Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “Aye,” Finn said with a wink. “She has quite a body of work.”

  The woman returned with a mug of beer, a glass of red wine and a smirk on her face. “Here you are.”

  Benchley fumbled taking the mug from her hand, nearly spilling it. He raised the mug in a sort of toast to her; then he took a long drink and smacked his lips. His mustache was coated in foam.

  Dorothy did not feel the same about the wine. “Have anything stronger?”

  “You name it,” Finn said hospitably.

  “Haig and Haig?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  Finn snapped his fingers and yet another man jumped up and quickly returned with a highball glass full of scotch.

  “Now,” said Finn, dropping into a chair opposite them and taking a long pull on his cigar. “You are probably wondering why I called you here to my little sanctum sanctorum.”

  “I couldn’t hazard a guess,” Dorothy said.

  “I could hazard one,” Benchley said. “But my doctor told me to stop. Hazardous to my health.”

  “We wouldn’t want that, sure.” Finn smiled. “Like I say, I’m a likable fella. Everyone likes me.” He turned to his gang with a shout. “Everyone likes me. Don’t they?”

  Like a chorus, they sang his praises.

  “Absolutely, boss.”

  “You bet.”

  “One hunnert percent!”

  Only Lucy Goosey remained silent, like a beautiful statue. Finn turned to her, waiting. He seemed to want her approval most of all. “Everyone likes me. Don’t they, doll?”

  She gave him a reluctant smile. “What’s not to like?”

  Satisfied, Finn turned his wide yellow grin to Dorothy and Benchley. “There you are, see? We’re all friends now. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “So, tell me, where’s our other friend, Mr. Dachshund? Wouldn’t it be great if he could join us?”

  “That would be dandy,” Dorothy said. “If we only knew where he was.”

  Finn cackled a knowing laugh. “Aye, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He changed tack. “There was an article about you in the newspaper today. Did you happen to read it?”

  “In the Knickerbocker?” she said. “The only place for that newspaper is the bottom of a birdcage.”

  Finn ignored this. “Seems our friend Dachshund might need something of an alibi. And you two want to prove that Dachshund’s alibi is all tied up with my very old friend Knut Sanderson.” He leaned forward with a fist on each knee. “Now, here I am—I’ve got my new friend Dachshund on the right hand and my old friend Sanderson on the left. And these two friends of mine were apparently working on some business together. That pretty much makes it my business, too.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Didn’t the Sandman work for you?”

  “Here and there, he did, sure.”

  “Here and there?” she said. “So he didn’t work only for you? He was a freelancer?”

  “A freelancer?” Finn cackled again. “You could say that. Only most of the lancing he did was for me. And it wasn’t free. I’ll assure you of that.”

  “So who’s to say you didn’t hire him to kill Mayflower?”

  He smiled. “Ah, but if I did, we wouldn’t be having this nice little get-together, now, would we?”

  “Then who else did he work for?”

  “Whoever might pay. Certainly none of my competitors, though. He was smart not to do that. But he did ... other types of things. Like what he did for our friend Dachshund.”

  “Dachshund didn’t hire Sanderson to kill Mayflower,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”

  Everyone in the room suddenly froze.

  Finn turned red. “Stupid? You just said I’m stupid?”

  “I didn’t say you were stupid,” she muttered quickly. “I meant you shouldn’t believe a bunch of stupid lies from a newspaper that’s only interested in selling more newspapers. What I mean to say is, how can you be so sure it was Dachshund who hired the Sandman?”

  Finn no longer appeared on the verge of fury, but he spoke sharply. “Knut had a fancy Park Avenue apartment in the Reginald. He worked out of there, you could say. Well, after we heard he was dead, we went through every inch of that place. Couldn’t find a trace of who he was working for. But he was smart, you see. Not sloppy. He wasn’t the type to leave names and numbers lying around. He never slipped up.”

  “At least once he did,” she said. “We gave him the slip.”

  Finn leaned back thoughtfully, exhaling cigar smoke. “Aye, that you did. And that’s the nail in the coffin. Knut Sanderson was always careful not to get caught. But, just like a Swede, he was also careful about getting paid. He wouldn’t kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, you see, unless he had a good reason.”

