All language subtitles for 1MSW01E18 Footnote To Murder

Come on! Let's go! - Stop it!

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote. Please, no!

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

Somebody has killed Hemsley Post.

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

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

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

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

I spent the evening and the entire night...

with the most romantic man.

Freeze!

Why go on?

Alone.

Rejected.

And not even a last cigarette.

You're gonna kill yourself, Horace.

Those cigarettes will be the death of you.

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

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

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

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

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

Congratulations on your nomination. And you on yours.

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

But enough talk about silly award business, all right?

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

That wonderful... Nora somebody. Tell me.

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

Are you writing something?

Yeah. Just toying with a little sonnet.

Wanna hear it? Yeah.

"Why go on alone, rejected...

with Cupid's turgid rites neglected?"

It stinks? 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!

Look, it's still pouring with rain out there.

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

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

Two. Three. Four.

Five. Six. Seven.

Twenty. One moment.

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

Tiffany. Do come in. Thank you.

Haven't we, 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.

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

with my usual grace and panache.

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

Well, even the mighty oak...

must let a little sunshine fall on the rising saplings.

And do call me Hemsley. May I offer you something? - No, thank you.

You know, everyone's talking about your new unpublished novel, Hemsley.

Yes.

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

The, definitive novel on the Vietnam War.

I'd love to read it.

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

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

But if you could come back...

tonight, after the party.

Yes. Yes.

I think I could read some of it to you.

I find great literature very stimulating.

Yes? Hemsley, open up.

Excuse me, darling.

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

Obviously not. 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, have they gotten younger?

Alexis, my darling, really.

She's with the awards committee.

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

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.

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.

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

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

of speaking to each reader on a multiplicity of levels.

There you go. Excuse me.

I know this is an awful imposition, but I've written a short story, and I was wondering...

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

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

Not that it makes any difference.

- Hemsley Post? - Sorry. No autographs. I make that a policy.

I wanna talk to you.

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

I'm Frank Lapinski.

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

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

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

You're breaking my arm!

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

Let go of me. Quick, get security!

He's trying to rob me!

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

No, no. Let him go.

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

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

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

He does so many talk shows, when does he have time to read anything? Excuse me. Excuse me.

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

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

Certainly. And this is Horace Lynchfield.

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, I've written a short story,

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

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

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

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

Well, I'm not sure that I can be of any help, but... Well, I'll be happy to read it.

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

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

Yeah, well, I thought it sounded literary when l... 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.

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

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

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

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

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

I should write about something I knew.

My next book's going to be more literary.

Really? Yes.

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

Start to finish? Where are you now? Aristotle?

Excuse me.

A-a liquid offering...

on the altar of beauty? Well, thank you.

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

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.

Mystery and poetry, right?

Will you excuse me? There's someone I must say hello to.

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

Take my book, Korean Chronicle.

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

The one you're being so secretive about?

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

Remarkable. As far as I know,

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

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

Greek boys mincing about.

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

And when are we to see this latest tome?

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

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

Do be careful, Adrian.

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

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

Hmph.

Thunder quivers.

Wings beat.

Petals aching, parting.

Beak thrust of sunburst nectar.

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.

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

But I want to sign your copy of Korean Chronicle.

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

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

No. Too much bad grammar.

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

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

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.

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

It is. Are you with the press?

No. No, I think I must have picked up Mr. Post's umbrella last night by mistake after the party.

- Umbrella? - Yes.

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

Actually, I was hoping that he had mine.

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

A sword concealed in a shaft.

It's not your everyday weapon.

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

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

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

I am personally taking charge of this case.

That is Lieutenant Meyer, Homicide Division.

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

the nature of your relationship with the victim.

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

Awards?

Yes. Everyone was there...

Adrian Winslow, Lucinda Lark and many others.

Whoa. This is a lot bigger than I thought.

Go over to the window and watch out there and let me know when the mobile TV crew gets here, okay?

