Double Indemnity Page #3

you're such a hot potato as a claims

manager, such a wolf on a phoney

claim. Well, maybe you are, Keyes,

but let's take a look at this

Dietrichson claim, Accident and Double

Indemnity. You were pretty good in

there for a while, all right. You

said it wasn't an accident. Check.

You said it wasn't suicide. Check.

You said it was murder. Check and

double check. You thought you had it

cold, all wrapped up in tissue paper,

with pink ribbons around it. It was

perfect, except that it wasn't,

because you made a mistake, just one

tiny little mistake. When it came to

picking the killer, you picked the

wrong guy, if you know what I mean.

Want to know who killed Dietrichson?

Hold tight to that cheap cigar of

yours, Keyes. I killed Dietrichson.

Me, Walter Neff, insurance agent, 35

years old, unmarried, no visible

scars --

(He glances down at

his wounded shoulder)

Until a little while ago, that is.

Yes, I killed him. I killed him for

money -- and a woman -- and I didn't

get the money and I didn't get the

woman. Pretty, isn't it?

He interrupts the dictation, lays down the horn on the desk.

He takes his lighted cigarette from the ash tray, puffs it

two or three times, and kills it. He picks up the horn again.

NEFF:

(His voice is now

quiet and contained)

It began last May. About the end of

May, it was. I had to run out to

Glendale to deliver a policy on some

dairy trucks. On the way back I

remembered this auto renewal on Los

Feliz. So I decided to run over there.

It was one of those Calif. Spanish

houses everyone was nuts about 10 or

15 years ago. This one must have

cost somebody about 30,000 bucks --

that is, if he ever finished paying

for it.

As he goes on speaking, SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

A-12 DIETRICHSON HOME - LOS FELIZ DISTRICT

Palm trees line the street, middle-class houses, mostly in

Spanish style. Some kids throwing a baseball back and forth

across a couple of front lawns. An ice cream wagon dawdles

along the block. Neff's coupe meets and passes the ice cream

wagon and stops before one of the Spanish houses. Neff gets

out. He carries a briefcase, his hat is a little on the back

of his head. His movements are easy and full of ginger. He

inspects the house, checks the number, goes up on the front

porch and rings the bell.

NEFF'S VOICE

It was mid-afternoon, and it's funny,

I can still remember the smell of

honeysuckle all along that block. I

felt like a million. There was no

way in all this world I could have

known that murder sometimes can smell

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