Murder, She Wrote (1984–1996): Season 1, Episode 17 - Footnote to Murder - full transcript

- Come on! Let's go!
- Oh, stop it!

[Woman] Tonight on Murder,
She Wrote. Please, no!

I'm the assistant D.A. I am
personally taking charge of this case.

Somebody has
killed Hemsley Post.

I'm almost positive
I didn't do it.

Who'd have figured he'd
get knocked off by a poet?

Writing wasn't the only way
that Hemsley was burned out.

- She was even jealous of me.
- I gave him the key
so he'd remember my room number.

I spent the evening
and the entire night...

with the most romantic man.

Freeze!



[Thunderclap]

Why go on?

Alone.

Rejected.

And not even a last cigarette.

You're gonna kill
yourself, Horace.

Those cigarettes will
be the death of you.

I know it's a filthy vice. But
happily, I am not addicted to them.

It is great to see you,
Jessica. Come on. Have a seat.

The clerk in your hotel
told me I'd find you here.

I'd offer to buy you
a cup of coffee, but...

Oh, no. I just finished off one chapter
and two pots of tea in my hotel room.

Congratulations on your
nomination. And you on yours.

But who's gonna notice if either of us
win? Let's face it, mystery and poetry...



But enough talk about silly
award business, all right?

Tell me, how is Elsie
Perkins and that other one?

That wonderful... Nora
somebody. Tell me.

Oh, I'm afraid, Horace, you left Cabot
Cove strewn with broken hearts last summer.

Are you writing something?

Oh, yeah. Just toying
with a little sonnet.

Wanna hear it? Yeah.

"Why go on alone, rejected...

with Cupid's turgid
rites neglected?"

It stinks, huh?
You're right. It's crap.

Are we going to that reception?

With free drinks? That is a
rhetorical question. Come on!

They're gonna start without us!

[Jessica] Oh, look, it's still
pouring with rain out there.

Have no fear, Jessica. I have the
perfect defense against the elements.

Oh.

You couldn't spare a 20 till
Monday, could you? You think?

[Grunting] Two. Three. Four.

Five. Six. Seven. [Knocking]

Twenty. One moment.

Mr. Post. I'm Tiffany Harrow,
assistant awards coordinator.

Tiffany. Do come in. Thank you.

Haven't we, uh, met
somewhere before?

Marrakech? Nairobi?

I just wanted to say
how delighted I am...

that you'll be master of ceremonies
at the awards banquet Saturday.

Oh. Well, I suppose I'll
distribute the hardware...

with my usual grace and panache.

You know, it's too bad you’re not
up for an award this year, Mr. Post.

Oh! Well, even the mighty oak...

must let a little sunshine
fall on the rising saplings.

And do call me Hemsley.
May I offer you something?

Oh, no, thank you.

You know, everyone's talking about
your new unpublished novel, Hemsley.

Oh, yes.

Well, it's... It's quite the
best thing I've ever done.

The, uh, definitive novel
on the Vietnam War.

I'd love to read it.

Actually, no one's read it
yet. That's the only copy.

I haven't even let my
publisher read it yet.

But if you could come back...

tonight, after the party.

Oh, yes. Yes.

I think I could read
some of it to you.

I find great literature very
stimulating. [Knock On Door]

Yes? [Woman] Hemsley, open up.

Excuse me, darling.

Alexis, my darling. I-I
wasn't expecting you.

Obviously not. Um,
Tiffany Harrow, Alexis Post.

My wife.

The committee is very grateful
for your cooperation, Mr. Post.

Nice to have met you, Mrs. Post.

Is is just me, or, uh,
have they gotten younger?

Oh! Alexis, my darling, really.

She's with the awards committee.

I don't even care.
Hemsley, they say that, uh,

you've got a six-figure
advance on your new book.

Let's discuss the $264,000...

that I've loaned to you
over the last seven years.

Well, you know I've had
a very long dry period.

Well, I want it up front
out of the advance.

No stalling, no baloney.

- Of course.
- I mean it, Hemsley.

I've had my lawyers
draw up a contract.

You know, you look
radiant, Alexis. Just radiant.

How have you been? Working hard.

I have a new fashion line
coming out in the spring.

