All language subtitles for MrSWr6E12.Goodbye.Charlie.

For all we know, this old guy could be dead by now.

Too bad you can't prove it.

As his only relative, the fortune would go to you.

How many zeroes in "fortune"?

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

That unidentified corpse is not Uncle Charlie.

It isn't?

But it will be as soon as we identify the body.

You're not the first people to lay claim to John Doe.

You're not even the second.

He's right.

The shoe's too small.

It was murder.

Honey, this isn't going to look good on your résumé.

Oh, hello.

You've caught me at the tail end of my newest book.

I've been at it almost ten hours a day

for the past week,

and I am sore from my fingers to my back

and... elsewhere.

You know,

every time I start a new novel, it's an adventure,

and I really never know what I'm gonna come up against.

Some are pure agony,

like having your wisdom teeth

yanked by a sadist with a pair of pliers.

And others just flow from the typewriter

like sap from a maple tree.

That's the way it was with "Good-Bye Charlie."

I wish they were all this much fun.

Our hero...

well, now let me see,

is hero the right word for Frank Albertson?

Maybe not.

I promise you, he's not very heroic.

Actually, he's a lost soul

looking for one good shot at the brass ring.

The story opens on a spring day in sunny Hollywood,

land of orange groves, movie stars,

and private detectives.

Smile and say, "cheating."

Lousy private eye!

Well, thank you, Mrs. Albertson.

When you brought me into the bedroom,

I didn't expect anything like this.

Well, I hope you're not disappointed.

Oh, no, no.

I mean, you've been absolutely incredible.

Really, you've made my day.

Sunny, I'm home!

Oh, hi, honey. We're in the bedroom.

Come on in.

Who are you?

And what are you doing with my uncle Charlie's watch?

Honey, he was just looking at it.

Ow!

What happened to you?

Business.

Who is this guy?

A lawyer.

Ray Fleischer.

Rathbone, Gilder and Hellman.

Lawyer?

Look, if you're gonna tell me I'm gonna be sued,

I was just doing my job.

Honey, just listen to him.

We are the executors of

the estate of the late Elizabeth Flack of Detroit.

She's left everything to one Charles Kenneth Albertson.

Uncle Charlie?

Why would she do a thing like that?

Her will refers to him as an old love.

I was just showing him some of the stuff

Uncle Charlie left behind, and look...

the inscription on the back of this old broken watch says,

"To Charlie with love from Liz." It's proof.

Look at this picture of Uncle Charlie

in his sailor suit.

Well, the faces are a little blurry, hon.

Read what it says on the back.

"Me and Liz, 1943."

I also showed Mr. Fleischer

some of the other stuff Uncle Charlie left behind.

The monogrammed money clip, the expired library card,

the monogrammed cigar clipper,

and also uncle Charlie's navy dog tags.

- Sit down. - Thank you.

Did you forget about the two-headed nickel

and the loaded dice?

Frank...

Mr. Albertson, I am convinced

that Charles Kenneth Albertson is your uncle.

Now I'd appreciate it very much

if you could tell me where I could find him.

I really don't know.

Look, the guy dropped in for a weekend

and stayed three years.

That's 36 months of eating my food, drinking my beer,

and wearing my shirts.

I got a little fed up.

I gave him 100 bucks, put him on a bus.

How long ago was that?

I don't know--Two, maybe two and a half years.

We got a couple of Christmas cards from him.

The last one had a return address in Reno.

But when I sent him a card, it came back stamped

"Not Known at This Address."

Yeah, I mean, for all we know,

this old guy could be dead by now.

Too bad you can't prove it.

As his only relative, the fortune would go to you.

How many zeroes in "fortune"?

In this one, six.

Six?

Well...

Hey, I mean, I loved the old guy, really.

But, I mean, if he's dead, he's dead.

Who do I see?

Here's my card.

Give me a call in about five years.

Five years?

Well, you haven't heard from him in two,

and he can't legally be declared dead for seven.

Sorry.

Wait--Wait a second, Ray, listen...

Good-bye, good luck.

Good-bye. Thank you.

Lawyers.

Frank, Frank, what's so funny?

What was so funny,

at least to Frank's mind, was the irony of the situation.

For three years he and Sunny had supported this old moocher.

Now, suddenly, Charlie was rich

and they were facing repossession and dispossession,

not to mention the loss of Frank's one and only client

because of the way he'd bungled the case.

