Rather neatly done tale that draws nothing of importance from any of the Conan-Doyle stories. London is suffering a great rash of suicides by wealthy men. After faking his own death by stroke while on a fishing trip -- for no evident reason -- Holmes investigates and discovers that the victims had one thing in common, their love of gambling.
Disguised as an Indian aristocrat Holmes frequents a number of casinos, which I never knew England had in 1943, hoping to find a link. I realize, by the way, that the film was released in 1944 but I'm assuming it was set in 1943 because Benito Mussolini figures as a villain, and by 1944 he was out of it. Holmes locates the link between the victims at one of the casinos. When he loses money, he's approached by a sympathetic Gale Sondergaard. She offers to lend him money if he's willing to use his life insurance policy as collateral, and if he's willing to change the name of the beneficiary. Something like that. I'm not too good at this stuff. I don't know how much my OWN policy is worth.
Anyway, that's the scheme. Sondergaard hangs around casinos looking for rich guys who are temporarily broke. She has them sign over their policies in return for a loan. Then she has the victims bitten by a venomous spider while they sleep. The venom is so painful that it drives the victim mad and they destroy themselves while in their pajamas. Later, someone will come forward and claim the benefits of the insurance.
It doesn't take long for Holmes to sniff out the scam. And it doesn't take Sondergaard long to figure out who the mysterious Indian aristocrat was either. She lures Holmes to an arcade and has her thugs tie him up behind a rotating cut-out figure of Hitler. She removes the iron plate behind Hitler's heart, exposing Holmes' heart instead. In a tense scene, the unwitting Watson picks up a rifle at the counter and stops barely short of shooting Holmes through the heart. Holmes escapes and he and Lestrade capture Sondergaard and her henchmen.
Holmes gets to wear two of his disguises, one -- the postman -- fairly effective. He and Watson are almost gassed to death at 221b Baker Street. An African pygmy plays a role in the plot. It's a distracting and undemanding story. Sondergaard gives a hammy performance full of knowing smirks. And one of her goons is the goofy-looking detective who is enthralled by the abstract painting in Joan Fontaine's vestibule in Hitchcock's "Suspicion." But it occurred to me that, without Rathbone as Holmes, and without Watson to provide his pawky humor, this is a B murder mystery that Boston Blackie or Bulldog Drummond or The Falcon or Charlie Chan might have managed equally well.
I enjoyed it. It's the kind of story that, if I'd seen it as a child, would have creeped me out. "The Pearl of Death", as I recall, made my hair stand on end.
Disguised as an Indian aristocrat Holmes frequents a number of casinos, which I never knew England had in 1943, hoping to find a link. I realize, by the way, that the film was released in 1944 but I'm assuming it was set in 1943 because Benito Mussolini figures as a villain, and by 1944 he was out of it. Holmes locates the link between the victims at one of the casinos. When he loses money, he's approached by a sympathetic Gale Sondergaard. She offers to lend him money if he's willing to use his life insurance policy as collateral, and if he's willing to change the name of the beneficiary. Something like that. I'm not too good at this stuff. I don't know how much my OWN policy is worth.
Anyway, that's the scheme. Sondergaard hangs around casinos looking for rich guys who are temporarily broke. She has them sign over their policies in return for a loan. Then she has the victims bitten by a venomous spider while they sleep. The venom is so painful that it drives the victim mad and they destroy themselves while in their pajamas. Later, someone will come forward and claim the benefits of the insurance.
It doesn't take long for Holmes to sniff out the scam. And it doesn't take Sondergaard long to figure out who the mysterious Indian aristocrat was either. She lures Holmes to an arcade and has her thugs tie him up behind a rotating cut-out figure of Hitler. She removes the iron plate behind Hitler's heart, exposing Holmes' heart instead. In a tense scene, the unwitting Watson picks up a rifle at the counter and stops barely short of shooting Holmes through the heart. Holmes escapes and he and Lestrade capture Sondergaard and her henchmen.
Holmes gets to wear two of his disguises, one -- the postman -- fairly effective. He and Watson are almost gassed to death at 221b Baker Street. An African pygmy plays a role in the plot. It's a distracting and undemanding story. Sondergaard gives a hammy performance full of knowing smirks. And one of her goons is the goofy-looking detective who is enthralled by the abstract painting in Joan Fontaine's vestibule in Hitchcock's "Suspicion." But it occurred to me that, without Rathbone as Holmes, and without Watson to provide his pawky humor, this is a B murder mystery that Boston Blackie or Bulldog Drummond or The Falcon or Charlie Chan might have managed equally well.
I enjoyed it. It's the kind of story that, if I'd seen it as a child, would have creeped me out. "The Pearl of Death", as I recall, made my hair stand on end.