As World War II is ending, a postman is brought into an emergency hospital for a minor operation and dies on the table for reasons no one can explain. Five people were present, including the anesthetist (Trevor Howard), the surgeon (Leo Genn), and three nurses. The death is considered an accident until one of the nurses gets drunk at a party and claims it was murder and she has hidden the evidence. She rushes out and is found stabbed to death in the operating room. Now, evidently, murder has taken place and perhaps the two deaths are related, so Inspector Cockrill (Alastair Sims) is called in to investigate.
The case is a little complicated because of various romantic and professional intrigues. Howard and Genn are in love with the same nurse, and another of the nurses is jealous, and a third has a secret in her past, and all that. In the end, the killer commits suicide and justice is served.
One has a sense of the British film industry struggling to get back on its peacetime feet. What a good cast. Genn and Howard in particular play their roles to perfection and would go on to distinguished careers. And the dialog, especially Sims', is sprinkled with little sparkles. Howard is explaining to Sims that the anesthetic used was nitrous oxide. Ah, says Sims in his proud, knowing way, "laughing gas." Howard explains that the laughter used to be caused by the impurities. "Just like our music halls," cracks Sims. Genn quotes to a nurse some lines about a "lovely night" from a romantic poem, and Sims, who is eavesdropping in the darkness, comes forth to add his own cynical end quote: "He stole her love with his vows/ and ne'er a one were true." These aren't belly laughs and they're not presented that way. The dialog is full of pace and verve and nothing is much lingered over.
The script, alas, could have come straight from a Charlie Chan mystery or any other second- or third-tier feature. It's still enjoyable but it's built along Agatha Christie lines, with a small cast full of suspects and one investigator, and little of Christie's panache. Not a masterpiece but more of a prologue of things to come from the British film industry, over the next decade or so, including some superlative stuff.
Leo Genn, the surgeon, is called "Mister" and identified as a master surgeon, and Trevor Howard, the anesthetist, is "Doctor" and is a member of the Royal College of Physicians. The distinction is a traditional one in medicine. The word "surgeon" comes from the same Greek root as the word "chiropracter". Surgeons didn't have the status they have today. They began as a kind of barber's cousin. (The red and white stripes on a barber pole are symbolic of blood and bandages.) They were the people who pulled teeth, lanced boils, cut off warts, and did the dirty work. Physicians were doctors and had far more prestige because they were able to sit at the bedside of the wealthy and prescribe all sorts of salubrious procedures and remedies, such as bleeding, the black draft, and eyes of newt.
The case is a little complicated because of various romantic and professional intrigues. Howard and Genn are in love with the same nurse, and another of the nurses is jealous, and a third has a secret in her past, and all that. In the end, the killer commits suicide and justice is served.
One has a sense of the British film industry struggling to get back on its peacetime feet. What a good cast. Genn and Howard in particular play their roles to perfection and would go on to distinguished careers. And the dialog, especially Sims', is sprinkled with little sparkles. Howard is explaining to Sims that the anesthetic used was nitrous oxide. Ah, says Sims in his proud, knowing way, "laughing gas." Howard explains that the laughter used to be caused by the impurities. "Just like our music halls," cracks Sims. Genn quotes to a nurse some lines about a "lovely night" from a romantic poem, and Sims, who is eavesdropping in the darkness, comes forth to add his own cynical end quote: "He stole her love with his vows/ and ne'er a one were true." These aren't belly laughs and they're not presented that way. The dialog is full of pace and verve and nothing is much lingered over.
The script, alas, could have come straight from a Charlie Chan mystery or any other second- or third-tier feature. It's still enjoyable but it's built along Agatha Christie lines, with a small cast full of suspects and one investigator, and little of Christie's panache. Not a masterpiece but more of a prologue of things to come from the British film industry, over the next decade or so, including some superlative stuff.
Leo Genn, the surgeon, is called "Mister" and identified as a master surgeon, and Trevor Howard, the anesthetist, is "Doctor" and is a member of the Royal College of Physicians. The distinction is a traditional one in medicine. The word "surgeon" comes from the same Greek root as the word "chiropracter". Surgeons didn't have the status they have today. They began as a kind of barber's cousin. (The red and white stripes on a barber pole are symbolic of blood and bandages.) They were the people who pulled teeth, lanced boils, cut off warts, and did the dirty work. Physicians were doctors and had far more prestige because they were able to sit at the bedside of the wealthy and prescribe all sorts of salubrious procedures and remedies, such as bleeding, the black draft, and eyes of newt.