Murder, She Wrote (1984–1996): Season 9, Episode 5 - The Dead File - full transcript

I never met a comic
strip character before.

Well, I've never been one.

Stan stole the idea
for that strip from me.

The main suspects are a chicken,
a horse and a couple of cows.

He's crazier than a
longhorn on locoweed.

Tell me why you are saying
these things about me.

Oh, my God, what's
going on here?

Thanks to you,
we are being sued.

I kind of like the roundness of the
40 million you mention in your cartoon.

I am not that cartoon character.

Before you know it,
Jessica Fox will be history.



So, how was your tip, Mrs.
Fletcher? Gorgeous, Sid.

If you don't mind me saying,

that character they got you
playing in the Hatterville comic strip,

it's given the missus and
me some real good yaks.

What did you say
about a comic strip?

That's right, you been
away. Here, see for yourself.

You're the fox, ain't
you? Jessica Fox?

This fella Hatter, who draws
the strip, he's pretty clever, huh?

"Oh come now, Sergeant
DeRodent, it was you that stole

"100 pounds of
fish powder from..."

She's accusing this police
officer of stealing evidence

would have convicted the...
The Three Moose Ears Gang?

I never met a comic strip
character before, Mrs. Fletcher.

Well, I've never been one.



Hi, this is Stan
Hatter's machine.

Say something after the
beep, and I'll get back to you.

I'll say something, all right.

Stanley, you miserable
coward. Look, I know you're there.

If the roof and the plumbing
aren't fixed by tomorrow morning,

you're dead meat. Ciao, darling.

They don't call 'em
ex-wives for nothing.

Number one? Uh, four.

Not a lot of people back
home in Montana can say that.

Hey, that guy's still out there.

Teddy, you've seen too many
old movies. Get back in here.

He's been out there
for three weeks,

and it's not the neighbor's
window he's been looking at.

Hey, didn't you say number
two's been trying to nail you?

Five. Two already owns
more of me than I do.

Yes?

Look, there must be
something on him I can use.

Well, something I can
give to one of his wives, or...

Mr. Whiting, I already told you,
all the schmuck does is work.

Like all of you guys.

Now listen, Jerry.
I'm paying for...

Hey, Mr. Whiting, since your
retainer, I have not received dollar one.

So, I'm quitting.
Now, wait a minute...

Uh-uh. I'll see you around.

Monday, all right? Plus
one more week in advance.

All of it. I want results.

Even if you have to create
them yourself. Understand?

Hey, hey, I'm
not that kind of...

Mr. Bozell, why else
would I have hired you?

Police, Mrs. Fletcher. I'm Lieutenant
Peter DiMartini, as if you didn't know.

Lieutenant, if that's what you
are, unless you have a warrant,

I want you out of my
apartment right now.

Uh... Not yet.

Not until you tell me why you
are saying these things about me.

"In a few days I'll make
you an offer you won't refuse.

"And, Pilfer, don't
arrange a fox hunt..."

And where are you
getting your information?

Wait. Wait. This
rodent character that I...

That she seems to be
threatening to blackmail

is supposed to be you!

Oh, come on. Enough already.

And the Three Moose
Ears that she refers to,

wasn't there a big drug
sting several years ago,

the Three Musketeers, wasn't it?

Mrs. Fletcher... And you were
one of the arresting officers.

Right, and the drugs that we seized
were stolen from the evidence lockup.

Like the fish powder in
the comic strip. Of course.

And you were
suspected of the theft.

Not were. Are. Three
years of phone taps,

audits, tails, the whole shot.

There's a lot of people that
would kill to see me take the fall.

All the way from the DEA to
Internal Affairs to the wise guys.

And meanwhile, I'm pushing
papers down at headquarters.

Lady, are you telling me you don't
know anything about this comic strip?

That is exactly
what I'm telling you.

Then it's gotta be this guy
Hatter. I've never met Mr. Hatter.

This drug case of yours,
the people that you arrested,

they were all
released, weren't they?

Yeah, lack of evidence,
$20 million dollars' worth.

Listen, are you
sure you can't tell me

anything about this
offer that you're gonna...