But I don't want to keep
you from your young women.

I'll never forget the
safari in Kenya...

and your strong,
sweet, yearning body.

Your body wasn't so bad either.

Why don't you come back after
the party? We could have a drink.

Thank you. I'd rather remember
things the way they were.

And, Hemsley, if you
don't sign that contract,

I'll take you to court and I will squeeze
you drier than a camel's backside.

[Chuckles]

Now, the Classical Age is
the only age that interests me.

History as literature is a
challenge suitable for my talents.

Some people feel your new
book, Pericles A t Parnassus,

is a metaphor for the Communist
witch hunts of the early '50s.

Some people also
find spiritual comfort in

spouting gibberish while
standing on their heads.

Hi. Could I please have
your autograph, Mr. Winslow?

You know, my great
charm lies in my ability...

of speaking to each reader
on a multiplicity of levels.

There you go. Excuse me.

I know this is an awful
imposition, but I've

written a short story,
and I was wondering...

Young lady, my attorney will not allow me
to read unsolicited manuscripts. Good day.

Now, what newspaper did you
say you were from, dear boy?

Not that it makes
any difference.

Hemsley Post?

Sorry. No autographs.
I make that a policy.

I wanna talk to you.

And I most certainly do not chat
with strangers in public restrooms.

I'm Frank Lapinski.

You don't answer my letters.
You ignore my phone calls.

Don't you get tough with
me, soldier boy! [Groans]

Four months I've been waiting for
some kind of an answer. Four months!

You're breaking my arm! [Groans]

Then I read in the paper about this
new novel of yours! Your new novel?

Let go of me.
Quick, get security!

He's trying to rob me!

I oughta kill you.
If I could prove...

No, no. Let him go.

I'm all right. He
didn't get anything.

Don't be cynical, Horace.
It's an honor to be nominated.

It's a circus! Randolph St.
Germain, one of the judges.

He does so many talk
shows, when does he have

time to read anything?
Excuse me. Excuse me.

- Aren't you J.B. Fletcher?
- Why, yes.

Mrs. Fletcher, I just love your stories.
Would you please sign my autograph book?

Certainly. And this
is Horace Lynchfield.

Mmm. Pleased to meet you. You know,
Mrs. Fletcher, I'm a... I'm a writer too.

- Horace.
- Well, not a real writer. Not yet.

But, um, I've
written a short story,

and I was wondering if you would
read it and tell me what you think.

Well, uh... Jessica, you know,
I'm getting extremely thirsty.

Please. It would mean...
It's just so important to me.

As a matter of fact, my
throat is beginning to close up.

Well, I'm not sure
that I can be of any

help, but... Well, I'll
be happy to read it.

Oh, thank you. Thank you. My-My
name and my address are on the cover.

Oh, Debbie Delancy. Well,
that's got a certain ring to it.

Yeah, well, I thought it sounded
literary when I... when I made it up.

Well, we'll be in
touch. Thank you.

Stray dogs, alcoholic
poets, beginning writers.

No wonder I'm so crazy
about you. [Laughing]

[Thunderclap]

I see by your dress you
didn't come incognito.

Lucinda, my dear, I must congratulate you.
Your 10th week on the best seller list.

Isn't it exciting? Everybody's
reading Woman Unleashed.

Yes, well, that sort of
thing always sold well...

over and under the counter.
Well, everyone said...

I should write about
something I knew.

My next book's going
to be more literary.

Really? Yes.

I'm reading the Great
Books Library, start to finish.

Start to finish, eh? Where
are you now? Aristotle?

Excuse me.

Oh, a-a liquid offering...

on the altar of beauty?
Well, thank you.

Isn't it nice that we writers have a
chance to get acquainted like this?

Oh, I'm not a writer. By
and large, writers starve.

The power and money is in
publishing. I'm Tiffany Harrow.

Jessica Fletcher. And
this is Horace Lynchfield.

Oh, mystery and poetry, right?

Oh, will you excuse me? There's
someone I must say hello to.

Well, the greatest novels have always
been about the war, haven't they?

Take my book, Korean Chronicle.

I set the standard for a generation.
What's this new one about, Hemsley?

The one you're being
so secretive about?

Well, it's the definitive
novel on the Vietnamese War.