Luckily, the client was a forbearing woman.

Who decided to give Frank another chance.

- Hey, honey. - Yeah.

Isn't that the guy we saw yesterday?

I told you we should have gone someplace else.

I'll kill him.

I don't get it.

Why should I be interested in some poor guy

who's been hit by a train?

Oh, surely you must be able to think of one reason

why we both might be interested in him?

Uncle Charlie.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Frank, Frank, Frank! Frank, stop it!

What's the matter?

It's horrible!

Poor old Uncle Charlie?

Honey,

that unidentified corpse is not Uncle Charlie.

It isn't?

Honey, the body was found on a railroad track

outside of Huckabee, Nevada.

That's about 50 miles east of Reno.

You remember Reno,

where Uncle Charlie's last Christmas card was from?

Sun, it's not Charlie.

But it will be, as soon as we identify the body.

Oh, Frank.

You won't get away with it.

Somebody must know who the person really is...

was.

John Doe has been on ice for three days.

Not one person, not a relative, a friend, a neighbor

has come forth to claim that body for burial.

If nobody claims it by noon tomorrow,

it's gonna get dumped into an unmarked grave.

Ugh.

But, if we claim it, he's gonna get a funeral,

and a decent burial, and a tombstone.

With Uncle Charlie's name on it.

Honey, look,

if Charlie did drop dead out there

somewhere without our knowing about it,

maybe he got planted in some potter's field

in an unmarked grave.

The stone we get for this poor sucker

will serve as a monument to Charlie.

He'd want it that way.

Coroner's office.

No, this is his assistant, Lon Ainsley.

Mr. Yamoto is out of the office.

Can I help you?

Yes, sir, I was reading about

this poor John Doe feller,

and I got the crazy notion he might be my brother, Bubba.

Sir, you cannot make an identification

over the phone.

All right, sir, just give me a yes or no.

John Doe, rather, my brother, Bubba,

he's got a tattoo of Betty Boop on his right forearm.

It's hard to tell what was on John Doe's forearm.

But there are no tattoos anywhere else.

No tattoos, huh?

Well, what about a dueling scar on his left cheek?

Let's just forget about his face.

How old is your Bubba?

Oh, well, sir, he's older than me

which, I would guess would make him around 40.

Sorry, this man is old enough to be your dada.

You have a resonance in your voice that says

you're a tall, muscular man, Mr. Ainsley.

Well, I do try to take care of myself.

Now, is your missing father a tall man?

He's on the short side, about 5'6".

Now if it wasn't for the train,

what sort of shape would he be in?

Well, not so great, he's on the paunchy side.

Very, very good!

I think we may have a match here.

Now give me one more particular.

I can't think of anything.

Well, there is something about his right leg.

- What exactly? - It's wooden.

And we were so close.

Well, I hope your daddy turns up.

Bye, now.

Bye.

Voila.

There you have it: meet John Doe.

These stats add up to a delicious six zeroes.

Great.

Hey, by the way,

how did you come up with short and paunchy?

Do you have some sort of second sight I don't know about?

No.

Actually, I was describing Uncle Charlie.

Well, having pumped the coroner's assistant

dry of every drop of pertinent data

on the unclaimed corpse,

Frank and Sunny headed north to Nevada,

unaware that they were about to lock horns

with Huckabee's unique version of law and order.

I understand you folks drove

all the way up from LA last night.

That's right.

Frank Albertson, sheriff. This is my wife, Sunny.

- Something wrong? - It's his back.

We had to sleep in our car, Frank had the front.

Yeah.

Bucket seats with the stick-shift in the middle.

We were going to stay at a motel,

but it was closed.

Yeah.

Old Roscoe believes in early to bed, early to rise.

Says anybody sneaking into town late at night is up to no good.

Have a seat, folks.

Well, your...

your identification was first-rate.

Not much I can tell you about the accident.

John Doe was pretty badly mangled.

The force of the train

knocked him right out of his shoes.

They were...

they were found beside the body.

If it's any consolation to you, it was quick.

Can you think of any reason why your uncle would have been

near the railroad track here in Huckabee?

Yes, sheriff, I can.

I don't know how many times Uncle Charlie used to tell us

about the Great Depression of the 1930s.

He was out of work, couldn't get a job.

And like so many of the other unemployed at the time,

Uncle Charlie became a hobo.

