All language subtitles for Murder.She.Wrote.S01E18.Footnote.to.Murder.WEBRip.x264-ION10.

-Come on. Let's go home.
-Oh! Stop it.

[Jessica] Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

Oh, please, no.

Look, I'm the Assistant DA.

I am personally
taking charge of this case.

Somebody has killed
Hemsley Post.

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

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

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

She was even jealous of me.

I gave him the keys so
he'd remember my room number.

I spent the evening
and the entire night

with the most romantic man.

Freeze!

[cheerful orchestral music
playing]

[relaxing piano music
playing]

[thunder cracks]

[Horace] Why go on?

Alone.

Rejected.

And not even a last cigarette.

[Jessica] You're gonna
kill yourself, Horace.

Those cigarettes
will be the death of you.

I know it's a filthy vice.

But happily,
I am not addicted to them.

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

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

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

Oh, no. I just finished off
one chapter and two pots of tea

-in my hotel room.
-Hmm.

Congratulations
on your nomination.

And you on yours.

But who's gonna notice
if either of us win?

Let's face it,
mystery and poetry...

[Horace] But enough talk about
silly award business, all right?

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

That wonderful
Nora somebody. Tell me.

Oh, I'm afraid, Horace,

you left Cabot Cove strewn
with broken hearts last summer.

Are you writing something?

Oh, yeah. Just toying
with a little sonnet.

-Wanna hear it?
-Yeah.

[Horace] "Why go on
alone, rejected...

With Cupid's turgid rites
neglected?"

It stinks, huh?

You're right. It's crap.

Are we going to that reception?

With free drinks?
That is a rhetorical question.

Come on!
They're gonna start without us!

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

Have no fear, Jessica.

I have the perfect defense
against the elements.

Oh.

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

[melancholic music playing]

[sinister music playing]

[Hemsley grunting]
Two. Three. Four.

Five. Six. Seven.
[knock on door]

[gasps] Twenty. One moment.

Mr. Post.,
I'm Tiffany Harrow,

assistant awards coordinator.

Tiffany, do come in.

Thank you.

Haven't we, uh,
met somewhere before?

Marrakech? Nairobi?

I just wanted to say
how delighted I am

that you'll be
master of ceremonies

at the awards banquet Saturday.

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

with my usual grace and panache.

[Tiffany] You know, it's too bad
you're not up for an award

this year, Mr. Post.

Oh, well, even the mighty oak

must let a little sunshine
fall on the rising saplings.

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

Oh, no, thank you.

[Tiffany] You know,
everyone's talking about

your new unpublished novel,
Hemsley.

Oh, yes. Well, it's, uh...

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

the, uh, definitive novel
on the Vietnam war.

I'd love to read it.

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

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

but... if you
could come back tonight,

after the party.

Oh, yes. Yes.

I think I could
read some of it to you.

I find great literature
very stimulating.

[knock on door]

Yes?

[Alexis] Hemsley, open up.
Excuse me, darling.

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

Obviously not.

Um, Tiffany Harrow,
Alexis Post, my wife.

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

Nice to have met you, Mrs. Post.

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

Alexis, my darling, really.
She's with the awards committee.

I don't even care.

Hemsley, they say that, uh,
you've got a six-figure advance

on your new book.
Let's discuss the $264,000

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

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

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

No stalling, no baloney.

-Of course.
-I mean it, Hemsley.

I've had my lawyers
draw up a contract.

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

-How have you been?
-Working hard.

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

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

I'll never forget
the safari in Kenya

and your strong, sweet,
yearning body.

Your body wasn't so bad either.

Why don't you come back
after the party?

We could have a drink.

Thank you.

I'd rather remember things
the way they were.

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

I'll take you to court,

and I will squeeze you drier
than a camel's backside.

[door clicks shut]

[Adrian] Now, the classical age
is the only age

that interests me.

History as literature
is a challenge

suitable for my talents.

Some people feel your new book,

Pericles at Parnassus,
is a metaphor

for the communist witch hunts
of the early '50s.

Some people also find
spiritual comfort

in spouting gibberish
while standing on their heads.

[Debbie] Hi, could I please have
your autograph, Mr. Winslow?

You know, my great charm
lies in my ability

of speaking to each reader
on a multiplicity of levels.

-There you go.
-Excuse me.

