Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “Alexander Woollcott,” Faulkner mumbled. “The drama critic for the New York Times. I’ve read a ponderous amount about him.”

  “Ponderous indeed,” Benchley said. “Then you should know he doesn’t pronounce his name wool-cot, but wool-coat. He’s very particular about it.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Benchley,” Dorothy said. “Don’t poison impressionable young minds.”

  “No, I’ll leave that to you,” he said.

  Woollcott snorted as he greeted them. “It’s not their minds that she’s interested in.”

  “Put the daggers away,” said Sherwood, towering over them. He looked amiably toward Faulkner. “Did a new cowboy mosey into town?”

  Dorothy began to speak, but Woollcott snapped, “Introduce your snot-nose yokel some other time. Right now, a very serious matter is much more pressing.”

  “And what’s so dire?” she said, casting a silencing glance at Benchley and Faulkner. “Are they not serving rice pudding today?”

  “They’re not serving lunch whatsoever,” Woollcott said. His nasal voice was high and rising. “The dining room is closed off. The police have been summoned.”

  “No meal for Aleck,” Benchley cried. “Muster the police! Police the mustard!”

  “Apparently it is a matter for the police,” Sherwood said in an even slower, graver tone than usual. “I overheard the waiters chattering. Something very bad has happened.”

  Woollcott dabbed a silk handkerchief at his glistening forehead. “Of course it had to happen today of all days. Today, when I invited Leland Mayflower to join us.”

  Dorothy had a sickening feeling all of a sudden.

  “Leland Mayflower, the drama critic for the Knickerbocker News?” she said, genuinely alarmed. “Why in the world would you invite him to lunch with us? He’s your fiercest competitor. You two hate each other.”

  Woollcott’s beetlelike eyes became slits. “Because he sent me word that he had some extraordinary news he wanted to share in person. Probably some little unnoteworthy achievement of his that he wants to brag about. By allowing him to lunch with us, I had hoped I could parade the shriveled old crow in front of you all and finally demonstrate what a scheming, backbiting fraud he is.”

  “Sounds like it would have been a jolly good time,” Benchley said drily. His glance to Dorothy conveyed that he also had a suspicion. “Perhaps you can intercept him on the street.”

  “Excellent idea,” Woollcott said, oblivious to Benchley’s sarcasm. He floated off like a hot-air balloon.

  Sherwood watched him go, then turned to his friends. “Truth be told, I’m no fan of Leland Mayflower either. I wouldn’t mind seeing him get his comeuppance.”

  Dorothy put a hand on Sherwood’s elbow. “You have every right to begrudge old Mayflower, of course. He didn’t give your play a review. He gave it an obituary. He was a malevolent old shit.”

  “Was?” Sherwood said.

  “Never mind Leland Mayflower,” Benchley said hurriedly. “You haven’t met our new friend, here.”

  “This is Billy Faulkner,” Dorothy said, ushering him forward. “He’s a hopeful young writer from the South.”

  “Hopeful, eh?” Sherwood said. “Don’t pin your hopes on a writing career, my son. It’s not too late to consider more lucrative and honorable employment, maybe as a tax collector or a gigolo.”

  “Those didn’t really pan out,” Faulkner said.

  Sherwood’s laugh was deep and resonant.

  “I’ve decided to take him under my wing,” Dorothy said.

  “Watch out, Billy,” Benchley said. “She’s no mother hen. Cuckoo bird maybe.”

  Sherwood said, “Birds of a feather flock together.”

  “Go flock yourself,” she said. Then she saw a knot of men arrive. “Now what fresh hell is this?”

  Three policemen entered the hotel. The first man was a heavyset detective in a snug brown suit and a brown derby hat two sizes too small. Two officers in navy blue, brass-buttoned uniforms followed him. They quickly crossed the mosaic-tiled floor and were met at the front desk by the manager of the hotel, Frank Case.

  The solicitous Mr. Case had sensitive, apologetic eyes and a bald head like the dome of a cathedral. Dorothy, Benchley and Sherwood knew him well. They watched him, his hands clasped, talk tactfully with the policemen. Then they watched Mr. Case lead the men through the crowd, between the curtains and into the now well-lit dining room.

