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: Go home Martins, like a sensible chap. You don't know what you're mixing in, get the next plane. Martins
: As soon as I get to the bottom of this, I'll get the next plane. Calloway
: Death's at the bottom of everything, Martins. Leave death to the professionals. Martins
: Mind if I use that line in my next Western?
: Listen, Callahan! Calloway
: Calloway. I'm English, not Irish.
: I guess nobody really knew Harry like he did... like I did. Calloway
: How long ago ? Martins
: Back in school. I was never so lonesome in my life until he showed up. Calloway
: When did you see him last ? Martins
: September, '39. Calloway
: When the business started ? Martins
: Um, hmm. Calloway
: See much of him before that ? Martins
: Once in a while. Best friend I ever had. Calloway
: That sounds like a cheap novelette. Martins
: Well, I write cheap novelettes.
: Next time we'll have a foolproof coffin.
: We should have dug deeper than a grave.
: [to Holly Martins
] You were born to be murdered.
: I told you to go away, Martins. This isn't Santa Fe. I'm not a sheriff and you aren't a cowboy. You've been blundering around with the worst bunch of racketeers in Vienna, your precious Harry's friends, and now you're wanted for murder. Martins
: Put down drunk and disorderly too. Calloway
: I have.
: It had meningitis. They gave it some of Lime's penicillin. Terrible pity isn't it.