"Major Gowen?" The old man comes face to face with a very frazzled Polly Sherman in the gloomy second floor corridor. "Have you seen Manuel or Mr. Fawlty?"
"Manuel? Ah, yes, the little Brazilian fellow." The waitress raises her eyebrows at this inaccuracy. "I do believe I last saw him in the lobby."
"But I've just come through the lobby," she says, biting her lip, "I've searched the whole first floor."
"Well, my dear, I poked my head out of the lounge and saw him there about ten minutes ago. He seemed to be busy helping a guest carry something upstairs." The Major strokes his chin, glancing at the ceiling. "Or maybe the guest was busy carrying him upstairs. I can't quite recall." Gowen totters off to his room. "As for Mr. Fawlty, here he comes right now!"
Sure enough, Basil and Erica are striding towards them, down the dim hallway. With a toss of her dripping hair, Erica scampers past them and hurries down the stairs. The hotelier squishes to a stop beside Polly. He is completely drenched, but his expression is ecstatic, even borderline psychotic.
"Why, Mr. Fawlty! You're soaked! Where have you been hiding, the basement?"
"No, the roof." Basil shakes his wet head. "After that little incident with the candles, I needed a breath of fresh air." Humming a merry tune, Fawlty begins to waltz with the bewildered waitress. "Marvelous weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Mr. Fawlty!" she hisses, breaking away from him. "Mr. Fawlty, have you been drinking?"
"Just rainwater, Polly. You think I'm soused?"
"Quite."
"Well, in a sense, I am. Smashed on my own victory!" He holds up the bag, swinging it by the strap. "Do you know what this is?"
"A tacky purse?"
"Quite right. An obscenely tacky purse. Battered fake-leather exterior, cheaply gilded clasps and buttons, uncomfortable straps. No stylish woman would be caught dead with this monstrosity. Apparently, Judy Norman breaks the laws of fashion along with those of the state."
"Oh no!" Polly stares, eyes wide with horror. "Please tell me this isn't—"
"A bag suspiciously containing a concealed firearm?" Basil produces the small gun from the depths of the bag.
"A gun?"
"That's right, Sherman." The weapon is dropped back into the handbag. "Now, tell me… what would a young Floridian woman be doing with a gun sans the appropriate paperwork while visiting relatives in Torquay?"
"I—I don't know." Polly grimaces. "I must admit… it does look rather bad. But we mustn't jump to—"
"Ah, Fawlty. Just the chap I wanted to see!" The doddering Major ambles back down the hallway. Polly stares as Gowen claps Basil on the back, nonchalantly holding out an archaic pistol. Eyes bulging with fear, Fawlty grabs Major by the wrist and points the weapon away from his face.
"I understand that the hotel's under attack from robbers. Just say the world and I'll blast 'em."
"Blast off to bed, you old nutter," Basil snaps.
"Right you are, my boy. I'll pretend to go to bed and then I'll jump back out and blast 'em!" Excited by the prospect, the Major waves the gun about. Basil winces, envisioning the devastating litigations that would result from the elderly resident "blasting" random guests in the hallways.
"Can I have a look at that, sir?" Polly asks, sweetly.
"Of course, my dear." The chuckling Major places the pistol in the waitress's hands. "Just be careful with her. She's been a bit testy ever since I used her in the war."
"The Hundred Years War," the hotelier mutters.
"It's not loaded," Polly concludes, quietly. She hands the pistol back to the elderly military man. "Major, why don't you have a sit down and guard the safe? The guests have stashed their belongings in there. Can't have the robbers making off with that."
"Jolly good! Orders acknowledged." The Major salutes Polly and Basil. With a formal air, the soldier whirls around and marches back into his room.
"The safe's in the office, you creaky moron!" Fawlty shouts, irritably. He turns to Polly, shaking his head. "My God, is he just that old or is there something in the water around here?"
In the dark kitchen, Sybil scrubs the extinguisher residue off her face with a tired sleeve.
"Would you like a towel, Mrs. Fawlty?" Terry asks. Her response is growled and unintelligible.