  A few moments later, Frank Case and the policemen reappeared. One of the white-aproned waiters, Luigi, joined them. From across the lobby, Luigi looked right at Faulkner and pointed him out to the other men. The policemen moved forward. Frank Case and Luigi followed.

  Dorothy didn’t like the belligerent look in the detective’s dull gray eyes.

  “You,” the detective barked at Faulkner. “What’s your name?”

  Faulkner trembled. “William—”

  “Dachshund,” Dorothy said.

  “William Dachshund?” the detective said, shouldering his way past Benchley and Sherwood. “A German, are you? I’m not surprised.”

  Dorothy said, “And you are?”

  She noticed that the heavyset detective seemed to have no eyebrows. It gave the man an appearance of constant alarm. His small, almost clownlike derby hat seemed about to tumble at any moment from his big head.

  He looked down at her as if just noticing her. “Detective O’Rannigan.”

  “Orangutan?” Benchley muttered. “A monkey, are you?”

  “What was that?” he spat.

  Benchley merely smiled innocently.

  Sherwood addressed the hotel manager. “What’s this all about, Frank?”

  Now Woollcott reappeared, still agitated. “Yes, what the devil is this all about?”

  It took a lot to disrupt the sangfroid of a hotelier such as Frank Case. He attempted his usual calm demeanor, but not entirely convincingly.

  “Oh, it’s nothing much,” Case said, rocking back on his heels. “A little matter of a dead man in the dining room. Your waiter, Luigi, found him under your celebrated Round Table.”

  Benchley, as if reading Dorothy’s mind, said, “You think it was something he ate, Frank?”

  Case frowned at him.

  “Not a chance,” O’Rannigan said in all seriousness. “It was murder. He was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” Woollcott said. “In the middle of the Algonquin dining room?”

  “Stabbed through the heart,” the detective said.

  “Just a minute,” Sherwood said. “Was this someone from our circle?”

  Frank Case shook his head.

  “That ain’t the half of it. He was stabbed,” O’Rannigan grumbled emphatically, “with a fountain pen.”

  Benchley looked to Dorothy. “Mightier than the sword, indeed.”

  She replied, “He took his writing a little too close to heart.”

  “Shut up, wiseacres,” the detective said. Then he jerked a thumb at Luigi. “Here’s the good part. The waiter here says he saw your Mr. Dachshund loitering suspiciously in the lobby late this morning.”

  Luigi hunched his shoulders innocently. Dorothy patted his arm as if to say not to worry.

  “You can’t blame the wop for squealing,” the detective said, then turned to Faulkner. “As for you, Dachshund, don’t move from that spot. We need to have a little talk with you.”

  Chapter 2

  The detective and uniformed officers moved away, with Case and the waiter following. As soon as they were out of earshot, Dorothy grabbed Faulkner’s sleeve.

  “Let’s get him out of here,” she said to Benchley.

  “Okay,” Benchley said. “Why?”

  “We have to hide him,” she said, “so he’ll be safe.”

  “Well,” Benchley said, “there’s the matinee of Ziegfeld’s Hotsy-Totsy Hootenanny!, which is playing to an empty house. You can bet no one will see him there.”

  She turned to Faulkner. “Come on, Billy. I live here at the Algonquin. I have
a suite upstairs. You can hide out there.”

  “Hide?” Faulkner said. “But I haven’t done anything.”

  “That didn’t stop them from arresting Sacco and Vanzetti,” she said.

  “Those two are accused of being anarchists and common criminals,” Woollcott said, eyeing Faulkner. “Is Mr. Dachshund an anarchist or a common criminal?”

  Faulkner stepped forward with an eager smile. “I’m a writer as well as a tremendous fan of yours, Mr. Woollcoat.”

  Woollcott’s mouth puckered. “What did you just call me?”

  Faulkner’s smile faltered. “Mr. Wool”—he glanced at Benchley—“coat?”

  “It’s Woollcott, you cotton-mouthed country bumpkin.” His furious nasal voice made it sound almost like wool-cut. “Where’s the constable? He should clamp you in leg irons.”

  Faulkner shrank back.