Remarkable. As far as I know,

you only spent a week in Vietnam
as correspondent for Playboy.

At least it's not that prissy
drivel you write, Adrian.

Greek boys mincing about.

I, at least, publish. Your last,
I think, was seven years ago.

And when are we to
see this latest tome?

The only copy is locked away
in my briefcase in my room.

And rumor has it that it's so bad, you
won't even allow your publisher to read it.

Oh.

Do be careful, Adrian.

I gave you a good thrashing
10 years ago. I can do that again.

Ten years ago, I
didn't have a black belt.

Hmph.

Thunder quivers.

Wings beat. [Moans]

Petals aching, parting.

Beak thrust of sunburst nectar.

Oh, it gives me
goose bumps all over.

Me too. What does it mean?

I haven't the foggiest.

Lucinda, my darling,
let's chat, my dear.

Oh, not now, Hemsley. I was just
listening to Horace's divine poetry.

But I want to sign your
copy of Korean Chronicle.

Well, I couldn't get through
that one myself. I don't know why.

Really? Too much blood
and gore for you, Lynchfield?

No. Too much bad grammar.

Oh? [Screams]

Horace! Are you all right?
Come on! Come on! Let's go!

- Oh, stop it, both of you!
- It's all right, Jessica. It's all right.

Oh, no! Please, no! [Sighs]

Why, I ought to tear you
apart, you pathetic wimp!

Mr. Post, may I suggest that you
stop behaving like a petulant adolescent.

[Groans]

Fighting like schoolboys.

Did he hurt you? Yes.

He's just lucky he didn't
get me mad though.

Oh, I'm sorry. I thought
this was Mr. Post's room.

It is. Are you with the press?

No. No, I think I must
have picked up Mr. Post's

umbrella last night by
mistake after the party.

- Umbrella?
- Yes.

I noticed the initials H.P. on the
handle, and naturally I thought...

Actually, I was hoping
that he had mine.

Maybe he does. Why don't
you come on in and take a look?

A sword concealed in a shaft.

It's not your everyday weapon.

So I repeat, Mrs. Fletcher,
is that your umbrella?

No, it is not. And I
didn't catch your name.

I am Melvin Comstock.
I'm the assistant D.A.

I am personally taking
charge of this case.

That is Lieutenant
Meyer, Homicide Division.

He will be assisting me.
Now, what I'd like to know is...

the nature of your
relationship with the victim.

None. I just met him last night
at the book awards reception.

Awards?

Yes. Everyone was there...

Adrian Winslow, Lucinda
Lark and many others.

Whoa. This is a lot
bigger than I thought.

Go over to the window
and watch out there and let

me know when the mobile
TV crew gets here, okay?

Did you find the manuscript?
What manuscript?

Mr. Post's latest novel.

He said that the only copy
was locked in a briefcase...

right here in this room.

I don't, uh... I don't think there is a
briefcase, unless it's under this bed.

[Comstock] Let me
have the city desk, please.

Frank? Mel Comstock.

I've got a big one for you.
Hemsley Post has been murdered.

In his room at the
Cromwell Hotel.

Well, there's no briefcase,
ma'am, but I did find this key.

Hmm. 2441. That's strange.

There's no 24th
floor in this hotel.

Yeah, you better
send a crew over.

Why don't you have
'em report directly to me?

There you go. [Chuckles]

Lieutenant, did you notice the
smudge of lipstick on the sheet?

It looks like Mr. Post had a
romantic rendezvous last night.

Meyer, let me have the key.

Uh, ma'am, please.

Oh. Thank you.

Woman Unleashed.
Signed by the author.

"To the old master from his
humble disciple, Lucinda Lark."

I noticed that myself, ma'am.

I'll take the book. Mr. Comstock,
did you notice the date?

Yesterday. Yeah, yesterday.

So this is the book
everybody's talking about, huh?

"By Lucinda Lark."

I'll have to question
the Lark woman.

If he was reading in bed, I
wonder what he was reading?

Hi, Gwen. Yeah, listen. Tell the D.A.
that everything's under control over here,

and send my bio and a photograph
over to Frank over at the Times.

Uh, ma'am? Ma'am? Would you stop poking
around, please? This is a crime scene.

