Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “Isn’t this my lucky day!” she said.

  A cold, raspy voice answered, “Your luck just ran out, lady.”

  Chapter 11

  Dorothy rose slowly, the silver dollar in her hand.

  First, she saw the man’s expensive leather shoes. Then, she noticed his long, loose wool coat. One flap of the coat was pointing at her—inside the pocket, the man apparently clasped a pistol. Then she noticed the sparkling gold chain of his pocket watch and saw for the first time the single bone white tooth dangling there like a miniature skeleton swinging in a noose.

  The man’s eyes were in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. But she could see the leathery scar that bisected his mouth.

  He had emerged from a tiny, dark alleyway—a narrow, coffin-sized opening—between two of the brownstone houses. His voice was like a nail file scraped across a tin can.

  “Give me back my dollar.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” she sighed, her hand outstretched. “Men and money simply slip through my fingers.”

  “Shut up.” The man snatched the silver dollar from her palm. “Shut up and give me the rest of your money. This has to look like a stickup.”

  Benchley coughed. “I really don’t think—”

  “I don’t care what you think.” The man pulled the pistol from his pocket. “Dead or alive, I’m taking your money. Hand it over. Now.”

  Faulkner and Benchley reluctantly dug in their pockets.

  “You didn’t hear me, lady?” the man said, raising the gun. “Hand it over.”

  “I’m afraid I’m in an awkward position,” she said. “I don’t carry any money.”

  There was a pause.

  “All right. Where you’re going, you won’t need it anyway.”

  Faulkner held out a handful of change. “If you’re just going to kill us anyway, what does it matter if we hand you our money or you simply steal it from our cold and lifeless bodies?”

  The man seemed to consider this.

  “You’re right.” Then he snatched the money from Faulkner’s hand. “Get in that alleyway. It’s time you went to sleep. Shut your goddamn mouths for good.”

  Faulkner hesitated. In one quick motion, the man stepped forward and put the barrel of the pistol to Faulkner’s temple. “Go. Now.”

  Faulkner stepped into the inky darkness of the alleyway.

  The man pointed the pistol at Dorothy. “Get in there.”

  “First Dempsey and now you,” she said lightly. “Two lady-killers in one night. Lucky me.”

  The man’s cold, raspy voice perked up. “You met Jack Dempsey?”

  She felt a spark of hope. “Yes, I certainly did.”

  “I lost a bundle betting against that asshole Dempsey. Get in the alley.”

  She went in the dark, narrow alley. She could sense rather than see Faulkner in front of her. She stood against him and reached for his hand.

  Benchley held out his money clip and his silver tiepin. “Just take it.”

  “Those cuff links,” the man said. “They gold? Give me them, too.”

  “These were a present from my wife.”

  “I said, give me—”

  “With pleasure,” Benchley said brightly, unbuttoning the cuff links. “I can’t stand the things. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  “Hold on. What’s that?”

  “Cuff links, my man. What do you think they are, gold teeth?”

  “No, in your other hand. Is that a notebook? Is that Mayflower’s notebook? How the hell did you get that?”

  Benchley had taken the small notebook out of his pocket when he withdrew his other possessions. Dorothy saw the glint of the gold filigree monogram on the cover—L.M. The man reached to grab it. Instinctively, Benchley pulled away.

  “You some kind of jackass?” the man said. “Give me that. Right now.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but it has my notes in it. I’m afraid I can’t let you have it.”

  The man raised the gun. “Hand it over or I’ll let you have it.”

  Benchley shook his head, adamant now. “No, sorry, old man. I need it.”

  The man’s voice grew louder. “Like I told the other jackass, where you’re going, you won’t need it. Hand it over right now or I splatter your brains all over the pavement.”

  Dorothy had rarely seen Benchley angry. Now he spoke petulantly, like a ten-year-old boy denied his dessert. “Fine, then. Take it!”

  Benchley belligerently flipped the book in the air, in the direction of the man’s head.