I mean, she is gonna make me?

I suggest you talk to
Mr. Hatter about that.

Oh, yeah, right. All I get
is his answering machine.

Lieutenant, tell me... Yeah?

Did you steal those drugs?

Hello, Gloria. Yes, I got
in just about an hour ago.

Welcome back. Gloria,
I have to see Mr. Yorke.

I mean, does he have a few minutes in
the next... He's left for your apartment.

He's coming here? Yes.

Three more papers canceled
Biff Banyon last week.

Dayton, honey, you have got
to start living within your means.

Okay, then, 2500 against
next month's royalties.

Paige, it's not as though
we're talking serious money.

Darlin', it is all serious now.

You are down 64 papers.

Hey, your storylines have
been getting kind of tired lately.

You can't go in
there! All right, Paige,

how the hell did this happen?

And you call yourself
a feature syndicate?

What I want to know is, how
did a strip that I didn't draw,

and didn't even ever see before,

slip past everyone and get
printed in 2,000 newspapers?

Stan. Day.

This cop, DiMartini,
has been screaming into

my telephone answering
machine all morning.

And I can't say I blame him.

Are you trying to tell
me that is not your work?

Damn straight, it's not.

Stanley, honey,
don't hustle a hustler.

Okay, okay. Let
me put it this way.

Until you can tell me
how this happened,

and guarantee that it
will never happen again,

no more Hattervilles.
So long, Paige.

I'm finally gonna
take that vacation.

Try it, Stanley, and I will nail you
for everything from breach of contract

to cruelty to those stupid
little critters you draw.

And while we're at it, we'll just
see how many alimony payments

you can afford to miss.

Stan Hatter thinks
he is indispensable.

He's crazier than a
longhorn on locoweed.

Day, that kid he's
got working for him...

Right. Teddy, uh...
Teddy something.

Teddy Gray, was that it?

No, Teddy Graves, that's it.

I hear he's got a
whole lot of talent.

Yeah, I think I heard that, too.

You figure he could
take over the Hatterville?

Maybe. With a little help
from the right person.

Just to refresh your memory, Stan
stole the idea for that strip from me.

That's right, Mr. Melton, in
order to pay the takeover costs,

we'll have to fire
63% of the employees,

raid the pension fund,
and issue junk bonds.

And the upside?

The upside, after taxes,
depreciation, green-mail and legals,

is an instant outfall of
78 million and change.

And then, of course, we take
the company to chapter 11.

Do it.

"Picked up 40 million bushels
of chicken feed on that deal.

"I had nothing to do with that
Preferred Livestock swindle."

SECRETARY ON
PHONE: Yes, Mr. Melton.

Get me Paige Kindle, The
Empire Feature Syndicate.

Yes, sir.

Ah, Jessica. Russell!

I knew you were due in today,

so I took a chance
that you'd be here.

Well, I can't tell you
how glad I am to see you.

Well, lawyers don't hear that
very often. Please, sit down.

Thank you.

How was your trip?
Oh, it was wonderful.

Not a thing went wrong. I wish I could
say the same about my homecoming.

Do you happen to know
a comic strip called...

Hatterville? Yes,
and a police officer

named Lieutenant
Peter DiMartini?

And the Wall Street
buy-out artist, Roger Melton.

I've heard of him, yes.

Jessica, I think you
ought to take a look at this.

Where did you get this?

Melton's attorney
faxed it to me.

He's a killer, Jess,
just like his client.

You and Mr. Stan Hatter and the
outfit that syndicates his comic strip

are going to be sued for
libel, invasion of privacy

and quite possibly extortion to the
tune of several million dollars each.

But, Russell,
this is ridiculous.

I know absolutely
nothing about all this,

and I certainly didn't
give permission to...

Jessica, whether or not you did,

I'm afraid you're going to be
faced with some difficult choices.

To defend yourself, or settle.

Settle?

Of course, you
can sue Mr. Hatter,

but even if you win,
even if you can prove

that Mr. Melton has
no case whatsoever,

your legal fees can amount to
upwards of a quarter of a million dollars,

plus the emotional expense.