  “Have you seen Dachshund?” she said. “He’s not a goose who lays golden eggs.”

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure.” Finn smiled. “But I believe Dachshund did employ Sanderson, and at the time when the three of you met him, Dachshund hadn’t yet paid him. Maybe in the space between wanting to kill Dachshund and wanting to get paid, Sanderson let his guard down a little and you three were able to slip through.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Why would Dachshund want to kill Mayflower?”

  “How in blazes should I know?” Finn jumped up out of his armchair. “All I know is Sanderson did it. And Dachshund was the one who put him up to it.”

  She sighed. This was the same dumb argument she’d had with Captain Church and Detective O’Rannigan. She looked to Benchley for support, but Benchley’s eyes were drinking in Lucy Goosey as his mouth was drinking in beer.

  “You’ll hate yourself in the morning,” she muttered to him.

  “It’s just one beer,” he said.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” She turned back to Mickey Finn. “You admit that the Sandman murdered Leland Mayflower.”

  “Sure he did. And Dachshund hired him to do it.”

  “Did the Sandman usually use such things as fountain pens to murder people? I guess a bobby pin wasn’t at hand.”

  Finn dropped back into his chair. He frowned at this insult to his memory of Sanderson. But apparently, this question bothered him, too.

  Lucy Goosey slid onto the arm of Finn’s chair. “It’s obvious,” she said. “Whoever wanted to kill Mayflower wanted to send a message. You reap what you sow. You know, Mick, like when that two-timing fella who owned that concrete business turned up at the bottom of the Hudson, his stomach and mouth filled up with concre—”

  “Nah, that’s not it,” Finn said sourly. “Knut Sanderson didn’t deal in poetic justice, like some of us do. I think there’s another reason why he used that fountain pen.”

  “Why?” Benchley said.

  With a thoughtful expression, Finn tapped the ash off his cigar. “I’m not ready to say why just yet. That’s why I need to talk to Dachshund. You bring him to me. By this Friday. Or else.”

  Dorothy laughed. “Or else what? We’ll wind up at the bottom of the Hudson?”

  Finn leaned forward with a wink. “Even that wouldn’t shut you up, I’m sure. No, I’m thinking you do me a favor, and I’ll do you a favor. I know a lot of people, and I know a lot of things. For instance, I know you go to Tony Soma’s speakeasy. I supply Tony with his liquor. So it’s simple. You get me Dachshund by Friday, and I make sure Tony’s supply doesn’t run dry.”

  Benchley, empty glass in hand, turned white. “You wouldn’t.”

  Dorothy had a stiff backbone. But she knew even she couldn’t suffer the loss of Tony’s.

  “See?” Finn said with a wide yellow grin, arms wide. “I want you to like me. We’re friends. This is how friends do things for each other.”

  Benchley’s voice wavered. “But you’re threatening to take away our booze. How can you say we’re friends?”

  “Take away your booze?” Finn was genuinely shocked and hurt. “Not at all. I’ll make certain you and Tony keep getti
ng it, as long as you do what I need. We help each other out, see?”

  Dorothy muttered into her glass, “If this is how you treat your friends, I’d certainly hate to see how you treat your enemies.”

  “Yes,” Lucy Goosey said, leaning forward. “You certainly would.”

  Chapter 30

  Several hours later, cold and drenched from the rain, Robert Benchley shivered in the dark under the awning of the Reginald. This had been Sanderson’s apartment building; Mickey Finn had said so that very afternoon. But now that he was here, staring through the glass door to the little lobby, Benchley wondered why he had even thought up this idea—to break into and search the Sandman’s apartment for any clue about who had hired the Sandman to kill Mayflower. Now that he was here, he didn’t want to go through with it.

  But he had told Dorothy Parker he would do it, and now there was nothing to do but go ahead with the wrong-headed plan.

