Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  Battersby looked at Benchley as though he were a buzzing insect—an annoyance to be swatted. Battersby raised his shoe—the one that had stomped the cockroach in the Sandman’s apartment—and planted it against Benchley’s stomach, pressing hard against Benchley’s abdomen while he pulled the lever in the opposite direction.

  “Ow,” Benchley groaned, his fingers slipping but still holding on. “You’re taking the ‘power of the press’ far too literally.”

  Faulkner’s words rolled out of him in a stream of consciousness—without pause, without pretense, and almost without punctuation.

  “The flames leaping and dancing and hungry, and he reached and lifted—Don’t do it, I said, for the sin punishes not only the one who receives it but the one who commits it. . . .”

  They were getting closer to him, she knew. Officer Compson now scaled an alpine mountain of paper rolls. Woollcott followed, slipping and fumbling.

  “Mrs. Parker,” Compson called, “look out!”

  A roll of paper tumbled down toward her like a boulder in an avalanche. She couldn’t tell which way it would land. She guessed that it would land directly in front of her rather than bouncing out and landing a few feet behind her. She scurried backward. Luckily, she guessed right. The thing landed with a deep, hollow thump, rolled slowly toward her a few inches, then came to a dead stop.

  “Dottie, dear!” Woollcott said aghast. “Are you all right?”

  “No need to worry,” she said casually, but exhaled deeply. “I’ve always been good at dodging heavy paperwork.”

  Woollcott leaned down and extended a hand to draw her up. She grasped it and climbed up to join him and Compson at the top of the pile. “You might want to be more careful about how you throw your weight around, Aleck.”

  Before he could respond, Compson held up a hand. They understood. Faulkner’s voice continued warbling on, but now it was significantly louder than before. They were getting very near.

  They descended from the mound and then weaved around a bend, following the sound of his voice.

  They came to a narrow cleft and saw a pair of thin legs in gray wool trousers wedged between two rolls of paper. Faulkner’s voice warbled from the opening.

  “He urged me further and—‘Relinquish me,’ I said, ‘and relinquish your vanity,’ though my words were emitted as a whisper, a ghostly vapor, perhaps only in my thoughts, therefore he would not be persuaded, indeed he insisted he must endure—”

  “You can stop now, Billy,” she called out, relieved. “I think you found your voice.”

  The legs kicked and fluttered like the little legs of a happy schoolboy sitting on a porch swing. “Oh, Mrs. Parker, thank goodness! Can I say how grateful I am for all your assistance? And can I say how sorry I am to have put you to such trouble? And can I say—”

  “You’ve said enough. Now, shut up and let us get you out of there.”

  Benchley continued to struggle against Battersby in a tug-of-war over the lever. Battersby shoved his shoe harder against Benchley’s belly, but still Benchley—almost despite himself—refused to let go.

  Benchley spoke through gritted teeth. “Just tell me why, Bud. Poor old Mayflower. Was that really necessary?”

  Battersby’s grip slackened, but only slightly. He didn’t let go of the lever.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen to Mayflower,” Battersby said finally.

  “And killing Dottie, Billy and me—that wasn’t supposed to happen either?”

  “Not at first,” he said with a reluctant grin. “But then I realized it would make one heck of a story.”

  Quickly, Battersby pulled his foot away. Benchley, as if a support had disappeared, flew forward. He would have knocked his chin against the lever, but Battersby yanked it away. The printing press coughed and sputtered, then thundered back to life.

  Dorothy, Woollcott, Compson and Faulkner—now freed and relatively unharmed—hurried into the printing-press room. She looked up to see Benchley collapse onto the catwalk. Then she saw Battersby zip up a ladder like a monkey on a vine.

  They raced to join O’Rannigan, two police officers and two of Finn’s men who had halted at the base of the press.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” O’Rannigan shouted at them. “Shoot.”

  Each of them raised and aimed a pistol at the quickly disappearing figure of Battersby.

  Dorothy’s hand reached out involuntarily and grabbed O’Rannigan’s elbow as he fired his gun. His shot sparked off one of the supports that held up the catwalk, missing Battersby’s head by inches.

