All language subtitles for MrSWr903

Tonight, on Murder, She Wrote.

People in this town refer to him as Saint Max.

The philanthropist, that Maxwell Hagen?

Your classic case of more than meets the eye.

I want to know where the leak is.

This game just got more expensive.

Quiet, I have a gun.

I said let go! Please!

There seems to be someone else who looks like me.

Max Hagen is lying.

Mrs. Fletcher, it’s none of your damn business.

Jess, you’re becoming almost cynical enough

to survive in this town.

Killing a prominent novelist

is simply not an acceptable option.

Yes?

Oh, hi.

Oh, God.

When?

How?

All right, all right, how much time do I have?

Damn you, you promised

that there would be no problems, no danger.

No, no, no, you listen to me.

This game just got more expensive.

I want 200,000 and protection.

Listen, I’m not interested, just do it or you--

Someone’s here.

I’ll contact you.

Damn.

Jessica, besides being unable to imagine

why you want to make the protagonist

in your next novel a newspaperman,

I don’t think mine are the brains you want to be picking.

Sullivan, I don’t want to know how you got those tickets.

Now why my kid digs that kind of music,

but he really loved the show.

Anytime, pal. I’ll call you next week.

You’re a hell of a guy, hell of a guy.

He’s a real jerk.

He’s got more connections than a tenement wall socket.

I do him a couple of favors,

he feeds me some information about City Hall.

Oh, fascinating.

Yeah, anyway, what can I tell you?

It’s all getting out of hand.

The editors are getting younger and younger

and shallower and shallower.

Brynie, thank God, I found you.

Speak of the devil.

Jessica Fletcher, Jason Nerd.

Herd. Jason Herd. Ma’am.

How do you do?

He’s my junior managing editor.

Assistant managing editor.

Whatever.

Nice to meet you.

Brynie, I’ve got big problems with your column.

No kidding.

Well, here for instance,

"Let me tell you about the very rich,

they are different from you and me."

What kind of a line is that?

The kind a guy by the name of

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote on one of his bad days.

Have you heard of him, by any chance?

Well, of course I have.

I just-- but then there’s all this other stuff.

I mean, who is this George S. Kaufman and Ben Hecht?

I don’t get it, Brynie.

And if I don’t get it, neither will our readers.

Fix it.

I’ll need it on my desk by 1:00 p.m. tomorrow.

Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fleming.

And you, Mr. Herd.

Oh, I’m sorry, Brynie.

I know it isn’t funny to you.

I’m telling you, it’s everywhere.

On past occasions, he would have driven me to drink.

Toni.

Yes, Mr. Sullivan?

A dish of chocolate mocha ice cream.

Of course.

Make it a double.

Jessica?

Oh, don’t tempt me.

Hey, hey, there, look.

Yeah, you got your typical bland 14-year-old reporter

asking your typical put-you-to-sleep-type

questions instead of nailing coach Davis where he lives.

Like, what about his former penchants

for nose candy or compulsive gambling?

Both of which are rumored to be rearing

their ugly heads again.

Or even more to the point,

how much does he have on his boss Maxwell Hagen?

The philanthropist? That Maxwell Hagen?

Your classic case of more than meets the eye.

Now, that is a story I would pay to write,

but try to find an editor smart enough

or with guts enough to print it.

Stupid idiot, infantile moron.

Sure you want to use me as a model?

Brynie, you’re it and that’s final.

Nobody can do what you do, nobody.

If it is, Jess, I don’t know that I could do it anymore.

Look, I’ve got to work on these idiot changes.

I’m not gonna be able to meet you tomorrow morning.

Oh, well, that’s perfect.

I’ve got a million things that I have to do

before I leave for San Francisco.

Why don’t you make your idiot changes,

and we’ll meet for late lunch.

Illiterate business major Dunsky.

Since I was barely able to talk,

my mother rather relentlessly

impressed upon me my social responsibility

toward others less fortunate.

It stayed with me, and therefore,

it is my pleasure to present this check

for $1,000,000 to the Inner City Hospital.

