All language subtitles for MrSWr5E11.The.Search.for.Peter.Kerry.

Look, Jessica, you’ve never had to go through this

endless parade of greedy impostors.

But if you thought he was lying, why invite him here?

Because I’m not sure.

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

That song you were playing, where’d you get it?

Rick didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re trying to say.

I didn’t kill him.

Son, I just may be a country cop,

but I sure recognize horse pucky when I step in it.

It’s him, Sir. I know it.

You get these people out of here now.

- Why are you doing this? - I said now!

Why don’t I pour you a drink?

As she lived, so did she die,

with a certain knowledge of the resurrection and a life ever after.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

we leave this world as we came into it.

Oh, Lord, hear our prayer.

We commend to Thee the soul of Your servant,

Evelyn Rayfield Kerry, beloved wife and mother.

Shine down Thy continence on her. Receive her spirit into Your kingdom.

Reunite her with the souls of loved ones who have come before.

This we ask in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

Mrs. Fletcher?

- Yes? - Danny Schubert.

I’m sure you don’t remember me. I was Peter’s roommate in college.

Of course I do. You were the tennis player.

You do remember. I’m flattered.

You know, I recall Pete saying how you and his mother

were the best friends God ever made.

We were. I just wish we’d kept in better touch these past few years.

I wasn’t even aware that she was unwell.

Look, if you’re not riding to the cemetery with anyone, my car’s right over here.

- Excuse me, Jessica. - Well, actually, uh-

Jessica, Andrew would like you to join him now if you’d be so kind.

Oh, yes, of course. Excuse me.

By the way, you don’t smoke, do you?

- Happily, no. - Good.

Andrew gets absolutely livid

- if anybody lights up in his presence. - Oh.

God Almighty - if indeed there is such an entity -

is displaying a particularly venomous attitude toward this family.

Andrew doesn’t mean that quite the way it sounds.

But I do, Jessica.

Roger has been trying for years to ignore my atheism.

He would prefer to think that a mean-spirited god

has struck down my son before he was 30,

then cast my only grandson into a 20-year oblivion

from which he has still to emerge,

and now has snatched away my daughter-in-law.

Oh, Andrew, I know that you have been sorely tested.

Please, Jessica, spare me the homilies.

I get enough of that from the reverend Mr. Burns.

Do you know this well-meaning but incompetent stuffed shirt

has been trying to find my grandson for 20 years?

Andrew, we’ve hired the very best private detectives we could find.

Then hire the worst.

Peter is out there somewhere.

And by God, before I die, I am going to see him again.

"By God"?

This really is terrific of you, having dinner with me like this.

- You sure you don’t want some? - Oh, no. No, thank you.

Well, maybe I’ll have just one more.

Good. Then, uh, maybe we could order as well?

Mmm. Waiter.

On the telephone, you mentioned something

about a large bequest to the St. Clement’s children’s hospital.

You bet. Look, I know how you feel about that place.

I guess everybody does.

So when I ran across this deal, I said to myself,

- "Holy cow. I can’t believe this." - Uh, deal? Wh-what are you talking about?

I’m talking about $100,000, Jessica.

- You don’t mind if I call you Jessica? - Uh-

Last week I was over on eighth avenue, and, uh...

I was trying to lease this loft building to this guy...

So all you’ve got to do, is take this guy’s story, turn it into a book.

He writes out a check for a hundred thou for the hospital, just like that.

Now, wait a minute, Danny. Uh, first of all,

his idea may be simply dreadful. They often are.

I thought you’d jump at something like this.

All that money for those sick kids.

Wait a minute. What the hell?

- What is it? - That song. Listen.

I may be crazy, Jessica, but Pete wrote that song.

- What? - Yeah, at school.

He wrote it for a homecoming show.

Are you sure?

Of course I’m sure.

But nobody knows that song. Nobody.

- Excuse me. - Yes?

Miss Lorraine? That song you were playing, where’d you get it?

I beg your pardon?

That song - the first one you played - I’d like to know where you got it from.

- Excuse me. - Miss Lorraine, please.

We didn’t mean to be abrupt.

It’s just that Mr. Schubert recognized that song from college days.

