Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  Today of all days! she thought. Today, when everybody would be there as she and Benchley would—somehow—bring forth Mayflower’s murderer. . . .

  She hurried into the bedroom. Faulkner was still out cold on the bed.

  Let sleeping dogs lie, she thought.

  She tore open the closet door, hoping she had brought at least one decent dress that was something close to clean and unwrinkled. ...

  “Is it time to get up?” Faulkner muttered. He lay still, one eye open.

  “Not for you,” she said. “You stay put.”

  She had only two outfits to choose from. One of the two she had worn the day before, so she picked the other—a violet frock with a matching belt. She also grabbed her black cloche.

  “Where are you going?” he mumbled.

  “Lunch at the Algonquin. Today’s the big day. Will you be all right here alone?”

  He cocked his head to look at her. “I won’t be.”

  “You won’t be all right?”

  “I won’t be alone.” He sat up and winced. “I’m going with you.”

  “Forget it. You won’t be able to hold your lunch, much less hold your end of a conversation. Just sleep it off.” She went back into the bathroom to get changed.

  By the time she came back out, Faulkner stood swaying by the front door. He had changed his jacket and had put on another one of Woollcott’s florid neckties. She went over to him and straightened it. His eyes were sunken and his skin was pasty. She felt ill just looking at him.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said.

  “I need to be there.”

  She was too tired, and in too much of a hurry, to argue with him. “It’s your funeral.”

  She took his arm, opened the door and pulled him out.

  On the street, they realized that neither of them had any money for a taxi or even five cents each for the subway. So they began to walk the sixteen blocks to the Algonquin Hotel.

  It was warm outside, especially for April, and beads of sweat trickled down Faulkner’s face. They didn’t speak much, each one lost in thought. About halfway along, Faulkner turned to her.

  “Is this a typical Friday morning for an average writer in New York City?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I don’t know any average writers. Why do you ask?”

  His heavily lidded eyes fluttered. “I’m beginning to think New York is not for me.”

  She looked at him. His skin was fish-belly white. “Nonsense. You fit right in. Just don’t think of yourself as average, no matter where you go. Come on. We’re almost there.”

  She pulled him along. Faulkner’s skin was so pale that he was almost green. And her head was pounding.

  They reached the Algonquin just after one o’clock. A small crowd had gathered under the awning at the hotel’s front door. As she and Faulkner approached, the cluster of people turned to stare. Dorothy took a deep breath, gripped Faulkner’s arm and pulled him through the knot of onlookers and in the door.

  Inside—instead of the usual welcoming cool, dark and quiet atmosphere—the lobby was now crowded, loud and brightly lit. Undaunted, she elbowed her way forward, her hand clutching tightly to Faulkner to keep from losing him in the crowd. Expectant faces that she didn’t recognize turned to look at her.

  A hand tapped her shoulder. She spun around, ready to launch a nasty remark.

  But it was Benchley, smiling as ever. As reliable as Christmas. She would have hugged him—but it was too crowded, of course.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Parker,” he said brightly, nearly shouting above the din. “How are you today?”

  “Just dreadful,” she said brightly, although this time it was true. “And you?”

  “Couldn’t be worse, Mrs. Parker,” he said merrily. “Couldn’t be worse. Ready for lunch?”

  Still holding on to Faulkner with her right hand, she reached for Benchley with her left. Benchley led the way, and they shuffled like a little train through the crowd toward the dining room.

  At the partition, Georges, the maitre d’, held back the horde of people from entering the Rose Room. When he saw Dorothy, Benchley and Faulkner, Georges stepped aside with a curt little nod to let them pass.

  In the dining room, Frank Case stood like a traffic cop, directing waiters and busboys with unflappable efficiency. Every table was full, and several people stood along the walls, each holding a glass or a little plate of something to eat.