- That it? - That’ll do it.

See it gets in tomorrow’s paper,

the picture and the quote.

Here’s the new blurb for the Teaching Chair Endowment.

I still hate it.

Oh, Max. For God’s sakes, I added heart, a little pathos.

It needs more warmth, about another 25 degrees.

Funny, I looked all over my desk

and couldn’t find the Feldman contracts.

Sorry about that, things were a little backed up.

I’ll have it to you in a couple of days.

Tomorrow.

Max.

Nine am.

How is he tonight?

Got it?

It’s okay.

We’ve got a line on her.

You damn well better not let her slip away again.

Understood.

Is it?

Are you sure you realize what’s at stake for me?

For you?

Yes, sir, I do.

Excuse me.

You wanted to see me, Max?

As the Eagles suffer another devastating defeat,

some people are saying that team owner,

Max Hagen, may just be too nice a guy,

too easygoing for this business.

In other sports news...

You know better than that now, don’t you, coach?

One more loss like last night,

you’d better update your resume.

Two hundred thousand and witness protection?

What are you, out of your mind?

Forget it.

Come on, you have any idea what I had to do to convince

the Attorney General to let me go a 100,000?

Hey, you guaranteed her, you turned her,

and now she’s gone to ground.

How do I know she had the merchandise

in the first place, much less now?

Hell, for all I know, Liz Foster doesn’t even exist.

I go back and blow this kind of smoke at the boss

and I’m out of here.

Do I really want Hagen?

Does Second Avenue have potholes?

I said no. You worry about her.

Listen, you wanted the heat taken off you,

so just make sure I get what the lady has on Hagen

before he does her.

Capiche?

Helen.

Yes, Mr. Paloma?

Get me the Attorney General.

No, Sir.

That’s flight 42 on the 24th,

returning to JFK on the 8th.

Oh.

Yes, Mr. Garrity.

Yes, sir, you’re confirmed for an aisle seat.

Yes, sir, that’s both ways.

Thank you, Mr. Garrity.

Sorry.

Trans-East Airlines, how may I help you?

On the 12th? Just a moment, please.

Have a nice flight.

Thank you.

Yes, sir. We have space on...

Oh...

Oh, oh, miss Foster!

Miss Foster! Miss Foster!

What are you doing? Let go of me.

Quiet, I have a gun.

I said let go! Please!

Somebody help me!

All right, now, I want an explanation.

Maxwell Hagen?

You? You’re J. B. Fletcher.

Good Lord, I’m--

Mr. Hagen, I have been pushed and bruised and shoved,

and I want to know why and I want to know now.

I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.

There’s been a dreadful mixup.

A mixup?

Well, that’s hardly an explanation for what--

Please, let me explain all this.

It was...

It was simply a little surprise

that I’d prepared

for a dear friend on the occasion of her birthday.

Mr. Hagen.

And apparently--

Mr. Hagen, I don’t believe you.

Mrs. Fletcher, I assure you.

Won’t you at least permit me to explain

while I give you a lift back home?

Taxi.

Taxi.

Let me do her.

Robin, you’re absolutely right to assume

that there are few things in this life

that cannot be fixed.

But killing a prominent novelist is--

But--

Is simply not an acceptable option.

Not for the moment, at least.

Now, I want you to find the Foster woman, and quickly.

And if your people are not up to the job,

as they’ve thus far indicated...

Sara, darling, I’m afraid

I’m in need of some urgent damage control.

But, lieutenant, you admitted that the car was registered

to Max Hagen enterprises.

I admit it.

The plate number you gave me might have--

Oh, lieutenant.

Look, Mrs. Fletcher,

are you aware that around this town

there are a lot of people who refer to him as Saint Max?

I mean, do you realize that he is a major contributor

to the police Benevolent Association?

- Yes, lieutenant. - Okay, Mrs. Fletcher.

Let’s suppose you’re right.

- Yes, let’s. - Okay.

Let’s suppose that it was Mr. Hagen, okay?