I know this is
an awful imposition,

but I've written a short story,

-and I was wondering--
-Young lady, my attorney

will not allow me
to read unsolicited manuscripts.

Good day.

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

Not that it makes
any difference.

[Frank] Hemsley Post?
Sorry, no autographs.

-I make that a policy.
-I wanna talk to you.

[Hemsley] And I most certainly
do not chat with strangers

-in public restrooms.
-I'm Frank Lapinski.

[grunts]

You don't answer my letters.

You ignore my phone calls.

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

[groans]
Four months I've been waiting

for some kind of an answer.

-Four months!
-You're breaking my arm!

[groans]

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

Your new novel?
[Hemsley] Let go of me.

Quick, get security!
He's trying to rob me!

[dramatic music playing]
I oughta kill you.

If I could prove...

No, let him go. I'm all right.

He didn't get anything.

Don't be cynical, Horace.

-It's an honor to be nominated.
-It's a circus!

Randolph St. Germain,
one of the judges.

He does so many talk shows,
when does he have time

-to read anything?
-Excuse me. Excuse me.

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

[Debbie] Oh! Mrs. Fletcher,
I just love your stories.

Would you please sign
my autograph book?

Certainly,
and this is Horace Lynchfield.

Mmm, pleased to meet you.

You know, Mrs. Fletcher,
I'm a, I'm a writer too.

-Horace.
-Well, not a real writer.

Not yet. But, um,
I've written a, a short story,

and I was wondering
if you would read it

and tell me what you think.

Well, uh...

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

[Debbie] Please, it would mean--
it's just so important to me.

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

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

but, well,
I'll be happy to read it.

Oh, thank you. Thank you.

My, my name and my address
are on the cover.

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

Yeah, well,
I thought it sounded literary

when I, when I made it up.

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

Stray dogs, alcoholic poets,
beginning writers.

No wonder I'm so crazy
about you.

[laughing and talking
in background]

[thunder rolling]

[soothing piano music playing]

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

Lucinda, my dear,
I must congratulate you,

your 10th week
on the best seller list.

[Lucinda] Isn't it exciting?

Everybody's reading
Woman Unleashed.

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

over and under the counter.

Well, everyone said I should
write about something I knew.

My next book is going to be
more literary.

-Really?
-Yes.

I'm reading the great books
library start to finish.

Start to finish, hey?
Where are you now?

Aristotle?

Excuse me.

Oh, uh, a liquid offering
on the altar of beauty?

Well, thank you.

[Jessica] Isn't it nice
that we writers have a chance

to, uh,
get acquainted like this?

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

The power and money
is in publishing.

I'm Tiffany Harrow.

Jessica Fletcher,
and this is Horace Lynchfield.

Oh, mystery and poetry, right?

Oh, will you excuse me?

There's someone
I must say hello to.

Well, the greatest novels
have always been about the war,

haven't they?
Take my book, Korean Chronicle.

[Hemsley] I set the standard
for a generation.

What's this new one about,
Hemsley?

[Adrian] The one you're being
so secretive about?

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

Remarkable. As far as I know,
you only spent a week in Vietnam

as correspondent for Playboy.

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

-Greek boys mincing about.
-I, at least, publish.

Your last, I think,
was seven years ago.

[Adrian] And when are we
to see this latest tome?

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

[Adrian] And rumor has it
that it's so bad, you won't even

allow your publisher to read it.

Oh.

Do be careful, Adrian.

I gave you a good thrashing
ten years ago.

[Hemsley] I can do that again.

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

[thunder cracks]

[scoffs]

[Horace] Thunder quivers.

Wings beat.
[moans]

Petals aching, parting.
[moans]

Beak thrust
of sunburst nectar.

Oh, it gives me
goose bumps all over.

Me too.

What does it mean?

I haven't the foggiest.

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

Oh, not now, Hemsley.

I was just listening
to Horace's divine poetry.

But I want to sign
your copy of Korean Chronicle.

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

I don't know why.

-I just couldn't.
-Really?

Too much blood and gore for you,
Lynchfield?

No, too much bad grammar.

Oh?

Horace, are you all right?

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

It's all right, Jessica.
It's all right.

Oh, no! Please, no!

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

Mr. Post, may I suggest
that you stop behaving

like a petulant adolescent.

Fighting like schoolboys.

-Did he hurt you?
-Yes.

