Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “What happened to you last night?” Neysa said.

  “I could ask the same of you,” Dorothy said.

  “The last we saw, that grizzly bear of a policeman dragged you and Mr. Benchley out the door. We thought you might be in for a spell at Sing Sing.”

  “I sang-sang, all right. I sang like a bird. The police questioned us all night.”

  She explained to Neysa how Captain Church had a long list of suspects and how she and Benchley had to answer for each one.

  “How detestable,” Neysa said. “On a brighter note, I’m having a little get-together at my studio on Thursday night. Can you make it?”

  For these “little get-togethers,” Neysa threw open the door of her spacious artist’s studio, and anyone and everyone was likely to walk in. While the party went on, Neysa continued to paint. These huge gatherings were often the oddest and most interesting parties that Dorothy attended.

  “Can I make it?” she said. “Try and stop me.”

  She said good-bye to Neysa and steered the dog away. She hadn’t gone more than a few paces when she saw the tall figure of Robert Sherwood approaching.

  “What happened to you last night?” he said.

  As she had explained to Neysa, Dorothy repeated the events of the previous night.

  “And that’s not all,” she added. “Captain Church said he wanted to bring you in for questioning, too. I’m sorry if I said anything to get you into hot water.”

  “It’s not your fault. That’s what I get for tormenting Bud Battersby. Next time, I’ll watch my temper.”

  She paused, thinking.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “How many men did you kill in the war?”

  “Not many, I don’t think. I don’t know, really. Why?”

  “Would you kill a man for revenge?”

  “Honestly, Mrs. Parker.” He pretended to be insulted, but there was an amused grin behind his shocked grimace. “Leland Mayflower, do you mean? First of all, why would I wait a year after his malicious drama review to get my revenge? And second of all, to answer your question, no, I don’t think I could kill a man out of revenge, even at my worst. And third, even if I could, I wouldn’t hire some devious thug to do the deed for me.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She felt relieved, even though she’d known how he would answer. “By the way, have you ever heard anyone mention Mayflower’s boyfriend, Aloysius Neeley?”

  “No, though I always had the impression Mayflower skulked around with some sequin-shirted chorus boy. Did you check the obvious sources?”

  “The theater guild, you mean? It’s Sunday. They’re closed.”

  “Some detective you’d be,” he said. “I meant the city directory.”

  She said good-bye to Sherwood and made her way to the hotel’s front desk. She asked to see the city directory.

  A suave voice purred in her ear. “What happened to you last night?”

  “Everyone keeps asking me that,” she said, turning to greet the Algonquin’s manager, Frank Case. Having explained what happened twice in just the past ten minutes, she didn’t feel like going over it again. “Let me ask you a question instead. Would you kill a man for the publicity?”

  Case considered this. “In my own hotel? Do you think that’s the kind of publicity I really want? Dead men lying about in our restaurant? Not very appetizing, I’d venture to say.”

  She felt ashamed to even consider that he might find such notoriety appealing.

  Case continued, “So, do you imagine that Leland Mayflower was murdered for the sake of publicity?”

  “Not his own, certainly,” she said.

  “Then for whose?”

  Yes, indeed, she thought, for whose?

  Aloysius Neeley was not what she had expected. She had pictured Neeley as an ostentatiously pretty young playboy, his grin too wide and his hair artificially blackened, wearing a flashy tie and an expensive suit, living in a ridiculously extravagant apartment overlooking Central Park, squandering away his trust fund or living off Mayflower’s generosity.

  But the city directory informed her that Neeley lived on West Forty-eighth Street, not a far walk but far enough from Central Park. Neeley’s apartment was in an unremarkable building in a modest neighborhood. Dorothy stood in the April sunshine and stared up at the building. She finished off the little roast beef sandwich that Frank Case had fetched (or more precisely, that Luigi the waiter had fetched) for her, and tossed the last bite to Woodrow Wilson, who chomped it down in one gulp.