All right? Now, let me ask you, what was so bad?

What was so bad?

I mean, in a limousine they picked you up, right?

And then they just let you go, right?

Lieutenant, that is the man who abducted me.

Now, I’m not a crank.

I am a citizen with a legitimate complaint.

Now, are you going to do something about it

or do I have to go to your superiors?

Mrs. Fletcher, wait.

Mrs. Fletcher...

in 11 days I retire.

Eleven days.

And I got me a perfect record.

Twenty years, 20 years I kept my nose clean.

No demerits, no waves, no rocking boats, I just...

You got any idea how hard that is to do?

Yes, I’m sure it’s very difficult.

Lieutenant, what are you trying to say to me?

What I’m trying to say, is why couldn’t you claim

you got grabbed by somebody who has at least been busted

for a few outstanding parking tickets?

To say that I’m honored to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher,

is a massive understatement.

Please, do have a seat.

Thank you.

But I’m afraid the truth is

I’ve never seen you before in my life,

except of course on the dust jackets of your books.

Mr. Hagen, that is simply not--

And by the way, Murder at the Ridgetop

has got to be my favorite.

Jack Tremont is one of the funniest,

most vivid characters you’ve ever written.

Thank you, Mr. Hagen, but I am not mistaken.

Oh, please, I know that.

I never for a moment meant to imply

that I don’t believe

you’ve suffered a horrible and frightening experience.

Yes, at your hands.

I wish I could put this in more palatable terms,

Mrs. Fletcher, but you’re wrong.

Mr. Hagen, you were wearing

a blue and white Seersucker jacket and blue slacks.

There were three men with you, and your car was gray,

and the car that I was forced into was black.

Lieutenant Gelber, the license number

that I gave you was registered to Mr. Hagen, wasn’t it?

Well, it, yes, but--

I suppose someone could have used one of my cars.

There, you see?

Oh, this is ridiculous.

Fred, I want you to find out exactly

where every one of our vehicles was this afternoon.

I tell you, Mrs. Fletcher, it’s truly terrible

what our city has come to,

that a woman such as yourself isn’t even

safe in broad daylight.

But even more unfortunate is the fact

that it seems there’s someone else who looks like me.

As if one weren’t bad enough.

Lieutenant Gelber.

Right.

Mr. Hagen, Mrs. Fletcher alleges that--

Alleges?

That she was abducted around 12:30 this afternoon.

Might I ask your whereabouts at that time?

Of course. Fred and I were in Boston.

Yeah, that’s right, lieutenant.

We returned, oh, not 15 minutes ago.

Our helicopter landed us on the roof.

I’m sure you can verify

that with New York air traffic control

and with our pilot, whose name is...

Oh, that won’t be necessary.

Mr. Hagen, I am really sorry for this whole thing.

Lieutenant, don’t give it another thought,

nor you, Mrs. Fletcher.

Oh, and I’d be terribly flattered

if you would reward me

with an autographed copy of your next book.

And like I said, I’m sure there’s a nice,

simple explanation for this whole megillah.

Oh, there certainly is.

Max Hagen is lying.

That isn’t quite what I had in mind.

Listen, Mrs. Fletcher, do me a favor, will you?

You got any more complaints about Mr. Hagen,

would you mind taking them to someone else, anyone else?

You can count on it, lieutenant.

Oh, no.

Mrs. Fletcher, we’d like you to come with us, come on.

- That does not entitle you-- - Yes, it does, ma’am.

- Oh, come on, this is ridiculous. - Ma’am, please.

Don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be.

I don’t understand what’s going on here.

Let’s go.

All right, we'll serve him with a writ.

He’s being paid to judge, not to avoid controversy.

And remind the senator that he promised me

his endorsement for Governor

before I drop the charges against his nephew.

Mrs. Fletcher, I’m Louis Paloma.

I need to know everything you know about Max Hagen.

Now, just a minute, Mr. Paloma.

I’m sorry for any inconvenience

we may have caused you.

Inconvenience?

Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t have much time.