Who called? Oh, yeah?

Yeah? Mr. Comstock?

I suppose you saw this letter
from a Frank Lapinski of Brooklyn...

threatening Mr. Post. [Knocking]

- Shall I get that?
- No! Would you just hold for a...

Just a minute, Gwen.

Hi, guys. Sir, the guys
from the lab are here.

Where do you want 'em to start? I'm
gonna have to call you back, Gwen.

Lieutenant, I suggest that
maybe if you get a shot over here...

Thank you very, very
much, Mrs. Fletcher.

But I'm gonna have to tell you, I don't
want any more of your interference, okay?

Well, I was only trying to
help. I don't need your help.

I intend to have the murderer of Hemsley
Post in custody before the 6:00 news.

So, thank you, and good night.
Gentlemen, you've got exactly two hours...

to find out who owns the pig
sticker with the fancy handle!

[Comstock] So you admit
the sword umbrella is yours?

Right. I bought it in an
antique store on 2nd Avenue.

You bought it with the
purpose of killing Hemsley Post.

No, I bought it
because it was raining.

And you can account for
your whereabouts last night?

Yes. I went into the hotel
bar after the cocktail party.

And then after that,
everything is kind of a blank...

until I woke up in my
hotel room about noon.

Mr. Comstock, obviously someone
took Horace's umbrella by mistake.

Someone who was
at the cocktail party.

I'll get to you in a moment.

Instead of bullying
Mr. Lynchfield, why don’t you find

out who left the lipstick
stains on Mr. Post's sheets?

Mrs. Fletcher...

Also, who owned
that other room key?

Whose key was it?

Woman named, uh, Tiffany
Harrow. She's waiting outside.

Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, I suppose we
can dispose of one of your hang-ups now.

Bring her in.

Also, Mr. Comstock, you are aware
that a very valuable manuscript...

disappeared from
Mr. Post's room?

Miss Harrow. Hello.

Can you tell me why your room
key wound up in the victim's room?

Well, I gave it to Mr. Post
at the cocktail party.

Oh, I see. No, you don't.

Mr. Post offered to
show me his new novel.

Now, I didn't wanna
go to his room,

so we arranged to meet at mine.

And I-I gave him the key so
he'd remember my room number.

And what time did
he get to your room?

Well, he didn't. I
waited around a while.

- And then a friend called,
and we went out to dinner.
- And who was this friend?

Adrian Winslow, the author.

Thank you very much, Miss
Harrow. That'll be all for now.

Thank you.

All right, Lynchfield,
let's stop shadowboxing!

According to witnesses, you and
Post had a fight at the cocktail party.

- You even threatened him with a gun!
- Oh, that's ridiculous!

It was not a real gun!

Yes, Gwen? I thought
you'd want to know,

Jesse Simms from the
New York Post is on line one.

Oh, yeah. Listen,
ask him to hold, okay?

Now, I put it to
you, Lynchfield.

Did you murder Hemsley Post?

- Well...
- Did you or didn't you?

To be very honest with you, I...

I don't really remember.

That's good enough for me. Take him
downstairs, Meyer. Book him. Murder one.

Oh, I don't believe what's
going on here. You're

excused, Mrs. Fletcher. You're
no longer under suspicion.

How generous. Jesse, how are ya?

Listen, I've got a hot one
for ya. Now write this down.

Assistant District Attorney Melvin Comstock
personally arrested the murderer...

of famous novelist Hemsley
Post. Now you listen to me.

Horace Lynchfield is a
gentle, kind man who is

incapable of hurting
anyone. Yes, yes. Listen...

Obviously, it is more
important to get your face on the

evening news than it is to find
out who killed Hemsley Post.

Now if you're too dense to find
out who the real killer is, then I will.

I'm talking... Did you...
Hey, hey, big guy...

Insufferable man! Horace, I'll
get an attorney to represent you.

Jessica, you think you can bring me
some cigarettes? Uh, Mrs. Fletcher,

you're gonna have to go now before
Comstock comes out. I'll go, Lieutenant,

but that pompous fool
of a district attorney

isn't going to
railroad my friend...

so that he can get
himself elected mayor.