And since it was never published--

Rick didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re trying to say.

- Rick? Who’s Rick? - A guy I know.

Rick Barton. He wrote it for me, okay? Look, they only give me 20 minutes--

Miss Lorraine, please. I know this is an imposition,

but would it be possible for us to meet Mr. Barton?

Please? It’s very important.

Rick?

- Hi, babe. - Hi.

- How’d it go tonight? - Oh, about the same as usual.

We almost broke even.

Sweetie, I hope you don’t mind. I brought these people.

They want to know about the song - the one you gave me last week.

Oh. Yeah. Did you like it?

Hey, excuse me. You got a problem?

Pete?

- My name’s Rick Barton. - I don’t know, Jessica.

It’s him, and it isn’t him. Am I crazy?

I don’t know. It’s been so long.

What are you people talking about?

That song - where’d you get it?

- I wrote it. - No way.

Twenty years ago, my college roomie wrote that song. Then he disappeared.

We were in Chicago.

On the streets during the democratic convention.

Mayor Daley and the cops. You remember all that?

Hey, buddy, get lost.

We got hauled off to jail. Pete got out before I did.

I went looking for him, but I never saw him again.

Well, that’s too bad, but I didn’t steal his song.

Hey!

Jessica, you remember that scar.

Pete got it when he fell off the roof of the garage.

- He was about 12. - I certainly do remember that.

Hey, Edie, you get these people out of here now!

- Why are you doing this? - I said now!

I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. You can’t talk to him when he’s like this.

I’m not finished with you, buddy.

Yes?

- Mrs. Fletcher? - Yes?

Mrs. Fletcher, this is Rick Barton. We met last night.

Oh, yes. Yes, of course.

I wanted to call to apologize.

I guess I was kind of rude to you and that guy you were with.

Well, Mr. Schubert doesn’t always bring out the best in people.

Listen, Mrs. Fletcher,

Edie and me, we did a lot of talking last night, and, well...

Look, is there someplace we can talk?

It’s kind of important.

It’s a lousy habit. One of these days, I’m gonna give it up.

Mr. Barton, what’s troubling you? Why have you come to see me?

’Cause...

what I want to know is, who’s this guy I’m supposed to be?

I’m not sure I understand that question.

Either your name is Rick Barton, or it isn’t.

No, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is, I don’t really know who I am.

Well, why don’t you tell me about it?

Twenty years ago,

I woke up in a hospital outside of Lincoln, Nebraska.

It was the first week of September ’68. I’d been in a car crash.

My ribs busted, my legs smashed, my face a bloody pulp.

They did a lot of reconstructive surgery.

I was in that place for three months - a John Doe.

I had no ID on me and I couldn’t remember anything -

not the crash, not my name, nothing.

They told me that the guy who was driving the car was an army deserter.

Well, I got scared. For all I knew, I could have been an army deserter too.

And I sure as hell didn’t want to end up in jail.

Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight,

No, you weren’t thinking straight.

That scar on your arm, did you get that in the accident?

They told me I had that when they brought me in.

That’s why when that guy grabbed me and looked at the scar and suddenly

I mean, I used to have a whole other life,

and I’m not sure I want to deal with that.

Jessica, please. I know your heart’s in the right place,

but whoever the man is, he is not Peter Kerry.

Are you so sure?

Peter Kerry is dead. Believe me.

Well, now just a moment, Roger. If you have proof of that,

why haven’t you told this to his grandfather?

I don’t have any proof. At least not the kind that you’re talking about.

But, Jessica, we have hired the best detectives in every state.

We’ve chased down every lead.

Believe me, this man who claims to be Peter Kerry is a counterfeit.

But that’s just the point. He doesn’t claim to be anyone.

He was in a car accident in 1968,

and everything before that is a complete blank.

What about this piece of music?

Is it possible he could have heard it somewhere, or maybe seen a copy?

Well, Danny Schubert says no.

What about the scar on the arm?

Danny swears it’s identical to the one

that Peter bore from that boyhood accident.

Why don’t you meet Mr. Barton and talk to him and decide for yourself?

All right. I’ll fly into New York first thing tomorrow.

- You know where I’m staying. - Yeah.