And with an out-of-court
settlement, who knows?

I think I better go lie down.

Toddson Brothers.
Got a package here.

Hey, kid, how much
time we got left?

Twenty-two minutes.

That's all right, we'll make it.

Oh, man, how'd they get in here?

Would you get rid of 'em?

Sure.

I'm sorry, Mr... That's
right, Jessica Fox.

Where is he?
Well, ma'am, he's...

Mr. Hatter?

Hi. Pardon my bad manners,
but if I miss my deadline,

I'm out a couple
thousand bucks in late fees.

Well, I'm afraid that is
your problem, Mr. Hatter.

Mrs. Fletcher, I didn't draw it.

I checked with the syndicate. A
messenger showed up with the artwork,

they threw it into the hopper.

Who looks? Even they can't
figure out how it got into print.

"It"? The DiMartini strip.
He's telling you the truth.

What about the strip where you
accuse Roger Melton of a stock swindle?

Oh, my God, what's
going on here?

What is going on is that
thanks to you we are being sued

for millions of dollars!
Why, Mr. Hatter?

Mrs. Fletcher, I'm as
angry about this as you are,

but I swear, I had
nothing to do with this!

But how can you say that? I
mean, there is Jessica Fox.

That is my real strip. That,
I had nothing to do with.

Honestly. But this makes
absolutely no sense.

I mean, why would somebody
want to counterfeit your comic strips?

I don't know.
Maybe it's a nut case.

Or maybe somebody that
just wants to get me in trouble.

Coffee?

Oh, no, no. Mr. Hatter, I
realize that because I am

considered a public figure, I
can't prevent you from creating

a cartoon character
that looks like me,

but when the words coming out
of her mouth are libeling people...

Look, Mrs. Fletcher,
I'm your biggest fan.

When I came up with the idea for
this barnyard murder-mystery thing,

I thought, "Who better to solve it
than Jessica Fox?" I mean, Fletcher.

Look. See? The main suspects are a
chicken, a horse and a couple of cows.

This is Lorraine. She suffers from
MPS. Multiple personality syndrome.

A cow?

Oh, yes. She has seven distinct
personalities. But she's not the killer.

Look, obviously, someone's
messing with my people, damn it!

Now, I never meant
to complicate your life,

and I promise I'm
gonna take care of this.

I'm gonna get to
the bottom of it.

I'll call my lawyer, and get you off
the hook, just as soon as I get out

from under my deadline problems.

Stan, 14 minutes. It's okay,
kid. We're gonna make it.

Look, um... I'll write
you out of the strip.

Hey, I'm only a week ahead.

Before you know it,
Jessica Fox will be history.

I'll have you bitten
by Rex Rattlesnake.

Or maybe devoured by Leroy Lion.

Or maybe one of
the other characters.

I'll kick it around with
'em. I'll get back to you.

These characters, these animals,

they're kind of like his friends.
He takes it very seriously.

"I won't print the Hatterville
strip that will prove your guilt

"if I get 250,000
dollars by the weekend.

"Time and place will follow."

Well, I can't say that
I'm surprised, Lieutenant,

and I certainly don't blame
you for being upset over this,

but what I don't understand is
why you are showing it to me.

I mean, this is a
matter for the police.

You want to know
why? I'll tell you why.

Because A, I'm innocent,
but I can't prove it

because my alibi, my
former partner, is dead.

B, I don't have 250 dollars,
let alone 250 thousand.

And C, you must think I'm
some kind of a major idiot.

Cabot Cove Gazette?

That's right, Mrs. Fletcher. I checked.
That's from last Tuesday's newspaper.

The only thing I can't figure out is
why you would try to blackmail me.

Look, Lieutenant, I can almost
understand your paranoia,

but last Tuesday I was in Italy,

and I haven't been in
Cabot Cove for three weeks.

I mean, it was bad enough
that I was accused of libel,

and now, blackmail.
What I want to know is

how much more of
this is going to happen.

Honest to God, Mrs. Fletcher,

I don't have any more of a
fix on this than you do, but...

Look, Mr. Hatter, I
mean, at this point

I'm sure you understand
that it is very difficult for me

to believe anything
that you say.