"I need bobby pins," she mutters, catching a glimpse of her deflated hair in a reflective pot. Without another word to the nervous cook, Sybil stalks into the smoldering dining room. Most of the guests have relocated to the lounge at this time, to avoid the smoke (and the seemingly unstable staff). Mrs. Fawlty makes her way across the lobby. Overhead, thunder grinds in the heavens. The small woman enters the office and is just about to reach for her stash of pins in the desk drawer when she notices something off.
Something very off.
"What's wrong?" her husband demands, racing into the room. A concerned Polly is at his heels. Confused guests begin to crowd about the lobby, listening outside the office. "Are you alright, dear?"
Sybil blinks, hardly aware that she had screamed. With a trembling hand, she points to the safe. Or, rather, she points to the empty space where the safe had been earlier that evening.
"It's gone," she whispers. "They've stolen it."
"Told you…" Catching Sybil's fierce expression, Basil nearly trails off. But the opportunity for gloating is simply too tempting. "I told you so." Polly flinches, half expecting Mrs. Fawlty's glare to cause Basil to spontaneously combust.
"Did something happen?" Judy Norman calls from the lobby.
"'Did something happen?' she asks," Basil repeats smugly.
"Why yes, Mrs. Norman. Something did happen. The hotel safe's gone! And all of your valuables with it!" The mob of guests emits a chorus of horrified gasps and groans. Basil slams the office door on their distress. His expression is an odd muddle of exhilaration and fury.
"We're finished." Sybil covers her face with her hands. Polly ushers the distraught woman into a chair. "Fawlty Towers is finished."
"Don't say that!" the waitress murmurs in a soothing tone. "The guests will understand. This is a crime wave, after all. Maybe we can run some damage control and reimburse the stolen items?"
"But we have no money now," is the hoarsely whispered response. "The profits had been accumulating in that safe for some time."
"Don't you remember, Mrs. Fawlty? On Friday, you mentioned that very fact to Mr. Fawlty and he went and deposited it all at the bank."
Basil makes a horrible retching noise.
"Mr. Fawlty?" Polly asks, realizing her error too late.
"Well, if you must know, Polly…" the hotelier snarls, "No. I did not make a deposit on Friday."
"Basil." Sybil doesn't lift her face to look at her husband. "When's the last time you've taken the money to the bank?"
"Oh, recently."
"What's recently?"
"Oh, you know dear… about a month ago." Basil speaks so swiftly that the words are nearly incoherent.
"So we've just lost practically a season's worth of revenue," Sybil says, in an oddly bright voice. "Because you couldn't bother to listen to me and make a ten-minute trip to the bank."
"Well, why didn't you do it, then?" Basil sputters, indignantly. "I can't be expected to do all of the work around here! And no, blabbing on the phone to that cow Audrey for hours does not count as work!"
"Oh please! You're the overworked one, then? What work do you do, Basil? You procrastinate, you lie, and you cut corners, but you seem incapable of actually listening to me when I tell you to do something!"
"You are over-exaggerating!"
"You didn't have the tree pruned. The power went out. And we're flooded! The reason?" Sybil sputters. "You didn't clear out the leaves."
"Did someone say thieves?" The sword-wielding Major darts through the lobby, into the office, raising a general cry of alarm from the other guests.
"Where in god's name is he getting all of these weapons?" Basil fairly shrieks, cowering away from the absentminded swashbuckler. "My lord, is he keeping some kind of archaic arsenal in his room?"
"Major Gowen, just… just give that to me." Polly tentatively snatches the blade away from the senile old man. "That's it…"
"Can't ever be too careful nowadays," the old man informs them, "Not with criminals milling about."
"Maybe you'd better watch out for the criminals running this hotel!" A roar of fierce approval ripples through the lobby. The speaker is the bespectacled American, his face patchy and red with fury. His accusation ignites a storm of furious speculation regarding the theft.
"What kind of place are they running here?"
"Must've been an inside job."
"I'll be expecting a full reimbursement for my missing hairpiece!"
"Silence, you slow-minded sheep!" The hotelier emerges to face the riotous lobby. "Haven't you realized that the thieves are in this very room?"
"Is that a confession?" the vicar mutters. Several other disgruntled patrons murmur in agreement.
