Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “That should draw quite a crowd, too,” said Frank Case, tapping a finger to his chin. “I’ll have to order more food and put another cook on duty.”

  He hurried away busily. Luigi, the waiter, his shoulders sagging, followed him.

  “It’s a plan,” Dorothy said. “Whoever shows up tomorrow will be our killer. Tomorrow, ladies and gents, we unmask a murderer.”

  Chapter 33

  “It’s a plan,Mrs.Parker,”Benchley said. “But ... isn’t it a rather silly plan?”

  “Bite your tongue, Mr. Benchley,” she said, a little hurt. “It’s a fine plan.”

  “It’s silly?” Robert Sherwood said. “How do you mean?”

  The three of them had spent an uneventful—and unproductive—afternoon at the offices of Vanity Fair. Now they strolled from Forty-fourth Street up Park Avenue on their way to Wit’s End to pick up Billy Faulkner and to make their way to Neysa’s party.

  The evening was mild for April. Somewhere behind the tall buildings, the sun was setting in a rosy glow. The pleasant weather, combined with the feeling that this sordid murder business was nearly concluded and that they were on their way to a lively party, put them in a happy mood.

  Indeed, many of their fellow New Yorkers seemed to be enjoying themselves, too. Businessmen ambled along instead of running for their taxis or trains. Even the traffic on Park Avenue seemed to be taking its time. As they turned east onto Fifty-second Street, Benchley paused a moment to wave at a smiling infant in a baby carriage pushed by a matronly nanny.

  To get his attention, Sherwood repeated, “How do you mean the plan is silly?”

  Benchley, falling back into step, said casually, “I mean that this man—whoever he is—is a cold-blooded killer. An actual murderer. And we’ve just invited him to lunch. Does that sound very sensible to you?”

  “As long as he pays his part of the check, who’s going to quibble?” Dorothy said.

  But perhaps Benchley had a point. She wasn’t so concerned about her own safety. She was much more concerned about Billy Faulkner. He was still in danger.

  Then again, now that Billy had shaved his scraggly beard and traded in his bohemian rags for a dapper dress suit, would the killer even recognize him?

  “Besides,” she said, expressing her thoughts aloud, “there’s safety in numbers. You heard what Frank Case said. The Algonquin will be packed. The crowd will be phenomenal. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But with such a crowd,” Sherwood said, “do you think our murderer will show up? Won’t he be scared away?”

  “Nope, he’ll be there,” she said. “The offer is too tempting for him to resist. Oh, he might pretend he’s just one of the spectators. We might have to draw him out somehow. But he’ll show his hand eventually. I’m sure of it. Like I said, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  There was very little traffic along this quiet stretch near Wit’s End. So it was a surprise that as they stepped off the sidewalk to cross First Avenue, a white limousine pulled up abruptly and blocked their way. A man in a long coat hopped out of the passenger seat and opened the rear door. Mickey Finn stepped out of the limousine, followed by Lucy Goosey. They were dressed in evening clothes. He wore a top hat and a long black overcoat over his tuxedo. She wore a white fox fur wrap over a clingy, pale green, emerald-studded evening dress.

  “I’ll be,” said Dorothy. “If it isn’t a loosey goose and a dandy gander.”

  “’Tis indeed.” Mickey Finn grinned his yellow, crooked smile. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “And why is that?” she asked.

  “Once again, you’ve gone and got me in a bother. And I’m not a man easily bothered.”

  Dorothy noticed that both Benchley and Sherwood had their eyes fixed on Lucy Goosey.

  “Then we’ll bother you no longer,” she said, and started forward.

  “Hold on, there,” Finn said, swinging his silver-capped shillelagh to bar her way. “Let’s not get confrontational. We’re friends, are we not? Let’s have a drink and talk about it. As friends.” He gestured with the stick toward the car.

  “We’re not going anywhere with you, even for a drink,” she said.

  “No need to travel,” he said. “My car has a fully stocked bar.”

  “A saloon car!” Benchley said, tearing his gaze from the striptease artist. He nearly jumped into the limo.

  Dorothy and Sherwood exchanged glances, then followed him in.

