FADE IN: A-1 LOS ANGELES - A DOWNTOWN INTERSECTION
It is night, about two o'clock, very light traffic. At the left and in the immediate foreground a semaphore traffic signal stands at GO. Approaching it at about thirty miles per hour is a Dodge 1938 coupe. It is driven erratically and weaving a little, but not out of control. When the car is about forty feet away, the signal changes to STOP. Car makes no attempt to stop but comes on through.
A-2 A LIGHT NEWSPAPER TRUCK
is crossing the intersection at right angles. It swerves and skids to avoid the Dodge, which goes on as though nothing had happened. The truck stops with a panicky screech of tires. There is a large sign on the truck: "READ THE LOS ANGELES TIMES". The truck driver's infuriated face stares after the coupe.
A-3 THE COUPE
continues along the street, still weaving, then slows down and pulls over towards the curb in front of a tall office building.
A-4 THE COUPE
stops. The headlights are turned off. For a second nothing happens, then the car door opens slowly. A man eases himself out onto the sidewalk and stands a moment leaning on the open door to support himself. He's a tall man, about thirty- five years old. From the way he moves there seems to be something wrong with his left shoulder. He straightens up and painfully lowers his left hand into his jacket pocket. He leans into the car. He brings out a light-weight overcoat and drapes it across his shoulders. He shuts the car door and walks toward the building.
A-5 ENTRANCE OF THE BUILDING
Above the closed, double-plate glass doors is lettered: "PACIFIC BUILDING". To the left of entrance there is a drugstore, closed, dark except for a faint light in the back. The man comes stiffly up to the doors. (CAMERA HAS MOVED UP WITH HIM). He tries the doors. They are locked. He knocks on the glass. Inside, over his shoulder, the lobby of the building is visible: a side entrance to the drugstore on the left, in the rear a barber shop and cigar and magazine stand closed up for the night, and to the right two elevators. One elevator is open and its dome light falls across the dark lobby. The man knocks again. The night watchman sticks his head out of the elevator and looks toward entrance. He comes out with a newspaper in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. He finishes the sandwich on the way to the doors, looks out and recognizes the man outside, unlocks the door and pulls it open.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
Hello there, Mr. Neff.
Neff walks in past him without answering.
A-6 INT. LOBBY
Neff is walking towards elevator. Night watchman looks after him, relocks door, follows to elevator. Neff enters elevator.
A-7 ELEVATOR
Neff stands leaning against wall. He is pale and haggard with pain, but deadpans as night watchman joins him.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
Working pretty late aren't you, Mr. Neff?
NEFF
(Tight-lipped) Late enough.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
You look kind of all in at that.
NEFF
I'm fine. Let's ride.
Night watchman pulls lever, doors close and elevator rises.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
How's the insurance business, Mr. Neff?
NEFF
Okay.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
They wouldn't ever sell me any. They say I've got something loose in my heart. I say it's rheumatism.
NEFF
(Scarcely listening) Uh-huh.
Night watchman looks around at him, turns away again and the elevator stops.
NIGHT WATCHMAN
(Surly) Twelve.
The door opens. Across a small dark reception room a pair of frosted glass doors are lettered: PACIFIC ALL-RISK INSURANCE COMPANY - FOUNDED 1906 - MAIN OFFICE. There is a little light beyond the glass doors. Neff straightens up and walks heavily out of the elevator, across reception room to doors. He pushes them open. The night watchman stares after him morosely, works lever, elevator doors start to close.
A-8 TWELFTH FLOOR INSURANCE OFFICE
(Note for set-designer: Our Insurance Company occupies the entire eleventh and twelfth floors of the building. On the twelfth floor are the executive offices and claims and sales departments. These all open off a balcony which runs all the way around. From the balcony you see the eleventh floor below: one enormous room filled with desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, business machines, etc.) Neff comes through the double entrance doors from the reception room. The twelfth floor is dark. Some light shines up from the eleventh floor. Neff takes a few steps then holds on to the balcony railing and looks down.
A-9 THE ELEVENTH FLOOR FROM ABOVE - NEFF'S POINT OF VIEW
Two colored women are cleaning the offices. One is dry-mopping the floor, the other is moving chairs back into position, etc. A colored man is emptying waste baskets into a big square box. He shuffles a little dance step as he moves, and hums a little tune.
A-10 NEFF
Moves away from the railing with a faint smile on his face, and walks past two or three offices (CAMERA WITH HIM) towards a glass door with number twenty-seven on it and three names: HENRY B. ANDERSON, WALTER NEFF, LOUIS L. SCHWARTZ. Neff opens the door.
A-11 INT. NEFF'S OFFICE - DARK
Three desks, filing cabinets, one typewriter on stand, one dictaphone on fixed stand against wall with rack of records underneath, telephones on all three desks. Water cooler with inverted bottle and paper cup holder beside it. Two windows facing toward front of building. Venetian blinds. No curtains. Waste basket full, ash trays not emptied. The office has not been cleaned. Neff enters, switches on desk lamp. He looks across at dicta phone, goes heavily to it and lifts off the fabric cover. He leans down hard on the dictaphone stand as if feeling faint. He turns away from dictaphone, takes a few uncertain steps and falls heavily into a swivel chair. His head goes far back, his eyes close, cold sweat shows on his face. For a moment he stays like this, exhausted, then his eyes open slowly and look down at his left shoulder. His good hand flips the overcoat back, he unbuttons his jacket, loosens his tie and shirt. This was quite an effort. He rests for a second, breathing hard. With the help of his good hand he edges his left elbow up on the arm-rest of the chair, supports it there and then pulls his jacket wide. A heavy patch of dark blood shows on his shirt. He pushes his chair along the floor towards the water cooler, using his feet and his right hand against the desk, takes out a handkerchief, presses with his hand against the spring faucet of the cooler, soaks the handkerchief in water and tucks it, dripping wet, against the wound inside his shirt. Next, he gets a handful of water and splashes it on his face. The water runs down his chin and drips. He breathes heavily, with closed eyes. He fingers a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, pulls it out, looks at it. There is blood on it. He wheels himself back to the desk and dumps the loose cigarettes out of the packet. Some are blood-stained, a few are clean. He takes one, puts it between his lips, gropes around for a match, lights cigarette. He takes a deep drag and lets smoke out through his nose. He pulls himself toward dictaphone again, still in the swivel chair, reaches it, lifts the horn off the bracket and the dictaphone makes a low buzzing sound. He presses the button switch on the horn. The sound stops, the record revolves on the cylinder. He begins to speak:
NEFF
Office memorandum, Walter Neff to Barton Keyes, Claims Manager. Los Angeles, July 16th, 1938. Dear Keyes: I suppose you'll call this a confession when you hear it. I don't like the word confession. I just want to set you right about one thing you couldn't see, because it was smack up against your nose. You think 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.