There is a film noir that hardly anyone remembers and that nevertheless features the deadliest femme fatale in classical Hollywood cinema. Entitled “The Stamp Collector”, it deals with a man who has made a fortune mending t-shirts and who one day receives an unexpected visit from a mysterious woman who asks: “Is this where they buy used stamps?” Seduced by her beauty, the man responds affirmatively and consequently feels compelled to acquire three postage stamps for an exorbitant price. From that moment on, he unwittingly begins a dizzying descent into the abysses of perdition. Because the woman returns the next day with two other filthy stamps. And also the next day. And the next one. And so every day until the man has not a penny left in the bank. Then he goes to sell the stamps, but the philatelist offers him five pence for the whole lot. He then understands that he has been the victim of a scam and decides to kill himself by inhaling the stale air of a men’s restroom.

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