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

[bright music playing]

[cheerful music playing]

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

[Melvin] It is.
Are you with the press?

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

last night by mistake
after the party.

-Umbrella?
-Yes.

I noticed the initials H.P.
on the handle,

and naturally I thought--

Actually, I was hoping
that he had mine.

Maybe he does.

Why don't you come on in
and take a look?

[sinister music playing]

[Melvin] A sword
concealed in a shaft.

It's not your everyday weapon.

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

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

I am Melvin Comstock.
I'm the assistant DA.

I am personally
taking charge of this case.

That is Lieutenant Meyer,
homicide division.

[Melvin]
He will be assisting me.

Now, what I'd like to know is,

the nature of your relationship
with the victim.

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

Awards?

Yes, everyone was there:

Adrian Winslow, Lucinda Lark,
and many others.

Whoa, this is a lot bigger
than I thought.

Go over to the window
and watch out there.

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

-Did you find the manuscript?
-What manuscript?

Mr. Post's latest novel.

He said that the only copy
was locked in a briefcase

right here in this room.

I don't, uh...

I don't think
there is a briefcase,

unless it's under this bed.

Let me have the city desk,
please.

Frank? Mel Comstock.

Got a big one for you.
Hemsley Post has been murdered.

In his room
at the Cromwell hotel.

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

Hmm. 2441. That's strange.

There's no 24th floor
in this hotel.

Yeah, you better
send a crew over.

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

There you go.

[Jessica] Lieutenant, did you
notice the smudge of lipstick

on the sheet?
It looks like Mr. Post

had a romantic rendezvous
last night.

[bright music playing]
Meyer,

let me have the key.

Uh, ma'am, please.

-Oh.
-Thank you.

Woman Unleashed,
signed by the author.

"To the old master
from his humble disciple,

Lucinda Lark."

I noticed that myself, ma'am.

I'll take the book.

Mr. Comstock,
did you notice the date?

-Yesterday.
-Yeah, yesterday.

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

By Lucinda Lark.

I'll have to question
the Lark woman.

[sinister music playing]

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

[phone dial clicking]

Hi, Gwen. Yeah, listen, uh,

tell the DA that everything's
under control over here,

and send my bio and a photograph

over to Frank
over at the Times .

Uh, ma'am? Ma'am?

Yeah. Would you stop
poking around, please?

[Melvin] This is a crime scene.

Yeah. Who called?
Oh, yeah? Yeah?

Mr. Comstock?

[Jessica]
I suppose you saw this letter

from a Frank Lapinski
of Brooklyn

threatening Mr. Post.
[knock on door]

Shall I get that?

No! Would you just hold for a--

[stutters]
Just a, just a minute, Gwen.

Hi, guys.

Sir, the guys
from the lab are here.

[Meyer] Where do you want 'em
to start?

I'm gonna have to
call you back, Gwen.

Uh, Lieutenant,
I suggest that maybe

if you get a shot over here--
[Melvin] Thank you very,

very much, Mrs. Fletcher,
but I'm gonna have to tell you,

I don't want any more
of your interference, okay?

Well, I, I was only
trying to help.

I don't need your help.

I intend to have the murderer
of Hemsley Post in custody

before the 6:00 news.
So, thank you, and good night.

Gentlemen, you've got
exactly two hours

to find out who owns
the pig sticker

with the fancy handle!

[bright music playing]

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

Right, I bought
it in an antique store

on 2nd avenue.

You bought it with the purpose
of killing Hemsley Post.

No, I bought it
because it was raining.

And you can account
for your whereabouts last night?

[Horace] Yes, uh, I went
into the hotel bar

after the cocktail party.

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

until I woke up
in my hotel room about noon.

Yeah. Mr. Comstock,
obviously someone

took Horace's umbrella
by mistake,

someone who was
at the cocktail party.

I'll get to you in a moment.

[Jessica] Now, instead
of bullying Mr. Lynchfield,

why don't you find out
who left the lipstick stains

-on Mr. Post's sheets.
-Mrs. Fletcher--

Also, who owned
that other room key.

Whose key was it?

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

[Melvin] Okay, Mrs. Fletcher,

I suppose we can dispose
of one of your hang-ups now.

Bring her in.

Also, Mr. Comstock,

you are aware
that a very valuable manuscript

disappeared
from Mr. Post's room?