But I'm telling you that...

Look, it's a wonderfully clever
scheme, you know, dragging me into it,

and diverting suspicion away from
yourself. And the Cabot Cove newspaper,

I mean, that was a
really very clever touch.

But I... And it turns out that

there's a newsstand at Grand Central
Station that carries it one week late.

Mrs. Fletcher, I can prove

the cartoon that appeared in
this morning's paper is a forgery.

Can you?

Now, look at the
characters' eyes.

You notice there are little
highlights in their eyes? Yes.

Now, these are on the
upper right-hand side.

Well, mine are always on the left. I
can show you thousands of my drawings.

Always on the left.

You could have
done it intentionally.

But I didn't. It's the truth.

Look at the way the hand is
drawn. Stan's thumbs always have

a little inward curve,
right about there.

And that's not my
lettering, Mrs. Fletcher.

Besides, why would I
jeopardize my career?

Another couple of years, Hatterville will
be as big as Peanuts or Calvin and Hobbes,

and then I'm home free.

Well, Stanley, I can't say I am
exactly surprised that somebody

who draws cutesy little animals
that spout political philosophy

would be twisted enough
to pull a stunt like this.

But someone like
you, Mrs. Fletcher?

Tell me, have you ever looked
a man-eating shark in the eyes?

I presume your comic
strip refers to my investment

in the CompuChamp Corporation.

I told you, I didn't draw that.

Which you were implying, Mrs.
Fletcher, to be a major swindle on my part.

The kind of crime that, were I
proven guilty, could send me to prison

for a very long time.

Mr. Melton, I... Miss
Kindle, I've had my people

looking into your
publishing operation,

and I find I'm faced with
a truly difficult choice.

Whether to take over
your company and pillage it,

or to simply buy up your many,
many debts and demand payment.

I can assure you, my decision
will be based solely upon

which option will
cause you the most pain.

Now, as to the amount of money

I intend to sue you for, I
kind of like the roundness

of the 40 million you
mention in your cartoon.

In dollars, of course.

I'm just telling the both of you

that whatever I suffer
because of you two,

I will make you pay for!

May I suggest you discuss
your differences on your own time.

Look! Stop, both of you!

I am not that cartoon character.

If it weren't for Mr. Hatter's
ill-advised decision

to feature a fox
that looks like me,

I wouldn't be here at all.

Mrs. Fletcher...

Mr. Melton, would
you please sit down?

Ever since I got back
to New York today,

I have been threatened
and shouted at.

Now, I think it is
time to try to find out

who's really responsible for
whatever it is that is going on.

Now, suppose we assume for a moment
that Mr. Hatter is telling the truth.

Thank you.

The word was "assume."

Well, then, the question
is, can you think of anyone

that you know who
might want to cause you

this kind of trouble?

Well, actually,
any of my ex-wives.

The politicians I've
skewered. The celebrities.

Then there's always
that fading star,

Day Whiting, genius
behind Biff Banyon.

The fact is, Mrs. Fletcher,

that Stan Hatter stole the
idea for Hatterville from me.

He knows it and I know it.

That was back when
he was your assistant?

Yes.

Add 25 percent for
yourself, young man.

Thank you, Mr. Whiting.

Unfortunately, all my
notes and sketches were lost

some years ago in a fire, of
mysterious origin, I might add.

So it's his word against mine.

Look, pal, I can't wait until
next week. I need it this morning.

Mr. Bozell, I'd
like you to meet...

Now, Whiting. Come
on, no more snarling.

I understand your
situation, believe me.

This afternoon, I promise.

All right, you promise.

Forgive the interruption,
Mrs. Fletcher.

A failed journalist. The man couldn't
even make it in a supermarket tabloid.

Yes, Mr. Whiting, you said that you'd
been meaning to get in touch with me. Why?

Because I have a great
deal of respect for you,

and for your work. And once I
heard about what's been happening,

I wanted to offer you a piece
of advice. Protect yourself.

Sue Stan Hatter for
everything he's worth.

Well, I'm afraid that
lawsuits aren't my style.