Did you find the manuscript? What manuscript?

Mr. Post's latest novel.

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

right here in this room.

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

Let me have the city desk, please.

Frank? Mel Comstock.

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

In his room at the Cromwell Hotel.

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

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.

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

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

Meyer, let me have the key.

Ma'am, please.

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?

"By Lucinda Lark."

I'll have to question the Lark woman.

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

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

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

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

Who called? Yeah?

Yeah? Mr. Comstock?

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

threatening Mr. Post.

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

Just a minute, Gwen.

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

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

- Lieutenant, I suggest that maybe if you get a shot over here... - Thank you very, very much, Mrs. Fletcher.

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

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

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

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

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

So you admit the sword umbrella is yours?

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

You bought it with the purpose of killing Hemsley Post.

No, I bought it because it was raining.

And you can account for your whereabouts last night?

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

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

until I woke up in my hotel room about noon.

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

Someone who was at the cocktail party.

I'll get to you in a moment.

Instead of bullying Mr. Lynchfield, why don't you find out who left the lipstick stains on Mr. Post's sheets?

Mrs. Fletcher...

Also, who owned that other room key?

Whose key was it?

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

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

Bring her in.

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

disappeared from Mr. Post's room?

Miss Harrow. Hello.

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

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

I see. No, you don't.

Mr. Post offered to show me his new novel.

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

so we arranged to meet at mine.

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

And what time did he get to your room?

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

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

Adrian Winslow, the author.

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

Thank you.

All right, Lynchfield, let's stop shadowboxing!

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

You even threatened him with a gun! - That's ridiculous!

It was not a real gun!

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

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

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, l...

I don't really remember.

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

I don't believe what's going on here. You're excused, Mrs. Fletcher. You're no longer under suspicion.

How generous. Jesse, how are ya?

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

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

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

Horace Lynchfield is a gentle, kind man who is incapable of hurting anyone. Yes, yes. Listen...

Obviously, it is more important to get your face on the evening news than it is to find out who killed Hemsley Post.

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

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

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

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

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

but that pompous fool of a district attorney isn't going to railroad my friend...

so that he can get himself elected mayor.

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

Figures.

Excuse me, okay, I'm not sure that I really belong here.

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

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

Excuse me. Donovan, get rid of these guys.

Sir? We pulled Judge Wyler.

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

All he wants is the girls. Now get these guys out of here before I get my head handed to me.

Ladies, right this way, please.

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

Not you. Come on. Come on.

In there.

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

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

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

Yeah. We've got him in custody right now.

I'm going to be handling the indictment personally.

Believe me, this guy could be a dangerous customer.

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

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

We've got a little problem.

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

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

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

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

Yes, thank you.

Is anything wrong, Miss Harrow? No. Just some dust in my contact lens.

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

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

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

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

But he happens to be innocent. Well, either way, all the talk shows will be after him.

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

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

There was. I saw it. 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, I heard it through the door.

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

Miss Harrow, I am desperately trying to clear a very dear friend of mine from a murder charge.

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

Sure. Why not.

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

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

That's very kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but Hemsley and I have been separated for 10 years.

Darryl, I said the blue taffeta.

Well, maybe it's all for the best.

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

A very unhappy man. 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, entertaining someone.

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

but that didn't stop him from trying.

It never mattered who, how pretty, how old.

The game was everything.

Requiescat in pacem.

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

- Horace! - Hiya, Jessica.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I bought a copy of your book.

I found it... quite...

Graphic? That's what the news called it.

Yes, graphic. Yes.

I was hoping you'd sign it for me.

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

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

He didn't escape. They lost him.

Gwen, get Lieutenant Meyer in here, please.

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

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

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

I just put the wrong date on it.

Look, I'm not very good with numbers.

Well, not that anybody would suspect me,

but I do have an alibi.

I spent the evening and the entire night...

with the most romantic man.