[Melvin] Miss Harrow.
Hello.

Can you tell me

why your room key
wound up in the victim's room?

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

Oh, I see.
[Tiffany] No, you don't.

Mr. Post offered to show me
his new novel.

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

so we arranged to meet at mine.

[Tiffany]
And I-I gave him the key

so he'd remember my room number.

And what time
did he get to your room?

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

And, and then a friend called,
and we went out to dinner.

And, and who was this friend?

Adrian Winslow, the author.

Thank you very much,
miss Harrow.

That'll be all for now.

Thank you.

All right, Lynchfield,
let's stop shadowboxing!

According to witnesses,
you and Post had a fight

at the cocktail party. You even

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

It was not a real gun!

Yes, Gwen?

[Gwen] I thought you'd want
to know, Jesse Simms

from the New York Post
is on line one.

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

Now, I put it to you,
Lynchfield.

Did you murder Hemsley Post?

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

To be very honest with you, I...

I don't really remember.

[nervous laugh]

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

-Book him. Murder one.
-Oh, I don't believe

-what's going on here.
-You're excused, Mrs. Fletcher.

You're no longer
under suspicion.

How generous.

Jesse, how are ya?

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

Assistant District Attorney
Melvin Comstock

personally arrested
the murderer

of famous novelist Hemsley Post.

Now, you listen to me.
Horace Lynchfield

-Yes, yes.
-is a gentle, kind man

who is incapable
of hurting anyone. Obviously,

-it is more important for you
-Wait a minute.

to get your face
on the evening news than it is

to find out
who killed Hemsley Post.

Now, if you're too dense
to find out

who the real killer is,
then I will.

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

[unsettling music plays]

Insufferable man!

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

Jessica, you think you can
bring me some cigarettes?

Uh, Mrs. Fletcher, uh,

you're gonna have to go now
before Comstock comes out.

I'll go, Lieutenant,
but that pompous fool

of a District Attorney
isn't going to railroad

my friend so that he can
get himself elected Mayor.

Hey, ma'am, everybody knows
Comstock is a real jerk,

but for now...

[silly music playing]

That figures.

[indistinct talking]

Oh, uh, excuse me,
uh, okay, I'm not sure

that I really belong here.
[Donovan] Sure, sure.

Tell it to the judge.
Back in line.

Hold it. Hold it.
Wait right here.

Just don't move.
Excuse me. Excuse me.

Donovan, get rid of these guys.

-Sir?
-We pulled Judge Wyler.

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

All he wants is the girls.
Now get these guys

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

[girls laugh]
Ladies, right this way, please.

Okay, fellas,
seems we did something wrong.

You can go back
to the wife and kiddies.

Not you. Come on. Come on.

In there.

Uhm, look.

Seriously,
I think that there has been

some kind of mistake here.

There's been no mistake,
brother.

It's straight from the judge.
You're free to go.

Okay, well, if that's the case,
then that's the case, isn't it?

[softly] Okay. Thank you.

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

I'm going to be handling
the indictment personally.

[Melvin] Believe me, this guy
could be a dangerous customer.

[Melvin] I'm sure he's got
some links with those commie

anti-nuke groups.

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

We've got a little problem.

[unsettling music plays]

[Jessica] And you're positive
Mr. Lynchfield hasn't returned?

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

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

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

Yes, thank you.

Oh, is anything wrong,
miss Harrow?

Oh, no. Just some dust
in my contact lens.

Oh, yes,
I don't wear them myself,

but I understand
they can be very irritating.

Mm, especially
if you've only been wearing them

a couple of weeks.

You know, I feel so awful
about Horace Lynchfield.

I really kind of liked him.

Well, at least
if he's convicted,

his sales will skyrocket.

Well, he happens to be innocent.

Well, either way,
all the talk shows

-will be after him.
-Miss Harrow, I suppose

you heard that Hemsley Post's
new manuscript is missing.

-Really?
-I mean, if there actually

-was a manuscript.
-Oh, there was. I saw it.

Oh, then you did go to his room?

Well, that was before
the cocktail party.

His wife was there when I left,

and they had this big fight
about money.

In front of you?
Not very discreet.

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

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

Uh, Miss Harrow,
I am desperately trying to clear

a very dear friend of mine
from a murder charge.

