Scandal Sheet Page #8

about your buying company stock.

- Yeah?

- I just thought I'd tell you,

- I think we can swing that.

- That's fine, Mr. Madison, just great.

Well, there doesn't seem to be any doubt

you'll reach that bonus figure.

It'll be pleasant having you as a partner,

- so to speak, in the paper, Mark.

- Thanks.

- Good night.

- Good night.

Sorry to keep you this late, Mark,

but we got hit with a mess of traffic

on the way in.

Your wire sounded important.

I found that needle,

or rather the man with the needle.

Judge Elroy Hacker,

Mark Chapman, Managing Editor.

- Glad to meet you, Judge.

- How do, Mr. Chapman?

- Sit down, Judge.

- Thanks.

Does the judge's needle sew anything up?

Everything but knotting the thread

at the end.

I mean the noose.

What have you got?

The identity of Mrs. Lonely Heart

and her husband.

Judge Hacker married them

in Middlebury, Connecticut.

Their names are Charlotte and George Grant.

Did you get that, Mark?

The name of the Lonely Heart Killer

is George Grant.

Yeah, I heard you. Go on.

Strike two. The judge is sure

he can identify George Grant

when he sees him again.

You see, I took this picture myself.

A little extra service

the judge gave his bridal couples.

Yes. I'd send them a print

and put one in my own scrapbook.

The judge even furnished

the "just married" sign.

Judge, you said

you married them in Middlebury,

- but Steve found you in Franklin.

- I retired seven years ago.

I'm partial to fishing,

so I moved over on the coast.

I only happened

to see your circular by chance,

in the office of a justice friend of mine.

I always said you were born

in a field of shamrocks.

Sure. The McClearys raised their kids

on nothing but rabbits' feet.

Judge, what makes you so sure

you can identify George Grant today?

Well, mainly because right after

I took that wedding picture,

this Grant got vexed at his wife

about something.

I can remember his voice, snapping at her.

His face getting red...

I know what's in your bonnet, Mark.

We still have to find George Grant.

A needle's nothing but a hunk of steel

if you've got nothing to sew.

We just need the thread.

I figure we'll pick that up

right here in New York.

When the police line up all the local

George Grants for the judge to look over.

That's Julie. I dropped her off

at headquarters to tell Davis what we've got.

Friend Davis is steaming

like a pressure cooker, as I said he would.

He'll simmer down.

So will your

lining up the George Grants idea.

Davis says he'll do nothing until you turn

Judge Hacker over to the police.

- Steve, you can't hold...

- Relax, doll. He'll see the judge later.

Not tonight he won't.

The judge is our exclusive beat.

Nobody gets to him

till our story breaks tomorrow.

I don't trust cops.

You and Julie start writing the story.

I'll put the judge in a side-street hotel

where nobody will get to him.

Come on, Judge.

I'll just wait for Mr. McCleary.

He was going to put me up at his place.

That's the first place

the wolves will start baying.

You better come with me, Judge.

No, I don't think it would be wise

for me to go with you, Mr. Grant.

- Mister...

- Chapman, Judge. Not Grant.

You'd better give your brain a rest.

You're gonna need it.

He may be Chapman now,

but 21 years ago, when I married them,

he was George Grant.

And he was a newspaperman.

I remember now. He said he worked

on the paper over in Waterford.

Waterford, Connecticut, was that town

I couldn't think of.

But I knew I'd remember that voice.

His face... You've changed.

But it's the same man.

You remember that $5,000 reward, though,

don't you, Judge?

Judge. This is impossible.

You're getting confused.

He sounds to me as though

he knows exactly what he's saying.

This is idiotic!

Screwball, crackbrained lunacy!

And that's just the kind of a witness

the judge is going to make, too, Steve.

The police have that specimen

of hair and flesh

found under Mrs. Grant's fingernails.

I think we'd better get in touch with Davis.

No phone, Allison.

Julie pegged you right off.

But me, still wet behind the ears McCleary.

I went for the sleigh ride.

I practically built the pedestal for Chapman.

The great newspaperman. The great guy.

There ought to be a special Pulitzer Prize

for the world's biggest sucker, McCleary.

Just another one of your stupid slobs!

Things happen, Steve,

and then there's just no end.

Killing my wife was an accident.

And Charlie. Charlie Barnes,

who never hurt a fly in his life.

A washed-up drunken rummy

who had nothing to live for

against a career

that was just reaching its prime.

- It wasn't an even exchange.

- You've got a great career ahead of you now.

That's all down the drain.

I gotta to make different plans now.

You should have started running

when you got my wire, sucker!

I gambled.

The stakes are big enough, you don't run

unless there's nothing else left to do.

Don't try it, kid.

Steve!

We're just too close, kid.

I figured I'd find you birds here.

Still playing me for a pushover, aren't you?

Steve, you remember how I told you

that someday you'd run into

a really great story?

Well, this one ought to do it, huh?

Yeah, this one will do.

I'll give you the lead on it.

"The elusive Lonely Heart Killer,

"object of a nationwide search

for the past two weeks,

"was last night trapped in the office

of the New York Express.

"He was apprehended

due to the persistence of a reporter

"who learned his trade

from the killer himself.

"The murderer was revealed

to be Mark Chapman,

"Managing Editor of the New York Express."

- Write it up big, kid. It'll sell a lot of papers.

- All right, drop it, Chapman.

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