A serial murderer is strangling women with a necktie. The London police have a suspect, but he is the wrong man.

[last lines]
Inspector Oxford: Mr. Rusk, you're not wearing your tie.
Bob Rusk: [speechless]
Bob Rusk: I-...
Richard Blaney: Do I look like a sex murderer to you? Can you imagine me creeping around London, strangling all those women with ties? That's ridiculous... For a start, I only own two.
[a politician, being pulled away after the discovery of a woman's body with a necktie around her throat]
Sir George: I say, that's not my club tie, is it?
Monica Barling: Men like this leave no stone unturned in their search for their disgusting gratifications.
[to publican Felix Forsythe]
Chief Inspector Oxford: I expect she'll turn up sooner or later. These days, ladies abandon their honor far more readily than their clothes.
Richard Blaney: [announcing himself to his wife's receptionist] You can inform Mrs. Blaney that one of her less successful exercises in matrimony has come to see her.
Monica Barling: And who shall I say is calling?
Richard Blaney: Mr. Blaney.
Solicitor in Pub: We were just talking about the tie murderer, Maisie. You'd better watch out.
Maisie, Barmaid: [salaciously] He *rapes* them first, doesn't he?
Solicitor in Pub: Yes, I believe he does.
Doctor in Pub: Well I suppose it's nice to know that every cloud has a silver lining.
Bob Rusk: Hey, Dick! What about Coming Up then?
Richard Blaney: No, I'm afraid I haven't any time. Thanks all the same.
Bob Rusk: No, Coming Up, the horse. He won by a mile. Twenty to one. What did I tell you?
[discussing the tie murders]
Solicitor in Pub: Let's hope he slips up soon.
Doctor in Pub: In one way I rather hope he doesn't. We haven't had a good juicy series of sex murders since Christie. And they're so good for the tourist trade. Foreigners somehow expect the squares of London to be fog-wreathed, full of hansom cabs and *littered* with ripped whores, don't you think?
Bob Rusk: I don't know if you know it, Babs, but you're my type of woman.
Richard Blaney: If you can't make love, sell it. The respectable kind, of course. The married kind.
Hotel porter: Just thinking about the lusts of men makes me want to heave.
Bob Rusk: Don't forget, Bob's your uncle.
Mrs. Oxford: Woman's intuition is worth more than all those laboratories. I can't think why you don't teach it in police colleges.
[to his wife]
Chief Inspector Oxford: No, discretion is not traditionally the strong suit of the psychopath, dear. Believe me, that's what we're dealing with. You ought to read his wife's divorce petition.
Bob Rusk: [addressing Brenda, a marriage broker] If you can fix up a lot of idiots, why not me?
Sergeant Spearman: Good morning, Mr. Rusk.
[repeated line]
Bob Rusk: You're my type of woman.
Richard Blaney: [entering hotel room with Babs] The "Cupid Room", I think she called it.
Hotel porter: Mm, love's little arrows have struck quite a few hearts in there, sir, I can tell you.
Richard Blaney: Oh yeah?
Hotel porter: [confidentially] Can I get you anything from the pharmacy, sir?
Richard Blaney: No thank you.
Richard Blaney: [having missed betting on a horse that won at 20-to-1 odds] Twenty-to-one. Twenty-to-bloody-one! Christ, damn it to hell!
[throws down a box of grapes and stomps on them]
Bob Rusk: Got a place to stay?
Neville Salt: [about his fiancée's deceased spouse] Oh, a neat man was he, then?
Mrs. Davison: He liked a tidy place. So do I, come to that.
[hits his shoulder with a glove]
Mrs. Davison: Dandruff. We'll have to get you something for that.
Brenda Margaret Blaney: My God, the tie!
[screams]
Brenda Margaret Blaney: [as Bob wraps the tie around her throat] Dear Jesus, help me. Help me!

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