I mean, anything that you heard,
even accidentally,

could be of great importance.

Sure, why not.

As soon as the door closed,

she started in on him
right away about the money.

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

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

but Hemsley and I have
been separated for ten years.

Darryl, I said the blue taffeta.

Well, maybe it's all
for the best.

I beg your pardon?

Hemsley was a burned-out writer,
a very unhappy man.

Oh, I'm sorry. I understood
that he'd just written

-a major novel.
-Had he? I wonder.

He hadn't been able
to write for years.

Strange, then I wonder
why you went to his hotel room

the other night demanding
$264,000 out of his advance.

-How did you know that?
-Mrs. Post, I have no desire

to pry
into your private affairs,

but Horace Lynchfield
is under suspicion

in your husband's murder.

I didn't kill him.

You were in his room.

There was evidence
that he had been, uh,

entertaining someone.

Certainly not me.

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

but that didn't stop him
from trying. It never mattered

who, how pretty, how old.
The game was everything.

Requiescat in pacem.

The man has died.

The legend lives on.

Excuse me.

[relaxing music playing]

-Horace!
-Hiya, Jessica.

[playful music playing]

[Jessica] Horace.
Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

-Whoa.
-Oh, Horace.

Where, where have you been?

We've been looking
all over for you.

But they let me go.

I knew it had to be
some kind of mistake.

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

Now come on. You must go
and see Mr. Comstock

-and turn yourself in.
-I suppose so,

but could I get myself
a little drink first?

No.

[Lucinda] See,
in Bonaventure's Academy

they used to call me
terrible things.

Nerd. Four eyes.

I bought a copy of your book.

-I found it quite...
-Graphic?

That's what the news called it.

Yes, graphic.

Yes.
[clears throat]

I was hoping
you'd sign it for me.

I'd be honored.

I'm sorry to interrupt.

[Jessica] I understood you're
looking for Mr. Lynchfield.

I heard you escaped.

He didn't escape. They lost him.

Gwen, get lieutenant Meyer
in here, please.

Mr. Comstock, isn't it time

that you started
a detailed investigation?

I mean, for example,
what about that inscription

in miss Lark's book?

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

[Lucinda] I just put
the wrong date on it.

Look, I'm not
very good with numbers.

[Lucinda] Well, not that anybody
would suspect me,

but I do have an alibi.

I spent the evening
and the entire night

with the most romantic man.

Who?

Horace.

[frivolous music plays]

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

then I couldn't possibly
have murdered Hemsley Post.

Imagine, Lucinda Lark
and not being able to remember.

Well, maybe you didn't
spend the night with her.

-I didn't?
-Well, maybe she made it up

-to give herself an alibi.
-Oh, I hope not.

I was so looking forward
to remembering.

Oh, Horace. You've got
to take this thing seriously.

Somebody has killed
Hemsley Post.

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

Now, what can I do to help?

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

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

[ship horn blowing]

-Uh, Mr. Lapinski?
-That's me.

-Oh, I'm Jessica Fletcher.
-The writer?

Yes.

I've read
a couple of your books.

Lightweight, but,
uh, kind of fun.

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

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

Horace Lynchfield.

The guy who killed
Hemsley Post.

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

How well did you know Mr. Post?

I knew his work.

Perhaps you met him
when he was in Vietnam?

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

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

threatening letters
if you've never met him.

[sinister music playing]

You got me mixed up
with somebody else.

I got work to do. Excuse me.

Oh, I should've had
that taxi wait.

-Are you lost, lady?
-Oh, no, no,

I, I came to see Frank Lapinski.

He's around here somewhere.
Nice guy.

-Oh, yes, and, uh, very bright.
-A real brain.

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

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

Oh, don't worry.
Frank'll make it.

He's a real plugger.
Soon as he sells that book.

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

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

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

I see. Well, thanks very much.

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

-would there?
-Around here, are you kidding?

Phone book is over there
by the pay phone, lady.

This place
the cabbies don't cruise.

Thank you very much.

[sinister music playing]

These aren't mine.

[Jessica] But don't you see?

I'm sure the manuscript
that Mr. Post didn't want

anyone to see was written
by Frank Lapinski.

Well, you've got
his threatening letter.

We found it on the desk
in his room.

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

I most certainly hope you do,
Mr. Comstock.

[Jessica] Mr. Winslow.
Ah, what name?