  Dorothy recognized almost everyone. In the center of the room, of course, the members of the Vicious Circle gathered at the Round Table. Robert Sherwood sat upright, as though afraid he might topple. (She could almost sense his hangover. It was the same as hers.) Next to Sherwood, Heywood Broun, disheveled as ever, fiddled not so surreptitiously with his silver flask. This he passed to Marc Connelly and George Kaufman, who had their respective bald and pompadoured heads together in some spirited discussion. Next to these two, Harold Ross was holding a match to light Franklin Adams’ cigar.

  Adams settled back and puffed the cigar. He seemed to radiate a kind of magnanimous, self-satisfied air—then Dorothy remembered that his column, in which they had issued their challenge to the murderer, must have appeared this morning. Clearly, Adams felt empowered that his article had drawn such a crowd.

  Next to Adams, Ross looked up and caught her eye. Ross wore his typical perturbed expression—like he was sitting on his keys or some other uncomfortable thing—but he also seemed to want to talk to her.

  Next to Ross were four empty chairs—one each for her, Benchley, Faulkner and . . . Woollcott! No doubt the big, stuffed turkey was waiting to make a grand entrance. They had made it seem as though Woollcott was the one, in print at least, who threw down the gauntlet. Now, she thought, Woollcott would no doubt rise to the occasion—but on his terms and in his typical bombastic style.

  As she rounded the table to take her seat, her gaze took in the many other familiar faces in the room. There was nothing like the possibility of public humiliation to bring in the crowds, she thought. But who were they hoping to see humiliated? The murderer? Or the members of the Round Table?

  In the corner, poised like a pack of vultures, stood Bud Battersby and a few other second-string reporters. Battersby looked on edge, overworked and out of place, and Dorothy couldn’t resist indulging in a fleeting moment of gratification to see the muckraker so bedraggled.

  Her smile traveled to the table nearest to the Round Table. There sat Douglas Fairbanks and Helen Hayes across from Florenz Ziegfeld and his wife, Billie Burke. At another table, Harpo Marx, who was a frequent guest at the Round Table, sat with Irving Berlin and a couple other Broadway entertainers. At a table for two, Neysa McMein was being bored to tears by that would-be painter Ernie MacGuffin. At the next two-person table was the lawyer Wallace Ramshackle, looking uncomfortable, and Lou Neeley, apparently just getting acquainted. In another corner, Jack Dempsey and some of his boxing pals were ignoring the hell out of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

  Many others were there as well. Raoul Fleischmann sat at a table with some white-haired Wall Street businessmen. And there was Billy Faulkner’s manager from the bookstore, the prim Elizabeth Prall. She did a double take when she saw Faulkner, now well tailored, beardless and pasty white. And among the people standing along the wall was Dr. Charles Norris from the Bellevue morgue. He gave Dorothy a smile and a wink, both of which she ignored. Even old Maurice the elevator operator was peering from around the partition to see what was going on.

  All their eyes were looking toward her and the Round Table. Some were looking slyly, others staring outright. But the sensation of everyone looking at her was like physical pressure. ... She felt uncomfortably warm. Her head was pounding. She sank into the chair next to Harold Ross. Faulkner eased down next to her, and Benchley sat next to him. She reached for her water glass and took a big drink.

  “Dottie, Bob,” Ross was saying, “I have that list of names you wanted.” He held out a telegram.

  Ben
chley was talking, too. “Everyone’s waiting. Should we get started?”

  Ross held the telegram right before her face. She snatched it away. But she didn’t read it. She would have to put on her glasses to read it, and she didn’t want to do that with all those eyes on her. More important—

  “I need a drink first,” she said. She nodded to Luigi, who hurried over. She ordered an orange juice for herself and a tomato juice for Faulkner, whose complexion was still frog-belly white. Benchley ordered coffee.

  Now that they were sitting, a hush fell over the room.

  Frank Adams leaned forward. “Your audience awaits.”

  “They waited this long,” she muttered. “Let ’em wait a little longer.”

  Luigi returned with the drinks. She considered asking Heywood Broun for his flask but decided against it. She took a big gulp. Faulkner picked up his glass with trembling hands and just barely raised it to his lips without spilling.

  Marc Connelly, with a mischievous wink in his eye, reclined in his chair. “Well,” he sighed, “we probably should wait for Woollcott anyhow.”

