Murder, My Sweet

I remember you as a noisy little
fellow, son. All of a sudden, you get quiet.

Is your book of answers lost,
or are you waiting for your lawyer?

Maybe you don't think
murder looks good on you.

- Maybe I didn't do it.
- Maybe he didn't do it.

Look, Marlowe, we're arraigning you.
We don't like you, but it ain't personal.
We just follow a routine after a killing.
Where's Randall?
He asked us to talk to you, if that's okay.
- Is he holding the kid?
- I wouldn't know.

- Is she all right?
- I wouldn't know that either.

- Where did you see her last?
- I forget.

- How do you feel?
- Like a duck in a shooting gallery.

- Cigarette?
- Yeah. Thanks.

Want to make a statement?
Boys tell me I did a couple of murders.
Anything in it?

You got a rope under my ears?
I think you better let me have it.
I'll have to hold it on you,
but I think you better let me have it.

Okay, Dowling. Bring in your notebook.
We're all set.
- The works?
- Yeah.

Some of it you know. If I misquote you...
Let's get it on the record,
from the beginning.

With Malloy, then.
It was about 7:00. Anyway, it was dark.
- Why were you at the office that late?
- I'm a homing pigeon.

I always come back to the stinking coop
no matter how late it is.

I'd been peeking
under old Sunday sections...

for a barber named Dominic
whose wife wanted him back. I forget why.

I only took the job because my bank
account was trying to crawl under a duck.

And I never found him.