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

We met at the book awards party.

Yes, one meets so many people.

Didn't I see you
at 21 last night?

I had dinner last night
at the Four Seasons,

and the young man with me
was a newspaper reporter.

[Jessica] Oh, then you didn't
have dinner with Tiffany Harrow?

Is that what she said?

[Adrian] Now I remember.

You're the mystery writer.
Ah, yes.

Boringly simple mysteries.
I'd have a dash at them myself,

except that I have
more serious work.

Well, I suppose you're going
to steal Hemsley's murder

for a book.

Well, good plots
are hard to come by,

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

Well, obviously
that clod Lynchfield

didn't do it.
Too weak, lacks motive.

No, a much better suspect
would be Alexis Post.

The woman scorned.

Oh, but I understood Alexis
had dropped Post.

Oh, definitely no.
Quite the contrary.

That's why she gave him
all that money.

She drove Hemsley
to those other women

with all her jealous harping.

Do you know ten years ago
when we spent

that summer in Florence,
she was even jealous of me?

Mm-hmm, ridiculous, of course.

I never realized
you were so close.

Yes.

I used to be Hemsley's
private secretary

before my own early success.

[Cornelia] Oh, Mr. Winslow,
I do so adore your work.

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

Uh, Mrs. Fletcher,
you will excuse me?

Oh, yes.

If you would just inscribe it,
[clears throat]

"Dear Cornelia.
With deep affection

for a faithful
and loving friend."

Something simple like that.

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

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

Hi. What did you think
of my story?

Oh, oh, I'm so sorry, Debbie.
I have been frightfully busy,

and, after all, you only gave
it to me yesterday.

Oh, sure.

I will read it. Promise.

You got my number?

-Mm-hmm. I'll call you.
-Okay.

[knock on door]

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

-Oh, well, actually I--
-I wonder if you might help

clear up a little mystery.

-About what?
-My umbrella.

Actually, it belongs
to my doorman,

and I want
to return it to him.

[Tiffany] Why come to me?

Someone took it

by mistake last night
at the cocktail party,

and I thought that you
might have gotten it.

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

because it has
a very distinctive design and...

This isn't mine.

[Jessica] It isn't mine either.
Pity.

You must have, inadvertently,
exchanged umbrellas

with Adrian Winslow
when you had dinner.

Oh, of course, that must be it.

Except he said he didn't
have dinner with you.

That weasel.

Look, I...

I was a little nervous about
my key being found

at the murder scene,
and Adrian said

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

I couldn't help but notice

the manuscript you slipped
into the drawer.

You know,
Hemsley Post's novel is missing.

Oh, and I didn't take it.

This is an autobiography

by an old movie star. You know,
what I did and who I did it to.

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

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

-personally.
-I see.

-Going out on your own?
-Yes.

Just to satisfy my curiosity,

what did you do last night?

Well, when Post
didn't show up, I...

I finally took
a couple of sleeping pills

and went to bed.

Life in the fast lane
can be a little lonely.

[gentle music playing]

[suspenseful music playing]

[knocking on door]

-Yeah?
-Frank Lapinski?

Yeah, what are you selling?

This is a search warrant.

[dramatic music playing]

[Melvin] Open the door,
Lapinski!

Meyer, kick it in.

He's coming down
the fire escape.

Take him. Be careful.
He may be armed.

Watch it, Meyer.
He might be armed.

[tires screeching]

Freeze!

[Meyer] Drop the briefcase.

Now, let it go.

Against the wall.
Hands flat. Feet back.

Name tag says Hemsley Post.

[somber music playing]

"Untitled novel,
by Hemsley Post."

All right, you got me.

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

I'm not a damn bit sorry.

He's all yours.

[Horace] Well, stealing
somebody else's novel

is a dastardly thing to do,

and I don't blame Lapinski
for killing him.

Well, I know he confessed,

but there's something wrong
about this whole thing.

What do you mean?

I can't just put
my finger on it.

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

other people
covering their tracks.

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

Yes, I read it last night.

Any good or, I mean,
should I ask?

[Jessica] Actually,
it's not that bad.

It's a beginner's story
about a teenage girl

remembering how she felt
about her brother

going off to the war.

I wish I could remember
that night with Lucinda Lark,

I'll tell ya.

Oh, dear.

I should've given these
to Mr. Comstock.