Now, exactly what happened between you and Max Hagen?

Well, at least somebody believes me.

Now, Mr. Paloma,

what are you going to do about my abduction?

Do you have any idea why these men may have picked you up?

None, except they must have mistaken me for someone else.

We know that, Mrs. Fletcher.

Think, why you?

Why that particular location?

I told you, Mr. Paloma, I have no idea.

Now, I want to ask you--

All right. I want you to drop this matter.

I don’t want you going to the police

and I don’t want you complicating things

any more than you already have.

More than I--

Now, if anything occurs to you,

anything at all, that might shed some light on

why you were abducted,

I want you to call me anytime, day or night.

Now, if you’ll excuse me.

No, I will not.

I will not excuse you for having me

grabbed off the street like a common criminal.

And since you obviously have

some sort of professional interest in

Mr. Hagen’s activities,

I certainly won’t excuse you

for not telling me what it’s all about.

Mrs. Fletcher, it’s none of your damn business.

Maybe it isn’t, Mr. Paloma,

but if Mr. Hagen and his people

find the woman they were really after,

she may not be as lucky as I was.

I sincerely hope you’re making that your business.

And to make up in some small way

for what we are sure was a terribly upsetting experience,

Mr. Hagen has asked that I present you

with this check for your favorite charity.

Twenty five thousand dollars?

And of course he’s placed no conditions on it.

Conditions?

Oh, no, absolutely none.

Except the tacit ones.

That I shall agree to drop

my complaint and ignore his lies,

neither of which I’m prepared to do.

Yes?

Mr. Sullivan down here.

Oh, please have him come up.

I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Fletcher.

Tell me, miss Lloyd, do you really believe

that Maxwell Hagen is the solid,

unimpeachable pillar of society that he claims to be?

Yes, absolutely.

Well, then I don’t suppose you have any idea

why a federal prosecutor

might be interested in the woman

that I was mistaken for, or Mr. Hagen.

No, I don’t.

Miss Lloyd.

Hello, Mr. Sullivan.

I guess I don’t have to ask what she was doing here.

I just hope you weren’t buying

what Hagen had her peddling.

There was no sale.

Good.

Okay, now go get yourself all horsed up.

Why?

We’re going to a party.

Oh, a party? I am exhausted--

Jess, Jess, Jess, I got us an invite

to a little press reception for the New York Eagles.

You mean the basketball team that Maxwell Hagen owns?

You got it, kiddo.

And our host is none other than himself.

Now, I figure we play our cards right,

you can get another shot at him.

The old indicator tells me that there’s a story lurking

somewhere in this whole comedy of errors,

denials, and out-and-out lies.

This Mr. Paloma, he certainly seems to be very driven.

That’s our Louie.

Pure political animal, ruthless and desperate

to make a run for Albany.

And bringing down someone as prominent as Max Hagen,

that could give Mr. Paloma a high enough profile

to attract campaign contributions?

Jess, you’re becoming almost cynical enough

to survive in this town.

Oh, heaven help me.

Okay, we got Paloma, we got Hagen,

and we got a mysterious woman.

Wait a minute.

Three separate elements, but somehow they connect.

This is what it’s all about.

This is what what’s all about?

Well, this is my airline ticket.

They put it in someone else’s folder.

Grand Palace hotel.

Yes.

Could you connect me with miss Foster’s room, please?

Bingo.

And that’s the lady I’d like to interview for the record.

I’m afraid she’s not registered.

She isn’t? Are you quite sure?

Certain, ma’am.

Well, thank you.

Well, that’s the Grand Palace hotel,

but she’s not registered there.

Damn.

Maybe she hasn’t checked in yet.

You’re reading my mind.

Gelber, what’s going on?

Oh, Sullivan, Mrs. Fletcher.

Murder.

Look, you’ll have to excuse me.

I really can’t talk with you just now.

Okay, use that one.

Someone will know who the hell she is.

Right.

Pardon me, lieutenant.

You don’t know the victim’s name?