  The detective yanked his elbow free and spun around. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  For once she couldn’t voice an answer, although in her heart she knew why. The thought of O’Rannigan killing that dying horse haunted her. She couldn’t stand to see a man, no matter who, shot and killed in front of her eyes.

  She glanced over O’Rannigan’s shoulder and saw Battersby race across a catwalk that arched over the printing press. Then he was gone.

  To her surprise, she saw Benchley chase after him. O’Rannigan turned and followed her gaze.

  “Quick,” the detective yelled. “Go around to the other side. Don’t let him get away.” He and the other cops ran off, followed by Finn’s men.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of running all the way to the end of the printing press and then around to the other side. It would be like circumnavigating the globe. Instead, she looked for a stairway to climb up to the catwalk.

  Benchley looked down as he crossed over the catwalk. Through the metal grating under his feet, he saw the newsprint flying fast beneath him, the huge rollers spinning, and he had a moment of vertigo. Then he looked ahead and saw Battersby descending to a catwalk that ran alongside the press. Benchley jumped forward and dropped next to him. Battersby stopped and turned.

  Benchley reached out to some kind of large knoblike valve. “So help me, I’ll turn it.”

  “Go ahead. Turn it.”

  Benchley turned the knob. Steam spurted out, scalding his hand, nearly burning his face. He stumbled backward and fell onto the catwalk, knocking his head against something hard and solid.

  Battersby stood laughing, as though watching the antics of a hapless clown.

  Benchley reached around behind his head. He sat up and found he held a very long-handled monkey wrench—as long as his arm. He clutched it as he stood up.

  Battersby held up his hands reflexively.

  But Benchley had no intention of swinging the long wrench at him. Instead he held it toward the nearest set of rollers, ready to stick it in.

  “So help me, I’ll do it,” Benchley said. “I’ll throw a wrench, quite literally, into the works.”

  Battersby wasn’t laughing anymore. “Put it down. Please just put it down.”

  “Tell me why. Why did you do it? Why Mayflower? Why us?”

  Battersby hesitated, either unsure of what to say or just plain stalling.

  Benchley touched the head of the wrench close to the space between the rollers, scraping at the paper.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you,” Battersby pleaded.

  Benchley drew the wrench away from the paper but still held it close to the rollers. “Go on.”

  Battersby’s words gushed out. “I found out Mayflower was writing a memoir. I went to him and offered to publish it. But he laughed in my face. He’d publish his memoir elsewhere, he said. So I knew it was going to make the Knickerbocker look bad and make me look bad.”

  “And?” Benchley hoped Battersby would get to the point soon. The damn wrench was getting heavy.

  “I knew Knut Sanderson from the war,” Battersby continued. “I knew he could be hired for a price. I hired him to see what Mayflower was up to. But Sanderson was only supposed to follow Mayflower, see where he was sneaking off to. Then one day, he followed him into the dining room at the Algonquin, and suddenly they were alone face-to-face.”

  “So once Mayflower had seen him,” Benchley said,
“Sanderson knew he couldn’t very well continue to follow Mayflower around without being noticed?”

  “And Sanderson was always a hothead. Sanderson saw that Mayflower was writing a note.”

  “To Woollcott.”

  “Sanderson didn’t know what was in the note, but he didn’t like it. He probably stood there, giving Mayflower the evil eye. And Mayflower, with that snide attitude of his, must have said something back. Well, you don’t talk back to Knut Sanderson.”

  “So they exchanged nasty words. Then Sanderson grabbed Mayflower’s pen and killed him.”

  Battersby’s boyish face suddenly appeared older. “I was as surprised and saddened as anyone. But then later Sanderson found out that your friend Mr. Dachshund had seen him at the scene of the crime. And Sanderson went after not only Dachshund, but you and Mrs. Parker. Sanderson had become a liability to me.”

  “A liability? He was a one-man plague.”

