bout de papier, Vol. 13, No. 4 (1996) — Winter 1996 // Hiver 1996, pp. 47–48
Liebnitz was in the recently renamed Rialto Sleazewagon Pre-memorial Concert Hall, enjoying a stirring program of Tuvan throat-singing, when his cell-phone went off. It went off loudly, and of course he couldn’t remember which of the 43 hiding-places it occupied in the multi-layered Tuvan ceremonial garb he had worn as a tribute to the visiting troupe. He shifted frantically in his seat, trying to act inconspicuous as he wedged his fingers into one pocket after another, but to no avail. Since the phone was set in Executive Emergency mode, it got more and more strident the longer it was left unanswered, and PEOPLE WERE LOOKING. Desperate, he sought a quiet way out, but he was in the middle of the row, flanked on one side by a delegation from the local Sumo association (two seats per person and a tight fit at that) and on the other side by a group of regional Mafia dons and their families, already looking daggers at him (real ones). Realizing that his only option was a Gypsy Rose Lee imitation, he stood up and began peeling off his clothes. Soon a veritable geyser of colourful garb was erupting from his seat.
The audience was aghast, but the musicians cheered and begun to play louder and faster as he stripped down, still searching himself. Two of the burlier performers came down from the stage, leaned over and lifted him bodily from his seat. By this time, he was down to a Tuvan loincloth and mukluks, plus his glasses and a nervous smile. And the bloody thing was still ringing! As the throat-singers harmonized to its piercing sound, he staggered back and forth across the stage, supported by a line of ecstatic Tuvan dancers convinced he was one of their legendary ballet-berserkers. Finally, by hopping up and down on one foot, he was able to pull off his left mukluk and hold it to his ear. It stopped ringing. A voice said, “I wanna order a pizza to go? Like, no anchovies, eh? Beauty.”
He was still fuming as he stomped into the office the next morning, to find the Chief waiting for him with another mangled report from Jimmy the Turk.
“Jimmy has been working on a case involving the Governor of Massachusetts,” MacBannoch began, “who you will recall has just been found to be the long-lost heir to the Swedish throne. There are rival heirs, however, and one of them has hired the famous Italian musical assassin Joe Green to take the Governor out before he makes it to Stockholm. We know that the killing is to take place at the masked ball the Governor is holding as a farewell party tonight. We have no idea where Green is, so we will have to arrest him at the ball before he strikes. His mask will hide his face, so we need to know the costume he will be wearing. Everyone is supposed to be dressed as a musician of some kind, and Green will come disguised as a famous singer — but who? We have narrowed the possibilities down to five, but have no idea which one he will use. Jimmy apparently found out, but all we have by way of a report is one of his stupid puzzles. He himself bogged off to a one-day crash course in David Cronenberg films and isn’t expected to recover for weeks.” So saying, he handed Liebnitz a piece of paper reading as follows.
The following are lines of dialogue from 25 years of classic movies. They are listed by the year of the movie’s release, from the earliest to the most recent (some years have more than one entry). From the list of anagrams after these quotes, find the surname of the actor or actress who spoke the line and a word from the title of the film in which it appears. (Note that one actor or actress is quoted twice, but his or her name only appears once in the anagrams, so there are 21 anagrams for 11 lines.) Then put the unscrambled words into the chart, each one beside the year the movie was released. Finally, read down the column linked by heavy dashes to come up with another famous movie line.
LINES: (a) “If you want to call me that, smile.” (b) “Mother of mercy, is this the end of Rico?” (c) “Listen to them — children of the night. What music they make!” (d) “It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lily.” (e) “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” (f) “See what the boys in the back room will have, and tell them I’m having the same.” (g) “I run a couple of newspapers. What do you do?” (h) “The stuff that dreams are made of…” (i) “Round up the usual suspects!” (j) “Made it, Ma — top of the world.” (k) “I coulda been a contender.”
ANAGRAMS: four letters — NIWD; five letters — WEITH, BAGEL, SARIN; six letters — PROOCE, GARBOT, GULOIS, AGENCY, ABNORD, SEWELL, CARESA, NOCALE, STYRED; seven letters — LUCARAD, ZINCTIE; eight letters — BISONNOR, GHANASHI, CHRETIDI; nine letters — ARIVINING; ten letters — TERNTWOFAR, ABACLANSAC.
“Well, said the ace logician finally, “that is actually one of his easier ones. Who are the famous singers that Green might be impersonating?” Replied MacBannoch, “Enrico Caruso, Al Jolson, Gilles Vigneault, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra.” “In that case, the answer is obvious,” declared Liebnitz. “Now about this phone you make me carry….
Can you duplicate Liebnitz’s feat by filling in the chart, reading off the hidden quote, determining what movie it is from and deciding which costume the assassin will be wearing? The first to send in a correct answer to bout de papier will win a fine CD of Tuvan throat-singing (no joking). Send answers by end of Feb. ’97.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 13, No. 4 (1996) — Winter 1996 // Hiver 1996, pp. 47–48. Read the rest of this issue →