  The man jerked backward, and the wide brim of his hat flicked the book farther upward. He reached up for it, but his one hand held the gun and his other held Benchley’s valuables. The notebook bounced off the man’s fingertips, fluttering upward like a thick paper moth in the night air. He reached again, now attempting to clap the book between his hands, but it fumbled out of his grasp and rebounded off his forearm.

  Dorothy scurried forward out of the alley. The man didn’t see her coming—he was looking down now as the notebook tumbled to the ground. She stomped her heel hard on the toe of his shiny shoe. The man howled.

  Suddenly, Faulkner lunged forward and hurled the man to the hard pavement. Dorothy saw a glint of something white—the tooth from the watch chain—skitter sideways across the concrete sidewalk. With a swift kick, Faulkner knocked the pistol from the man’s hand and into the gutter. The gun fired with an earsplitting blast. The bullet shattered the windshield of a parked Packard across the street.

  With one hand, Dorothy grabbed Faulkner’s coat sleeve. With the other hand, she clutched Benchley’s wrist. “Shall we go, gentlemen?” she said breathlessly. “Party’s over.” She pulled them quickly toward the corner of Sixth Avenue, glancing over her shoulder. The man was moving slowly, groggily, to his knees, and began searching in the gutter for his gun.

  “The notebook!” Benchley cried.

  But she dragged them forward. They rounded the corner. Suddenly, they were on the busy, well-lit avenue. Automobiles and trolley cars trundled by. Well-heeled, bundled-up city folk hurried past in the chilly dark to get home. Workmen wearing heavy denim coats and carrying lunch buckets lumbered along on their way to the night shift. Dorothy, Benchley and Faulkner paused momentarily, as if surprised to find themselves back in their own bright and bustling world.

  Then Dorothy quickly scurried forward, this time toward the street, nipping lightly onto the platform of a passing streetcar.

  Benchley and Faulkner exchanged an astonished glance, both amazed to be alive. Then they ran to catch up with her.

  Chapter 12

  Back safely in her apartment at the Algonquin, Dorothy sat on her sofa while Woodrow Wilson lolled belly up on her lap. The dog’s eyes were closed in contentment; his short legs splayed in the air; his tongue hung limply from his open mouth. She absentmindedly scratched his fat belly with one hand. With the other hand, she sipped a scotch highball and puffed a cigarette.

  She turned her gaze to the clock. It was ten minutes past two in the morning.

  Benchley loosened his collar and tie. His tuxedo was rumpled. His fingers stabbed the keys of her dilapidated Royal typewriter, a plain black economy model as battered and as functional as an old tortoise. He was growing increasingly frustrated with it. He slugged down his gin martini, growing increasingly inebriated. He glowered at her. “Mrs. Parker,” he observed, “your dog is dead.”

  She glanced down at the motionless dog in her lap. “What makes you say that?”

  “The smell.”

  “Nonsense. All dogs are going to heaven, and all dogs are going to smell.”

  She stopped rubbing the dog’s belly to take a drink, then a smoke. The dog opened his eyes and impatiently cocked up his head. She resumed grazing his belly with her fingernails. The dog’s head dropped again to her lap.

  Benchley clacked slowly on the typewriter. The dull little bell signaled the end of the line, and he swung the carriage back for the return. The handle came off in his hand.<
br />
  After a moment of silent fury, he blurted, “How do you write with this infernal device?”

  “Poorly,” she said. “Don’t worry. The handle goes back into place.”

  He harrumphed, then fitted the handle back onto the carriage and undertook typing the second line of the review of the first of the two plays he had seen earlier that night, before the gunman accosted them.

  Benchley grunted again. The handle of the typewriter carriage had come loose in his hand for the second time.

  “Pretend it’s a woman,” she said, closing her eyes, taking another drink, leaning her head back. “Treat her gently and she’ll respond to your every command.”

  “It’s not a woman. It’s a machine. I could bang on it all night and it still won’t—” He stopped himself. “Never mind.”

  But he didn’t resume typing. She kept her eyes shut, imagining him sitting there, fuming.

  Finally, she said, “Ignore it, then, and hope the problem fixes itself. Then again, that is how you treat a woman.”

  As soon as she had said it, she regretted it. They had unspoken rules, and one of the unspoken rules was not to speak about things like that.