- Who? - Horace.

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

then I couldn't possibly have murdered Hemsley Post.

Imagine, Lucinda Lark and not being able to remember.

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

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

I hope not. I was so looking forward to remembering. 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.

Mr. Lapinski? That's me.

I'm Jessica Fletcher. The writer?

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

Lightweight, but, kind of fun.

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

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

The guy who killed Hemsley Post.

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

How well did you know Mr. Post?

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

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

I'm just curious to know why you're sending him threatening letters if you've never met him.

You have me mixed up with somebody else.

I got work to do. Excuse me.

I should've had that taxi wait.

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

He's around here somewhere. Nice guy.

Yes, and, 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.

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

Book? Yes, of course. The one about Vietnam?

Well, far as I know, it's the only one he's wrote. I don't know. Maybe he's working on another.

I see. Well, thanks very much.

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.

These aren't mine.

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

I most certainly hope you do, Mr. Comstock.

Mr. Winslow. - 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.

Then you didn't have dinner with Tiffany Harrow? - Is that what she said?

Now I remember. You're the mystery writer. 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.

But I understood Alexis had dropped Post.

Definitely no. Quite the contrary.

That's why she gave him all that money.

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

Do you know 10 years ago when we spent that summer in Florence, she was even jealous of me?

Ridiculous, of course.

I never realized you were so close.

Yes.

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

Mr. Winslow. I do so adore your work.

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

Mrs. Fletcher, you will excuse me? Yes.

If you would just inscribe it to...

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

Something simple like that.

Hi. Mrs. Fletcher. Do you remember me?

Yes. The writer Debbie Delancy.

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

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

Sure. I will read it. Promise.

You got my number? I'll call you.

Okay.

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

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.

Well, why come to me?

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

and I thought that you might've gotten it.

No. I took my own umbrella after the party.

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

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

Pity. You must have inadvertently exchanged umbrellas with Adrian Winslow when you had dinner.

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

That weasel.

Look, l-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.

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 l...

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,

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

Life in the fast lane can be a little lonely.

- Yeah? - Frank Lapinski?

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

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.

Freeze!

Drop the briefcase. Now! Let it go.

Against the wall. Hands flat. Feet back.

Name tag says Hemsley Post.

"Untitled Novel, by Hemsley Post."

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.

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

and I don't blame Lapinski for killing him.

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

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

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

Other people covering their tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

Dear. I should've given these to Mr. Comstock.

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

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

I suspect they belong to Mr. Post.

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

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

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

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

Optometrist. Here. Here's for the fare.

I'll meet you back at the hotel.

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

Just as I thought.

Madam, where did your optometrist learn his craft?

The Braille Institute?

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

Left lens is for a mild astigmatism.

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

Actually, I was wondering, would it take long to mount those lenses in different frames?

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

I called you last night... several times.

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

No phone. But, when I came back, I saw your message on the door, and I rushed right over.

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

Well, I found your story very interesting. Really?

Obviously written from the heart and from personal experience.

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

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

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

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

Can I borrow your glasses? Well, I doubt these are going to be any help to you.

Clumsy.

Dear. That's even worse.

Why don't you read it yourself?

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

It-It is much too vague.

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

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

In the story you call him Joe,

but isn't his name really Frank Lapinski?

Apparently, you haven't heard.

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

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

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

He lied to protect you.

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

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

Originally, those were clear plastic.

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

I'm sorry I had to deceive you,

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

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

Mrs. Fletcher, I'm...

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

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

Frank sent his novel to Post. His only copy.

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

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

Yes. I would do anything for him.

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

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

so he came over.

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.

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

after the cocktail party.

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

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

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

Look, I have to go to the police, Mrs. Fletcher. I just can't let Frank lie for me.

Debbie, just tell the police what happened.

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

You believe me? I do.

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

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

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?

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. - May I help you?

You might also consider giving up cigarettes.