Danny, I’m getting tired of this.

I’ve called you three times this week already.

My lawyer’s been after you for a month, you creep.

I’m telling you, you get a check to me by the end of this week,

or I’ll have you in jail, buddy boy. And if you think I’m kidding, just try me.

Cheers, baby.

Cheers yourself, baby.

- Leona. Surprise, surprise. - Yeah, I thought you’d be thrilled.

You gonna shoot me, Kid? That wouldn’t be good business.

And what I’ve got now, that’s supposed to be great?

Why don’t I pour you a drink?

- Oh, let go of me, you son of a-- - Hey, take it easy.

Take it easy, baby. You want money, you got it.

We’re about to be rolling in the stuff.

Oh, Danny, cut it out. I’ve been listening to your garbage for years.

I mean it, Kid. This time, this is it. Ironclad, gilt-edged, guaranteed.

You and me, we only had one problem. Money, right? Well, that’s history.

We’re about to have more money than we could spend in a dozen lifetimes.

That’s a promise.

All right, Fred. Thanks very much.

Right. Bye-bye. Gee. Amazing. That’s amazing.

I mean, score one more point

for the "now you see him, now you don’t" Mr. Richard Barton.

Oh? What happened?

An apartment house in Tulsa, where he supposedly lived

from June of ’69 to October of ’71.

None of the present tenants go back that far.

By the way, that car crash outside of Lincoln in ’68?

We found an item in the paper.

Uh, the dead driver was identified as Clayton Taggart, an army deserter.

But his quote-unquote "badly injured companion" was not identified.

Well, doesn’t that indicate something?

Perhaps only that somebody has been careful with their homework.

Oh, Roger, you are a very distrustful human being.

I’m a lawyer. Man is my natural enemy.

I thought you believed Rick Barton.

Look, Jessica, you’ve never had to go through this,

this endless parade of greedy impostors.

But if you think he’s lying, why invite him here?

Because I’m not sure.

You read the report from Lincoln. What do you think?

Well, I think it’s very unfortunate that the hospital that saved his life

was burned down in 1973.

Complete with all its records. How convenient.

By the way,

if Barton turns out to be Peter Kerry, you’re entitled to share in the reward.

Roger, I told you. It was Danny Schubert who picked up the trail.

I’m merely along for the ride.

Your old college buddy should have been here by now.

You don’t suppose he’s taken off again.

- He’ll be here. - I hope so.

A quarter of a million’s a lot of money.

If the old man buys him, that is.

Why shouldn’t he buy him? That’s his grandson.

Yeah, Danny.

- Leona, I told you, I spent-- - Do me a favor.

Save it for the civilians.

Come in.

Good morning, Andrew.

Jessica!

I hope I’m not intruding.

Of course not.

When did you arrive?

Oh, about an hour ago. Roger’s been catching me up.

Oh, yes. Roger has been busy as an old beaver.

He presents me with someone who may be my grandson,

and then he spends all his waking hours trying to prove he’s wrong.

Well, he’s certainly had enough practice.

Excuse me, Mr. Kerry-- Oh, I didn’t know you had company.

Oh, that’s all right. Come in. Meet my friend Jessica Fletcher.

Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.

Hello, Alma. How nice to see you again.

You two kn-know each other?

Andrew, Alma was Evelyn’s housekeeper for 30 years.

And she was at the funeral.

I just came by to see if you needed something.

- No. I’m fine, thank you. - All right. If you do, I’m down the hall.

Mrs. Fletcher.

Andrew, Alma told me that she’d retired and moved to Florida.

What is all this about?

Isn’t it obvious?

I don’t trust myself to recognize the truth.

If Evelyn were alive, no one could fool her.

So Alma is the next best thing.

If anyone will know him, she will.

Andrew, he’s here.

He’s brought somebody with him, a young lady.

I don’t know quite what to do about that.

Well, I suggest you tell Cook set another place for lunch.

- Pete. Hey, buddy, how you doing? - Hey, I told you. My name’s Rick.

I didn’t realize I was getting into anything like this.

Maybe we ought to get out of here.

- What do you think, Edie? - It’s up to you, honey.

I never wanted to come here in the first place.

