Walter Neff to Barton Keyes, Claims Manager.

Los Angeles, July 16, 1938.

Dear Keyes...

I suppose you'll call this a confession when you hear it.

Well, I don't like the word confession.

I just want to set you right about something 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 phony claim.

Maybe you are, but let's take a look at that Dietrichson claim.

Accident and double indemnity.

You were pretty good in there for a while, Keyes.

You said it wasn't an accident. Check.

You said it wasn't suicide. Check.

You said it was murder. Check.

You thought you had it cold, didn't you?

All wrapped up in tissue paper, with pink ribbons around it.

It was perfect.

Except it wasn't, because you made one mistake...

just one little mistake.

When it came to picking the killer, you picked the wrong guy.

You want to know who killed Dietrichson?

Hold tight to that cheap cigar of yours, Keyes.

I killed Dietrichson.

Me, Walter Neff, insurance salesman.

35 years old, unmarried, no visible scars...

until a while ago, that is.

Yes, I killed him.

I killed him for money...

and for a woman.

And I didn't get the money and I didn't get the woman.

Pretty, isn't it?