"No, you nitwits." Basil grabs a candle off the desk. The flame casts an eerie mask of light and shadows over his scowling face. "Listen up!" Much to the hotelier's delight, the crowd falls into a judgmental silence. In an attempt to heighten the suspense and solemnity of the moment, Fawlty hops up onto the lobby desk to make his dramatic announcement.
"Basil!" Sybil hisses, tugging at his pant leg.
"Shut up, honey, I'm in the middle of my accusation," he mutters, before turning back to the skeptical mob. "Guests of Fawlty Towers. Tacky tourists, waylaid wanderers, and senile septuagenarians, I, Basil Fawlty, owner of the humble establishment that you have disgraced with your presence, will now provide evidence that serves to identify a pair of notorious local hotel-bandits. I reveal to you that the Terrors of Torquay are none other than—"
The bell rings. Basil glances downwards at the two stern faced constables standing before the desk.
"My name is Constable Graham, this is Constable Nudge. Are you the owner of this establishment?"
"Why… yes. Yes I am."
"Would you kindly escort us to Room 23."
"Room 23?" Basil pales. "What on earth for? Why would you want to…I, we actually don't even have a Room 23, I'm afraid we're quite full. I'm sorry."
"We happened to be driving by when we heard distressing sounds coming from this hotel," Nudge said, gruffly. "A couple was shouting from one of the upstairs windows. Saying they were blockaded in Room 23."
"Oh, that's just Mr. Fawlty's disturbed lady friend," Miss Gatsby clarifies. "He's a dear to let her stay here, seeing that she's a nutter."
"There're crazy people upstairs? You're keeping some psychotic in the attic, and we're standing around here wondering who stole the safe?" the American roars. "This isn't a hotel, it's an insane asylum!"
"No, no, you've got it all wrong! Michael and Helen aren't crazy…" Judy Norman claps a hand over her mouth, recognizing the names of her relatives. "They're just crazily funny!" Basil slaps his knee. "Aren't they just hilarious? They're regular guests of ours." Sybil frowns at this lie. "Always playing practical jokes like that. Pretending to be insane, that's one of their best bits!"
"Screaming out a window for police assistance doesn't strike me as particularly funny," Graham says.
"The joke's on you, Fawlty!" All eyes turn to the stairs. A haggard looking couple descends into the lobby, hand in hand. The man's head has been bandaged, the woman has clearly been crying. A blank-faced Doug Norman flanks them. "Officers, arrest this mad man for attacking my husband this afternoon."
"I wasn't attacking you! I was just…" Fawlty looks at Polly, desperate for suggestions.
"Mr. Fawlty was just putting together a complimentary… Anniversary Surprise!"
"He destroyed our cake, bashed Michael's head in with a champagne bottle, and then barricaded us in the room with furniture."
"Surprise!" Polly and Basil cry, in unison.
"You were surprised, weren't you?" Fawlty adds, warmly. "Think about it! If you can survive that, your relationship can survive anything! Stressful situations always bring married couples closer together!"
Sybil rolls her eyes.
"A church down the road has offered to take us in for the evening," Helen announces, ignoring the unctuous hotelier. "We'll be weathering the storm there. I suggest you all join us. I'd rather sleep feet away from a graveyard than spend the night in this horror hotel! We'll be stopping by the station to file a complaint, once the storm dies down," she adds, nodding at the shocked police officers. Without another word, the traumatized couple flees the hotel, into the now torrential rain.
"We'll be joining them, as soon as we've packed," Doug adds, angrily shaking his fist at Basil, "How dare you treat paying guests like that?"
"Oh, I wouldn't skip out so soon, Dougie boy," Basil gloats, "I'm afraid that I have something that belongs to you."
"What on earth do you mean by that?"
"Officers, I must inform you that the Terrors of Torquay have struck Fawlty Towers, making off with a safe filled with valuables." He pauses, to heighten the drama. "I will now present evidence that serves to identify the these despicable criminals. Exhibit A!" He waves about the gator pin.
"No one can see it if you're going to hold it up so high," Sybil snaps, bitterly.
"Thank you, my nagging nook of nettles." The hotelier stoops down and brandishes the pin in the faces of the guests.
"Oh my God!" gasps a woman wearing a pink pantsuit. "Call the police, it's a tacky broach!"
"It would fit right in with your delightful ensemble!" Basil says, condescendingly, "It's a very distinctive pin. I found it in Miss Erica Praline's room shortly after her bags went missing."
