by Wes Anderson
M. Gustave and Zero take off full speed down the road.
INT. TELEPHONE BOOTH. NIGHT
A black-and-yellow wooden call-box next to a tiny pub outside the village. Windmills spin gently on the far side of a wheat field in the distance. Zero holds the door open while M. Gustave dials.
M. GUSTAVE
Operator, get me the Excelsior Palace in Baden-Jürgen and reverse the charges, please. (To Zero.) We’ve no choice. There’s nowhere else to turn. (Into the receiver.) I’ll hold. Thank you. (To Zero.) It’s our only hope. Otherwise, I shouldn’t even mention its existence to you. It goes without saying, you must never breath a word about this to a living soul. Do you swear?
ZERO
Of course. What is it, in fact?
M. GUSTAVE
I can’t say. (Into the receiver.) Guten Abend. M. Ivan, bitte. Danke. (By way of explanation, to Zero.) How does one come by front-row aisle seats for a first night at the Opera Toscana with one day’s notice? How does one arrange a private viewing of the tapestry collection at the Royal Saxon Gallery? How does one secure a corner table at Chez Dominique on a Thursday?
Zero nods as he takes this in, intrigued. Pause. M. Gustave says suddenly into the receiver, turning on the charm:
Ivan, darling, it’s Gustave! Hello! Well, I was until about five minutes ago. We’ve taken it upon ourselves to clear out in a hurry, if you see what I mean. Through a sewer, as it happens. Exactly! Listen, Ivan, sorry to cut you off, but we’re in a bit of a bind. This is an official request. (Officially.) I’m formally calling upon the special services of –
Title:
PART 4:
‘THE SOCIETY OF THE CROSSED KEYS’
INT. FIRST LOBBY. NIGHT
Concierge desk No.1. There are rows of mailboxes with room numbers on them, keys on hooks, and a bell on the counter-top. A slim concierge with a long moustache talks on the telephone. He is M. Ivan. A lobby boy waits beside him silently.
M. IVAN
I’ll call you back, Gustave. Right. Stand by.
M. Ivan hangs up the telephone and turns to a waiting young couple as he produces a small paper map from a drawer.
I beg your pardon. Do you prefer to walk? We’re right here.
M. Ivan makes a little ‘X’ in ink on the map. He draws a line.
It’s very simple. Straight down the corniche. Then left. (To the lobby boy.) Jojo, see them out.
The young couple take the map gratefully, and the lobby boy escorts them away. M. Ivan picks up the telephone again and says urgently:
Get me M. Georges at the Château Luxe, please.
Cut to:
The dining room at a hunting lodge. One hundred small children crowd around a long table. There is a huge birthday cake with seven lit candles on it. Streamers hang from the ceiling. Balloons float on strings. A very tall, bony concierge conducts the room singing ‘Happy Birthday’. He is M. Georges.
A lobby boy goes over to M. Georges and whispers in his ear. M. Georges nods and quickly exits. The lobby boy replaces him and takes over the conducting.
INT. SECOND LOBBY. NIGHT
Concierge desk No. 2. M. Georges picks up the telephone.
M. GEORGES
Hello, Ivan? You don’t say? Is he really? How about that? Got it.
M. Georges presses down on the hook to disconnect, then lifts it up again and says urgently:
M. GEORGES
Get me M. Dino at the Palazzo Principessa, please.
Cut to:
A busy piazza across from a church. There is a crowded trattoria on the sidewalk. There is a statue of a centurion. One hundred men and women in pajamas and bath robes stand on the street in front of a hotel looking up at a fourth-floor window with smoke gushing out of it while a ladder extends from a fire engine toward a calm old woman at the window sill. An alarm rings loudly. A stocky concierge with slick, black hair stands at the front of the crowd yelling orders and holding a fire extinguisher. He is M. Dino.
A lobby boy goes over to M. Reggio and whispers in his ear. M. Dino nods and quickly goes into the hotel. The lobby boy takes the fire extinguisher and replaces him yelling orders.
INT. THIRD LOBBY. NIGHT
Concierge desk No. 3. The lobby is a bit smoky. M. Dino picks up the telephone.
M. DINO
M. Georges. No trouble at all. Tell me. I see. I see. Straight away.
M. Dino presses down on the hook to disconnect, then lifts it up again and says urgently:
M. DINO
Get me M. Robin at L’Hôtel Côte du Cap, please.
Cut to:
A clay tennis court overlooking a bright blue sea at sunset. Twenty-five men and women in tennis whites and bathing suits circle around another tennis player lying flat on his back on the ground while a very fit, sporty concierge with a pompadour sits on one knee next to him checking his pulse. He is M. Robin.
A lobby boy goes over to M. Robin and whispers in his ear. M. Robin nods and quickly leaves the court. The lobby boy replaces him and resumes checking the fallen man’s pulse.
INT. FOURTH LOBBY. NIGHT
Concierge desk No. 4. M. Robin picks up the telephone.
M. ROBIN
This is M. Robin. Yes, Dino. Yes, Dino. Yes, Dino. OK, Dino.