He traveled across the country in empty boxcars,

living off the land and sometimes even stealing.

Mostly chickens,

which he cooked over a spit in some hobo forest.

Jungle.

Then you're saying that

he got killed trying to hop on that freight train?

He went back to his old way of life.

But he just couldn't cut it.

Do you know of any reason

why he didn't have any identification on him?

Well, what does a hobo need with a wallet?

His pockets were empty.

A man usually has something in his pockets.

Are we almost finished?

Yeah, that'll do it for me.

Unless, of course, you want to view the remains.

- No! - No...

No, I think we'd prefer

to remember Uncle Charlie the way we saw him last.

- In one piece. - Yeah.

Oh, but listen, if it's okay,

we would like to arrange for a decent burial

right here in town.

Normally, that would be the procedure.

But you see, there's a flag on this play.

You're not the first people to lay claim to John Doe.

You're not even the second.

You're the third.

What are we going to do now?

Guess you'll have to take a number.

Oh! Oh, Sunny, that is so good.

Oh, yeah, right there.

Oh, don't stop! Oh oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.

Maybe we should just forget it and go home.

Oh, now that would not be fair

to the memory of Uncle Charlie, hon.

I mean, the man spent three long years living with us.

At no time did he ever say forget it and go home.

He didn't have a home.

I know.

And if we can't pay the rent,

we're not gonna have one, either.

Oh, that is the spot.

That... yes.

You know, honey, it's just that

if it was only one other person identifying the body,

I would say, "Yeah, okay, we gave it our best shot.

Let's hit the trail."

But two other people making different identifications?

Uh-uh.

Only one of those people can be telling the truth.

Which means the odds are both of them are lying.

And we aren't?

Listen, hon,

would you roll me over and get me a shirt, please?

What are you gonna do now?

Oh, well, first, I'm gonna try to get up.

And then, I'm gonna go look for a man

whose name I read upside down on the sheriff's desk.

Hi.

Say, I was told I could find a Mr. Bart Mahoney in here.

Yeah, well, that depends on who wants to find him.

Mr. Mahoney.

I think this'll explain it.

Yeah, let's see.

Private eye, huh?

Frank Albertson.

Well, what can we do for you?

What do you know about a man called John Doe

who got himself hit by a train?

Well, I do know that it rearranged him pretty good.

What are you drinking?

Beer, just beer.

Hey, Jake.

Draw one for my friend here.

Mr. Mahoney, according to my information,

you identified the body.

Well, that's right. His name was Roper Bailey.

Everyone here knew old Roper, right guys?

You all knew old Roper?

Yeah, except for you.

Roper was a devoted father and a sole provider

for his grieving daughter, Marcia Mae, my client.

And would your client happen to be the railroad

or the train that ran him down?

You're gonna sue, right?

Well, let me put it to you this way.

That signal light was out of order

at the nearest crossing

when Roper decided to take a shortcut home.

I mean, now how was he to know that there was a freight train

roaring down the track behind him, huh?

The light was only part of that signal.

There was a bell.

Did I fail to mention Roper was deaf?

He lost his hearing when he was a rodeo performer.

Some ornery bull went and just tossed him,

went right on his head.

Boy, it sounds like all your bases are covered.

Well, you see, by not replacing

that signal light at the crossing,

the railroad as good as murdered that fine man.

That hardworking, that decent and loving daddy

of that tragic little orphan girl, Marcia Mae Bailey.

John Doe's face is gone,

and most of his body is torn up, too.

Now how is little Marcia Mae gonna prove that

that's her daddy?

Well, now, don't you think

if a child says it's her daddy,

a jury of honest, decent folks

with honest, decent feelings is gonna call her a liar?

Son, you sure got a warped view of our legal system.

Damn!

Frank, what's wrong?

Didn't you find him?

Yeah, I found him.

Bart Mahoney, the local shyster.

The man's a toad.

Calm down.

- It's not that bad. - Yes, it is.

The man's trying to steal our stiff!

Poor baby.

- You need a nap. - No, I don't.

You weren't there. You didn't hear what he said.

He's got this client and he's going to...

Wrong number.

Mr. Albertson? Sheriff Ten Eyck.

Hello, sheriff.

I just got a call from Bart Mahoney.

He said you met him a little while ago.

I bumped into him, yes.