I rather thought you'd
say something like that.

Look, you're here
because you obviously think

that I might be responsible
for Hatter's troubles.

Well, you seem to
have a real motive.

Are you?

You have to understand. Stan
Hatter is a sick, desperate man.

He's a pathological
liar. This whole scenario,

it's a grandstand
play to gain sympathy.

He's the victim. At the same
time, on a truly Machiavellian level,

the hype will boost
his readership,

the sales of all
those stuffed animals,

the viewership of
the TV cartoon series.

I never said he
wasn't brilliant.

You know, up until a moment
ago you had me half-believing

that Stan Hatter might
be responsible for all this.

You're losing me.

Look, whatever Stan Hatter's problems are,
he regards his characters as his friends.

I can't believe that he would be capable
of letting his little cartoon creatures

say or do anything
that was unethical.

That's a very shaky premise.

Is it? I mean, my characters in
my novels are very real to me.

I mean, would you allow your...

What's his name, Biff Banyon
to say or do anything like that?

Well, no. We're talking
apples and oranges here.

You and I live
in the real world.

Mr. Whiting, your credit
card wasn't accepted.

Thank you.

Excuse me, Day.

Mrs. Fletcher, this
is Mell Lazarus.

What a pleasure, Mr. Lazarus.

How do you do, Mrs. Fletcher. Have
you heard the news about Ben Watanabe?

No.

All right, Mr. Hatter, you still
haven't answered my question.

Don't you find
it a little strange

that Mr. Watanabe was in your
studio at 3:49 in the morning?

Sergeant, I have told you before,
he always worked at night, for me,

and for a lot of
other cartoonists.

Buckman! Do you mind?

I'm sorry.

Check the bottoms of your shoes.

I want every fragment out
of that wristwatch crystal.

Right, Sergeant.

Come on, Mr. Hatter, let's
give a look to your studio.

Excuse me, Sergeant Redstone,

are you assuming
that this was suicide?

Pending any evidence to the contrary,
yes. We are assuming cause of death

to be massive head trauma
caused by impacting the pavement.

This is unbelievable.

He had everything to live for.

He had a wife and two
daughters in Scarsdale,

a terrific career going.

Mrs. Fletcher, what
is your interest in,

or connection to, Mr. Watanabe?

Oh... And don't try to
complicate things, please.

I'm quite familiar with your, to put it
politely, your obsession with murder.

Accusing me of being obsessive
is hardly polite, Sergeant.

Okay, all right, I'm sorry.

At any rate, that is not
the reason that I'm here.

All right, where's
this Mr. Hatter?

Lieutenant, what
are you doing here?

Oh, still warm and cuddly
as ever, huh, Sergeant?

I asked you a question.

It's a personal matter.

Oh, really? Oh, well,
I bet it's fascinating.

A discredited former
narcotics cop...

Excuse me, Sergeant.

Mr. Hatter, do you happen to recall
seeing that this statuette was cracked?

I don't remember seeing
it that way yesterday.

I don't know, I don't really
look at it all that often.

Teddy, did you notice anything?

No. Maybe it fell.

This is exactly what
I was talking about.

I'm not suggesting
anything, Sergeant.

Except that forensics might
just want to take a look at it.

Oh, please, Mrs. Fletcher. Your
think I don't know your game?

You are suggesting
that it wasn't suicide.

That the guy was murdered, struck with that
thing there. And then, what? The killer

threw his body out
the window so he could

make it look like he
took his own life, right?

You know, that is a very
interesting possibility, Sergeant.

I mean, a fall
from the fourth floor

could certainly obscure
the real cause of death.

What is this, anyway?

Oh, It's the Reuben Award.

It's like the Oscar, from the
National Cartoonists Society.

Okay, let's pretend this
is a murder investigation,

and in a minute I am going to
ask you exactly why you are here,

but you first, Lieutenant. And
unless you want more trouble from IA

than you've already got, I suggest
you keep the answers very straight.

I heard about Mr. Watanabe
on the police radio, and...

No, Sergeant. No way Ben could
have done those counterfeit drawings.

He was strictly into lettering.