  Benchley didn’t respond. She felt her face blush. Finally, she opened her eyes.

  He wasn’t there.

  She felt a quick, cool wave of relief. Why should she be angry with him, anyhow? He had chosen to stay in the city tonight rather than go home to his family in Scarsdale. On theater nights, and after a few drinks, he often slept on her couch. Now it was two a.m., the height of the night. Let tomorrow take care of tomorrow. She lifted the dog off her lap and onto the couch, and raised herself slowly to her feet, careful not to spill her drink.

  She found both men in the small bathroom. They were chatting quietly. Faulkner was curled in the tub, using it for a bed. He was covered in a wool blanket. Benchley leaned against the wall, sipping his martini.

  He said, “I thought you had fallen asleep.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been up talking to myself. The good part is that I’m rarely interrupted. What are you pigeons cooing over?”

  Faulkner said, “We were just discussing Mr. Benchley’s reviews.”

  “You should be writing them, not talking about them,” she said. “Or just forget all about them. Your deadline was two hours ago.”

  Benchley frowned. “I hate to leave Bud Battersby in the lurch. First, his star drama critic is murdered in broad daylight. Then, after he asked me nicely to fill in, I fail to deliver the goods.”

  “Don’t forget that little incident of nearly being murdered,” she said. “I think there might be an escape clause for that. And did you forget this afternoon’s edition of the Knickerbocker? The articles that made all the members of our little lunch circle look like suspects in Mayflower’s murder?”

  Benchley shrugged, unconvinced.

  “It’s too late anyhow,” she said. “The morning edition goes out at six. That’s only four hours from now.”

  “I could telephone the reviews in,” Benchley said. “If only I could write the damn things down. Mrs. Parker, that contraption is a monster.”

  “Don’t be silly. First of all, it’s only a typewriter, Mr. Benchley. Mechanical devices are your enemy only because you make them so. Second, as you already know, I don’t own a telephone for you to call in your reviews. You’ll have to go down to the lobby to place a call.”

  He didn’t answer. He merely fumed at the thought of the typewriter.

  She sighed. “Okay, then. Let’s all have another drink. And, if you absolutely must do those reviews, we’ll get you through them together.”

  This, at last, brought a slow, twinkling smile to Benchley’s face. They returned to the parlor. While Benchley joked and made them laugh, she poured each of them a glass of bootleg bourbon. Then they had another.

  It was three o’clock before Benchley finally fell into the chair and tried again to type. Dorothy and Faulkner sat on the couch, the dog lying between them.

  “For Pete’s sake!” Benchley cried. “Now the keys are malfunctioning. I typed a whole sentence. It came out gibberish.”

  “Are your fingers on the right keys?” she said.

  Very slowly, very deliberately, Benchley lowered his head to look at his fingers on the typewriter keys.

  “Well, would you look at that?” he mumbled.

  Then his arms fell to his sides and his head dropped to the typewriter with a dull thud. After the briefest interval, he began snoring softly.

  She said, “Well, I guess the party’s over at last.” She turned her unsteady gaze to Faulkner. “It’s time for bed. You can sleep here on the couch. Looks like Mr. Benchley won’t be using it.”

  Faulkner looked down at the stained, smelly, grubby couch. It was covered with a fine layer of vomit-colored dog hair.

  “I think I’ll go back to the bathtub,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  The lobby of the Algonquin Hotel was crowded when Dorothy Parker went down for lunch the next day. People were everywhere. Every chair and every banquette in the lobby was occupied. A number of people meandered around aimlessly. They loitered at the entrance and the front desk as if waiting for something to happen.

  On her way to the Rose Room, Dorothy encountered Robert Sherwood, who had pulled down his straw boater as if to hide his long face. Instinctively, she linked her arm through his. The bystanders gawked at them, and she sensed that this was not simply because she was very small and he was very tall.

  “So, what fresh hell is this?” she muttered.

  Sherwood leaned down and whispered, “They’re a bunch of scandalmongers—that’s what. They read all about the murder of Leland Mayflower, how he was found under our table and how any one of us might have stabbed him in cold blood. If you read it in the newspapers, certainly it must be true. Now they want to have a look for themselves.”