Hey, ma'am, everybody knows
Comstock is a real jerk, but for now...

Figures. [Scoffs]

Oh, uh, excuse me, uh, okay, I'm
not sure that I really belong here.

Sure, sure. Tell it to
the judge. Back in line.

Hold it. Hold it. Wait right here.
Just don't move. Excuse me.

Excuse me. Donovan,
get rid of these guys.

Sir? We pulled Judge Wyler.

You know how he feels about
bringing in the, uh, customers.

All he wants is the
girls. Now get these guys

out of here before I get
my head handed to me.

Ladies, right this way, please.

Okay, fellas, seems we did something wrong.
You can go back to the wife and kiddies.

Not you. Come on. Come on.

In there.

Um, look. Seriously, I think that there
has been some kind of mistake here.

There's been no mistake, brother. It's
straight from the judge. You're free to go.

Okay. Well, if that's the case, then
that's the case isn't it? Okay. Thank you.

Oh, yeah. We've got
him in custody right now.

I'm going to be handling
the indictment personally.

Believe me, this guy could
be a dangerous customer.

I'm sure he's got some links with
those Commie anti-nuke groups.

Yeah, I'll be issuing a
press release shortly.

We've got a little problem.

And you’re positive
Mr. Lynchfield hasn't returned?

This is Mrs. Jessica Fletcher.
I'd like to leave a message.

Well, then, I'd like to
leave another message.

Have him call me at the
hotel the moment he arrives.

Yes, thank you.

Oh, is anything wrong, Miss Harrow?
Oh, no. Just some dust in my contact lens.

Oh, yes. I don't wear them myself, but
I understand they can be very irritating.

Mm. Especially if you've only been
wearing them a couple of weeks.

You know, I feel so awful about Horace
Lynchfield. I really kind of liked him.

Well, at least if he's convicted
his sales will skyrocket.

But he happens to be
innocent. Well, either

way, all the talk
shows will be after him.

Miss Harrow, I suppose you heard that
Hemsley Post's new manuscript is missing.

Really? I mean, if there
actually was a manuscript.

Oh, there was. I saw it. Oh,
then you did go to his room?

Well, that was before
the cocktail party.

His wife was there when I left, and
they had this big fight about money.

In front of you?
Not very discreet.

Well, actually, I, uh... I
heard it through the door.

Will you excuse me...
I'm late for a meeting.

Miss Harrow, I am
desperately trying to clear a

very dear friend of mine
from a murder charge.

I mean, anything that you heard, even
accidentally, could be of great importance.

Sure. Why not.

As soon as the door closed, she started
in on him right away about the money.

I'm sorry about your
husband's death, Mrs. Post.

That's very kind of
you, Mrs. Fletcher, but

Hemsley and I have been
separated for 10 years.

Darryl, I said the blue taffeta.

Well, maybe it's
all for the best.

I beg your pardon? Hemsley
was a burned-out writer.

A very unhappy
man. Oh, I'm sorry.

I understood that he'd
just written a major novel.

Had he? I wonder.

He hadn't been able
to write for years.

Strange. Then I wonder why you
went to his hotel room the other night...

demanding $264,000
out of his advance.

How did you know that? Mrs. Post, I have
no desire to pry into your private affairs.

But Horace Lynchfield is under
suspicion in your husband's murder.

I didn't kill him. You
were in his room.

There was evidence that he had
been, uh, entertaining someone.

Certainly not me. Writing wasn't the
only way that Hemsley was burned-out,

but that didn't stop
him from trying.

It never mattered who,
how pretty, how old.

The game was everything.

Requiescat in pacem.

The man has died. The
legend lives on. Excuse me.

- Horace!
- Hiya, Jessica.

- Horace.
- Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Whoa.

Oh, Horace. Where-Where have you
been? We've been looking all over for you.

They let me go. I knew it had
to be some kind of mistake.

Oh, but now you're a fugitive,
which makes things even worse.

Now come on. You must go and
see Mr. Comstock and turn yourself in.

I suppose, but could I get
myself a little drink first? No.

St. Bonaventure's Academy, they used to
call me terrible things. Nerd. Four-eyes.

I bought a copy of your book.

I found it... quite...

Graphic? That's what
the news called it.