And the style. Whoever
did 'em wasn't very good.

I mean, Sergeant, when a
killer intends to kill someone,

doesn't he or she usually
bring their own weapon?

What are we suggesting
now, Mrs. Fletcher?

Only that the statuette, if that is indeed
what Mr. Watanabe was struck with,

was more a weapon
of opportunity.

Which would mean probably
that it was unpremeditated.

That's good, Mrs. Fletcher.

Well, it also means that it
could have been anyone.

A burglar, or
maybe a crazed fan.

Except there was no
sign of forced entry.

On the other hand, none of this
precludes a nice simple solution.

Mr. Watanabe masterminded
the whole blackmail scheme,

he became disconsolate about
the fact that he'd dug himself

into such a big hole
and he took his own life.

You still hate those loose
ends, don't you, Sergeant?

Or even better, maybe
he was murdered

by one of his blackmail victims,
someone knowledgeable enough

to make it look like it was
unpremeditated, Lieutenant.

Oh, that's cute.

From 10:00 to 6:00 last
night I was at headquarters.

At least a dozen
cops will back me up.

If it is murder,
you better believe

I'm going to check with
every single one of them.

In the meantime, none
of you take any trips.

And that includes
you, too, Mrs. Fletcher.

Let's go.

Oh, Jessica, I can't
tell you how rotten I feel

getting you
involved in all this.

Well, thank you.

But the fact remains that whether
Mr. Watanabe was murdered or not,

there's still a very
malevolent blackmailer loose.

What we have to do is
find a common denominator,

some sort of thread that
will connect the victims.

So far, you've used up three of
your five minutes, Mr. Whiting.

So, I suggest you drop the
tap dance and get on with it.

Absolutely, Mr. Melton.

The point is that I'm
terribly sympathetic

to the wrongs that you've
suffered at the hands of Stan Hatter.

The man is arrogant.
He's patently dishonest.

He's a disgrace to our
profession, and it's time...

Mr. Whiting... Yes.

The fact is, Mr. Melton,
that I have been financing

a lengthy investigation
into Hatter and his activities.

This investigation is
about to bear serious fruit,

and may well benefit
your case against...

How much? Ah.

Ten thousand dollars.
But we should get results...

Yes, sir. Cut a check
for 10,000 dollars to...

Dayton Whiting, with an "H."

Dayton Whiting. Yes, Mr...

Mr. Melton, you won't be...

Something to take to the bank
along with my check, Mr. Whiting.

I'm accustomed to receiving
results for my money.

Twenty-five, twenty-six,

twenty-seven,
twenty-eight, twenty-nine,

three thousand.

I honor my agreements.

Wait.

You said something about
an extra week in advance.

Jerry, I don't need
it or you anymore.

Don't you have some
parking tickets to write up?

I want to talk.

Call a 900 number.

What is your problem, lady?

You know there's only one
thing worse than a crooked cop...

Wait a minute... That's a crooked
cop who muscles in on my case.

Who do you think you
are? Mother Teresa?

I seem to remember you
getting in over your head

on an officer-involved
shooting about a year ago.

That was righteous. Internal
Affairs cleared me on that.

Sure. Sure, after you'd pushed
papers for about a month,

and the IA looked into everything
including the color of your skivvies.

So what? Well, that's been
happening to me for three years.

You're supposed to be
innocent until proven guilty,

but that does not apply to cops.

Everyone in this building,
including you, thinks I did it.

So, what do you want?

Whoever drew
that rat comic strip,

they must be trying to
make me take the fall.

I mean, the blackmail has
got to be some kind of cover-up.

I have no money. Yeah, well,
that's spoken like a true cop.

I figure, if I can find out
who drew the comic strip,

then I might to be able to
figure out who engineered

the Three Musketeers drug heist.

Oh, so, you clear your name,

you get your job back and
you live happily ever after.

Something like that, yeah.

Yeah, well, that's a
fairy tale, DiMartini.

Still,

you could look after
that Fletcher woman.

I mean, at least
she talks to you.

Maybe she's allergic
to your charm.

Okay, ground rules.

You tell me everything she
does, and everyone she sees.