"So?" someone shouts.
"Ugh." Basil rolls his eyes and sighs. "So, can somebody tell me where alligators live? What's that? Florida? Right-o! Ten points! Now, who else lives in Florida?"
"Mickey Mouse!" a young boy in a Walt Disney World Resort t-shirt calls out.
"No, you stupid brat!" Fawlty shouts. "The Normans! They're from Florida! This is their pin, found at the scene of a crime!"
"That's ridiculous!" Judy cries. "Neither one of us owns a pin like that!" Her husband leans closer, examining the piece of jewelry.
"Mr. Fawlty," Doug says, icily, "I'd hate to dash your Thin Man routine here, but that's no gator you're holding. That there's a crocodile."
"Oh, really, is that right? Tell me, Mr. Norman, what exactly distinguishes the two reptiles?"
"Crocodiles have a narrower snout and their teeth are always visible."
"Well, that's very interesting," the hotel proprietor says, sarcastically. "But fun facts garnered from an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom aren't—"
"I'm not finished. You're waving about a depiction of Sobek, the ancient Egyptian deification of the crocodile." The easygoing American's voice shifts into a stuffier, more academic drone. "Look, it's even holding a tiny ankh." Doug strokes his chin. "You see, I happen to be something of an Egyptologist, Fawlty. It doesn't take a fan of Wild Kingdom to tell you that there are no alligators in the Nile."
"Graham," Ericson says, turning to his partner. "Wasn't Chief getting bent over an Egyptian bloke recently?"
"Right, the new ambassador. He was one of the victims robbed at the Échouer Suites today. Started making a big diplomatic stink about it." Graham looks up at Fawlty. "Interesting, how Sherlock Holmes here came to possess this pin. Mr. Fawlty, you do have an alibi for this morning, don't you?"
"Alibi?" Basil laughs, in a state of disbelief. "You can't seriously be considering me as a suspect!"
"It's just a question. You don't have to answer if you don't feel up to it."
"I was behind the desk all morning! The only people who can corroborate that are Polly, some senile senior citizens, and a bumbling Barcelonan waiter! But before you judge me based on the unfortunate company I keep—" Polly scowls "—allow me to present one last piece of evidence."
He reaches into his jacket pocket. With a flourish, the hotelier produces the handgun discovered in Judy's bag.
"He's armed!" The guests collectively duck for cover.
"Mr. Fawlty!" Officer Graham barks. "Drop the gun!"
"That little thing's got you in a panic?" the bespectacled American growls, eying the puny firearm. "I bought my kid a bigger gun for his tenth birthday! Only in Europe…"
"It's not mine. I found it in Judy Norman's purse," Basil says, gleefully. "Now, why would a sweet, innocent American tourist have a firearm in her purse? For hunting big game in quaint Torquay?" The Major nods approvingly at the mention of this recreational pastime. "For target practice with the stalactites in Kents Cavern?" Basil's rant seems to be having its intended effect. While the disdain for the hotelier is nearly palpable, the guests have begun to slowly move away from the Normans. "For robbing local hotels?"
"What on earth were you doing rooting around my bag?" the American woman yells, her cheeks reddening. "How dare you?"
"I reserve the right to examine suspect luggage in order to ensure the safety of my guests and staff! Now, where's the safe, woman?" Basil stomps his foot, nearly squashing the desk bell. "You people want your valuables back? Ask Bonnie and Clyde!"
"Stop waving that gun about! I need you to calm yourself, Mr. Fawlty!" Ericson orders. "What sort of hotel owner goes through his guest's luggage like that?" He turns towards to Judy. "Still, I have to ask. Mrs. Norman, do you have a British Visitor's Firearm Permit for this weapon?"
"No." There is a collective gasp. Basil smirks. Surprised by the woman's blunt response, the police officers glance at each other.
"Mrs. Norman, I'm afraid you're not in cowboy country anymore," Graham says, sternly. "You need the proper paperwork in order to bring a weapon into the United Kingdom
"I didn't register it because it's not a gun. It's a lighter."