Go? Are you crazy? You’re lookin’ at $40 million,

- maybe $50 million in your pocket. - I don’t know.

This place...

it makes me feel creepy.

Maybe ’cause way back here you remember all this, huh?

Tell me something. What’s in this for you?

The precise amount, Mr. Barton, is $250,000...

if you turn out to be genuine.

A finder’s fee, Mr. Schubert, if you would.

Shall we go into the living room?

There are a couple minor things I’d like to clarify

before Mr. Kerry joins us. It’s right through here.

Perhaps you’ve noticed, Mr. Schubert, there are no ashtrays in this house.

I would think that somebody as astute as you seem to be

would grasp the significance of that.

It’s a pleasure watching you in action, big fella.

Now, when you speak with Mr. Kerry, try to face him at all times.

And don’t swallow your words. His hearing isn’t what it once was.

Please try to answer his questions as concisely and accurately as possible.

- You make it sound like he’s on trial. - Oh, he is, Mr. Schubert. Most definitely.

Yes, the hospital where you were treated after your accident in 1968...

- Did you know that it had burned down? - No.

Completely destroyed, along with all of its records.

That’s a pity.

The names of the doctors that were involved in your case...

I don’t suppose you’re able to remember any of their names.

No. Sorry.

A nurse, perhaps? A volunteer? One name will do. Any name.

I told you. I don’t remember.

Look, I’m only going through this for one reason.

That’s to find out who I am.

I’ve told you everything I know the best I can remember.

If you don’t believe me, tough.

Maybe you hit it on the head, old buddy.

Perhaps he can’t believe you. How come, Philby?

Could it be that all these years you’ve been nibbling at the cheese

while nobody was looking?

I won’t dignify that accusation with a response.

I’ll bet you won’t. Man, I see it now.

For years, you haven’t had to answer to anybody,

while that poor old guy upstairs

is too blind or sick to see what you’ve been up to.

Be careful, Mr. Schubert.

Slander can be an expensive indulgence.

- I’m not scared by you, buddy. - You should be, young man.

Roger Philby is a tenacious foe...

once he decides you’re worth fighting.

Please. Sit down?

I’m grateful for your indulgence, Mr. Barton.

As you aptly point out, you may or may not be my missing grandson.

If not, I’ve instructed Mr. Philby to give you a check for $5,000

to reimburse you for your inconvenience.

I don’t want your money.

This meeting’s as much for me as it is for you.

And you-you have no idea what came before the accident?

Not a clue, not an inkling?

- Sorry. - My-my face, my voice,

they’re not familiar to you in any way?

Well, we have an entire weekend to get acquainted, Mr. Barton.

No sense rushing to quick and, uh, perhaps erroneous conclusions.

My, uh, housekeeper will show you to your room,

- and, uh, your friend. - Oh, my fiancée.

- Edie Lorraine. - Nice to meet you.

Alma, what was it? What did you see in there?

It’s him, Sir. I know it. You-you must have noticed it, Sir.

I mean, the way he was playing with the watch,

- stretching the band with his fingers. - Oh, I-I saw that, but...

Well, the year before he went to school, when he was taking up the guitar,

young Mr. Peter used to exercise his fingers like that.

Is that all, Alma? The watch? Is that it?

I don’t know. It’s-- There’s something... about the eyes.

Oh, Rick. Can’t sleep?

Hi. Yeah, I’m a little wired.

I thought maybe a real dull book might help.

There’s no shortage of ’em in here.

The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy.

I don’t think the old boy’s ever heard

of Updike or Vonnegut. This ought to do the trick.

Tell me, Rick, what do you think?

- About what? - Andrew.

This house. You.

I don’t know.

I mean that.

There’s nothing here I can actually remember,

but sometimes I’ll walk into a room, or look over at a photograph,

and I feel like something’s trying to click in.

Rick? Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.

- How was your movie? - Oh, great.

Uh, Steve McQueen and Natalie Wood. Love With A Proper Stranger.

Of course, I had to watch it in the bar.

You know how many TV’s they have in this house? One.

Well, I believe that Andrew gave up television

when Edward R. Murrow died.

Who?

Come on, honey. Let’s go to bed.

Good night.

- Good night. - Good night.