  “It’s my fault, Aleck,” Benchley said, giving Faulkner an apologetic smile. “I was playing a little joke. Now, see here, Billy, this fine fellow’s name may be spelled W-o-o-l-l-c-o-t-t , but his name’s pronounced Windsock.”

  Woollcott huffed, his face turning red.

  “You boys stop fooling around,” Dorothy said. “Everyone knows it’s not Windsock. It’s Windbag.”

  Benchley slapped his forehead. “Oh, how right you are, Mrs. Parker. He’s a Windbag, all right. One of the prominent New York family of Windbags. They’re right up there on the social register with the Blowhards, the Braggarts and the Balderdashes. Now, I’ve met quite a few Windbags in my day, and Aleck here tops them all—”

  “Enough! ”Woollcott roared. His face was nearly purple.

  “Oh, never mind, Aleck,” Benchley said. “It’s no fun teasing you if you’re going to get so sore about it.”

  “Sure it is,” Dorothy said. “That’s the fun of it.”

  Woollcott eyed her squarely. “Crawl back into your web.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Benchley said. “Now we’re old pals again, right?”

  “Wrong,” Woollcott said. “I shall shake the dust of this group off my feet.” He turned abruptly and glided away.

  Dorothy again grabbed Faulkner’s sleeve. “As for us, I’m going to drag Billy here off to my web.”

  “I’d tag along, but I may play mortician,” Benchley said.

  “Mortician?” Faulkner said.

  Sherwood leaned down conspiratorially to Faulkner.

  “Mr. Benchley subscribes to morticianry journals. He and Mrs. Parker cut out embalming pictures and hang them above their desks at work. Just for laughs.”

  “For laughs?” Faulkner said. “I don’t get the joke.”

  “Neither does the publisher,” Dorothy said. “Just another reason why our days at Vanity Fair are numbered. Now, come on.”

  She grabbed Faulkner’s elbow and pulled him toward the elevator.

  “Excuse me, Officer,” Benchley said to the uniformed policeman who stood at the entrance to the Rose Room, the Algonquin’s main dining room. “Perhaps I could be of assistance.”

  “Buzz off,” the officer said. “No nosybodies.”

  “I’m a licensed mortician—Ah! Detective Orangutan,” Benchley said as the detective emerged from the makeshift curtains. “I was just telling your boy in blue here—”

  “I heard you,” the detective snapped. “What’s your name?”

  “Robert Benchley.”

  “Mine’s O’Rannigan. Get it right, see?”

  “Of course. Now, as I was saying, Detective Orang—O’Rannigan, I’m a licensed mortician. Perhaps I could be of help if you allowed me to look at the deceased.”

  “The deceased can wait for the coroner,” O’Rannigan sneered. “And so can you, if you’re looking for funeral business.”

  “Ha-ha. Nothing could be further—Now, see here, Detective Orang—Orienteering,” Benchley said. “The time of death—A warm body cools at a certain rate, you understand. That is, a dead body, not a warm body. But that, you understand, is what a mortician is. No, just a minute. A mortician can determine that a warm body cools to a dead body. I mean, the time, of course—”

  Frank Case appeared at Benchley’s side.

  “Detective O’Rannigan,” Case said, “Mr. Benchley moves more widely in literary and dramatic circles than I do. Perhaps he could identify the body.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” O’Rannigan said. He reached out a meaty hand, grabbed Benchley’s arm and pulled him through the curtain. “Go take a look. Tell us who the stiff is.”

  He shoved Benchley into the wide, brightly lit dining room.

  Square-paneled, dark wood wainscoting reached ten feet up the walls. Above this, the plaster was painted a dusky pink, which gave the Rose Room its name. The famous Round Table, with place settings for ten, sat squarely in the middle of the room. Had the dining room been a stage, then the great Round Table was at center stage.

  Benchley moved toward it, reluctantly now. He was remembering what they say about curiosity and the cat. He stopped when he reached the Round Table. He noticed a small black notepad on the table. Then he looked down and saw the pair of motionless legs splayed on the floor, protruding from beneath the immaculate white tablecloth.