  The doorman admitted her and directed her to Neeley’s apartment. She knocked. A middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses (much like her own) opened the door. She immediately assumed it must be Neeley’s father.

  “Is Aloysius Neeley at home?”

  “I’m Aloysius Neeley, but you can call me Lou. Can I help you?”

  The man wore a camel’s hair sweater over a cream-colored shirt. His hair seemed to be colored, but it was brown, not glossy black. His shoes—the same color as his hair—were in need of a polish. He was trim, but his apparently once-handsome rectangular face had softened with age, like a favorite old suitcase.

  Without asking her permission, the man bent to scratch the dog behind the ears. She liked Lou Neeley immediately.

  “Can I help you?” he repeated. He had a soft, mellifluous voice.

  “My name is Dorothy Parker. I’d like to talk to you about Leland Mayflower.”

  Chapter 25

  They sat on the sofa. Lou Neeley handed her a cup of hot black tea.

  “What would you like to know about merry old Mayflower?” he said. His expression was one of sadness mixed with fondness.

  “I’m curious to know who might have wanted him dead.”

  Neeley pondered this a moment. “Well, at first, the newspapers said that one of the members of your famous Round Table probably killed him. That’s where he was found, right? Then the police came around again—trying to be intimidating, and a very good show they put on, too—and they told me some gangster killed him. I really don’t know who to believe. I’m just sorry the cranky old fool is gone.”

  The man’s eyes clouded with mixed emotions again. She pretended not to notice. She looked around at what had been, until recently, a cozy little apartment. But boxes, bags and suitcases were piled in heaps. Pictures had been taken off the walls. A cabinet stood with its empty drawers agape.

  “Moving out?” she said.

  Neeley surveyed the room, as if trying to recall old memories. “I can’t afford the place anymore. I have a modest income as a sales clerk at Brooks Brothers.”

  “So you’re not a chorus boy?”

  “Not by a long shot,” he snorted. “Oh, once upon a time, about a hundred years ago, I was in the chorus on Broadway for a few golden years. Then I got tired of starving for a living. So, I went from working for peanuts on Broadway to working for pennies on Fifth Avenue.”

  “That’s where you met Mayflower.”

  “Yes. One thing led to another. The years flew by, and here I am. All alone in an apartment I can’t afford. Leland paid half the rent. He practically lived here, but he insisted on keeping his own fancy apartment for appearance’s sake.”

  His eyes traveled over a few of his things—a Tiffany lamp, a Persian carpet, an amber ashtray fixed in a brass stand.

  “Leland bought many of these things. But that horse’s ass always spent more than he had coming in, so he put everything on credit. Now what isn’t being repossessed is being auctioned. Whatever is left over, I’m selling off. Would you like to buy a cut-glass pitcher in the shape of a trout?”

  “Thanks, but I already own one.” She smiled. “Did Mr. Mayflower owe a lot of people money?”

  “Did he ever. He owed the Chinese laundry twelve dollars. He owed the barber who cut his hair ten dollars. He owed the man who blocked his hats fourteen dollars. He owed the landlord almost fifty dollars—”

  “I mean—”

>   “Oh, I know what you meant. You meant, did he have any large debts? Like hundreds or thousands of dollars? Specifically, you mean, was he in debt to any loan sharks or underworld gangsters? Don’t look so surprised. The policemen asked me this over and over.”

  “Well, was he?”

  “Of course not,” Neeley said. He plunked down his teacup, stood up and moved toward a narrow liquor cabinet. “How about something a little stronger than Earl Grey?”

  Dorothy took this as a cue to light a cigarette. She held up her empty teacup, and Neeley poured her a large splash of brandy. He poured himself an even larger splash. He sat down, lit a cigarette as well, crossed his legs and leaned back. The dog crawled up and curled in his lap. He scratched the dog’s ears absentmindedly.

  “If you saw Leland,” he continued, “then you saw that he wore his silk gloves almost all the time. He was so dainty about those hands of his. He never washed a dish or picked up a broom. So, tell me, do you think he’d get his hands dirty by dealing with some loan sharks or crooks who just crawled out of the gutter? Oh, yes, he owed money. But not that kind of money, and not to those kinds of people.”