Yeah, well, he's kind of peeved about that.

Said you told him you worked for the railroad.

I gave him my card.

Yeah, but you didn't tell him

you were laying claim to John Doe.

He didn't ask.

Look, sheriff, if...

You come on down to my office in about ten minutes.

I want you to meet a little lady that might be a kin of yours.

I just thought it was time that the two of you

and Tillie Bascomb here got together.

Why, sheriff?

Well, with you claiming that

John Doe is your uncle Charlie,

Ms. Bascomb claiming it's her husband...

that would make her your aunt Tillie.

Do you happen to have a picture

of your Uncle Charlie, by any chance?

I have.

Do you still have that snapshot of Mort?

This is Uncle Charlie.

And this is Mort.

That's not Uncle Charlie.

I can't tell anything from this.

It's so blurred,

the sailor doesn't even have any features.

Neither did John Doe.

That didn't keep you from swearing that

it was Mort.

Well, it just has to be.

My husband has insomnia.

Many a night he took long walks

so that he could make himself sleep better.

On the railroad tracks?

Well, why not?

They're not far from our house.

It's quiet and peaceful there.

Safer, too.

Easier to spot rattlesnakes

when they crawl out of the brush onto the tracks.

Oh, yuck!

Ms. Bascomb,

what was your husband doing hopscotching rattlers

in the moonlight without any ID in his pockets?

Well, I'm sure that he had his wallet

when he left the house.

I have no idea what happened to it.

Unless the train's velocity whipped it out of his pocket.

Yeah.

Well, then it's still probably there.

Sheriff, I suggest we organize a search party

to comb that area of the tracks.

My deputy's gone over that ground.

He didn't find anything.

Why would you want to search for her husband's wallet?

Well, I believe John Doe is my uncle Charlie.

But if he's not, I'd like to find out the truth

so I can get on with my life.

If that's all right with you, sheriff?

Well, it would be,

except I only got two deputies available.

And we spent a lot of hours out there the first time.

Hey, does Huckabee have a Pony League baseball team?

Sure does.

My son-in-law is the coach.

Think they might like to make a few extra bucks?

What kid wouldn't?

I'll have them turn out at sun up.

What?

I'm sure I saw something slither.

- Did it rattle? - I don't think so.

Well, when it rattles, let me know.

Look, here's a good place to start.

Shine the light in here.

All right.

First the monogrammed cigar clipper.

They want proof,

we'll give them proof.

Well, having salted the railroad tracks

with Uncle Charlie's last few remaining possessions,

Frank approached the following morning's search

with ill-concealed enthusiasm.

His joy was short-lived.

The Huckabee Hornets had problems

hitting the curve ball and the fastball,

and they weren't all that good at judging pop-ups.

They were definitely not very good

at finding the obvious.

How come she doesn't sweat?

Tillie.

You shouldn't be out in this heat.

Let me take you back to the office.

I want to stay.

They're looking for Mort's wallet.

Yeah, well, they should have found that days ago.

Who's the man with Mrs. Bascomb, sheriff?

That's her cousin, Jerry Wilbur.

Works for her husband's microchip company.

Matter of fact, he's been running it

ever since Mort disappeared.

Ed,

I object to this high-handed,

unauthorized trampling of the scene of the crime.

Yeah? What crime is that?

Well, the railroad's gross negligence

in the untimely death of Roper Bailey.

Roper Bailey?

That old drunk?

Oh, wait a second now, that dead old drunk.

Just zip it up, Bart.

You ain't talking to no jury now.

I authorized this search.

Mr. Mahoney, hi.

So glad you could make it.

Where is your client?

Oh, wow!

Bart!

Why do I have to sit, in that refrigerator

freezing my butt off?

Morning, Marcia Mae.

So that's poor, tragic little Marcia Mae

who's gonna make a jury weep, huh?

Damn it!

I told you to wait in the car!

Ouch!

Hey, sheriff,

I found something over here.

Hey, we found something!

- They found Mort's wallet. - Sheriff, look at this.

I found something, too, sheriff!

How many wallets did they find out there?

This is what we got, sir.

It's too bad those kids handled all that stuff.

Now we can't get any clear fingerprints.

There's an inscription in the watch that says,

"To Charlie with love from Liz."

Mm-hmm.

"CKA".

"CKA".

"Charles Kenneth Albertson."

Uncle Charlie.