  She shrugged in response. She had woken up just an hour before with a terrible hangover. She had done what she could to brighten her appearance, with a green dress and a bit of pancake makeup. But, having caught her reflection, she decided she looked like a thin, dried-out pickle topped with a smudge of flour.

  Georges, the maitre d’, stood holding back a small crowd at the entrance to the dining room. He waved Dorothy and Sherwood through. The gaggle of wide-eyed onlookers watched them pass, some of them whispering conspiratorially to one another.

  The dining room was packed and noisy. Every seat at every table—except at the Round Table in the center—was filled. The ruckus quieted momentarily as Dorothy and Sherwood entered and all eyes turned toward them. Then the loud chatter resumed with renewed gusto as the diners conferred about the new arrivals.

  At the Round Table, Alexander Woollcott sat looking pleased with himself. He had a fresh lily in the lapel of his snugly fitted, black worsted wool jacket. He smiled broadly as Dorothy and Sherwood approached. His beetle eyes glittered behind his owllike glasses. Also seated at the table as usual were Franklin Adams, George Kaufman, Marc Connelly, Harold Ross and Heywood Broun.

  “Mrs. Parker,” Woollcott trilled in his high, nasal voice. “How perfectly delightful to see you. You look like you’ve been hit by a trolley car. And you, Mr. Sherwood, you look as elongated as always.”

  She wasn’t usually bothered by this typical greeting from Woollcott. On any other day she would have ignored it or made a nonchalant but witty response. But this day Woollcott was preening for the onlookers, basking in their sidelong glances. She couldn’t help herself from sniping in return.

  “And what makes you so happy and gay today?” she snapped. “Another one of your competitors turn up dead?”

  George Kaufman, a perpetually nervous and sensitive person, winced at this remark.

  “Tut-tut, Dottie,” Woollcott said, raising a cup of tea, disappointed in her rudimentary riposte. “If I am shining like a sunbeam today, it is due in no small part to Mr. Benchley’s reviews in this morning’s Knickerbocker. The old cu
tup had me chuckling all morning. Now, tell us, where is that rogue writer? That man of letters? I must confer my accolades.”

  These weren’t words of praise, she knew. This was Woollcott sharpening his claws.

  “Once again, Aleck, you have it wrong,” she said. “Mr. Benchley didn’t submit his reviews. He didn’t even write them. He fell asleep before he finished the first paragraph.”

  Now Franklin Adams spoke up, removing the cigar from his anteater face. “And you—ahem—have an intimate knowledge of his sleeping habits?”

  Some of the others at the table chuckled wryly, though Adams and Sherwood kept stony expressions.

  “No,” she said. “I have an intimate knowledge of his working habits.”

  She felt cooler now. She wanted to divulge the dangerous events of the night before, how they had been held at gunpoint and nearly killed. It would knock their damned socks off. But, on the elevator ride down, she’d decided to let Benchley tell this tale. He’d get a great deal of enjoyment in telling it, and he would make it funnier, more absurd, than she could. (His talent was in making the ridiculous sublime, she knew, while hers was in making the bitter taste sweet and the sweet taste bitter.)

  Woollcott said, “If these reviews are what Benchley considers work, then I’d suggest he retire forthwith. In any case, where is the jovial jackanapes?”

  Reviews? Benchley had slept with his head on her typewriter all night. How could he have submitted his reviews? She didn’t let her face betray her puzzlement.

  “He went up to Doug Fairbanks’ penthouse to borrow a change of clothes,” she said. “Well, here’s the proud peacock now.”

  Robert Benchley, beaming widely, strode into the dining room. He wore a well-tailored expensive-looking blue suit, a crisp white shirt, a florid pink tie and a matching pocket handkerchief. He wore it with a casual, care-free confidence, even though it was at least a full size too small. The pants displayed his stockinged ankles; his jacket sleeves ended midway between his elbows and wrists. As he crossed the room, he acted unaware of both the shortcomings of his borrowed suit and the stares focused on him by the room’s scandal-hungry spectators.