You got it. And when the
killer is busted, it's my collar.

Killer? I thought you
said it was suicide.

This came down from the lab.

Thank you.

But I think that a
semi-educated guess

describes it more
aptly, Lieutenant.

Well, at any rate, thank
you for letting me know.

It was murder.

Your Reuben Award. It was wiped
almost clean, but they did find traces

of Mr. Watanabe's blood.
But there were no fingerprints.

I still can't believe anybody
would want to kill Ben.

Well, as I said, I'm not sure
that the killer really wanted to...

Find anything? I'm
afraid not, so far.

We've been through every word the Globe's
got on DiMartini and Melton, and not even

a comma that cross-references.

Except they apparently
have the same blackmailer.

With the same kind of
sleazy secrets. I told you all.

That's it! The same
kind of information.

The same quality of it.

Operator 221. Yes.

Could you give me the number
of the American Inquirer, please?

Hello, Scuzz.

Don't tell me, you got a folder
in there marked "dead file," right?

No, I... Don't mess with me,
Bozell. I don't have a lot to lose.

I checked with a couple
of your former editors

at the supermarket
tabloids, Mr. Bozell.

The material that you
submitted was so libelous

that even the worst of
them couldn't use it, or you.

Oh, yeah? Well, they are all
a bunch of spineless wimps.

Every damn word
of that was true.

Not quite every word, pal.

You simply filed it all away until you
had an opportunity to use it for blackmail.

Wrong, lady. Somebody
stole them out of my files.

Oh, sure they did.

The thing that's heartwarming to me
is that you finally made the big mistake.

No, I swear!

I never killed that
lettering man. I...

You got the wrong
guy, DiMartini.

Look, why do you
think I'm about to split?

Because if you figured it out,
then sooner or later all those people

who are being blackmailed
are gonna come after me, too.

He's got a point
there, Lieutenant.

He's lying, Mrs. Fletcher! I was paying
him to handle my publicity, that's all!

Well, not according to this,
Mr. Whiting. It's one of several

that Jerry Bozell made during the
last few weeks. Duplicates of the tape

that he sent to you, reporting on his
surveillance of Stan Hatter's activities.

I hired him three weeks ago.

To find something that you
could use against Mr. Hatter,

some impropriety, some
sort of misbehavior?

Yes. Yes, to get back at him for
the money he's making from my idea.

My intellectual property. And
all the millions he stands to make.

And I didn't kill Ben Watanabe.

Oh, come on, Mr. Whiting.
You drew that fake comic strip.

What? Are you kidding?

I couldn't do that cornball Bigfoot
stuff if my life depended on it.

My style is realistic.

Yes, Mr. Whiting is what
Mr. Hatter refers to as a wrinkle artist.

Some critic. Look, as it happens,
I spent all of last night with a lady.

And for the sake of my
health, and her marriage,

I would be grateful if you
would not bring her into this

unless it's
absolutely essential.

Well, then who drew the comic
strips and who killed Watanabe?

I think I know, Lieutenant.

But I'm afraid that proving
it isn't going to be that easy.

Except that it may have
gotten just that much easier.

There.

I didn't imagine it.

When we were at the
cartoonist's club, I brushed a plant

away from my head and...

And it reminded me.

Now, this morning, it looked as if it
was leaning away from the window.

Now, plants usually
reach for the light.

Yeah, I know, it's
called heliotropism.

I raise orchids.

So, somebody rotated it. So?

Rotating plants can
be good for them,

although I have a feeling this
was done for another reason.

Give me a hand
and we'll lift this up.

It's one of those
artist's gloves.

Watanabe's blood.

Probably.

And with a little bit of luck,

laboratory analysis should
give us the identity of the killer.

Now wait a minute, Mrs. Fletcher,
I questioned Watanabe's widow,

and she said the
same thing. That her

husband stuck to a
very precise work routine.

Every night, he would show up at
a half-dozen cartoonists' studios,

but she insisted that he kept

the schedule in his head and that there
was no written copy of it that she knew of.

Yes, that's right, Sergeant.