I was just wondering

how many things I had in my pocket

with my initials on them.

The answer is none.

Well, you know,

Uncle Charlie was having a lot of trouble with his memory.

And I guess he felt it needed to be primed a bit.

Uh-huh.

So all of this stuff just flew out of his pockets

when the train hit him.

Well, what other explanation is there?

See, my deputies searched up and down that track

right after the body was discovered,

and they didn't find diddley-squat.

Well, you know how kids are, they never miss a thing.

Their eyes are so sharp

and they're so close to the ground.

Look, sheriff, I don't mean to hurry you,

but we are getting just a bit concerned about the fact

that Uncle Charlie has not been buried yet.

All right.

Take this over to Jack Yamoto. He's the coroner.

He'll give you a proper death certificate,

and he'll turn over your uncle to you.

Thank you, sheriff.

Thank you for all your help.

Appreciate it.

Uncle Charlie thanks you, too.

The first thing you have to do is get rid of that car.

It's a ghastly color.

It's a detective's car, honey, nondescript.

What are you gonna buy with the inheritance?

A brown Ferrari?

No, a red one, 'cause I'm out of the business.

Mr. And Mrs. Albertson?

Yes, we are.

The coroner's expecting you.

He had to step out for just a moment.

You may wait in his office.

- Oh, you're Mr. Ainsley. - Well, yes.

How did you know?

I'm good with names.

Stick around and she'll guess your weight.

Excuse me.

I'm sorry.

I heard his voice, and that's the first thing

that popped into my head.

We are too close to screw it up now.

What if he recognized my voice?

He didn't, he just thinks you're weird.

And so do I.

Hey, look.

That's Junior.

He died 100 years ago out in the desert.

Hello, I'm Jack Yamoto.

Hey, Jack.

Frank Albertson, and my wife, Sunny.

Glad to meet you.

And I have this from the sheriff for you.

- Okay, please, be seated. - Thank you.

No, no, not you-- I want you seated at my desk.

I've got some documents for your signature here.

Okay.

Now, sign each of these here, here, and here.

You got it.

That's one down.

Why do I feel like I'm buying a car, Jack?

That's good.

Thank you, Mr. Albertson.

Oh! Here's a card

for the Bright Haven Mortuary and Cemetery--

They'll treat you right.

Mention my name and they'll give you a deal on a coffin.

You can also get a bargain plot, too,

if you don't mind the sunny side of a hill.

Oh, Uncle Charlie loved to lay out.

Oh, he'll be laid out for a good long time.

Here's a copy of the death certificate

for Charles Kenneth Albertson.

I'll have the mortuary arrange

for the picking up of the remains, and...

do you want flowers?

No, thank you,

but Uncle Charlie had an allergy.

So, no flowers.

In a hurry, are you, Mr. Albertson?

Well, yes, sheriff, we have a funeral to arrange.

Just after you left my office,

I got a phone call from Sheriff Walldecker

over in Dry Flats.

His deputy brought in a vagrant last night.

Seems that this vagrant

had found a very expensive-looking wallet,

about $200 in it.

- A wallet? - Mm-hmm.

Says he found it

by the railroad track near Huckabee,

right after the accident.

The fellow's name in the wallet was Mort Bascomb.

We know that 'cause he had his name on his driver's license

and about a dozen credit cards.

See, what I don't understand now, sir,

is if John Doe is Mort Bascomb,

how is it your uncle Charlie's belongings

are scattered all over the landscape out there?

Would you turn around, sir? Appreciate it.

Honey, this isn't going to look good on your résumé.

Wait, don't I even get to call a lawyer?

Well, there ain't but one in town.

- Bart Mahoney? - Yeah.

Well, you can call him if you want to.

Strikes me as a conflict of interest.

Look, sheriff, you've gotta believe me,

this is flim-flam.

That-that wallet was planted.

- Is that so? - Yeah.

Well, whose word are you gonna take,

mine or some wallet-stealing vagrant's?

Supper's at six.

We're having pork chops, mashed potatoes,

rice pudding for dessert.

Hey, wait a minute!

Sheriff I know my rights!

Hi, I'm Al Capone.

You can't have my shoes.

Well, you can't have mine, either.

You want to shake on that, or wait for contracts?

You're a wise guy, ain't you?

Yeah, when I'm nervous or scared.

Right now, I'm both.