  “On the day that he died, he had sent Alexander Woollcott a note saying that he had some big news to share. Do you know what that was all about?”

  “Leland always had some new scheme, some new big deal. He told me his ship was coming in next week. But he told me that every week.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Oh, let’s see,” Neeley said. “There was something about importing vanilla beans. That didn’t pan out. Well, he did go see a lawyer recently. You see, Leland had always talked about writing his memoirs. And so recently he met with a lawyer about it. I don’t really understand what that had to do with writing his memoirs, but he certainly seemed over the moon about whatever the lawyer told him. Then again, as I said, he’d talked about writing his memoirs for a long time, but I never really paid him much mind.”

  “Do you remember the name of this lawyer?”

  Neeley shook his head.

  “Did you tell the police about this?”

  “No, they didn’t ask about Leland’s work. Just a lot of prying questions about his personal relationships, of course. And if he owed any money to gangsters. As if I didn’t have enough people to answer to!”

  As Neeley raised his voice, the dog crawled off his lap.

  “Now I’m stuck paying off his piddling debts. I’m getting kicked out of the apartment we couldn’t afford to begin with. And, somehow, I’ve got to come up with the money for his funeral. He’s still at the morgue, for heaven’s sake. I can’t claim his body because I can’t pay for the burial.”

  He sank his head in his hands. “I have to take care of him. He’d never forgive me if I didn’t take care of him.”

  She wondered whether Mayflower had been in the large underground room in Bellevue Hospital where she had seen the Sandman’s body. The thought of Mayflower’s body in the same room with his murderer’s corpse gave her a chill.

  Neeley sat up and composed himself.

  “The worst of it,” he said, “is that I’ll never see him again. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my worst enemy. I’m in love with someone who’s just out of reach. And I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, and I know I’ll still feel this way until my own dying day. You’ve no idea what it’s like.”

  “Oh, brother, don’t I?” she said. “I know what it’s like, and how.”

  “You do? Well, then, I’m sorry for you.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” She drained her cup.

  They sat in silence a moment.

  She spoke softly. “I tell myself that loving someone out of reach is better than having no love at all.”

  He smiled weakly. “I’ll give that a try.”

  She had an idea. “There’s a party Thursday night at Neysa McMein’s studio. Do you know her? She’s a good illustrator, but she outshines herself the way she throws a party. Everyone is there. Would it be all right if we passed the hat around to help you cover the funeral expenses?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “No?”

  “I mean, oh, no, your dog just peed on the rug.”

  She turned and saw the evidence and the guilty party. “Oh, Woody.”

  “Never mind about it,” Neeley said with an impish smile. “It’s being repossessed. As for passing the hat, Mayflower would roll over in his grave. But since he’s not in his grave yet, I think it would be a wonderful gesture. A tribute, even. Thank you. And people say you’ve got a wicked streak. Why, you’re not wicked at all.”

  “If your taste in mates ran in a different direction, my boy, I could prove you wrong on that score.”

  Chapter 26

  Dorothy waited to speak until Alexander Woollcott had raised a spoonful of tomato soup to his lips.

  “Aleck,” she said, “why did you lie to us about Leland Mayflower?”

  He choked and coughed as he tried to swallow the soup. He couldn’t speak. She waited.

  It was lunchtime on Monday. The Vicious Circle was gathered again at their Round Table. Only Robert Sherwood was absent. Dorothy could have questioned Woollcott when he first arrived for lunch. She had decided to wait until the right moment.

  “Never,” he sputtered breathlessly. “Never did I lie.”

  “Mr. Benchley and I spent a good portion of Saturday night and early Sunday morning defending your good name. Then we learned that you didn’t tell us the truth.”

  Woollcott had recovered his poise. “The truth? What, that I murdered Mayflower? There’s no truth in that, as everyone knows. You could have saved your breath.”