M. Robin presses down on the hook to disconnect, then lifts it up again and says urgently:
M. ROBIN
Get me M. Martin at the Ritz Imperial, please.
Cut to:
An extremely busy hotel kitchen filled with cooks of every rank and specialty. Waiters dash in and out continuously. A small, round concierge with a pink face is screaming and pointing a serving fork at the chef, who is flambé-ing a crêpe Suzette). He is M. Martin.
A lobby boy goes over to M. Martin and whispers in his ear. M. Martin nods and quickly exits the kitchen. The lobby boy takes the serving fork and replaces him screaming at the chef.
INT. FIFTH LOBBY. NIGHT
Concierge desk No. 5. M. Martin picks up the telephone.
M. MARTIN
Robin, Martin. I know. So I heard. (Suddenly intrigued.) Maybe. (Gravely.) Let me make a few calls.
EXT. WHEAT FIELD. NIGHT
M. Gustave and Zero wait hidden behind a haystack next to the telephone booth. M. Gustave recaps:
M. GUSTAVE
Serge X: missing. Deputy Kovacs: also missing. Madame D.: dead. ‘Boy with Apple’: stolen (by us). Dmitri and Jopling: ruthless, cold-blooded savages. Gustave H: at large. What else?
ZERO
Zero: confused.
M. GUSTAVE
(nodding)
Zero: confused, indeed. The plot ‘thickens’, as they say. Why, by the way? Is it a soup metaphor?
ZERO
I don’t know.
Distant tires squeal.
M. Gustave and Zero sit up quickly and peer off down the road. An approaching car accelerates, whining in the darkness. A pair of headlights pops into view from the woods. A large sedan emerges with a roar, zig-zagging onto the farm road. It slides across the gravel and rips to a stop in front of them. A sign next to five stars on the side of the hood reads: HOTEL EXCELSIOR PALACE.
One of the back doors snaps open, and M. Ivan shouts from inside:
M. IVAN
Get in!
M. Gustave and Zero dash out from behind the haystack and sprint to the vehicle.
INT. HOTEL CAR. DAY
The door slams shut, and the chauffeur punches it. They speed back into the hamlet. M. Ivan immediately begins briefing M. Gustave and Zero:
M. IVAN
We found the butler. He’s hiding out in the remote foothills near Gabelmeister’s Peak. Our contact convinced him to meet you midday tomorrow at the observatory on the summit. Tell no one. He’ll explain everything. The train departs in four and a half minutes. Here’s your tickets.
M. Ivan deals out a pair of train tickets to M. Gustave and Zero. M. Gustave gives his a quick study, then mumbles a puzzled objection:
M. GUSTAVE<
br />
Third class?
M. IVAN
It was overbooked, but the conductor used to be a sommelier at the old Versailles. He pulled some strings. You’ll need these for the dining car.
M. Ivan produces two, pre-tied neckties. M. Gustave and Zero slip them over their heads and adjust the knots. The chauffeur hits the brakes, and M. Ivan swings the door open again.
M. IVAN
Go!
EXT. TRAIN STATION. NIGHT
M. Gustave and Zero jump out in front of a very small depot and slam the door. M. Ivan says out the window:
M. IVAN
One last thing.
M. Ivan leans down and searches for something on the floor. He sits up and thrusts out a tiny version of a familiar bottle. M. Gustave melts as he realizes:
M. GUSTAVE
L’Air de Panache!
M. IVAN
(downplaying it)
They only had the half-ounce.
M. Gustave looks impressed and deeply touched. He leans to Zero and whispers:
M. GUSTAVE
We should give him something as a symbolic gesture. How much money you got?
ZERO
(hesitates)
Forty-two Klubecks and three postage stamps.
M. GUSTAVE
Give me twenty-five.
Zero’s eyes widen. He cocks his head, dubious. M. Gustave nods firmly. Zero reluctantly digs a handful of coins and bills out of his pocket and passes it onto M. Gustave. M. Gustave says to M. Ivan with profound gratitude:
M. GUSTAVE
Bless you.
M. Gustave attempts to discreetly press the money into M. Ivan’s palm – but M. Ivan withdraws. He waves his hands and says by way of gentle refusal:
M. IVAN
Please.
M. Gustave smiles sadly. He bows. The hotel car skids away.
Silence. M. Gustave sprays himself four times with the perfume atomizer. His posture and bearing immediately improve. He turns to Zero. Pause.
M. Gustave holds out the bottle. Zero looks confused – then simultaneously flattered and hesitant. He takes the cologne and spritzes himself once lightly. He gives a polite nod and returns the bottle.
A train pulls into the station, and M. Gustave and Zero race out onto the platform.
Cut to:
A stack of wooden planks next to the opening in the cell floor. Ten guards and twenty soldiers stand crowded in the little room looking down at the hole. Henckel’s head pokes up from the crawl-space below. He wears a look of grim determination as he delivers the following:
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. Th
at’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.
M. Gustave scoffs, irritated.