- Mrs. Fletcher. - Gelber.

Talk to the woman, be a mensch.

She’s a Jane Doe, no ID.

They found her in the elevator. Why?

Because unless I’m very much mistaken,

her name is Liz Foster.

Jess, you can’t beat up on yourself.

I mean, suppose you had discovered

the ticket mix-up earlier.

Who knows that you could have even found the woman,

must less warned her that she might be in trouble?

Lieutenant, like Mrs. Fletcher said,

nobody named Foster is registered here,

and so far nobody on the staff has ever seen her.

All right, well, run it past some of the guests.

Maybe she was visiting someone.

Right.

Look, I’d love to kick this around with you sometime

when I got nothing else in my mind.

Like 11 days from now.

Come on, Gelber.

Mrs. Fletcher was grabbed by Hagen’s people

because she was given the wrong ticket folder.

They thought she was Liz Foster, and--

Mr. Sullivan, a woman whose name

we don’t know gets herself mugged and killed

in a hotel elevator.

The perp strangles her with some kind of a strong cord,

grabs her handbag, and splits, period.

If that indicates even a remote connection

with Max Hagen with somebody named Liz Foster

with this lady’s claim that she was abducted,

then I’m in the wrong business.

Lieutenant, what would you say if I were to tell you

that federal prosecutor Louie Paloma was conducting

an investigation of Mr. Hagen’s activities

with special interest in Liz Foster?

Why don’t you give Louie a call?

I got a feeling you two might find a lot to talk about.

And in the hope that your attention

hasn’t already wandered to all that food and booze,

I just want to add one more thing.

This is the year the New York Eagles

are going all the way!

You’ve got it.

And you know why?

Because I hate losing.

What do you say, Mr. Hagen?

Brynie and Mrs. Fletcher, how lovely to see you again.

Mr. Hagen, it appears the unfortunate woman

your people mistook me for was just found murdered.

I believe her name was Liz Foster.

Well, forgive me, but I...

Foster? Washington.

Fred, am I imagining this or wasn’t there a young woman

down there who worked for us by that name?

It’s possible.

I’ll check it out.

Please do.

It’s ghastly enough when anyone is murdered,

but if it’s one of our people, I...

Now, are you sure that it was this Foster woman?

Oh, it’s the police who aren’t sure, Mr. Hagen.

I see.

Well, Mrs. Fletcher, Brynie,

I hope you’ll excuse me,

but as host of this intimate little evening,

it’s expected that I court the room.

Now that is a piece of work.

Look, this hasn’t been one of my favorite days,

and I don’t have the time,

the energy, or the patience for this, okay?

Okay, so answer me one question.

The last time I did that, you cost me an election.

And I got me a Pulitzer, go figure.

Anyway, this one’s on the house.

Are you investigating Max Hagen?

No, and I have zero interest in your theories

about this Foster woman’s death.

Then it was Liz Foster?

Yes. Now get out.

Not so fast, Mr. Paloma.

Now, Liz Foster was a living breathing person.

It’s bad enough that the police don’t seem to care, but you?

You’re an officer of the US government.

All right, all right.

I’m sorry she was killed, okay?

No, but it’s a beginning.

Listen, Mrs. Fletcher, dozens of people

are murdered every day in this town,

but they are just not my concern.

And I think I know why, pal.

You nail yourself some lower level Mark Gunsel,

and it still leaves the organization

doing business as usual.

You grab yourself a couple of headlines,

but nothing that sticks to the voters’ ribs.

Sullivan, you’ve been inhaling too much Irish whiskey.

Not for two years, 18 days, and about six minutes.

A slam dunk, that’s what you’re after, aren’t you?

You got your eye on the big score,

and that’s Max Hagen.

That’s it. Sullivan, you should’ve hung it up

a long time ago. Now get out of here.

Wait a minute.

Liz Foster was working for you, wasn’t she?

As some kind of an informant?

It all makes sense.

My being brought down here for questioning,

your anxiety over any information

I might have that could lead to her.

She’s right, isn’t she, Louie?