[Jessica] I think these
are the ones that I found

the morning after the killing.

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

I suspect they belong
to Mr. Post.

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

I think if a guy like Post
would go out and buy

a pair of glasses, he'd find
something a little more macho.

[Horace] You know what I mean?

[bright music playing]

Driver, stop the cab.

Jessica, what on earth?
What do you see?

Optometrist. Here.
Here's for the fare.

I'll meet you back at the hotel.

Uhm...

Hey, driver,
you don't know any good saloons

in this neighborhood, do you?

[doctor] Ha. Just as I thought.

Madam,
where did your optometrist

learn his craft?

The braille institute?

These glasses
are entirely wrong for you.

I suspected they were.

[doctor] Left lens
is for a mild astigmatism.

Right lens corrects for myopia.

I'll fix you up a new pair.

Actually, I was wondering,
would it take long

to mount those lenses
in different frames?

[Debbie] Mrs. Fletcher,
thank you so much

for reading my story.

I called you last night,
several times.

[Debbie] Well, a friend
has a cabin upstate.

[Debbie] I go up there
sometimes to write. No phone.

But, when I came back,
I saw your message on the door,

and I rushed right over.

Then you haven't seen the paper?

No.

Well, I found your story
very interesting.

Really?

Obviously written from the heart
and from personal experience.

Well, um,
do you have any suggestions,

or how to tighten it up, or...

Well, I made a few notes
on, on the back.

-I hope you don't mind.
-No.

Isn't it awful
when you reach a time in life

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

[both laugh]

Can I borrow your glasses?

Oh, well, uh, I doubt these
are going to be any help to you.

Oh! Clumsy.
[chuckles]

[clears throat]

Oh, dear. That's even worse.

Why don't you
read it yourself?

Oh, yes, yes, yes.

Yeah, I, I think you're right
about the beginning.

It, it is much too vague.

Your feeling
about your older brother

going off to war seems genuine.

You must be very close.

Oh, yeah,
since our parents died,

he's, he's all I have.

In the story you call him Joe,

but isn't his name
really Frank Lapinski?

Apparently, you haven't heard.

Last night,
the police arrested him

for killing Hemsley Post.

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

Debbie, he confessed.

You're right, though.
It's not true.

[Jessica] He lied
to protect you.

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

Of course,
I had the frames changed

to match your backup glasses.

[Jessica] Originally,
those were clear plastic.

[Jessica] Those were
the glasses you were wearing

when you stopped me
in the lobby.

I'm sorry I had to deceive you,

but I had to be sure
that I was right

before I made any accusations.

I was worried about the glasses.

I-I-I couldn't remember
where I had left them.

Mrs. Fletcher, I'm...

Oh, God.
I didn't mean to kill him.

It was an accident.

Why don't you start
at the beginning?

Maybe I can help.

Frank sent his novel to Post,
his only copy.

And then we heard later
that he was coming out

with his own Vietnam novel,

and Frank was furious.

And you wanted to help Frank.

Yes,
I would do anything for him.

And then it happened, uhm,
a way to get the novel back.

Mr. Post saw me
approaching the other writers

in the hotel lobby,
so he came over.

[Debbie] You know, somebody
had said something to him

about my story,

and he asked me
up to his hotel room

after the party
to discuss my future.

See, I knew what he had in mind.

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

I-- You know, talk to him, or--

maybe just grab
the manuscript and run,

but I was not prepared
for what happened, because...

he was like an animal.

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

by mistake...
after the cocktail party.

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

Then you took the briefcase
with the manuscript

and gave it to Frank?

Yeah, he had stolen
Frank's novel

almost word for word.

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

I just can't
let Frank lie for me.

Debbie, just
tell the police what happened.

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

You believe me?
[Jessica] I do.

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

[applause in the background]

Horace, you can't walk out
in the middle of a speech,

especially when you've won.

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

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

Brass and wood. Unhockable.

I think I'm gonna
hang on to mine.

Very traditional of you.
Very traditional.

Now, what I need
is some cigarettes

and a stiff drink.
Let's get out of here, okay?

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

you're gonna have to do
something about your drinking.

Are you saying to cut back?

That would be like depriving
a race car of its gasoline.

Oh, may I help you?

[alarm blaring]
[people gasping]

You might also consider
giving up, uh, cigarettes.