everything.

A drug case.

It's hardly a case.

That all said, I can go and tell
my little story to the police?

Don't do that.
Your testimony proves nothing.

The truth doesn't cut the mustard
with everyone. - No kidding.

She's a woman without secrets
but also a right snob,

and only seen
with the best families.

I won't call on you
unless absolutely necessary.

You know what it could cost you.

I've played the game for 10 years.
I know the rules somewhat.

If you need me,
I'm at the Hotel Florida.

Okay.

Don't tell Catherine.
She'd freak out.

Besides, she has enough
on her plate as it is.

I promise.

You're not such a bad sort.

And neither are you.

It's a nice surprise
for both of us.

You're right.
This is very interesting.

Thanks, old chap.
- It's further evidence.

The case was considerable
even without this letter.

It's a godsend.

The case is practically sealed,
Bonnardel.

You're content, I hope.

The only case I'll enjoy settling

will be the last one
before I retire.

The good horses die in harness.

A cashew?
- I can't stand them.

I'll admit I prefer cigarettes.

The key is to alternate.
I do one day of each.

Are you happy with Richard?
Is he working out?

He's still raw,
but he's a good seed.

As long as it's you doing the sowing,
I'm happy.

May I?

Please do.
This is the right place.

Hello. Do you know
chief inspector Bonnardel?

The devil I do! I owe
half my clients to him.

Hello, inspector.
- Hello, sir.

Everything going well?

You've put another innocent
into custody.

All your clients are judicial errors,
who doesn't know this?

I was going to see you
for a talk tomorrow,

but since you're here now...

It's about the Dorgères' case.
- Well...

Please, my dear Bonnardel.

Cigarette?

No, thanks.
I'm on cashews only.

Oh, pardon.

Thanks.

I've been studying the Villard file.
Interesting.

Thanks.

Somewhat thin,
but interesting.

Really?
- Well yes, to be frank.

There's nothing against my client
except vague presumptions,

based mostly on dubious witnesses.

This is what interests me.

The maître d' at the restaurant
loathed Catherine Villard.

He admitted it himself.

The next-door neighbour
is obviously a mad old fantasist.

As for the testimony of Mrs Le Mesles,

it poses a different problem,
I'll admit.

But the end result is the same.

In short, the case is rather thin.

So it appears to me.

I have in my hands

something that fattens the file
considerably.

Instead of finding it too thin,

I think that you'll now find it
too fat.

Isn't that right, Bonnardel?

Well, let's just say
that there's some new evidence.

Ah, these young women
are so imprudent!

How this ravishing Catherine
needlessly complicates your task.

I won't leave you hanging.

Here's a letter in which
your client makes demands

of a notorious deviant, one well
known to Bonnardel's service,

to secure for her a fake alibi
for the night of the murder.

No need to outline for you
the impact this will have on the jury.

It's equivalent to a confession.

And how did you get your hands
on this letter?

The usual.

Catherine Villard thought
she could entrust it

to a fellow prisoner.

And this woman,
hoping for something in return,

handed it to a guard.

What do you say now, old chap?
- Not very much.

From the tone of the letter,
it's irrefutable

that my client didn't know
the individual whom she was addressing.

It would be interesting to
know how she knew about him.

It appears nothing more
than a vulgar provocation

to which she gave in
in a moment of panic.

That is more proof of her
candour than her guilt.

She wrote the letter.

Naïvety is the sister of innocence.

Paradox.
- Admittedly.

That makes just one more
in this case.

You know the profound admiration

I have for your perspicacity.

Sadly, to err is to be human.

It's just one more
in a series of worrying coincidences.

A magistrate of your calibre
shouldn't attach to them

such great importance.

Don't forget that truth,
like bombs,

is often time-delayed.

And if you have another lead,

I give you some friendly advice
not to neglect it.

That's all.
I must be going now.

Goodbye, old chap.

Goodbye, inspector.
See you soon.

I wouldn't like to play poker
with that guy. He bluffs too well.

I should never have
gone up to 4 hearts,

my dear Le Mesles,

but I know how much you like
desperate situations.