Oh, Leona.

Mrs. Fletcher.

What is it? What’s the matter?

I can’t find Danny.

About an hour ago, he finished off his whiskey flask,

and he came down here for a refill.

An hour ago?

I’ve learned not to chase after him when he’s been drinking.

Safer that way. But, uh, I can’t find him anyplace.

Even outside? You know, there’s a portable bar

set up out on the patio.

Uh, the housekeeper took that in before dinner. I spotted her.

Oh, but did Danny spot her? Maybe we should have a look.

- What’s that? - Sounds like a dog.

The sound seems to be coming from over there near the garage.

Jessica.

For Lord’s sake. Danny!

Okay, Danny, you can’t sleep here all night.

Come on.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.

Whiskey flask on the floor next to victim’s left hand.

Smells like straight scotch.

So does the victim, Joe. He had a snootful.

Right hand empty.

Noticeable red marks

on the skin on three fingers and part of his palm.

Could be some kind of burn.

No handkerchief.

Shirt pocket, one package of cigarettes, unopened.

Lower right-hand pocket, empty.

Left lower pocket,

we’ve got a cigarette lighter

with the initials D.S.

Presumably victim’s.

Joe.

Uh, excuse me. I wasn’t prying, actually--

Excuse me, ma’am. This is a police investigation, and, uh--

Are you Chief Underwood?

Sergeant Rice. Chief’s on his way.

My name is Jessica Fletcher, and I was here when the body was found.

Oh, yes, Mrs. Fletcher. We’re gonna have a lot of questions

for you later, but not now.

Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that earlier, I noticed--

Yes. Please, ma’am. Later?

Uh, Richards, would you take Mrs. Fletcher back up to the house?

Let me know when Chief gets here.

Is it hot in here, or is it just me?

Ooh-whee.

Feels like one of those, uh, uh, Swedish saunas.

Now then, uh, Mrs. Schubert?

Uh, yes. And I’m Mrs. Fletcher.

Oh, right, right.

And you two ladies discovered the victim out there in the garage.

Well, uhm... Oh,

- now when was that? - Shortly after 1:00.

I don’t suppose you heard a scream or anything.

I mean, not just then. Maybe earlier.

Well, of course I guess you didn’t, or you’d have said so by now.

No, I didn’t hear anything myself.

But I would say he was probably killed around midnight.

Is that so?

Uh, well, ma’am, how do you figure that?

Well, it’s-it’s just-it’s just a guess, of course, but, uh,

his body hadn’t cooled that much

and the extent of lividity when Leona turned him over, well...

Well, as I said, it’s-it’s just a guess.

Lividity.

Now don’t that beat all?

Ma’am, you sound just like the coroner.

You must have had medical training or something.

Oh, no, no, no. I’m a writer.

Mystery books. Uh, of course, it requires a great deal of, uh, research.

Well, it sure is a pleasure meeting you, ma’am.

I never met a book writer before.

Well, now, I, uh...

I guess you two must be pretty good friends.

Well...

actually, I only met Mrs. Fletcher this weekend.

Funny.

I was talking to, uh...

Oh, uh, what’s that lawyer fella’s name?

- Roger Philby. - Right. Right.

And he says how you and the victim out there

were hobnobbing real close these past few days.

Mrs. Fletcher was acquainted with my husband, not with me.

Danny and I were separated for the past several months.

Separated?

Oh.

I see.

Oh, now wait a second.

How come I got "divorced" jotted down here?

Chief?

Oh. Well...

I, uh...

I hope you ladies can excuse me.

Oh, uh, does anybody mind?

I haven’t had a bite to eat since supper.

Thank you kindly, ladies.

Well, if I were ever on the FBI’s most wanted list,

I’d sure know where to hide out. Right here in Calvinberg.

I talked to Barton and the girlfriend.

Their stories jibe.

He was upstairs, couldn’t get to sleep.

She was at a bar watching some movie.

Doc, I understand you got something for me.

Well, Miles, you understand these are preliminary findings.

Now, Doc, never mind the weasel words. What can you tell me?

Well, the murder weapon was a long, pointed object,

- maybe an ice pick, something like that. - Yeah, we know that.