Sullivan, you print a word of this

and three years of work goes down the pipe,

and Max Hagen continues doing business as usual.

Spare me, Louie.

And here’s where it’s at.

You give us, and nobody else, the whole nine yards,

every bit of it,

and I don’t run the story till it’s over.

Now, you got a problem with that, pal?

Starting from the beginning, Mr. Paloma,

how did Liz Foster get involved

with your operation in the first place?

Liz Foster was part of Hagen’s staff in Washington,

but I had her brought in four months ago by a mole

I’ve got planted in Hagen’s organization.

To develop evidence you can use against Max Hagen.

Yesterday, she notified us that she had the goods,

enough to put Hagen away for several lifetimes.

But they were onto her.

She demanded we double the 100,000 I promised her.

So I put my job on the line with the Attorney General

and I give her what she wanted.

I’m supposed to meet her at the UN this morning,

but she doesn’t show.

And then that’s when

I get wind of your difficulties with Hagen.

Then after we talked,

she got in touch with you again.

We met in Central Park, I gave her the cash,

she gave me the computer disk

that supposedly contained the information that we needed.

Supposedly?

Everything on there is meaningless, total gibberish.

This mole, anyone I might know?

It’s a nice try, Sullivan.

So now the 200,000 is gone, Liz Foster is dead,

our case against Max Hagen is on the critical list,

and my tail is on the line.

We understand each other, Sullivan?

In return for an exclusive,

you’re not to print a word of this

until I’m ready to move on Max Hagen.

Or until you get yourself thrown out on your butt,

whichever comes first.

Hey, either way, I got me a great story.

Sullivan, you’re such a...

Such a what?

Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure you regard me

as some sort of heartless bureaucrat,

but there are other priorities at issue here.

I can’t help but wonder

if Liz Foster would have seen it that way.

A classic case of blind ambition.

It’s finally put Louie in the soup

right up to his buttoned down...

What?

What do you got, Jess?

Brynie, suppose Liz Foster wasn’t murdered

by one of Max Hagen’s men.

You’re thinking Hagen did it himself?

Well, what if somebody knew

that she was carrying the 200,000 in cash?

Well, hey, how about if she had real computer disks

and actual dirt on Hagen?

That somebody could have killed her for them.

Or for both the money and the disks.

Okay, but then why kill her in elevator?

Maybe that isn’t where she was killed.

Sara, darling, I swear I had nothing to do

with that woman’s death.

Yes, I wanted to talk to her.

Yes, I was unhappy that she was apparently

violating the loyalty

that I expect from my colleagues,

the loyalty that they expect of me.

But murder?

Look at me, Sara.

Can you honestly say you’re looking at someone

who could do such a thing or order it done?

Because if you can, I’ll accept your resignation.

Hell, I’ll welcome it.

Damn you, Max.

Thank you, darling.

I need your talents now more than ever.

I wish that wasn’t all you needed.

It’s been a difficult time, Sara.

Perhaps afterwards.

Well, according to my sources, the police have found nothing

that ties the Foster woman to you.

What about the computer disks?

Apparently, they weren’t on her body.

They may still be wherever she was staying,

but so far we don’t have a clue about where it was.

Well, we damn well better find them before the police do!

Now, I want to know where the leak is, and who it is!

And I want it shut off!

Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m not really arguing.

You were right all along, but there’s no way

I’m gonna bother Mr. Hagen

about this any more than I already have,

so don’t think about asking.

Fine, lieutenant.

Now, you were going to show me her belongings.

Right.

Bag lady found them in a dumpster a couple of blocks

away from the hotel, typical mugger’s MO.

The only fingerprints were the victim’s

and the bag lady’s,

and she was fast asleep in Grand Central Station

at the time of the murder.

The reason nobody remembered her at the hotel.

Probably.

I’ve seen this jacket somewhere before.

In the window of Saks Fifth Avenue.

Now this is part of a suit.

It has a matching skirt.

Yeah?

Lieutenant Gelber, I saw the photo

that your men took of Liz Foster.