Yes, graphic. [Chuckles] Yes.

[Clears Throat]

I was hoping
you'd sign it for me.

- I'd be honored.
- I'm sorry to interrupt.

I understood you're looking for
Mr. Lynchfield. I heard you escaped.

He didn't escape. They lost him.

Gwen, get Lieutenant
Meyer in here, please.

Mr. Comstock, isn't it time that
you started a detailed investigation?

I mean, for example, what about
that inscription in Miss Lark's book?

- It was a mistake.
- I signed it the day before.

I just put the wrong date on it.

Look, I'm not very
good with numbers.

Well, not that anybody
would suspect me,

but I do have an alibi.

I spent the evening
and the entire night...

with the most romantic man.

- Who?
- Horace.

But if I spent the night in the
arms of the lovely Lucinda...

then I couldn't possibly
have murdered Hemsley Post.

Imagine, Lucinda Lark and
not being able to remember.

Maybe you didn't spend
the night with her. I didn't?

Well, maybe she made it
up to give herself an alibi.

Oh, I hope not. I was so looking
forward to remembering. Oh, Horace.

You've got to take this thing seriously.
Somebody has killed Hemsley Post.

All right. I'm almost positive I didn't
do it. Now what can I do to help?

Go back to the hotel, stay
sober. Stay out of trouble.

You're headed somewhere.
Brooklyn. Don't ask.

[Ship Horn Blowing]

Uh, Mr. Lapinski? That's me.

Oh, I'm Jessica
Fletcher. The writer?

Yes. I've read a
couple of your books.

Lightweight, but,
uh, kind of fun.

Thank you very much. I never
claimed to be Dostoyevsky.

Mr. Lapinski, I'm trying to
help a friend, Horace Lynchfield.

The guy who killed Hemsley Post.

Who'd have figured he'd
get knocked off by a poet.

How well did you know Mr. Post?

- I knew his work.
- Perhaps you met him
when he was in Vietnam?

Lady, why the hell are
you asking me all this?

I'm just curious to know
why you're sending him

threatening letters if
you've never met him.

You have me mixed
up with somebody else.

I got work to do. Excuse me.

Oh. I should've
had that taxi wait.

Are you lost, lady? Oh, no,
no. I came to see Frank Lapinski.

He's around here
somewhere. Nice guy.

Oh, yes, and, uh, very bright.

A real brain. Can't figure what he's
doing working around here though.

Well, it's hard to make
a living as a writer.

Oh, don't worry. Frank'll make it. He's a
real plugger. Soon as he sells that book.

Book? Oh, yes, of course.
The one about Vietnam?

Well, far as I know, it's
the only one he's wrote.

I don't know. Maybe
he's working on another.

I see. Well, thanks very much.

Uh, there wouldn't be any place around
here I could get a taxi, would there?

Around here, are
you kidding? [Laughs]

Phone book is over there by the pay phone,
lady. This place the cabbies don't cruise.

Thank you very much.

These aren't mine.

[Jessica] But, don't you see?
I'm sure the manuscript that...

Mr. Post didn't want anyone to
see was written by Frank Lapinski.

Well, you've got his threatening letter.
We found it on the desk in his room.

Well, we'll, uh... We'll
check it out, Mrs. Fletcher.

I most certainly hope
you do, Mr. Comstock.

- Mr. Winslow.
- Ah, what name?

I'm Jessica Fletcher. I
didn't come to buy a book.

We met at the book awards party.
Yes. One meets so many people.

Didn't I see you
at 21 last night?

I had dinner last night
at the Four Seasons,

and the young man with me
was a newspaper reporter.

- Oh, then you didn't have dinner
with Tiffany Harrow?
- Is that what she said? [Laughs]

Now I remember. You're
the mystery writer. Ah, yes.

Boringly simple mysteries.
I'd have a dash at

them myself, except that
I have more serious work.

Well, I suppose you're going to
steal Hemsley's murder for a book.

Well, good plots
are hard to come by,

but of course this one
doesn't have an ending.

Well, obviously that
clod Lynchfield didn't do it.

Too weak. Lacks motive.

No. A much better suspect
would be... Alexis Post.

The woman scorned.

Oh, but I understood
Alexis had dropped Post.