  Benchley’s first obstacle was the doorman. The heavy-lidded, slack-jawed, uniformed brute sat slouched behind a narrow desk just inside the lobby. Not only did Benchley have to get past the doorman, but he also had to somehow wheedle out of him the Sandman’s room number.

  Sanderson wasn’t listed in the city directory, of course. Benchley had at least determined that first. And Benchley could see there was no posted list of residents anywhere in the lobby.

  What could he do? Could he trick the doorman into telling him Sanderson’s apartment number? Maybe Benchley could say he was a friend of Sanderson’s, that Sanderson had borrowed a book and he needed to get it back? Well, it was worth a try.

  Benchley opened the door and entered. To be sure he had the doorman’s full attention and sympathy, he shook himself, flinging rain droplets everywhere. A few drops landed on the doorman’s jacket. The man frowned.

  “Ah, good evening, good sir.” Benchley approached him. “An acquaintance of mine by the name of Knut Sanderson lives here. I don’t believe he’s at home right now. But he borrowed a book of mine. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to show me into his apartment.”

  “Sorry,” the doorman said without a touch of actual sorrow. “Can’t let you in.”

  Oh, forget it, Benchley thought. He’d just have to do this the old-fashioned way. He pulled out his wallet and laid a five-dollar bill on the table.

  “Well,” Benchley said awkwardly, “you don’t have to actually show me his apartment. Perhaps you could simply walk me up there and unlock the door? I’ll take it from there.”

  The doorman pocketed the bill. “Sorry. Can’t leave my post.”

  Benchley laid another five on the table. “In that case, could you loan me your skeleton key?”

  The bill disappeared. “Sorry. Can’t do that.”

  Benchley shook his head as if to clear it. The man would have to give in soon, out of sheer indebtedness.

  He put down another five. His voice was impatient. “Can you at least tell me which apartment he’s in?”

  “Sorry. Can’t do that either.”

  Benchley exhaled sharply. “This is my last five dollars. What can you do for me?”

  He threw down the bill. The doorman snatched it up.

  “Nothing, mister. The doorman who was on shift before me accidentally went home with both the master key and the apartment directory. I couldn’t help you if you forked over a million.”

  Benchley was exasperated. “Well, why didn’t you tell me that ten bucks ago?”

  Across town, Dorothy Parker and William Faulkner huddled together under an umbrella, walking quickly and discussing their plan. Since Mickey Finn and the police and who knew who else were looking for Faulkner, he needed a new place to stay. Their goal was to move Faulkner into Alexander Woollcott’s apartment and move Woollcott into Dorothy’s apartment.

  She wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish this.

  “We’re at Wit’s End,” she said.

  “That we are,” Faulkner agreed.

  “No, that’s what I call Woollcott’s place—Wit’s End.”

  The apartment building was at the very end of Fifty-second Street, overlooking the East River. They entered the building, went up the elevator and arrived before Woollcott’s door.

  He answered in a red silk Oriental robe. Gold-embroidered dragons crawled up along his paunch as though scaling a mountain. His beady eyes examined them through his owllike glasses.

  “Look what washed up from the rain,” his nasal voice sneered.

  Before Dorothy could speak, Woollcott turned argumentative. He poked a chubby finger at Faulkner.

  “What do you mean by bringing this known fugitive to my quiet quarters?”

  “Fugitive? The other day, you called him an all-American hero,” she said. “This hero needs a place to stay.”

  “Why darken my doorstep? Have him stay at your lovely abode, your haven for wayward boys.”

  “He can’t,” she said. “The thing is, the police are looking for him.” She didn’t mention that Mickey Finn was looking for him, too. “Perhaps he could stay the night here.”

  “I certainly don’t want him here. And even if I did, which I don’t, there’s no room. There’s hardly enough room for me.”

  “That’s the other thing. I need to stay here, too.”

  Woollcott rolled his eyes. “There most certainly is not enough room for three.”

  “Right,” she said pleasantly. “So you could stay at my apartment at the ’Gonk.”

  “Now you’re talking bald-faced balderdash.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one, I lunch there every day.”

  “So?”

  “So, have you heard that genteel old aphorism ‘Don’t shit where you eat’?”