Wasn’t she wearing a dark green dress

when she was killed?

Yeah. So what?

I don’t even know why I agreed to meet you here, Sullivan.

Maybe because Max Hagen wants to know what I know.

That it?

I work for Max Hagen, he doesn’t own me.

You better go easy on that stuff, clouds the mind.

Playing in that shark tank with Hagen,

got to keep all your synapses firing.

What did you want to talk to me about?

I’m a reporter, you’re Hagen’s press person.

Seems like a fit to me.

So, you ever meet this Liz Foster?

- No. - Me neither.

She was in a rubber bag

when the introductions went around.

The police photos weren’t very flattering.

Not a pretty way to go.

I’m sorry about what happened.

What do you want from me?

A story, what else?

You’ve got to be kidding.

Okay.

You know a federal prosecutor named Louis Paloma?

I know of him. Why?

Oh, I thought maybe you met him

somewhere or another, you know, socially.

What’s Paloma got to do with Max?

Well, if you don’t know, it’s not for me to say,

but my instincts tell me

you are gonna meet him soon.

I want the story when it breaks,

and if you’re as clean as you say you are,

I know how to treat a lady.

In print, anyway.

Now, what do you say, we got a deal?

I’m scared, Brynie.

That’s a start.

Housekeeping?

Bring up any unclaimed dry cleaning to the front desk.

Hello, front desk.

No, no, Mrs. Allen, don’t you worry,

we’ll send one of the staff

to ride in the elevator with you.

I’ll take care of it immediately.

We’re getting a lot of that.

That’s Liz Foster’s skirt.

This is the only unclaimed piece, Sir.

It matches her suit jacket.

Room 1411.

Registered as Mrs. Phillips.

She checked out this morning.

Are you quite sure?

Express checkout.

You just drop your key and your room folder in there.

So nobody would have noticed that it was actually

the killer who checked her out?

You know, I think it’s possible

that she was killed in that room.

Really?

Looking for this, Mrs. Fletcher?

And why shouldn’t I be angry?

You just up and walk out of my office without a word,

then I have to follow you to find out

where in the hell you’re going.

Lieutenant, if I had told you where I was going,

would you have taken it

any more seriously than you have

anything else that I’ve said?

Well, probably not.

Here, one of my men brought it in

as you were leaving,

found it in the trash can near the dumpster.

Well, it certainly could be the murder weapon.

Unfortunately, now that we know

where Liz Foster was staying,

and where she was probably murdered,

it looks as if the housecleaning staff

has ensured that we’re not gonna learn anything else.

Not necessarily.

Let’s see what forensics can come up with.

Look, they’ll call when they’ve got something.

But meanwhile, that poor girl’s killer

could get away, even leave the country.

Hello? Yes, lieutenant.

And what did they find?

Now, let me put it this way, Mrs. Fletcher.

If my aunt Florence,

the cleanliness nut, could afford it,

I would tell her to stay at the Grand Palace hotel.

And they didn’t find anything.

- Right. - We’re talking bupkes,

not a single sign that the victim

was ever in room 1411.

I mean, not even a hair or a traceable cloth fiber,

which puts us back somewhere west of square one.

Maybe not, lieutenant.

I’m listening.

Look, we know the place is spotless,

but the killer doesn’t.

Wait a minute.

Wait a minute, say it again.

Look, lieutenant.

I’ll call you back in a little while.

Brynie, am I correct in remembering

that Mr. Paloma said he has someone planted in

Mr. Hagen’s organization?

Yeah, a mole. Why?

That’s it.

- That’s what? - Come on.

Where are we going?

What do you got?

Out, Mrs. Fletcher, now.

I promise I’ll leave if you’ll just give me a moment.

Believe me, I don’t want to interfere,

but I felt I should

at least try and repay your generosity.

Well, it’s just that you were so kind to share

all that information with Brynie and me,

I mean about your investigation of Mr. Hagen,

that I thought it was only fair

to tell you something that I have just learned

about the police and Liz Foster’s murder.