Oh, definitely no.
Quite the contrary.

That's why she gave
him all that money.

She drove Hemsley to those other
women with all her jealous harping.

Do you know 10 years
ago when we spent that

summer in Florence, she
was even jealous of me?

Mm-hmm. Ridiculous, of course.

I never realized
you were so close.

Yes.

I used to be Hemsley's private
secretary... before my own early success.

Oh, Mr. Winslow. I
do so adore your work.

Might I have one of your
books? Why certainly, dear lady.

Mrs. Fletcher, you will
excuse me? Oh, yes.

If you would just inscribe
it to... [Clears Throat]

"Dear Cornelia, with deep affection
for a faithful and loving friend."

Something simple like that.

Oh, hi. Mrs. Fletcher.
Do you remember me?

Oh, uh, oh, yes. The
writer Debbie Delancy.

What did you think of my story?
Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry, Debbie.

I have been frightfully busy, and, after
all, you only gave it to me yesterday.

Oh, sure. I will
read it. Promise.

You got my number?
Mm-hmm. I'll call you.

Okay.

[Soft Knocking]

Mrs. Fletcher. I
hope I'm not intruding.

Well, actually, I, uh... I wonder if
you might help clear up a little mystery.

About what? My umbrella.

Actually, it belongs to my doorman,
and I want to return it to him.

Well, why come to me?

Someone took it by mistake
last night at the cocktail party,

and I thought that
you might've gotten it.

Oh, no. I took my own
umbrella after the party.

I know because it has a
very distinctive design and...

Well, this isn't mine.
It isn't mine either.

Pity. You must have
inadvertently exchanged

umbrellas with Adrian
Winslow when you had dinner.

- Oh, of course. That must be it.
- Except he said
he didn't have dinner with you.

That weasel.

Look, I-I was a little nervous about
my key being found at the murder scene,

and Adrian said he'd tell everybody
I'd been with him and not to worry.

I couldn't help but notice the
manuscript you slipped into the drawer.

You know, Hemsley
Post's novel is missing.

Oh, and I didn't take it. This is an
autobiography by an old movie star.

You know, what I
did and who I did it to?

He's looking for
a publisher and I...

Well, the fact is I may
represent this myself, personally.

I see. Going out on your own?

Yes.

Just to satisfy my curiosity,
what did you do last night?

Well, when Post didn't show up,

I... I finally took a couple of
sleeping pills and went to bed.

Life in the fast lane
can be a little lonely.

[Knocking]

- Yeah?
- Frank Lapinski?

- Yeah, what are you selling?
- This is a search warrant.

- Open the door, Lapinski.
- [Knocking]

Meyer, kick it in.

He's coming down the
fire escape. Take him.

Be careful, he may be armed.

Watch it, Meyer.
He might be armed.

Freeze!

Drop the briefcase.
Now! Let it go.

Against the wall.
Hands flat. Feet back.

Name tag says Hemsley Post.

"Untitled Novel, by
Hemsley Post." [Panting]

All right, you got me. [Panting]

What do you want, a
confession? You got it. I killed Post.

I'm not a damn bit sorry.

He's all yours.

Well, stealing somebody else's
novel is a dastardly thing to do,

and I don't blame
Lapinski for killing him.

Well, I know he confessed, but there's
something wrong about this whole thing.

What do you mean? I
can't just put my finger on it.

There are so many other
people with motives to kill him.

Other people
covering their tracks.

I see that you still have
that kid's short story.

- Yes, I read it last night.
- Any good or, I mean, should I ask?

Actually, it's not that bad. It's a
beginner's story about a teenage girl...

remembering how she felt about
her brother going off to the war.

I wish I could remember that
night with Lucinda Lark, I'll tell ya.

Oh, dear. I should've
given these to Mr. Comstock.

I think these are the ones that I
found the morning after the killing.

I can't image how they
found their way into my bag.

I suspect they
belong to Mr. Post.

I don't know. I mean,
somehow, I doubt that.

I think if a guy like Post would
go out and buy a pair of glasses,

he'd find something a little more
macho... you know what I mean?

- Driver, stop the cab.
- Jessica, what on earth? What do you see?

Optometrist. Here.
Here's for the fare.