We’re looking for it. Anything else?

Approximate time of death: about midnight.

Based on body temperature and postmortem lividity?

That’s right. How’d you know?

Lucky guess.

Oh, there’s also a nasty burn on his right hand.

Can’t tell you what caused it. Maybe after the autopsy.

Doc, you sleep pretty good last night?

Good enough.

Good. Then you won’t mind getting on that autopsy now.

Miles...

Doc, I got a cantankerous multimillionaire

who may not live till daybreak due to pure cussedness.

And I got half a dozen suspects,

none of whom would give me the time of day

if they were standing next to a grandfather clock.

So chop-chop. Let me know when you find something.

And a delightful weekend to you too, Chief.

- Joe? - Sir?

Dig up what you can on that Fletcher woman.

Claims to be a writer, but she’s a little too sharp for her own good.

Call up, uh... Oh, what’s her name?

That book reviewer on the post-dispatch.

That would be... now, Sir?

If I wanted it tomorrow, I’d do it myself.

Let me know as soon as you got something.

Oh, my goodness, Chief, you startled me!

Oh. Shucks, ma’am. I didn’t mean to scare you.

I just came by to see how my boys were doing.

Now, you know, ma’am, this is an official police crime scene.

Now you shouldn’t be in here.

Yes, I-I know.

Did you lose an earring or something?

Oh, no. No, no, no. I was just looking for--

Look, I know this is none of my business, and I’m probably stepping on your toes.

But something is bothering me, and, well, the fact is,

I’m looking for a cigarette butt.

Is that so?

Well, I expect you’ll be out of luck there, ma’am.

It’s my understanding Mr. Kerry disapproves of that particular habit.

Which is why, if I find it, it will confirm my theory.

Your theory?

Oh, you mean in like one of your books?

Now that’s really something.

What theory would that be, ma’am?

That Mr. Schubert was in the process

of lighting his killer’s cigarette when he was stabbed.

Well, now, ma’am, how do you figure that?

Because his flask was in his left hand,

and because of the burn marks on his right hand.

But most of all, I suppose, because his lighter

was in his left-hand jacket pocket.

Now, come again with that, ma’am.

Look, Chief, the victim knows his killer, and he doesn’t feel threatened.

Now, let’s say that I am the victim.

Now, you ask me for a light. Now, what do I do?

I switch my flask from my right hand into my left hand.

I reach into my pocket, take out my lighter, light it.

Then I lean forward to light your cigarette.

You stab me in the heart.

The flaming lighter is in my right hand as I fall.

My hand is badly burned.

The flask falls to the floor next to my left hand.

Now, that scenario fits the facts.

Well, now, little lady, I wouldn’t say that exactly.

Like you said, the lighter was in his pocket, not in his hand.

Exactly. His left-hand pocket.

Now, if I light a cigarette with my right hand,

I replace the lighter in my right-hand pocket.

I don’t reach all the way across my body

and put it in my left-hand pocket.

But that’s what the killer did. In his haste, he got confused

and replaced the lighter in the wrong pocket.

And I’ll tell you something else that I think.

If that’s what happened,

either the killer’s fingerprints are on that lighter,

or more likely, he wiped them off,

in which case there would be no fingerprints at all.

Now don’t that beat all!

The fingerprint fella told me the same darned thing,

no prints.

Now I know why.

I thank you kindly for that, little lady.

You sure cleared that up for me.

Oh! Oh, boy, you sure did!

Well...

Now, if we could just find that cigarette butt,

it’d prove we’re looking for a smoker to be our killer.

Oh, but it-it would prove more than that.

- Would it now? - Oh, yes.

And I think you know it.

I’m afraid you lost me there, ma’am.

No, I don’t think so.

The minutest traces of saliva can pinpoint not only the sex of an individual,

but blood type and other characteristics as well.

And I should think that a man who served with distinction

on the St. Louis police force for 28 years would know that.

Well...

you don’t miss a whole lot, do you, Mrs. Fletcher?

Well, I like to know who I’m dealing with.

You know, Joe Rice didn’t say anything about a cigarette butt.

I’ll have him take another look.

Although I suspect our boy -

or girl maybe -

walked out of here with that cigarette.