  “You never told us that Mayflower went behind your back to land the Saber fountain pen contract. That’s tantamount to lying.”

  Marc Connelly turned to Robert Benchley. “She’s pithy. More so when she’s angry.”

  “Yes, she’s full of pith and vinegar,” Benchley replied.

  Woollcott rose from his chair. “If you will indulge me, I’d prefer to speak to you two in the lobby.”

  Dorothy and Benchley followed Woollcott. When he reached the enormous old grandfather clock in the center of the lobby, he stopped and turned to them. His nasally voice was quiet but stern.

  “It’s so very impolite to talk about one’s business affairs in such an open forum,” he said. “My business is just that. My business.”

  She said, “When your business has us answering questions at the police station in the wee hours of the morning, it ceases to be merely your business. Now, tell us the truth.”

  Woollcott looked peevish. He pursed his lips. “Well, I admit it. Mayflower got one over on me. There you have it. Are you happy now?”

  “I’m feeling slightly better,” she said. “Tell us more.”

  Woollcott pumped his fists like a petulant child. “I had that Saber pen contract all sewn up. I almost had the money in the palm of my hand. Mayflower knew it. He knew we were both up for consideration.”

  “So, he went behind your back?”

  “Yes, he went behind my back! He proposed a better deal, that crusty old turd. Instead of receiving a large lump sum, which they would have given me, Mayflower offered to take a very small percentage.”

  “A percentage?”

  “He got almost nothing up front, but he got a very small piece of the profit for every pen sold. The Saber people thought it was a great advantage for them, and they took him up on it.”

  She found herself silently admiring Mayflower. She wondered whether Lou Neeley, who undoubtedly worked on commission at Brooks Brothers, had even suggested the idea to Mayflower.

  “But that was about a year ago. I didn’t bother with sour grapes then,” Woollcott continued, again looking superior. “Why would I wait so long to get revenge on him, and in such a callow fashion?”

  Dorothy played devil’s advocate. “To throw off suspicion. Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say.”

  “What do they know?” W
oollcott replied coolly. “If I wanted revenge, I couldn’t wait a year. Instant gratification is not soon enough for me.”

  “Then why did Mayflower want to see you? Why did he send you that note?”

  Woollcott looked at them squarely. “I honestly don’t know. May God strike me down if I lie.”

  “Don’t bother Him now,” she said. “He’ll get around to you in His own time.”

  When they returned to the table, Robert Sherwood was there. He was explaining to everyone how he had just come from the police station, where he was questioned by Captain Church and Detective O’Rannigan.

  “They’re completely in the dark,” Sherwood said sourly. “They asked me the very same questions they asked Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley. One minute, they asked whether one of us had a reason for revenge. The next minute, they asked whether Mayflower was in debt to gangsters. How should I know whether Mayflower owed money to Mickey Finn? They kept asking about my military service, though.”

  “Ah, yes,” Benchley said. “Captain Church has a soft spot for hard artillery. And hard-boiled eggs.”

  “He and that buffoon of a detective kept trying to get me riled. They were deliberately trying to anger me, just to provoke me. Perhaps they thought I might let the cat out of the bag if I lost my temper. But I wouldn’t fall into that trap. I kept my head. Thanks for tipping me off about that, Mrs. Parker.”

  “Keep your head and you’ll save your neck,” she said. “Those nitwits are out for someone’s blood. Anyone who even closely fits the bill.”

  “Speaking of keeping my head, I ran into Bud Battersby again on the steps of the police station. He tried to give me his old song and dance that we’re all in the same game, all on the same side of the fence. That he just has his job to do and I have mine. I wanted to say that my job doesn’t involve dragging the names of good people through the mud. But again, I kept my head. I didn’t want to give him any fodder for his dishrag of a newspaper.”

  “Smartly done,” Benchley said.

  “More timely than smart,” Sherwood said. “That was before I saw today’s Knickerbocker News. Out of curiosity, I bought a copy after I ran into Battersby. I wouldn’t have been so . . . charitable with him had I read this first.”