  “Exactly. If Sanderson had told someone—the police, Mickey Finn, anyone—that I had hired him, that would be the end of it for me. So I got into his apartment one night while he was sleeping. It was so easy. I turned on the gas stove. I came back in the morning. He was dead.”

  “You shoved him headfirst into the oven to make it look like suicide.”

  Battersby’s expression now had a peculiar dreamy look. “That was all there was to it. One of the most feared men in the city, and I put an end to him with one little turn of the gas jet. What a thrill that was. You can’t imagine.”

  “A thrill?”

  “It opened my eyes. I’ve always been behind the scenes, trying to prove myself. I finally realized, not only could I simply deliver the news, but I could create the news. I’m sorry to say what fun it was thinking about writing a big news story about the sudden and brutal death of you and Mrs. Parker. I couldn’t help myself.”

  Benchley was tempted to drop the wrench into the printing press, just for the hell of it. But he didn’t. Not yet.

  “And you had Billy to take care of,” Benchley said. “Your one eyewitness link to Sanderson. You were planning to throw him into the furnace?”

  Battersby shrugged. “The news must go on.”

  “Stop right there!” O’Rannigan yelled.

  Benchley, startled, let go of the wrench.

  The printing press screamed to a halt, its gears squealing. Its motor chugged loudly, but nothing moved. The handle of the wrench stuck out between the immobile rollers.

  Battersby yelped like a mother for a child in danger. He shoved Benchley aside and vaulted up the catwalk that arched over the stalled printing press.

  Dorothy, moving along the catwalk just moments after the press screeched to a stop, saw Battersby racing toward her. At the middle of the walkway, directly over the wrench stuck into the press, Battersby dropped to his knees and reached down. But the wrench was just out of his reach. She moved toward him, but he didn’t notice her. He now fell prone onto the catwalk and leaned the top half of his body over the press.

  Benchley approached on the other side of the catwalk.

  “Get out of the way,” O’Rannigan’s voice yelled from below. “Give us a clear shot at him.”

  Battersby, his arms fully extended, his waist balancing on the edge of the catwalk, teetered forward. From somewhere deep within the press, its motor still churning, came a whistle of building steam. Then Battersby slipped forward and fell the short distance onto the immobile press. He landed safely on top of the metal cylinder that fed the paper into the wide rollers. He was within easy reach of the wrench.

  The large rollers squealed. The paper jerked forward an inch.

  “Battersby, don’t move,” Dorothy said. “If you pull that wrench, you’ll be sucked in between those rollers.”

  She hurriedly looked around for a rope or chain—something to lower down to him. She saw the group below like a pack of jackals. Captain Church, Mickey Finn and his men had now joined O’Rannigan and his officers.

  “Miss Goosey,” Dorothy yelled, “show us your magic. Toss up your glove.”

  Lucy Goosey understood and reacted without hesitation. Reenacting her famous striptease, she tugged with her teeth at the fingers of her elbow-length silk glove. She slid the glove off her forearm, then lassoed it over her head. With a professional burlesque dancer’s accuracy, she snapped it into the air. It streamed in a graceful arc and landed precisely in Dorothy’s open hands. All the men watched, slack jawed.

  She turned and dangled it to Battersby. “Take it.”

  Battersby had one hand outstretched toward the wrench. He looked in the direction of Church, O’Rannigan and Finn.

  She angled the long glove toward his outstretched hand. “Take it!”

  He shook his head. “The news must go on.”

  His hand gripped the wrench, and he flung it in the direction of the cops and gangsters. The printing press roared back to life. In a blink, Battersby disappeared between the rollers.

  There was a sickening crunch, but the press didn’t stop or even slow down. The newsprint on the far side of the rollers came out splattered with blood and gore.

  Benchley then was beside her. He put his hand over hers. He smiled gently. Even when everything was going wrong, he never failed to reassure her. She gripped his hand tightly. Thank God for Benchley. He didn’t give her much, yet it was as much as she needed.

  She didn’t know how long they stood there watching the paper flow unceasingly through the machinery. But then Faulkner was standing next to her, and Woollcott next to him. Church and O’Rannigan were behind them.