So, uh, any more theories,

- particularly one I can put a name to? - I’m afraid not.

I don’t suppose it’s possible an outsider got onto the grounds.

No, ma’am. The security system’s in perfect working order,

- has been all evening. - Excuse me. Chief?

I thought you ought to take a look at this.

"Meet me, garage, 11:30. Don’t let anyone see you. Urgent. Danny."

Where’d you find this?

In the wastebasket in the bedroom upstairs.

Which one?

The big one at the end of the hall.

That’s Rick Barton’s room.

I did not go to the garage.

Maybe so, maybe not.

Leastways, you should have still told us about this note.

I told you! I never saw that before!

Now, young fella, what we got here is a murder.

And I’ve got to tell you.

You look to me like a real fine suspect. Yes, Sir. Real fine.

Now, you come traipsing into this house,

claiming to be some long-lost, uh, heir

or something, along with this dead fella,

who says to Mr. Kerry,

"Yes, indeedy, Sir.

That’s your grandson. I’d swear to it."

Then he wants you to meet him real secret-like.

- Then he turns up dead. - I didn’t kill him!

Now, son, I just may be a country cop,

but I sure recognize horse pucky when I step in it.

No! Leave him alone!

Danny didn’t send that note to Rick.

He sent it to me.

- Edie! - I’m sorry, honey.

I didn’t want to let you know.

I-I thought I could handle it myself.

It, uh, s-started a couple of weeks ago,

you know, when he came to the dressing room with Mrs. Fletcher.

You know, the night you asked me to play your song at the club.

Danny invited me to dinner a few times,

and I-I kept saying no.

But then I-- I don’t know.

I started to see that whatever it was

that was going on was important to you,

so... I said okay.

We had dinner once or twice. That’s all. Nothing else.

I mean, not that he didn’t try anything. You know, it’s...

But he kept saying weird things,

like, uh... like you were going for the brass ring,

but he could snatch it away anytime he wanted.

So you got this note, and you went to see him in the garage?

No.

- She was watching television. - No, Rick.

I’m sorry, baby. I did go.

All right. Say no more. I got the picture.

So he made advances. You grabbed up the knife--

No! It wasn’t like that!

Yes, he made a pass at me,

but I told him to leave me alone, or I was gonna tell Rick.

And what did he say to that?

He-he just laughed.

He said that-that Rick wasn’t in a position to do anything.

No. I imagine he wasn’t.

Not if you wanted your scheme to succeed. Isn’t that right?

- Scheme? No. I told you-- - I know what you told me,

and I know what you told Andrew Kerry.

And it’s all been a lie, hasn’t it? All of it.

Edie has just said you asked her to play that song at the club that night,

the night that Danny Schubert brought me there,

on the pretext of discussing business.

It’s quite clear to me now the only reason

I was there was to help him to discover you,

and to help him to validate your identity

as Andrew’s missing grandson.

What about it, son?

Is that the way it was?

I want to tell Mr. Kerry, face to face.

If you want to know the truth, the whole truth, all of it,

I can’t help you.

All I can tell you is what I can remember, and that’s not much.

I was injured in a car crash 20 years ago outside of Lincoln, Nebraska,

and I can’t remember much before then.

That much I’ll swear to.

And the song that you wrote

that miss Lorraine played at the nightclub?

Danny gave it to me.

And what about the business of the watch?

Was that engineered, too, by Mr. Schubert?

He made me do it.

He had me in a tight spot.

About a year ago,

I leased this little theater in the village.

Danny was the broker.

We got along okay, even went out for a couple beers.

That’s when he saw the scar on my arm.

He almost went nuts. He wanted to know everything about me,

so I told him the same things I told you.

Anyway, the box office wasn’t so hot.

A couple times we almost went belly-up.

Danny came through with some cash to bail me out.

A couple months ago, he called me and said he wants his dough, all of it.

I didn’t have it.

He said he had a way for me to earn it.

All I had to do was to convince you, Sir,

that I was your missing grandson.

Well, son, uh, I guess you know you’re guilty of fraud.

Yeah.

I guess so.

But I didn’t kill anybody.

Mrs. Fletcher.