Hell, kid, I won't hurt you.

I'm Clarence.

Hi. Frank.

You said you was Al.

It's an alias.

Why are you stuffing paper into your shoes?

They're too big.

What would you stuff in them?

What would you do if they were too small?

Then I wouldn't be able to wear them, would I?

What a dummy!

A dumb dummy!

Dummy!

Hey! Hey, sheriff!

Run that by me again

I said, if he was knocked out of his shoes

and dragged by the train,

the shoes would be 100 yards down the track,

not laying beside him.

They were left there to make it look like

he was walking on the tracks.

And then he was probably dumped on the tracks

just before the train was due.

That train comes through

about the same time every night, doesn't it?

Yeah, but...

Okay, that's when the killer noticed

that John Doe was in his stocking feet.

So he took off his own shoes,

intending to put them on John Doe's feet.

But the shoes were too small.

He couldn't jam John Doe's feet into them.

But the victim had to have shoes.

That's when he decided to move back from the tracks

and just let the train rumble over poor John Doe.

And then after the train was gone,

he left the shoes with the torn-up body.

Thanks.

He's right.

The shoe's too small.

It was murder.

That Mahoney's a blow-hard.

Always was, even in high school.

Yeah, I noticed when I was in here before

you had trouble keeping a straight face

when he was spouting off.

Yeah, I been thinking about getting me a pair of earplugs

and sticking them in every time

I see Mahoney walk through that door.

Yeah, you really turned off

when he started talking about Roper Bailey.

He's little Marcia Mae's missing daddy, right?

Yeah, Roper's Marcia's daddy.

All that stuff about Roper Bailey being

Marcia Mae's sole provider...

that's USDA, prime bull.

Marcia Mae's been providing for herself

since she was 16 years old with no problem.

Mahoney know about that?

Who do you think pays her rent?

Bart Mahoney, that's who.

And her grocery bill, too.

See, bartending ain't all I do.

I got me a little grocery store.

And Marcia Mae, she does all her food shopping there.

See, she lives right across the street.

You know, she never pulls her blinds down.

That girl's some piece of work.

I'll bet.

So she does her food shopping at your store.

Yeah.

She always buys the same stuff.

She buys diet soda for herself,

she buys Mexican beer for her daddy.

She buys chewing gum for herself,

she buys chewing tobacco for her daddy.

You know, it's been five days

since they found old John Doe out on the tracks.

Mr. Bart Mahoney, big-brain lawyer,

well, he's saying that

John Doe is none other than Roper Bailey his self.

That is purely bogus.

You know that for a fact?

What I know is that

Marcia Mae come into my food store yesterday.

You want to guess what she bought?

Mexican beer and chewing tobacco?

Son, you win the worm

in the bottom of the bottle of tequila.

I was in the store this morning

and saw her make the purchases.

This is the receipt.

Today's date,

along with a list of what she bought,

including Mexican beer and chewing tobacco,

and Marcia Mae's signature and charge number.

Uh-huh.

I'll tell you what this proves.

If we find Roper Bailey in Marcia Mae's attic

with a six-pack and a spittoon,

she didn't have no reason to kill John Doe.

See, I don't think Mahoney thought up his scheme

to defraud the insurance company

until he read that story in the newspaper

and realized, "Hey, nobody's claiming John Doe."

Could be.

He arrived the same day you did.

Which leaves the widow Bascomb.

Yeah, but why?

Maybe they weren't getting along

and she would have lost too much to a divorce.

You did say something about a microchip company.

Yeah.

A small company, large government contracts.

And now Tillie gets it all.

With her cousin Jerry, the hunk, in charge.

Who is it?

Sheriff Ten Eyck, ma'am.

Like to ask you a couple of questions.

You get out!

Get out of here!

What? What?

What is this, a police state?

You just can't barge into a lady's bedroom.

Looks like Jerry's a kissing cousin.

At the very least.

Now you just listen to me,

before I get a little bit testy.

I want to talk to you about your husband's murder.

Just whose idea was it?

I told you we wouldn't get away with this!

Didn't I tell you that?

You idiot!

Well, I didn't kill anybody.

I didn't kill anybody!

He killed him! He killed my husband.

Excuse me, ma'am, would you mind...

appreciate it.

Didn't you hear me?

He killed Mort!

Yes, ma'am, I heard you.

And you know what, he buried him in the backyard!