  That, and the juice, galvanized her. To hell with Woollcott, she thought. Although she didn’t really want to be the ringmaster, she also didn’t want Woollcott to swoop in and steal the show. She sat up in her chair and addressed the others at the table. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Benchley smiled with bemusement. “Now, how exactly do we do that?”

  Good question, she thought. How do we do that?

  All the eyes of the Round Table—even Faulkner’s woozy eyes—were on her.

  She turned in her chair to address the dining room at large. Everyone was now looking at her. The room was smotheringly quiet.

  “Well, murderer extraordinaire, we know who you are,” she shouted. “Come forward and explain yourself!”

  No one moved. No one spoke. For a long moment—a very long, very quiet, very expectant moment—absolutely nothing happened.

  Then, slowly at first, their eyes glanced at one another. Was the murderer here? Was he someone in this very room? Was he about to reveal himself?

  Still, no one said a word. But now they were looking at one another openly. For a just moment, they had felt a thrilling expectation, a fearful wonder. Now there was doubt. And now that doubt was mutating into something else, Dorothy could sense it. It was turning into skepticism, which she knew would soon become derision and ridicule. She felt her face flush, and it had nothing to do with her hangover.

  Then, gasps and shouts of surprise came from the lobby. The people gathered at the dining room’s entrance whirled in surprise. They jumped aside. A fleeting, dark blur shot forward out of the throng of onlookers.

  Chapter 36

  The dark blur rocketed forward, low to the ground. It zigzagged between the tables, aiming unerringly for the Round Table. Like a bolt of lightning, it launched into the air directly toward Dorothy, nearly knocking the wind out of her.

  Dorothy found herself holding her little dog, Woodrow Wilson, who was panting hard.

  Everyone in the room laughed—partly in amusement, partly in relief.

  “Oh, my little man,” she said, embracing the dog. Its eyes bulged in panic; its batlike ears flattened against its head; its tongue lolled out of the side of its mouth. “What happened to you? Why, you’re wheezing like an old horse. You’re quivering like a bowl of jelly.”

  She held the dog close and petted it reassuringly.

  Benchley leaned across the table. “How did he get loose?”

  She frowned. “Old Aleck Windbag, no doubt. Probably terrorized the poor thing for the past few days.” She cupped the dog’s face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, my little man. Dottie has you now. Don’t worry.”

  Although the dog still quivered with anxiety, the mood had changed in the room. People were chattering, laughing and joking. The dog had broken the ice.

  Douglas Fairbanks made some remark about the dog revealing himself to be the murderer.

  “Maybe he had a bone to pick with old Mayflower,” responded Harpo Marx, and everyone erupted in laughter.

  Next to her, Faulkner clutched a hand to his stomach.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered to him.

  He spoke slowly, as though from a distance. “If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be in the men’s room. Please excuse me.”

  She watched him get up unsteadily and shuffle away.

  “Dottie,” Adams said, drawing her attention. “Maybe now is the time to resume, while your audience is amicable.”

  Her audience? Again she flinched from the idea of being the ringleader of this circus. She glanced at Benchley. He had been looking at her. His smile widened; his eyes creased in merriment. He understood. Then he stood.

  “Everyone, your attention, please.” He clinked his fork against his coffee cup, and conversation hushed to a low murmur. “Undoubtedly, you read Mr. Adams’ column in this morning’s World. And a fine World it is, and a fine world we live in. That being said, you certainly read about the ... well, the threats made to this little group of writers and editors who sit at this table. And no doubt you read Aleck Woollcott’s bold and provocative response—”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Battersby shift from foot to foot. She was pleased Benchley didn’t mention the article in the Knickerbocker.

  “Where is Woollcott anyway?” Harpo yelled. “He should speak for himself.”

  Adams shot Harpo a nasty look. “Children are best seen, not heard.”

  That shut Harpo up.

  “Heh-heh,” Benchley laughed awkwardly. “Yes, well, I’m sure Mr. Woollcott will arrive pleasantly—I mean presently. Mr. Woollcott is clearly not pleasant—I mean present!”