I've honestly done all I could

to put you in the mire.

Nice of you
to come and entertain the exiles.

These evenings are unbearable.
Sit down, won't you?

You're not very talkative.

The Dorgères' case got you preoccupied?

It seems like she's not much more

than a chance for another trophy
to add to your cabinet.

What's a man like you
doing in that madhouse?

A lawyer in a madhouse,

it seems to me
not that unusual.

I know the case against Villard
is a weighty one.

I pity the poor girl.

Nice demonstration
of Christian charity, my friend.

You'll be featured in the calendar.

I pity her for having roused
so much hatred.

It's mostly yours that I'm thinking of.

Already making the big speeches?

Is this an appeal?

If you like.

I've read your testimony.

It's the only one that
has nothing to do with the murder,

and yet it's the most pitiless
of the lot.

I'd even say the most intelligent.

I didn't mean that as a compliment.

Certain intelligences
make idiocy all the more regrettable.

You're reminding me of my husband,
who only stops being tedious

when he becomes objectionable.

Give me a cigarette.
- Oh, you didn't lie.

I can swear that every detail
of your testimony is correct.

But you know very well,
too well,

that there are two ways
to present the truth.

Of course.

I am hearing your appeal.

But at least with the excuse
of defending someone else's liberty.

However why are you so relentless
against Catherine Villard?

Strange that you ask questions
to which you well know the answers.

I've never claimed...

Don't switch too suddenly to
politeness. You'll disappoint me.

If I'm relentless against Catherine,
to use your phrase,

you know perfectly well why.

These are the sort of things
that should be whispered among friends.

The secret of Polichinelle,
or better still, of Columbine.

I hate her, all right,
and with all my soul.

I hate her...

for being too lovely.

I don't ask you to understand

or forgive this attachment.

I don't care what you think.

Yes. Yes, my testimony
was an act of passion.

My whole life's
never been anything else.

The day Catherine sold herself
to Dorgères, I could've killed her.

I wanted to kill myself.

My thanks to you
for not laughing.

That's generally the prerogative
of fools.

That was the work of an artist.

Your 4 hearts are done.
Are you coming over?

Deal the cards.
I'll be there in a moment.

Watch out,
my dear Le Mesles.

Women are always susceptible
to eloquence.

You're hoping to get me
to retract my statement,

to reconsider my testimony.

Well, no, my friend.

I'm not the forgiving sort.

This could run and run.
- I know.

Well, go ahead. Raise up
a scandal if you can.

You're not yet big enough
to worry me.

You'll break your back trying.
Good luck.

Well, Landry, are you coming?
Here, I give him back to you.

We were talking about women.
He's clueless.

He's a typical man.

Follow the button to find the killer?

Is that your plan?

No, I'm sorry.

You might try at...

There were plenty made in Italy,
just before the war.

Say, you. These benches
aren't made for sleeping.

Don't you have a bed at home?

I think that I have.
- Then move it along.

Bloody pigs.

Pardon, sir.

Excuse me, madam.

Hold on, miss.

Get off me. I'm catching the bus.
- I'll buy you a Cadillac.

I'll call an officer.
- I am the police.

Where'd you get those buttons?

I've buttons, me?

No. I mean the ones
on your coat.

Where'd you get them?

From my uncle.
What's it to you?

Your uncle is a tailor?
- Yes, why?

Grab a taxi.
You're an angel.

Taxi!

You had some luck
bumping into Jacqueline.

Without her,
you'd never have found me.

I've been retired from business
for two years.

I remember this clearly.

It was 1944,
on the eve of the Liberation.

An Italian representative came
offering me this item.

At that time,
you took what was going.

It was out of the question
to be difficult.

Let me tell you,

I ate soy chops
in a buffet in Marseilles.

That was in 1943,
around the end of August.

I'd arrived in Marseilles...

Uncle André.
- What?

He's not here to listen to this.

I'll admit I'm pressed for time.

"Pressed", of course.
It's the sickness of these times.

In my day, we required
5 weeks to finish a suit

but it was a masterpiece.