  Inside the spacious automobile, Benchley was already mixing drinks—splashing expensive Irish whiskey and spritzing the seltzer bottle. They slid in and sat beside him. He handed each of them a highball glass of whiskey and soda. Mickey Finn and Lucy Goosey climbed into the car and sat in the rear-facing seats opposite them. They already had drinks, which they raised in a toast.

  “To you and your health,” Mickey Finn said.

  “And never the twain shall meet,” Benchley said, and they all clinked glasses and drank.

  After clinking glasses again, and drinking again, Dorothy sat forward.

  “This is a jolly little get-together, but let’s talk turkey,” she said. “What did you want to see us about?”

  “I read Mr. Woollcott’s ultimatum,” Finn said, picking up a newspaper. “And, bless me, but I think it stinks.”

  Now they all sat forward, giving Finn their full attention. How had he read Frank Adams’ article? It wouldn’t be printed in the World until the next morning. Then they realized that Finn was holding a copy of the Knickerbocker News.

  Dorothy grabbed the tabloid. An old file photo of the Algonquin Hotel was on the cover. The headline screamed, ROUND TABLE SAYS “COME AND GET US!

  She gritted her teeth. Bud Battersby must have rushed back to his printing plant and quickly thrown together an extra afternoon edition. He had scooped Frank Adams by more than half a day!

  “It stinks, I say!” Finn repeated.

  “For once, I agree with you,” she said.

  “You tell your Mr. Woollcott to keep his trap shut.”

  “Easier said than done,” she said. “Have you ever met Mr. Woollcott?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

  “Nor have we,” Benchley said, “and we’ve known him for years.”

  Finn leaned back, his hands resting on his knees. “I have a few deeply held beliefs. You want to hear ’em?”

  They didn’t respond. What choice did they have?

  Finn’s ice blue eyes were cold. “I believe you know where Mr. Dachshund is. I believe you’re hiding him. I believe if the cops grab him tomorrow at your little lunchtime pantomime show, then I believe you’ll have considerably more to worry about than your lousy little neighborhood speakeasy going dry. I believe I need to get my hands on your Mr. Dachshund myself.”

  She looked back and forth to Benchley and Sherwood. “You believe the nerve of this guy?”

  “This is no joke, Mrs. Parker,” Finn said, his yellow teeth clenched.

  “I believe you,” she said.

  “I tried to be friends. I asked for your help, but you don’t seem to want to help me. From now on, I’ll help myself. You understand?”

  Again they didn’t respond. What could they say?

  Finn pointed toward the door. “Now, put down your drinks and get the hell out of my car.”

  Cautiously, as if facing a wild animal, they put down their drinks. Sherwood opened the door and unfolded his long body to step out. Dorothy slid across the seat to follow.

  But Benchley paused. His expression was quizzical but amused, like he was solving a crossword puzzle. He looked directly at Lucy Goosey. “What is it you see in this man?”

  Dorothy could guess the answer. What really bothered her was that Benchley had wanted to ask the question.

  Lucy Goosey said, “A bottle of buttermilk has a longer shelf life than a stripper in this town. I need all the good friends I can get.” She looked to Finn and smiled. Finn smiled back at her. “And Mickey i
s a very good friend.”

  Benchley nodded, while Finn, though smiling, didn’t seem entirely reassured by her answer. Dorothy noticed this. But she didn’t really care. She was angry with Benchley. She got the hell out of the car, with Benchley following close behind.

  Then a thought occurred to her. She poked her head back inside the limo. Finn sat back in stunned surprise.

  “Since we’re such good old friends and everything,” she said, “would you happen to have another box of those chocolates with the booze inside?”

  Finn looked at Lucy Goosey. “You believe the nerve of this gal?”

  As they walked the rest of the way to Woollcott’s apartment, the three of them debated whether to bring Faulkner to Neysa McMein’s party after all.

  “Let’s just let Billy decide for himself,” Dorothy said finally.

  Faulkner, who hadn’t left Woollcott’s extravagant apartment in almost two days, couldn’t wait to get out to the party.

  Neysa’s artist studio was in a dark building on a busy, noisy corner of Fifty-seventh Street, across from Carnegie Hall. Inside the high-ceilinged studio, it was just as busy and noisy, but the scene was alive with bright lights, laughter and liquor.