Mrs. Fletcher, I didn’t know. Please believe me.

- It’s all right, Edie. - No, it’s not all right.

God. Why didn’t he tell me?

He used me as much as he used you.

I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have any choice.

That little theater...

Rick’s been trying to keep it afloat for over a year now.

He’s been helping support a dozen young kids,

you know, playwrights, actors, all of them waiting for a break.

Maybe I should have killed Danny myself when I had a chance.

At least then I could have called it self-defense.

Did he attack you?

I mean, he tried.

I picked up a screwdriver from the workbench and held him off.

Look, Mrs. Fletcher,

I didn’t tell that policeman everything Danny said.

I thought it would make it sound worse for Rick.

Edie, what are you talking about?

What did he say to you?

You know, the usual, about how I really turned him on,

and how it was over between him and his wife,

and he was gonna dump her as soon as they went back to New York.

I see. But how would that make it sound worse for Rick?

Edie, what is it that you’re not telling me?

That Rick showed up and found you there? Is that it?

No!

I mean, I don’t know.

I thought I heard someone outside. We both did.

When Danny turned to look,

I threw the screwdriver to the ground and ran out the door.

But you didn’t actually see anyone else?

No, but when we heard Danny had been killed, I...

I just assumed, you know.

Edie, listen.

I think it’s possible - even probable - that Rick is innocent.

But you’re going to have to help me.

Anything.

Well, I have no guarantee that this will work,

but we have nothing else.

What the devil are they talking about up there?

And why wasn’t I allowed to stay with Andrew?

The man is practically helpless without me.

They could be telling him anything.

Mrs. Fletcher, please.

- Won’t you at least listen? - To what? More lies?

Danny Schubert and your Mr. Barton

used me to swindle Andrew Kerry.

Then he is a fraud.

Well, he just admitted as much.

I knew it the minute I laid eyes on him!

He didn’t kill anybody! I know Rick! He couldn’t!

You are wrong, miss Lorraine, dead wrong. And I intend to prove it.

Oh, yes. You’re probably unaware

that your precious Mr. Barton made one very stupid mistake.

Just before he was stabbed, Danny Schubert lit Rick’s cigarette for him.

So?

The saliva on that discarded cigarette butt

is as good as a fingerprint,

and just as admissible in court.

As soon as it’s light, I intend to find that cigarette butt

and lock down the case against your fortune-hunting fiancée.

I’m sorry, miss Lorraine, but your scheme just self-destructed.

And, by the way,

if you were thinking of mentioning this to Chief Underwood, don’t.

That fool of a policeman wouldn’t know a clue

if it came at christmas, tied up with a red ribbon.

Now, this is my case, and I’m going to solve it.

All right, hold it right there.

Joe, bag that butt for the lab.

Uh, no-uh, Sir, uh, Chief, this is mine.

I-I just needed some fresh air, and I-

- I tossed it away just a moment ago, and-- Save it.

We’ve been watching you ever since you left the house.

You tossed that butt here after you left the garage

around midnight after killing your husband.

Mrs. Schubert, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder.

That was Joe Rice.

He just got off the phone with the county attorney.

They worked out a deal with the lady’s lawyer.

She gets second-degree, we get a confession.

Well, that sounds fair.

I’m sure that she attacked him in a momentary fit of anger.

Mrs. Schubert overheard everything her husband said.

Figured he’d try and cut her out of the reward money.

She was smart enough to realize if the guy died,

as his widow, she’d get everything, including the reward.

Yes.

And, of course, the ironic thing is,

there’s not going to be any reward.

I wouldn’t be so sure about that.

Anyone seen Rick Barton? He doesn’t seem to be in his room.

Oh, he left about a half hour ago with the lady.

Oh, dear.

What is it, Roger? What’s the matter?

I just got off the phone after talking with a woman in Laramie, Wyoming,

sister of Clayton Taggart, the army deserter

who was killed in Lincoln in that car crash.

It seems he was on his way to visit her,

and he was bringing along a new friend,

somebody he’d met in jail in Chicago,

a college kid from a wealthy family somewhere near St. Louis.

Now what do I do?

Well, if I were you, the first thing I would do,

is to call the airport and stop the flight!