I'll meet you back
at the hotel. Um...

Hey, driver, you don't know any good
saloons in this neighborhood, do you?

Uh-huh. Just as I thought.

Madam, where did your
optometrist learn his craft?

The Braille Institute?

- These glasses
are entirely wrong for you.
- I suspected they were.

Left lens is for a
mild astigmatism.

Right lens corrects for
myopia. I'll fix you up a new pair.

Actually, I was wondering,
would it take long

to mount those lenses
in different frames?

Mrs. Fletcher, thank you
so much for reading my story.

I called you last
night... several times.

Well, a friend has a cabin upstate.
I go up there sometimes to write.

No phone. But, when I
came back, I saw your

message on the door,
and I rushed right over.

- Then you haven't seen the paper?
- No.

Well, I found your story
very interesting. Really?

Obviously written from the heart
and from personal experience.

Well, um, do you have any
suggestions, or how to tighten it up, or...

Well, I made a few notes on
the back. I hope you don't mind.

No. Isn't it awful when
you reach a time in life...

where you found the right words,
but you can no longer see them.

Can I borrow your
glasses? Oh, well, I

doubt these are going
to be any help to you.

Clumsy. [Clears Throat]

Oh, dear. That's even worse.

Why don't you read it yourself?

Oh, yes, yes, yes. I think
you're right about the beginning.

It-It is much too vague.

Your feeling about your older
brother going off to war seems genuine.

- You must be very close.
- Oh, yes. Since our parents died,
he's all I have.

In the story you call him Joe,

but isn't his name
really Frank Lapinski?

Apparently, you haven't heard.

Last night, the police arrested
him for killing Hemsley Post.

No, no. No, that's not true.

Debbie, he confessed.
You're right though. It's not true.

He lied to protect you.

Those glasses you are wearing
were found near Mr. Post's body.

Of course, I had the frames
changed to match your backup glasses.

Originally, those
were clear plastic.

Those were the glasses you were
wearing when you stopped me in the lobby.

I'm sorry I had to deceive you,

but I had to be sure that I was
right before I made any accusations.

I was worried about the glasses. I-I
couldn't remember where I had left them...

Mrs. Fletcher, I'm...

Oh, God. I didn't mean to
kill him. It was an accident.

Why don't you start at the
beginning? Maybe I can help.

Frank sent his novel
to Post. His only copy.

And then we heard later that he was
coming out with his own Vietnam novel,

and Frank was furious. And
you wanted to help Frank.

Yes. I would do
anything for him.

And then it happened. A
way to get the novel back.

Mr. Post saw me approaching
the other writers in the hotel lobby,

so he came over.

[No Audible Dialogue]

Somebody had said
something to him about my story,

and he asked me
up to his hotel room...

after the party to
discuss my future.

See, I knew what he had in mind.

I wasn't really sure
what I was gonna do.

I, you know, talk to him, or...

maybe just grab the
manuscript and run, but,

I was not prepared for
what happened because...

[Deep Breath] he
was like an animal.

[Jessica] He must've taken
Horace's sword umbrella by mistake...

after the cocktail party.

I-I didn't mean to kill
him. It was an accident.

Then you took the briefcase with
the manuscript and gave it to Frank?

Yeah, he had stolen Frank's
novel almost word for word.

Look, I have to go
to the police, Mrs.

Fletcher. I just can't
let Frank lie for me.

Debbie, just tell the
police what happened.

I think you have a strong
case for self-defense.

You believe me? I do.

And so will a jury, if
it should come to that.

[Applause]

Horace, you can't walk out in the middle
of a speech, especially when you've won.

Oh, yes, I can and
precisely because I just won.

Look at that. Have you ever
seen such a cheap trophy?

Brass and wood. Unhockable. I
think I'm gonna hang on to mine.

Very traditional of
you. Very traditional.

Now, what I need is some cigarettes and
a stiff drink. Let's get out of here, okay?

Oh! At the risk of
sounding like a nag, Horace,

you're gonna have to do something about
your drinking. Are you saying to cut back?

- That would be like
depriving a race car of its gasoline.
- Oh. May I help you?

- [Screams]
- [Alarm Blaring]

You might also consider
giving up cigarettes.