  The elevator lurched to a stop. The elevator operator—a spidery elderly gentleman with greasy gray hair, a shabby uniform and an unreliable memory—feebly grabbed the inside accordion gate and methodically dragged it open. Then the man reached out a skeletal arm and clutched at the outside elevator door, which screeched as he slowly opened it.

  “Thank you, Maurice,” Dorothy said to him. She hurried Faulkner out of the elevator and whisked him down the silent, shadowy hallway toward her suite.

  “Mrs. Parker,” Faulkner stammered, “there’s something I neglected to—”

  But he slowed as they reached the door.

  “Well, come on,” she said.

  “Is there—,” Faulkner said, cautiously polite. “Is Mr. Parker at home?”

  She flung open her apartment door. “Forget him. Just get inside quick.”

  Faulkner smelled the stale odor of cigarettes that barely masked the gamey stink of wet dog.

  “So,” he began again, “Mr. Parker is not at home?”

  “Don’t waste a precious thought about him,” she said, shoving Faulkner inside. “I certainly don’t. I stuffed him in a broom closet a few years ago and haven’t seen him since. Now, just keep quiet. I’ll see you later.”

  Faulkner, just inside the doorway of the darkened apartment, opened his mouth to protest. “There’s something—”

  She yanked the door closed and scurried back down the hall to the elevator.

  Benchley, despite his subscriptions to morticianry journals, had never been alone in a room with a dead man before. He decided that today was not the day to change all that. Let someone else identify the body. Yes, that would be best. He turned around to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with O’Rannigan.

  “Go ahead,” the burly policeman said. “Take a gander.”

  “Actually, I agree with you. This is a case for the coroner.”

  “What, you afraid?”

  “In a word,” Benchley said, “yes.”

  O’Rannigan shoved him aside, squatted down and whipped back the tablecloth. Benchley flinched and looked away.

  Then his curiosity got to him, even before O’Rannigan did.

  “Take a gander,” the detective said.

  But Benchley was already looking. He stepped forward and bent down to take a better look.

  The dead man’s face was pale gray, and so was the man’s hair. He wore gold-framed pince-nez on the bridge of his long, bony nose, and his short beard was trimmed neatly in a pointed Vandyke on his chin. He wore an old-fashioned, high, stiff collar and a silk cravat with a silver stud. A pink rosebud sprouted from his boutonniere. Benchley could almost smell it. A nearly perfect circle—almost black—stained the man’s charcoal satin waistcoat around the fountain pen, which dug deep into the man’s he
art.

  Benchley stared at it. Then someone was shaking him. Benchley heard a man’s voice, as if from a distance.

  “You listening to me, buster?” O’Rannigan was saying. “You okay or what?”

  “Yes, yes,” Benchley said, as though waking from a doze.

  “So you know him or not?”

  “That’s Leland Mayflower.” Benchley stood up. “He was the drama critic for the Knickerbocker News.”

  Chapter 3

  In the lobby, Alexander Woollcott stood in the midst of the other ten or so members of the Vicious Circle, as they called themselves. Dorothy had just returned.

  “What an insult,” he said. “How dare Mayflower invite himself to our lunch and then show up late?”

  “Oh, he’s late all right,” Benchley said, staggering into the lobby. “But he was likely early. Now he’s late.”

  “You look ghastly pale,” Dorothy said. She gently laid a hand on Benchley’s arm.

  “I’m not the only one.”

  “What nonsense are you prattling about, Benchley?” Woollcott said.

  “Leland Mayflower is late because he is now the late Leland Mayflower. To become the late Leland Mayflower, he must have arrived here early.”

  Robert Sherwood seemed about to topple from his great height. “You mean that Mayflower is the man who was stabbed?”

  Benchley merely nodded.

  Woollcott’s already sallow face turned gray. “The man had one foot in the grave. Who would want to kill him?”

  “That’s what I aim to find out,” said Detective O’Rannigan, looming up behind Dorothy. “Now, who do we have here? I want everyone’s name.”

  “Just a second,” she said, turning back to Benchley. “You said Mayflower was early, which in turn made him the late Leland Mayflower. Are you implying that if he had arrived on time, he wouldn’t be dead?”

  “Well,” Benchley said, “if any one of us had been there, we would have either seen the murder or discouraged the murderer from carrying it out.”