HENCKELS
I want road blocks at every junction for fifty kilometers. I want rail blocks at every train station for a hundred kilometers. I want fifty men and ten bloodhounds ready in five minutes. We’re going to strip-search every pretzel-haus, waffelhut, biergarten – and especially every grand hotel – from Augenzburg to Zilchbrück. These men are dangerous, professional criminals. (At least, three of them are, anyway.)
Henckels hesitates. He squints across the room. He points.
Who are you?
The guards and soldiers all turn to look past the bunks behind them and clear the view to:
Jopling alone in the dim back corner.
What are you doing here? Civilian personnel aren’t permitted in the cell block. This is a military investigation.
Jopling steps fully into view. A shifty guard explains nervously:
SHIFTY GUARD
This is Mr. Jopling, sir. His employer’s mother was one of the victims of the –
HENCKELS
Shut up.
Henckels climbs up out of the hole as Jopling approaches and offers his card. Henckel snaps it up, gives it a fraction-of-a-second look, then hands it off to an underling.
You work for the family Desgoffe und Taxis?
Pause. Jopling nods. Henckels asks pointedly:
Are you aware of the murder of Deputy Vilmos Kovacs on the twenty-third of October?
JOPLING
(carefully)
I’m aware of his disappearance.
HENCKELS
His body was found stuffed in a sarcophagus behind a storage room at the Kunstmuseum late last night. He was short four fingers. What do you say about that?
Henckels withdraws a typewritten document out of his coat. He holds it up.
Insert:
A police report with a photograph of Deputy Kovacs’ body in a Pharaoh’s casket with his hands crossed on his chest. A section at the bottom of the page is labeled FINGERPRINTS. There are five for the left hand, but only a thumb for the right.
Jopling studies the document. He shrugs.
HENCKELS
Escort Mr. Jopling off the premises.
Jopling makes his way toward the cell door accompanied by several soldiers. He pauses just before he exits. He leans down and picks up a flattened, pink cardboard box off the floor. He scrapes a ridge of icing with his finger and licks the tip. He says softly:
JOPLING
Mendl’s.
Henckels watches Jopling suspiciously as he shrinks away down the corridor.
INT. LIBRARY. NIGHT
Dmitri, dressed in black pajamas and a black smoking jacket with a fur collar, listens on the telephone in a small alcove. He says calmly:
DMITRI
Talk to his club-footed sister again – and, this time: be persuasive.
Dmitri hangs up. He crosses into the library and stands in front of a snooker table. The box containing Madame D.’s will sits among billiard balls in the middle of it. Its contents have been spread out and scattered into a sprawling mess. Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina play cards and sip at tiny glasses of port at the other end of the room.
Dmitri drinks a vodka in one gulp. He shuffles and sifts among the scraps, preoccupied. He picks up a folded sliver of cream-colored writing paper. He opens it.
Insert:
A page of Grand Budapest Hotel stationery with a set of crossed keys insignia at the top. Handwritten below is: ‘Remember: I’m always with you.’
Dmitri stares at the piece of paper. He tosses it back onto the table. It lands on top of a faded, old photograph of ‘Boy with Apple’ with the stamp at the bottom of a long defunct auction house.
Dmitri frowns. He turns around and looks up at the wall above the fireplace directly behind him. His face goes white.
Cut to:
The woodcut print of the two lesbians masturbating. A bit of the discolored wallpaper sticks out behind it on either side.
Dmitri is stunned. He stammers:
DMITRI
Holy fuck! What’s the meaning of this shit?
Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina all look. They seem confused. They respond simultaneously:
MARGUERITE
‘Boy with Apple’? I thought you’d hidden it.
LAETIZIA
It’s been missing two weeks. I assumed it went to the tax-appraiser.
CAROLINA
Why are you only noticing now?
Dmitri shakes his head, speechless. He says finally, in angry shock:
DMITRI
Are you fucking kidding me?
Clotilde has materialized. Dmitri turns to her. Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina turn to her, also. Clotilde’s voice cracks and quivers as she says:
CLOTIDE
I believe it was removed by M. Gustave.
Pause. Dmitri grabs the woodcut off the wall and slams it (punching a thick hole through the center) over a small marble discus-thrower.
INT. TRAIN CAR. NIGHT
A third-class compartment on the overnight to Gabelmeister’s Peak. Students, peasants, and laborers sleep among rucksacks and baskets on hard benches and shelves lining the walls. M. Gustave and Zero whisper to each other from their bunks near the ceiling on either side of the room:
M. GUSTAVE
I’m not angry with Serge. You can’t blame someone for their basic lack of moral fiber. He’s a frightened, little, yellow-bellied coward. That’s not his fault, is it?
ZERO
I don’t know. It depends.
M. GUSTAVE
(irritated)
Well, you can say that about most anything. ‘It depends.’ Of course it depends.
ZERO
(firmly)
Of course it depends.
M. GUSTAVE
(sighs)
Yes, I suppose you’re right. Of course, it depends. However: that doesn’t mean I’m not going to throttle the little swamp rat. (Pause.) May I officiate, by the way? The ceremony.
ZERO
(surprised, humbly)
With pleasure.
M. Gustave sighs. He says with deep sincerity and feeling:
M. GUSTAVE
I must say, I find that girl utterly delightful. Flat as a board, enormous birthmark the shape of Mexico over half her face, sweating for hours on end in that sweltering kitchen while Mendl (genius though he is) looms over her like a hulking gorilla – yet without question, without fail, always, and invariably: she’s exceedingly lovely. Why? Because of her purity.
ZERO
(pleased)
She admires you, as well, M. Gustave.
M. GUSTAVE
(perking up)
Does she?
ZERO
Very much.
M. GUSTAVE
(impressed)
That’s a good sign, you know. It means she ‘gets it’. That’s important.
ZERO
(pause)
Don’t flirt with her.