The Hound of the Baskervilles

Monsieur le Docteur Watson,

what is keeping Monsieur Holmes so long?

Reassurez-vous yourselves, Sisters,

your holy relic will be with you momentarily.

But we have been waiting almost one hour.

Mr. Holmes is a very busy man, Sister.

Monsieur Holmes is an homme trés occupé, Sister.

But tomorrow is the festival of Saint Beryl.

Already, thousands of blind cripples

are flocking to the chapel, hoping to kiss the relic.

In the name of all the flocking blind cripples,

I beseech you.

I'll see what I can do, then.

God's truth!

Holmes!

Holmes, are you there?

No, Watson, I'm in Budapest!

Oh, sorry, Holmes, I'll forward your mail.

I've some very disappointing news for you.

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes is in Budapest.

- This is dreadful coffee, Watson. - And now he's back!

Good of you to come, Holmes.

You remember these three nuns from Monte Carlo?

Their holy relic was stolen.

The case of the engineer's thumb, was it?

- No, no, no! - The, uh, the athlete's foot?

- No, it was St. Beryl's elbow. - Oh, elbows, feet, thumbs!

With all these cases, I'll never get any rest!

Now then, ladies.

Monsieur Holmes, who do you think may have perpetrated this awful crime?

To put it very simply in laymen's terms

easily understandable to nuns,

I believe this to be the work of thieves.

The whole pattern is reminiscent of past robberies

where I have found thieves to be involved.

The telltale loss of property, the snatching away of substances,

it all points to, uh, thieves.

But how can you find such a person?

I'm using a wonderful new system not even known to Scotland Yard.

I call it "Picture Fit."

Oh, yes!

That's when you piece together the face of the criminal, isn't it?

Alas, no.

I can only piece together the appearance of the face

of the criminal.

I cannot piece together the actual face.

I wish I could, 'cause once you've captured the criminal face,

the other criminal parts are not hard to find,

the criminal body being situated directly beneath the criminal face,

joined, of course, by the criminal neck.

So, the relic is lost forever.

On the contrary!

You have found it, Monsieur Holmes?

Of course. Stolen by one of your congregation.

Cripples, are they not?

- Oui, Monsieur Holmes. - Amazing, Holmes!

It's simple, Watson.

I spotted which cripple it was immediately,

the one loitering around the shrine with the relic protruding from his waistcoat.

Merci, Monsieur, merci.

Who on earth can that be?

I'd say it was a middle-aged doctor,

hailing from Dartmoor,

name probably Mortimer.

How did you deduce that, Watson?

That's what he told me when he made an appointment this morning.

And if I'm not mistaken, that's him again.

Watson, I'm exhausted from all these cases.

Look, I'll see him, but I make no guarantees.

All right, then. All right.

Right, Dr. Mortimer!

- Precisely. - Ah, yes.

Oh, no, I've left...

Sorry about that. Come on in!

- Thank you. - Yes.

- Dr. Watson? - Yes, indeed, yes.

Go right through.

Holmes, this is Dr. Mortimer.

Dr. Mortimer, this is Sherlock Holmes.

- Please don't get up. - I had no intention of doing so.

- Watson, fetch this gentleman a chair. - I'd be delighted to do so!

Yes, indeed. Oh, my goodness, yes.

Why don't you take a seat, Dr. Mortimer?

- Sit yourself down here. - Thank you.

- Oh, thank you. - Pleasure.

May I tell you how much I've admired you

- over the years? - Naturally, but please get on with it.

Let me explain first of all that I am the executor

of the Baskerville Estate, valued at over a million pounds,

almost all in property, a vast expanse of desolate moor.

I read about Sir Charles' death in the Times.

Natural causes, was it not?

That was for the public.

But it is my opinion that Sir Charles was murdered,

murdered by supernatural means.

My dear fellow, we are living in the 20th century.

Aren't we?

Be that as it may, local legend has it

that a monstrous brute, a veritable hound of hell,

has been the death of every single master of Baskerville Hall.

A hound?

Dr. Mortimer, just what were the circumstances

- of Sir Charles' death? - Well, Sir Charles Baskerville

was my patient for a great number of years,

during which time he was completely sane.

But as the years went by, he became somewhat of a recluse,

rarely leaving his estate, and building a huge fence

round the whole of the property.

He became completely and utterly obsessed with the idea

that the legendary Hound of the Baskervilles

was going to return to destroy him.

How extraordinary!

- I see nothing unusual in any of this. - My thoughts exactly, Holmes.

- Oh, yes. - I was called to the house

in my official capacity as coroner

to investigate the extraordinary circumstances

in which Sir Charles' body was found.

Do go on, and spare no detail, however small.

- Get it over with! - Yes, cut it short!

On his face was frozen a look of such extraordinary terror

that it was almost impossible to recognize him.

There was no sign of physical violence on the body whatsoever.

But close by were footprints,

enormous, unnatural, unworldly footprints.

Let's have it.

Mr. Holmes, they were...

the footprints of a...

gigantic hound.

Oh, does it have huge, dripping jaws

and great oozing eyes

and enormous private parts?

- Enormous! - Oh, God!

But how do you know?

I used to have a little Pekinese like that.

It used to leap up on the bed and bare its fangs, and then,

- when I was least expecting it-- - Calm yourself, Watson.

Seems rather straightforward to me.

Absolutely cut and dried, isn't it?

Will you be able to meet the heir and myself

at the Northumberland Hotel at 10:00 tomorrow morning?

What do you think, Holmes? Should we meet the 'eir 'ere--

The heir he--

The heir here, or the heir there?

There, tomorrow at 10:00.

- Here, here! - There!

There!

May I introduce young Sir Henry Baskerville,

heir of Baskerville Hall and 2,000 acres of swamp.

I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes,

for coming here this morning.

I mean, what with you being such a wonderful sleuth.

You must help us. A sinister incident occurred last night.

Tell him, Sir Henry.

Well, I went to bed early

- because I felt a bit-- - No, not me, him.

Yes. Okey-do key.

I went to bed early last night because I felt a bit under the weather.

Touch of dicky tummy, you know.

Runs in the family.

Well, anyway,

I put my boots out to be shined, and when I got up in the morning,

I opened the door, and would you believe it?

One of them was missing.

Do you think I'm gonna waste my time combing the streets of London

for some old boot?

This is a job for an imbecile.

Quite right, Holmes! Let me deal with this.

Sir Henry, uh...

the boot you allege was stolen, what color was it?

Brown. Yes, brown.

- Oh, brown, was it? - Yes.

Exactly the same color as this boot,

the one we have in front of us?

Of course! I always try to get two the same color.

It's too much of a coincidence.

- I don't like the smell of this. - Exactly!

What better way to entice a hound than to give it some personal object

from which it can derive the scent of the intended victim?

Yes, Sir Henry is in great danger.

I'm sorry, I'm not available to take this case.

Dr. Watson will handle the matter.

Oh, no!

Oh, no, I've never done anything on my own before!

I think you have, Watson.

Are you sure you won't change your mind?

I'm sorry, Dr. Mortimer, I'm very tired.

I've had a lot of cases.

Being the world's greatest detective is no bed of roses.

I leave you in good hands.

Good day, gentlemen. I'll find my own way out.

Yes, he probably will.

Yes.

This is a bitter disappointment to me.

Well, now, let's get down to business.

There are one or two things that have been bothering me about this case.

Firstly, this stick which you have here.

Dr. Mortimer, I see by this hair that you are a dog fancier.

Spaniel? Retriever? Labrador?

- Hound, perhaps? - No, it's a special sort of dog

bred by a friend of mine on the moors.