  Benchley spoke in a monotone, but loud enough for all to hear. “Mrs. Parker, what is black and white and red all over?”

  She answered on cue, “The Knickerbocker News, of course.”

  Captain Church drew in his breath. “Have you no decency? This is no time for your gallows humor. This is no time for jokes!”

  “This is precisely the time for jokes.” But Benchley’s face held no cheer; his voice was flat. “Mrs. Parker, have you seen who’s in today’s newspaper?”

  “Why, it’s Bud Battersby,” she answered grimly. “His face is all over the front page. Just like he wanted.”

  Chapter 44

  Two days later, Dorothy walked Faulkner to Pennsylvania Station. He held a one-way ticket for the Crescent, the southbound train to New Orleans, though he would disembark in Mississippi.

  They stood on the platform to say good-bye.

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider staying a while longer?” she said. “The party’s just begun.”

  He smiled shyly. “There’s a saying in Mississippi. You can’t drain the swamp if you’re up to your ass in alligators—pardon my language. Besides yourself, your friends and a few others I’ve met, this town seems full of alligators.”

  “Alligators. Sharks. Wolves. It’s like a zoo. That’s part of the fun.”

  He chuckled but wouldn’t be persuaded. “Also, as you said, I’ve found my voice. But I think it speaks with a southern accent. It would be drowned out here.” Then he looked to her encouragingly. “But maybe you could come visit sometime?”

  “The countryside? I prefer to view the landscape from the inside of a taxi, thank you very much.” She shook his hand warmly as the train whistled. “But do come back and visit us. And don’t forget to write.”

  “Write?” He smiled and stepped up onto the train. “Yes, ma’am. Now, that I can do.”

  Woollcott genteelly spread his cloth napkin on his lap and then greedily dug his fork into his lunch of broiled chicken. He took a bite and waved his fork in the air. “Young Billy would have a bright future if he had stayed in New York. Back in the South, he’ll lapse into obscurity. Too bad. I always was impressed by him.”

  Dorothy looked up from her hard-boiled egg. “You were impressed by him? That’s absurd.”

  “No,” Benchley said, “this is absurd. A pineapple, a cow and Pablo Picasso walk into a bar ...”

  It was lunchtime at the Alg
onquin. Before lunch, they had gathered to attend the funeral of Leland Mayflower, who had finally been laid to rest. Once the story came to light that Bud Battersby had ultimately been responsible for Mayflower’s death—and the story was covered in every newspaper for days—Battersby’s well-to-do family had offered to pay for the burial and funeral expenses. Lou Neeley had thankfully accepted their offer.

  “It was the least they could do,” Woollcott muttered, his mouth full of mashed potatoes, “after releasing that black sheep of a son into the world.”

  Benchley unfolded a two-week-old copy of the Knickerbocker News. “What still amazes me is that Bud Battersby as much as told us he was behind it with his own words. Listen to this.” Then he read the article they had all read before.

  Consider what a matter-of-fact business it is for an influential editor—flush with the power of his lofty position—to strike out an entire paragraph, or whole pages even. So, too, did this murderer rewrite New York history. It was as easy as this! A simple erasure. A blotting of ink. A word struck through with a line. This was how easy it was for a murderer to strike down the famous yet-frail-figure of Leland Mayflower.

  “We thought he was trying to point the finger at us,” Benchley said, both amazed and amused. “Here, it turns out, he was explaining his own modus operandi.”

  “Modus operandi?” Adams took the cigar out of his mouth. “You’ve spent too much time in the company of policemen and lawyers.”

  Sherwood leaned forward. “Speaking of policemen and lawyers, did they throw the book at that Mickey Finn?”

  “They did, but the book was Winnie-the-Pooh,” Dorothy said. “And they didn’t so much throw it as gently lob it.”

  Benchley said, “They merely charged him with illegal possession of a firearm. He posted bail and is already back to running whiskey.”

  Dorothy said, “I’d like to run some whiskey—right down my throat. How about we move this party over to Tony Soma’s?”