Today they aren't tailors,
but butchers.

Take yours for example.
He did a bad job with your two armholes.

Poor France.

Everyone has their obsession.

Yours, for instance, is buttons.

I kept all my registers.
Yes, I look at them occasionally.

It stops me growing old too quick.

I always noted every detail
of a costume,

opposite the name of the client.

Another tradition that's been lost.

Let's see...

You take yourself for a footballer?

Police.

Again?
Do you pass addresses around?

I've come for a small chat.

You can put the smile away,
I'll do without.

Here's a fine way to talk.
I'm calling my husband!

Don't bother,

your husband is out driving his car
like he does every other night.

Not that you mind too much.

You sneak in the blond guy
who delivers the groceries.

You're shocked?
The whole neighbourhood knows.

Blondie rolls in
as soon as your husband leaves.

At 10pm, you close the lodge

and switch on the automatic opening.

At 4am, blondie leaves.

The rest doesn't concern me.
- That's a relief.

Given this,

people can come and go
without anyone knowing.

And that's just what happened
the other night with Mr. Phalempeau.

That evening,
blondie was being of service.

You're not the sort
one discusses this with.

Perfect. I like you better this way.

Tomorrow morning, you'll come
to make a new statement,

this way your husband can
continue to drive his taxi.

You get my meaning?

Somewhat, yes.
I'm flighty, but I'm not stupid.

Splendid.

Sometimes, one wishes
one was blond.

These are
the exact words of my statement,

or very close to it.
Where do I sign?

There's nothing you want to add,
Mr. Phalempeau?

Some detail
that has come to mind

later, for example?
- Not at all.

Then initial the first page
and sign at the bottom of the second.

Here.

Thanks.

I can leave?

Be my guest.

Thanks again
for putting up with the inconvenience.

No problem, inspector.

Chief, a man wants to speak with you.
- Show him in.

You can go in.

Well, Mr. Phalempeau.
Gentlemen.

This is a surprise.
- Sir?

You don't remember me?

Dugaulin, the tailor,
Rue Vivienne.

Nice to see you again.
- Same here. Good day, sir.

I see that you still hold the faith
with old Papa Dugaulin.

It's good to see.

It won't wear out that.
They'll bury you in it.

Pardon?

No, I mean your coat.
I recognised it immediately.

It looks great!

Here, you've altered the buttons.

Possibly.
Goodbye.

I'd put on black buttons.

Don't you remember?
- No, sir. Excuse me.

I'd like to leave.
- Wait a moment.

I'd like us to talk a little more,
if it's not inconvenient.

I'm in a hurry.

Just a small formality.

It's just that in this
Dorgères' case

there's the question of a button
that's been bothering me.

Since you were talking about this,
let's take advantage.

This is nuts.

But Mr. Dugaulin,
who was here quite by chance,

said something
that I find very interesting.

You changed your buttons?

What's it got to do with anything?

I'm only asking if it's true,
that's all.

Mr. Dugaulin could be mistaken.
He's not so young anymore.

Well, he is mistaken.
I haven't changed the buttons.

Ah. This is a great weight
off my shoulders.

The problem is,
in Mr. Dugaulin's records

is a formal record about this coat

recording the presence
of black buttons.

However it's perfectly obvious
they're no longer there. It's funny.

Once again,
what are you getting at?

We'd like Mr. Dugaulin
to inspect your coat.

And if I refuse?
- It won't make any difference.

You're not going to have the audacity
to lay a hand on me?

I have connections, you realise.

Shall I show him ours, chief ?

Calm down.

No, I'm certain
Mr. Phalempeau will reconsider.

You'll be hearing from me.
- I hope it'll be something good.

I'm sorry, Mr. Phalempeau,

but the buttons on this clothing
have been changed.

I'd even say the work was very recent

and that it was done by an amateur.

It breaks my heart.

The choice of thread, the size of
the buttons and their alignment...

No professional tailor
would make these mistakes.

I'll await the rest.

Haven't you worked it out?