  She shrugged. “So go shit someplace else.”

  “Knut Sanderson,” Benchley repeated. “Does that ring a bell?”

  “Beats me,” the doorman said. “I just started yesterday.”

  “I’m sure that someone must have told you that hordes and fleets of policemen have been tramping through here. Which room did they go to?”

  “The police? Because this guy borrowed your lousy book?”

  Benchley thought a moment. He was stumped.

  “The mail,” he said finally. “Have any tenants not picked up their mail in a while?”

  “I dunno. Mail room’s over there. Take a peek for yourself.”

  Benchley rounded the doorman’s desk and peered behind a wall of mailboxes. He scanned the cubbyholes. Four or five were packed full of mail. He looked at the names pasted above each of these compartments. On the third try, he found it. At the top of this particular pile was a copy of American Legion Weekly, the servicemen’s magazine that Harold Ross edited. On the mailing label was “K. Sanderson. Apt. 1027.”

  Benchley thanked the doorman and took the elevator up to the tenth floor. Halfway down the hallway he found number 1027. The door was locked. How could he get in?

  He knocked on the door of the adjacent apartment.

  A young, affluent-looking couple answered the door. The husband had a cocktail glass in his hand.

  “Hello, I’m the window inspector,” Benchley said officiously. “I’m here to check your windows.”

  “At eight o’clock at night?”

  “Windows never close, nor do we,” Benchley said and hurried past the couple. He went to the back bedroom and opened the window. He looked down. There was a narrow ledge about twelve inches wide. Beyond that, in the darkness far below, he could see the headlamps of cars crawling along the street. About ten feet to his left was a window to Sanderson’s apartment.

  Better not think too much about this part, he told himself. Better to climb out there immediately. Ready, set ... He couldn’t move.

  “Can I assist you?” came the young husband’s voice.

  Benchley spun around. The young man stood wide-eyed and wondering.

  “Matter of fact, you can,” Benchley said. He grabbed the man’s cocktail glass and drained it. “A Manhattan. Delightful
.”

  Benchley turned back to the window. He stepped out onto the ledge and teetered momentarily before clutching to the wall behind him. With his back against the wall, he sidestepped to the left, inching along to the Sandman’s apartment.

  It was much colder up here than on the sidewalk. The wind and rain tore at his coat and pulled his hat right off his head. Instinctively, he grabbed for it and nearly pitched forward. He flattened himself against the rain-soaked wall, his heart pounding furiously. The hat disappeared into the darkness.

  What was he doing out on this slippery ledge? He had volunteered to be here. This was his idea. We can’t let Tony Soma’s be shut down, he had said to Dorothy. We need to do something—anything—to link the Sandman to the real killer, to get Mickey Finn off the scent. The only place to look is the Sandman’s apartment.

  Dorothy had said something about exonerating Billy Faulkner. Yes, that was important, too, Benchley had replied. But Tony’s cannot close!

  Now his thoughts about Tony’s were literally up in the air. Maybe, just maybe, could they get by without Tony’s?

  Then he thought better of it. So what if he fell to his death? Death was preferable, after all, if living meant going without a steady and reliable supply of liquor and good times.

  The rain stung his face. It was a lot windier than he had expected. A sudden gust of wind grabbed him. It felt like it could pull him right off the ledge. The wind whipped the tails of his coat around his legs, and he felt that his feet might slip out from under him, flinging him out into the night air, only to fall into the dark street more than a hundred feet down. His fingers scrabbled at any indentation in the solid brick wall.

  “Hello,” the young man cried, leaning out the window. “Do you want to get into the apartment next door? Is that why you’re out there?”

  Benchley didn’t—couldn’t—answer. He was too petrified to speak.

  “We have a key, you know,” the young man said.

  Benchley’s clenched teeth chattered. “Well, w-why didn’t you t-t-tell me that t-t-ten floors ago?”

  Woollcott, cloaked in his Oriental silk robe, his arms folded over his wide body, appeared as immovable as a big brass Buddha. There was no chance he would let them stay.