Oh, God!

That's Mort Bascomb all right.

But, Frank, if that's Mort, then who's John Doe?

According to Tillie's confession--

27 pages, the longest I've ever seen--

She talked her second cousin, once-removed,

Jerry Wilbur, into killing Mort

so they could take over his business.

They didn't decide to get married

until a lot later.

But the trouble is, she had told people

that Mort was on a business trip.

She couldn't very well dig him up

with three .38's in him.

So they decided to claim your John Doe as Mort

so that Tillie could go public as a widow.

And after a decent interval, she'd be able to remarry.

But how did Mort's wallet get next to the railroad tracks?

Well, Jerry put it there so my deputies would find it,

and I would take it that Mort was John Doe.

But the bum found it first. Well, son,

looks like you're the only claimant left.

You know, about that, sheriff...

Well, the fact is,

I'm sick and tired of all this business.

So, if you want him, you can have him.

We can?

Honey, did you hear that?

We can have Uncle Charlie.

I still have some strong doubts about that,

but you did give the best description.

And it'll save the county the expense of a burial.

So I'm gonna give you back this death certificate

I took away from you.

I suggest a brief ceremony and a quick departure.

Be sure and shut the door on your way out.

Hello, house.

I am going to bed and sleeping for a week.

And you, young lady,

are more than welcome to join me as long as you promise

not to touch me for the next 168 hours.

Mm-hmm.

Call the lawyer first.

Oh, honey, it's Detroit.

It's too late, he won't be up.

I know, but leave a message on his machine

and tell him Uncle Charlie had a lovely funeral.

All right.

Uncle Charlie!

Shh!

If I knew you were gonna make a fuss like that,

I wouldn't have come back,

I'm looking for my stuff I left here.

My gold watch, my cigar clipper,

my lucky dice,

my dog tags.

Where the hell have you been?

We gave you up for dead.

Oh, yeah?

Hey, I still got a few good years left in me.

I got to use the john.

That's funny. That's funny.

Yeah, that's funny.

But Uncle Charlie is dead.

He's--I have the death certificate right here.

No, Frank.

But you can't kill a man twice.

That's all I'm saying, is no one would ever know.

You're not serious?

No, of course I'm not serious.

But who would ever know?

Charlie, baby, I'm back.

Oh, hello.

You must be Francis and Sandra.

I'm Doreen, Charlie's wife.

Well, I see you've met the little woman.

Ain't she a pip?

The Porsche is all gassed and ready to go.

Porsche?

Yeah, if we take the limo,

we'll have to take the chauffeur.

And who needs him on a honeymoon?

Say, did I tell you kids that I came into some money?

Show them the rock, sweetheart, look at that.

If you think that's big, you ought to see my lavaliere.

It's the darnedest thing.

An old girlfriend of mine in Detroit died

and left me millions.

Now I don't see how me and Doreen's gonna spend it all,

but we're sure gonna try.

We're on our way to Las Vegas.

Of course. Where else?

I just come by to tell you kids

that you don't have to worry about old Uncle Charlie anymore.

Good-bye, Frank.

Nice seeing you again.

And, Frank, you look a little peaky.

Try not to work so hard, all right?

Hurry, Charlie, we'll miss Wayne Newton.

Oh, who could miss that guy, he's terrific.

Isn't he wonderful?

Uncle Charlie and Aunt Doreen?

Who would have known?

Epilogue.

With Charlie on his way to Vegas with Doreen,

and Mort Bascomb disinterred from Tillie's backyard,

and Roper Bailey back drinking Mexican beer,

a nagging question keeps coming to mind.

Who was the John Doe found by the railroad tracks,

and more to the point, who killed him?

Well, the pieces all fell into place

about three days later when an ad appeared

in local newspapers all over the country.

"Reward offered."

$100,000 for information

regarding the whereabouts of Jason T. Rucker,

President of Santa Carmela Savings and Loan,

who disappeared on June 4th,

one day prior to a scheduled audit

by state banking officials.

-"Rucker is 66 years old, -Rucker is 66 years old,

- "gray-haired, heavyset..." - "gray-haired, heavyset,

about 5'10",

last seen wearing a brown windbreaker,

tan slacks, and white Oxford shoes.

Also wanted for questioning

is the man Rucker was last seen with,

identified as a freight-train hopping hobo

"named Clarence Dobkin."