  Yes, where is he? Dorothy wondered. One of Woollcott’s few positive traits was punctuality.

  “If Mr. Woollcott were present,” Benchley continued, “I’m sure he would ask the same thing that’s teetering on the tip of all our lips—and I’m not talking about a silver hip flask. He would say, ‘Oh, murderer, oh, murderer, won’t you come out to prey?’”

  No one laughed at the joke. Benchley stood in the awful silence that followed it, one hand hesitatingly touching the table. Still no one spoke. Clearly, Benchley wanted to give up and sit down, but he couldn’t.

  This half-assed plan wasn’t working out at all, Dorothy thought. It was a disaster. She compelled her brain to say something funny, to break the ice again, get Benchley off the hook. But before she could speak, the people standing at the entrance to the dining room erupted into another commotion.

  Adams leaned forward. “Tell me it’s not another dog.”

  She shrugged.

  Frank Case sailed into the room. He held a candle-stick-style telephone. He walked calmly to the Round Table, plugged the telephone wire into an outlet in the floor and set the phone down on the table. He held the earpiece to his head and clicked the switch hook. “Go ahead, operator. Put the call through.”

  He handed the earpiece to Dorothy. “For you.”

  She accepted it tentatively. “Hello.”

  “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Parker.” She recognized the faint Irish brogue immediately. “You’re just in time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to listen to me kill your friend Mr. Dachshund,” Mickey Finn said, his voice a mix of menace and mirth. “He won’t admit he murdered my man Sanderson. Now I’m going to kill him—unless he spills his guts.”

  Her whole body went cold. Fear drained her of rational thought. Panic rose in her chest. Had Finn or his men grabbed sick, sad Faulkner in the men’s room? The poor young thing—

  Then rational thought returned. Something wasn’t right.

  “Where are you?” she said. “Where is Dachshund?”

  “Dachshund? Why, he’s right here. We’re in my little sanctum sanctorum. You remember, now, don’t you?”

  She laughed. Faulkner had left only a minute ago. And Finn’s hideout was at least two miles away
.

  “So what’s so funny, my dear?” Finn said, his anger rising. “This is no joke, to be sure.”

  “If it is, the joke’s on you,” she said. “I don’t know who you’ve got there, but it isn’t Mr. Dachshund. Toodle-oo!”

  She hung up.

  The moment she did, she realized whom Finn held captive. She felt terrible for a moment; then she laughed out loud. Everyone looked at her.

  “Well?” said Benchley, who was still standing. “What was that?”

  “An Irish blessing,” she laughed. “Mickey Finn is going to kill Woollcott.”

  Adams yanked the cigar out of his mouth. “Mickey Finn the gangster? You’re not serious?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Finn said he’d kill him if he doesn’t talk. Fat chance. He’ll kill Woollcott just to shut him up!”

  “He wouldn’t!” Sherwood said.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” she said. “Finn isn’t that stupid. He’ll figure out he has the wrong fellow. Woollcott is in no danger—well, not very much.”

  “Still, shouldn’t we call the police?” asked George Kaufman, always the worrywart.

  “Oh, I suppose—” She reached for the phone and clicked the switch hook. “Operator, get me the police.”

  Yet another commotion stirred the onlookers standing at the entrance to the dining room. Captain Church emerged though the crowd, followed closely by Detective O’Rannigan and two cops in uniform.

  “Operator, you deserve a raise,” she said into the phone, and hung up.

  Church, O’Rannigan and the other cops swarmed toward the Round Table.

  “Well?” Church said.

  Woody started trembling again. She tried to soothe him. “Well what?”

  O’Rannigan stepped forward. “We’re parked across the street. We saw Finn and his gang walk out of here a half hour ago with fatty pants in his pajamas. They put him in a car and drove off.”

  “And you didn’t stop them?” she cried.

  Now Church spoke. “We believe we know who killed Mayflower and Sanderson, and it was not Mickey Finn or Alexander Woollcott. As far as we are concerned, they were doing nothing illegal and they are not part of this murder investigation.”