  In the center of the big, crowded, smoky room, Neysa stood (as she always did) at her easel, paying almost no heed to the party going on around her. On the easel was a half-finished painting of a beautiful woman (who looked suspiciously similar to Neysa herself) dressed in a jaunty sailor’s outfit—the cover illustration for the next issue of Collier’s magazine.

  Neysa looked up from her painting as Dorothy, Benchley, Sherwood and Faulkner entered. Neysa didn’t come to greet them but gave a leisurely wave, as though this was a typical day at the office for her.

  “Gin’s in the bathtub,” she called. “Have fun.”

  Then she continued painting—and continued ignoring the man chatting next to her. He was another, less illustrious illustrator—a hanger-on, a third-rate Norman Rockwell by the name of Ernie MacGuffin. He kept up his patter, unaware or indifferent that she wasn’t paying attention.

  Over in a brightly lit corner, surrounded by a small throng, Irving Berlin sat at the upright piano, his nimble fingers fluttering merrily up and down the keys. On either side of him were the beautiful Billie Burke—a stage and movie actress and the wife of Broadway impresario Florenz Ziegfeld—and Ed McNamara, the so-called singing policeman, a former New Jersey cop with a booming opera singer’s voice.

  Together, they wailed out “Oh! How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning,” a tune that Berlin had written in his army days during the war. Joyfully, they sang,

  Someday I’m going to murder the bugler,

  Someday they’re going to find him dead;

  I’ll amputate his reveille

  And step upon it heavily,

  And spend the rest of my life in bed.

  In the opposite corner, in front of the bookshelves, Alexander Woollcott sat huddled with Harpo Marx, who was autographing each volume of the complete works of William Shakespeare.

  Strolling by was Douglas Fairbanks arm in arm with Helen Hayes, a pretty young actress—just a girl, really—who was making a splash on Broadway.

  “Going to nab Mayflower’s murderer tomorrow?” Fairbanks asked, not slowing his pace. “Break a leg!” He escorted the young actress through the crowd and toward the open door to the balcony.

  Benchley smiled, taking in the scene. Then he turned to Faulkner. “So, it’s your night on the town, Mr. Dachshund . How about a little hair of the dog?”

  “Most certainly,” Faulkner said.

  “Make that two,” Sherwood added.

  “Make it three,” Dorothy said.

  Benchley gave a little bow, turning halfway toward the bathroom. “You’ll have it in a trice.”

  “I’d prefer it in a glass,” she said, “but any port in a storm.”

  “It’s not port,” Benchley said, calling over his shoulder. “It’s gin.”

  As Benchley went off to get the drinks, Dorothy remembered her promise to Lou Neeley, that she’d take up a collection to help him pay for Leland Mayflower’s funeral. She took off her hat and handed it to Sherwood.

  He was perplexed. “What’s this for?”

  “A good deed for a bad seed,” she said, then explained Neeley’s predicament. Sherwood looked skeptical until she told him how Mayflower’s body was likely in the same morgue with that of the Sandman.

  “Okay, I’ll pass it around,” Sherwood said. “It’s funny how things turn inside out. It was only a few days ago that you called Mayflower a ‘malevolent old shit.’”

  “I’m not so concerned for the dead as for the living,” she said. “Why should poor Lou Neeley have to suffer any further? He already lost Mayflower. His only fault was falling in love with the wrong man. That’s heartbreak enough.”

  Sherwood leaned toward her. “And what would you know about that?” he asked with a knowing wink, as Benchley returned, carefully balancing four martini glasses in his hands.

  Sherwood grabbed a glass from Benchley and moved off into the crowd, her hat in his other hand.

  Benchley handed them each a glass of gin. She sniffed hers. It smelled like turpentine.

  “Here’s to laughter,” Benchley said, raising his glass.

  “Here’s to luck,” Faulkner said.

  “Here’s two years off your life,” she said.

  They clinked glasses and drank. She was still angry with Benchley. He didn’t even seem to notice.