We found at the scene of the crime
a black button

which Mr. Dugaulin states resembles
those of your coat.

Plus you've recently changed,
no doubt with your own hands,

those buttons for other buttons.

From this we ask ourselves

if you didn't make this substitution
to evade eventual suspicion.

You'd better correct
this misapprehension quick.

I advise you not to jump
to hasty conclusions.

I changed those buttons
because I didn't like them.

You affirmed
that you hadn't changed them.

Your attitude exasperated me. I said
the first thing that came into my head.

You're trying to find evidence

I was in Dorgères' office,

but I've never set foot in there.

And the button
you claim to have found there

would only mean something
in this case

if I was the only one
wearing that type of button.

Your faithful assistant,
Mr. Dugaulin,

can tell you this.

I know that you're intelligent.

Thanks, Mr. Dugaulin.
You can go.

Thank you, inspector.

I'm sorry, Mr. Phalempeau.

It's the first time I've done
I've done this to a customer.

But they told me my testimony

might save that young woman.

She's only 24.
I'm sure you understand.

And now, choose.

Let me leave or charge me
with the murder of Dorgères.

At your own risk, obviously.
Well?

But you're a free man.

All I ask is you wait
until inspector Sylvestre returns,

who has one last check to perform.

Sit yourself down.

I can be patient another 5 minutes.

Well, did you find anything?

Yes. This.

It was in his car?

In Phalempeau's car,
wrapped in a cloth.

What did you say?
In my car?

You own a Vedette 5922 AP 75?

What's this paper knife
doing in your car?

Liar!

You planted it in my car!

You needed evidence to incriminate me!

You planted the weapon in my car

to indict me for the crime!
Bastards!

This time we've got you.

The murder weapon, you say?

How do you know it's the murder weapon?

None of the newspapers
mentioned a paper knife.

Nobody was ever told what
Dorgères was struck down with.

Except the chief,
Sylvestre, me...

and the killer.

Have you finished
pinching my stuff?

Sorry, chief.

Of course you realise
that's not the real paper knife,

and it was never in your car.

The real one
I guess you've got stashed somewhere.

I threw it in the Seine.

Why did you kill Dorgères?

He was a scumbag.

I'd laboured ten years to get
that African cotton mill working.

And he was going to steal it from me.

We had a meeting the following day,
but I wanted to speak to him beforehand.

I got there around 10.40...

It was him who let me in.

I begged him to show pity
at least once in his life.

He shrugged his shoulders.

I wept.

He insulted me.

So...

I don't know anymore.

The paper knife was there,
on the desk, in front of me...

I struck at him at random...

I'm not at all sorry.

Men like Dorgères...

don't deserve to live.

Someone had already told him that.

Come on.

Everything was ready for me to depart
for South America.

Once down there,
I was going to send you a letter

exonerating Catherine Villard.
I swear.

I hope they'll believe you,
Mr. Phalempeau.

So, young man,
pleased with yourself?

Somewhat. I hope
you don't mind, chief.

Go ahead, old chap,
do a cartwheel.

You wouldn't be the first chicken [cop]
to believe he is a peacock.

No, joking aside:
it's been most impressive, lad.

You've shown initiative,
you worked your butt off,

you showed intelligence.

Just don't make a habit of it.

I'll watch myself.
- Fine. Come on, let's go.

Do you like beef miroton?
- Oh, so-so.

Well, you'll love this one.
I'm paying.

We must be back at 2pm
for the Villard kid.

She's one who'll light a candle
for you.

Have you noticed, chief?
You've lost a button.

My wife will be furious.

Hi.
- Hi.

Thanks for coming.
It's nice of you.

I wanted to be here to see my
greatest plea getting away.

Pity you were innocent.

You'll forget this nightmare.

At your age,
wounds heal quickly.

What are you going to do now?

Know what I'd do in your place?

I'd go to Rue Lepic.

They have a quiet hotel
called Le Florida.

And in that hotel, there's
a young man not quite so quiet...

called Pierre.

It's...? Really?

Since when has a lawyer
not spoken the truth?...

Thank you.