"Preposterous! I'm quite familiar with this sort of thing, I served in Korea after all…" Basil takes a closer look at the gun-shaped item in his hand. How did he not notice its lightness and small size before? It's not just a fake; it's an embarrassingly obvious decoy. He pulls the trigger. A blue jet of flame spurts out of the barrel. A crocodile god and a cheap lighter; that was all it took to reduce his evidence against the Normans to ashes.
The heartbroken wail of defeat and flailing arms are involuntary reactions. Sybil grabs her husband's leg to prevent him from tumbling off the desk or kicking one of the guests in the face. Unfortunately, she is powerless to stop Fawlty from accidentally flicking the trigger a second time. There is a spark. Fire sprouts from Officer Graham's hat, prompting the lobby to descend into a screaming din.
"Oh, not again!" Struggling to keep her usual cool, Polly snatches away the cap and proceeds to stamp out the flames. Sybil slumps against the wall, paralyzed with mortification.
Silence. Everyone watches the towering madman on the desk.
"I…I…I…" Fawlty gapes in horror at his own clumsiness. "Oh look! Henry Kissinger!"
The frantic hotelier is able to leap down and sprint away as the inhabitants of the lobby turn towards the door, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of the bespectacled former Secretary of State.
It wouldn't have been the strangest thing to happen that evening.
Polly stands in the darkened, empty kitchen, scanning the Echo classifieds by candlelight. Dismally slim pickings. Polly is loyally resolved to stick around as long as possible, but there is no denying that Fawlty Towers is finished, with one of the owners on the run from the law and all. The angry guests were so eager to exact punishment on the unpopular host that some even opted to join the officers for a search of the grounds in the middle of the night during a howling tempest! The meltdown had occurred about twenty minutes ago and they still hadn't found him. Polly presumed, hoped even, that Fawlty had managed to get away.
The waitress freezes, sensing someone standing directly behind her. Before she can scream, a hand is clamped over her mouth.
"You've got to help me, Polly!" Basil whimpers. She elbows him in the stomach and twists out of his grasp. "Oof! Polly, please! Manuel's useless and nowhere to be found. And Sybil…" He trails off. Elaboration is unnecessary.
"Mr. Fawlty, you've absolutely gone off your rocker," Polly says, edging away. "I don't think I can help you."
"I just need to get out of here and let things calm down a bit," Fawlty says, "I've just discovered that my bloody keys are missing. Someone's framing me!"
"I believe you," Polly says, sadly, "But after that performance in the lobby, I don't think anyone else will."
"That's why I need your help! Please, please, please…"
With a dreary sigh, Polly ducks her head into the lobby. All clear. She hurries over to the lounge. Empty. Polly returns and ushers her manic employer into the empty barroom. She then busies herself with prying open a window. Outside, thunder crashes alarmingly. The rainy, twisting wind sweeps into the hotel. Polly shivers. The bitter night may be Basil's only hope…
"Those bastards!" Fawlty bellows, quite abruptly. Succumbing to despair, he squats down and begins hopping, like some sort of gangly, mustachioed frog.
"Mr. Fawlty! Stop that! What's wrong?" Polly follows his trembling, outstretched point to a smashed glass case against the wall. "Oh dear, your coins!" The entire collection is gone.
"I am going to find those robbers," Basil says, straightening back up. His eyes glint with fury. "Whoever they are. Nobody makes Basil Fawlty look like a fool and a criminal!"
"Except for Basil Fawlty," Polly murmurs, handing him an oblong blade.
"What's this for?" Fawlty asks. Holding up the knife, he notices alarming specks of red on the metal. "Polly, I may be embarking as a fugitive, but I'm not quite desperate enough to stab anyone… yet."
"It's a palette knife, Mr. Fawlty." Polly can't help but roll her eyes at the ignoramus. "Now, listen up. The police and some of the guests are searching the grounds, so you've got to be quick. Head due south, down the hill. Just straight in that direction for about fifteen minutes, you'll find a large white house. Sneak into the backyard. There'll be a small shack there. Use the knife to jimmy the lock and stay there till the storm dies down. I'll come get you in the morning and we can sort all this out."
Basil stands there, frozen with amazement.
"Mr. Fawlty? I know it's not an ideal plan, I'm sorry, but I honestly can't think of anything else—"
The hotelier plants a kiss on her forehead and wordlessly hops out the window.