Okay, Helen.

Get on with it, Mrs. Fletcher.

Thank you.

I nearly had to twist his arm,

but lieutenant Gelber finally admitted to me

that he is inches away from finding

the actual place where Liz Foster was murdered.

And that he is certain that when he does,

forensics will find something,

some sort of clue that will lead them to the killer.

So?

Well, it seemed to me that if they also find

those computer disks,

they’ll be in a position to prosecute Mr. Hagen.

And while I really don’t know how these things work,

it occurred to me that it might become

rather dangerous for your mole.

Freeze, mister.

I’m placing you under arrest

for the murder of Elizabeth Foster.

You have the right to remain silent,

you have the right to an attorney--

I am an attorney, officer.

I know the routine.

I thought you’d come back here, Mr. Chandler,

to make sure you hadn’t overlooked

some telltale piece of evidence,

but I never thought that you were ruthless enough

to endanger the lives of hundreds of people

by setting the place on fire.

It’s called doing what’s necessary, Mrs. Fletcher.

Why?

For God’s sake, Fred.

I mean, we go back what, ten years?

Try underpaid, overworked, and hung out to dry.

You think about how many times

I begged you to bring me back in,

warning you that they were this close to being onto me,

from my ending up at the bottom of the east river.

Every time, it was the same.

Just give us another couple of weeks, Freddy,

and we’ll have Hagen by his earlobes.

So when miss Foster panicked,

you decided to take advantage of the situation.

It was perfect.

$200,000 in cash and computer disks

worth millions to Mr. Hagen.

Or the governorship to Louie.

You lied to me, Mrs. Fletcher.

I didn’t feel that I had any choice.

I mean, would you have voluntarily told me

the identity of your mole?

Wait a minute.

You mean she...

I had no way of knowing it was you, Mr. Chandler,

but assuming that miss Foster wasn’t killed

by a mugger or Mr. Paloma,

it made sense that the only other person

who could have known

that she had the disks and the $200,000

was his mole.

So, you let her con you into smoking me out?

You got that right, pal.

If Jessica hadn’t done a number on Louie,

he wouldn’t have called to warn you.

I love it.

Hey, you know, Lou,

the fact that she also flimflammed

you into blowing your case against Hagen

damn near makes up for my getting caught.

But not quite.

You were in the hotel room when Liz Foster returned

from her meeting with Mr. Paloma?

Phony disks were my idea.

You’d made up your mind to kill her

and the only question that remained was how?

I had built up a relationship with Liz.

Mr. Chandler.

So, Paloma bought it?

200,000 in old bills.

And we’ve got the disks that Max Hagen will pay

through the eyeballs for.

After we’re in Europe.

Oh, sweetheart.

You know, my big mistake

was not blackmailing Hagen right away.

I would have been safely in Buenos Aires right now.

No, Mr. Chandler, your big mistake

was murdering Liz Foster.

Sullivan, about that exclusive...

I’m prepared to fill you in on any details,

open my files up to you that’s worth anything.

As a matter of fact, I have some free time

first thing in the morning.

Well, thanks Louie, but this one’s kind of writing itself.

My lead is going to be how lieutenant Artie Gelber

cracked a murder case ten days before his retirement,

and found in the killer’s possession evidence

that’s gonna allow the New York DA

to put Max Hagen away for almost 200 years.

Yeah, Mr. Paloma, can you believe he was just carrying

those computer disks around in his pocket?

But don’t sweat it, Louie.

After the DA is finished with Hagen,

you can go after him in the federal courts.

It might even get you nominated for dogcatcher.

Elected? I don’t know.

Oh, Brynie, you frightened me half to death.

Jump in, Jess, we’re gonna celebrate

while I take you to the airport.

Ta-da!

Oh, you didn’t.

Ice cream!

They must have really liked your story

on Hagen and Liz Foster?

Liked? Try loved.

It’s Julian that's paying for this Sherman tank.

Mmm.

Mocha chocolate.

The best.

Yeah.