  Over the rim of her glass, she saw Sherwood approaching Harold Ross and his wife, Jane Grant, who were talking heatedly with the yeast magnate (and sometime poker player) Raoul Fleischmann. Undoubtedly, she thought, Ross and his wife were trying to get Fleischmann to put his money into their magazine idea. Hopefully, Sherwood would have better luck getting a few dollars out of Fleischmann than Ross and Grant.

  Suddenly, a nasal voice wailed like a siren in her ear. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She turned to see Woollcott’s round face pinched with rage and disgust. Behind him, Harpo Marx silently mimicked Woollcott’s expression.

  “Drinking turpentine,” she responded blandly. “What does it look like we’re doing?”

  “You’re feeding that hack Battersby quotes that I never said!” Woollcott cried.

  He explained that “some liquored-up loudmouth” had just approached him and praised him for “throwing down the gauntlet” in the Knickerbocker News.

  “Apparently,” Woollcott continued, “said gauntlet was thrown at lunch today at the Algonquin. That bird-brained Bud Battersby doesn’t have the imagination—or the impudence—to fabricate phrases I never uttered. So I know those words could only have one origin.” He jutted a stubby finger at her.

  She watched Harpo silently mouth Woollcott’s words, and she couldn’t help but smile. Woollcott, who was wearing his silly opera cape, turned around theatrically. Harpo’s expression went blank. Woollcott turned back to face her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Tell the truth,” Woollcott said. “Do you have a copy of that Knickerbocker rag?”

  Faulkner gulped his drink and turned away slightly. In his jacket pocket was the copy of the newspaper that Mickey Finn had given to them.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” Faulkner said.

  She glanced at his empty glass. “Going for a refill?”

  “Oh, yeah, that, too,” Faulkner said. He slinked away sideways.

  “If there was any justice in this world, you’d be drawn and quartered,” Woollcott continued. “You’d hang by your thumbs—”

  Woollcott’s beady-eyed, bespectacled gaze shifted to someone behind her. Dorothy turned around, expecting to see Harpo Marx playing some prank.

  Instead, she faced Detective O’Rannigan and Captain Church. Benchley yelped, and she almost spilled her drink.

  Chapter 34

  “Providence be praised!” Woollcott
cried. “Officers, arrest these two.”

  “Maybe we’ll arrest the whole lot of you for violation of the Volstead Act,” O’Rannigan sneered, tipping his tiny brown derby forward on his fat forehead. He grabbed Dorothy’s glass, sniffed it and winced.

  “You can arrest them anytime for that,” Woollcott said. “This time, they’ve used my name in vain. They bore false witness against me.”

  “Go cry someplace else,” O’Rannigan said. “We got business to talk with these two. So scram, fattypants.”

  Harpo laughed loudly at this. Woollcott, O’Rannigan and Church all looked at him angrily. Harpo shut up. Woollcott grabbed Harpo’s arm and pulled him away.

  O’Rannigan shoved the glass back into her hands. Benchley looked nervously at his own glass, as if unsure how he had acquired it.

  “So is this a raid?” she asked. “Are you going to run us all in?”

  “Drink yourselves blind for all we care,” O’Rannigan said. “But you’re going to cooperate.”

  “Cooperate?”

  Captain Church finally spoke. “Show us the telegram you received this afternoon.”

  She looked to Benchley. He had pocketed it after lunch. He glanced about for a place to set down his drink. He handed the glass to O’Rannigan; then he fumbled in his jacket pockets for the telegram. He grabbed his drink from O’Rannigan’s hand and replaced it with the crumpled telegram.

  The detective gave Benchley an angry look, then carefully unfolded the telegram and handed it to Church. While the police captain inspected it, O’Rannigan said, “Why didn’t you bring this to our attention right away, instead of giving it to the first reporter you could find—and then holding on to it? We had to read about it in the tabloid, for Pete’s sake.”

  “You’re a big fan of Franklin Adams’ column in the World, right?” Benchley said. “Wait until you read about it in there.”

  Church grimaced. “For the hundredth time, Mr. Benchley, stop treating this like some joke.” He held up the telegram. “This is evidence.”

  “Not only that,” O’Rannigan said. “Your little prank about challenging the murderer to appear tomorrow could interfere with our investigation. You call it off.”