Yeah, but now you're telling me that
he didn't show up at Stan Hatter's studio

at his regular time? I mean,
how the hell do you know that?

Well, it's something that was
very easy to overlook, Sergeant.

I almost didn't think of it.

What, Mrs. Fletcher?

I telephoned all the
cartoonists that he worked for.

It turned out that yesterday one of them
had called Ben to report that he hadn't

finished writing the dialog, and
his strips wouldn't be ready for Ben

to letter till today.

So, what does this tell us?

Well, I think it tells us that the killer
was familiar with Mr. Watanabe's schedule,

and didn't expect him to show
up at Stan's studio when he did.

So, when Watanabe got there,
and discovered that he wasn't alone,

the killer figured there
was no option but murder.

The bloodstains on the glove
are from the victim. That's it.

What, no hair?
No skin particles?

Nothing. Damn.

Yeah, my sentiments exactly, Lieutenant.
I had to break a date with my fiancé

and waste two very expensive
theater tickets, with very little gain.

Perhaps it's not
so little, Sergeant.

May I use your phone? I need
to leave a message for Mr. Hatter.

Mr. Graves, you're under arrest
for the murder of Ben Watanabe,

and for extortion and blackmail.

Okay, yes. What Mr. Whiting
told you, that part's the truth.

He did hire me.

And gave you scripts
based on the material

that he'd stolen from
Jerry Bozell's dead files.

I don't know where he got it
from. I just drew the pictures.

You know, the subtle differences
between your drawings and Stan's,

that was very clever, Teddy.

When Stan was sick, I ghosted
all his strips. Nobody ever knew.

Until you told Day Whiting, which gave
him the idea. It was also clever of you

to use the Cabot Cove
Gazette for the blackmail notes.

How was I supposed to know
you were out of the country?

Anyway, Mr. Whiting told me I could
keep whatever blackmail money came in.

Hmm. What a guy.

He's okay. He paid
me more than Stan did,

and treated me
like I was somebody.

And exposed you
to a great deal of risk.

Risk?

Blackmail victims frequently
kill their tormentors,

particularly if the victims
are really guilty as charged.

I guess I never
thought about that.

Don't look at me, kid. One of
these days, I'll get off the hook.

I never meant to kill Ben.

Honest.

I was working on the
last batch of phony strips.

And wearing those white
gloves to prevent leaving

fingerprints on the drawings.

Yeah. I'd been working about an
hour and a half. My eyes were tired,

my back was starting to complain. I needed
to stretch. I figured I had plenty of time

before he was due
to appear, so I took a

break and went to the
kitchen for some coffee.

Then suddenly I heard the
front door being unlocked.

It was Ben. He wasn't supposed
to get there for another hour.

He saw the false strips and
knew something was fishy.

Then I accidentally bumped
something and he turned.

Ben had a black belt in karate and
he looked like he was ready to kill,

so I grabbed the Reuben
Award and swung at him.

Then I realized how much
trouble I'd be in if they found Ben

on the floor of Stan's studio,

so I decided to
fake his suicide.

There was a
commotion in the street.

If the police stopped me
and asked me questions,

I didn't want the glove found
on me, so I hid it, then and there.

Why, Teddy?

Stan Hatter told me that you're brilliantly
talented. That you were on your way

to a superstar career in
the comic strip business.

Maybe in ten, fifteen years.

Eight months working as Stan's
gofer and I had it up to my skull.

And that music he
played, day after day...

Mrs. Fletcher, that phone
message you left for Stan,

about how the police knew it was
murder and were coming in to really go over

the studio tomorrow morning...

It was really a
message for you, Teddy.

I was counting on you
calling in to Stan's machine

because the only way that we could
prove that you were the killer was

if you incriminated yourself.

That's pretty good, Mrs.
Fletcher. That's pretty good.

Mrs. Fletcher, I gotta tell you. I
don't take it all back. Just most of it.

Jessica, are you sure
that I can't see you home?

Thanks, Stan, but
I'd really feel guilty if

I contributed to you
missing your deadline.

Oh, thanks a lot, Jessica.

Well, Jessica, I guess
what it comes down to is,

see you in the funny papers!