You'll save time and make for better
feeling if you tell me the truth.

Is Edgar your real name?
Now, don't crowd me, lady!

I'm fighting a powerful impulse
to beat the hell out of you.

At last we communicate.
Now, for the third and last time,
is Edgar your real name?

And don't bother to lie to me.
I'll check you out in every detail.

- Yes. Margaret Edgar.
- Where are you from?

- Where in California?
- Los Angeles.

Where's the money?
Here! Some of it.
- Where 's the rest?
- Don't worry. It's safe.

Safe? At some pari-mutuel window?
Or gone on mother's operation?

Or perhaps you're putting
your kid brother through school?

I don't have a kid brother
or a mother. I don't have anybody.

Not even Mr Taylor?
I wouldn't be surprised to hear
the rest of the haul

is with your late husband, Mr Taylor.
Somewhere I expect to find him
happily reincarnated,

the pockets of his good blue burial
suit bulging with Rutland money.

The rest of the money is in
a registered package addressed to me

in a post office box in New York.
You can pick it up there by tomorrow.
Here's the key.

Thank you, Miss Edgar.
Now I'll take the registration receipt.

This receipt and the package are
as good as a signed confession.

You understand that? Alright.
Now, where does Mr Taylor come in?

There's no such person.
I 've never been married.

Mrs Taylor was an old
friend of my mother's.

And when you applied at Rutland's,
the name just came to your mind.

I was trying to get away from my
cousin Jessie. She's no good.

If she found out about the insurance
money, she'd try to get some.

Make trouble for me.
- What insurance money?
- Mrs Taylor's.

- She died.
- Oh, Mrs Taylor died. Pity.

Now you're working with
this naughty cousin Jessie.

Nobody's working with me!
You talk as if this was some
regular thing I do... did.

All planned in cold blood.
- And it wasn't?
- No!

You're not from Los Angeles,
Miss Edgar.

Insurance is only pronounced
insurance in the South.