Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “Then, for heaven’s sake, hire some people! Why do everything yourself?”

  Battersby shook his head. “There’s no replacing Mayflower. I see that now.” He spread his hands, palms up. “I try to do what he did, but it’s falling to pieces. Circulation is still up, thank God, but that’s mostly due to the continuing news of Mayflower’s own murder. He’s still carrying me, bless him. What do I do when his story is over?”

  She couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “Is that why you’ve done such a shitty job covering it?”

  Battersby looked wounded. “What do you mean?”

  “You imply—no, no, you directly point your finger at the members of the Round Table for Mayflower’s murder. You’re telling people that Mr. Benchley or I or Aleck Woollcott or Bob Sherwood murdered Mayflower. To top it off, you hardly bother to mention that the police know—and know full well—that a gangster called the Sandman did the murder. All the other newspapers have reported that. Why hasn’t yours?”

  Battersby looked away. He spoke without enthusiasm. “A gangster committed the murder? That just seems so conventional. So typical.” His eyes lit up. “But if a member of the Round Table is a murderer, now, that’s a story!”

  “A fictional story, yes. You can’t simply ignore the facts to write a load of sensational bullshit. That’s libel.”

  “I’m not trying to ignore the facts,” Battersby said weakly. “I’m just . . . trying to sell my newspaper. The only way I know how.”

  Dorothy sensed an opening and spoke quickly, like a boy who hastily springs a rabbit trap. “Speaking of libel, did Mayflower mention seeing a lawyer recently?”

  “No,” Battersby said, his mind still on his own train of thought. “Not that I recall. Something important?”

  “No. Never mind.”

  Battersby roused himself. He looked at the enormous pendulum clock on the wall. “Shoot, is that the time? I’m sorry, but I have loads to do. I have an ink shipment that’s supposed to be delivered in a few minutes. If there’s more you want to talk about, can we continue this another time?” He walked them toward the leather-padded door. “I must say, though, it’s good to take a few minutes to chew the fat with some fellow journalists.”

  “Keep it up,” she said, “and maybe you’ll grow up to be one yourself someday.”

  Chapter 28

  It was lunchtime the following day when Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley entered the spacious lobby of the Algonquin Hotel. She didn’t have much of an appetite. And the crowd of nosybodies in the lobby didn’t raise her spirits one bit.

  She and Benchley had spent more than two unproductive hours that morning at the offices of Vanity Fair. They tried to get at least a little bit of their work done. But, since their desks were side by side, they mostly chatted about that morning’s edition of the Knickerbocker News.

  Battersby had written yet another article about Dorothy and Benchley. This was based on their conversation in Mayflower’s office the previous afternoon, except Battersby had altered much of what had happened. The article implied that Dorothy and Benchley had been confrontational, insulting, almost threatening. Battersby painted her as an irrational hothead and Benchley as a mealymouthed sycophant.

  The article said that Mrs. Parker had demanded that the Knickerbocker retract its previous stories about the members of the Round Table. But it also said she had insisted that the Knickerbocker report that William Dachshund had seen the Sandman in the Algonquin’s lobby the morning of Mayflower’s murder. The article even implied that she was doing this to fashion an alibi for Dachshund, for herself and for the other members of the Round Table. The article made it clear that Dachshund was nowhere to be found.

  Dorothy was frustrated with this but even more annoyed that the article never mentioned the one thing that she really did try to convey to Battersby—that the police knew full well that the Sandman had killed Mayflower. Battersby evidently wanted to keep that question unanswered.

  “So he can keep beating up on us,” Benchley had said.

  “And keep the story of Mayflower’s murder going, so he can keep up the sales of his crappy newspaper,” Dorothy said.

  Apparently, the Knickerbocker’s readership was high indeed, because the lobby of the Algonquin was once again crowded with loiterers, interlopers and busybodies hoping to catch a glimpse of the members of the Round Table or overhear a snippet of their conversation. All eyes turned toward them as they crossed the lobby. It was an uncomfortable feeling for both of them, since Dorothy preferred to be inconspicuous and Benchley wanted attention only when he told a joke.

  “Mrs. Parker!” called Alfred, who manned the front desk. “There’s a telegram here for you.”

  She and Benchley angled their way through the people toward the front desk. She unfolded the yellow telegram sheet that Alfred handed her. She turned in toward Benchley to read it so no one could look over her shoulder.

  “It’s from Lou Neeley, Mayflower’s beau,” she whispered to Benchley. “He remembered the name of the lawyer: Wallace Ramshackle. His office is on Seventh Avenue.”

  “I take it you want to strike out immediately?”

  She looked around at the people milling about the lobby. “And miss lunch with a hundred of our newest, closest friends?”

  But she knew that Benchley enjoyed the camaraderie of lunch at the Round Table—eavesdroppers or no eavesdroppers.

  “Perhaps I’ll go see him myself,” she said. “Give the others my regards. Except for Woollcott. Give him my—”

  “Mrs. Parker?”

  An errand boy, about the age of thirteen, stood beside her. He had on a blue uniform with gold piping and gold buttons. He was as tall as she. “Are you Mrs. Parker?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “There’s a man outside. He says he has a surprise for you.”

  “Right now?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  The boy nodded again. Benchley handed him a quarter and the boy disappeared.

  “You go have lunch, Fred,” she said. “I’ll let you know what transpires.”

  She could see him wavering. She was relieved when he didn’t go. Good old Benchley.

  “Perhaps I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind,” he said. “We can have lunch later. Besides, I love surprises.”

  They moved toward the entrance. Again she wanted to hold his hand. But in this crowd, she didn’t even dare put her arm through his—

  “Pssst!”

  She almost didn’t see him. Had she not caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, had she not turned her head, she wouldn’t have seen him—a familiar face peeking through the fronds of a large potted plant, tucked away in an alcove.

  She grabbed Benchley’s arm and dragged him with her.

  The face was thin and pale, the eyes still droopy. But the scraggly beard was gone. Now, below the birdlike nose, there was just a wispy, light brown mustache, like a moth about to flutter away.

  “Billy,” she said softly. “What are you doing here? Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been staying up in New Haven with a friend of my family,” Faulkner said. “But I couldn’t stay away forever.”

  She tried not to draw attention. She didn’t want to be any more conspicuous than she already was, both for her sake and for Faulkner’s.

  She said, “Did you just send that messenger boy? An unsigned telegram would have done the trick.”

  “Messenger boy?”

  If Faulkner hadn’t sent the message to meet outside, who had?

  “Forget it,” she said. “We can’t talk here. Go upstairs to my apartment. Lock the door and wait for us there. We’ll be back soon.” She slipped him a key.

  Not looking back, she and Benchley moved quickly toward the hotel’s entrance. Once outside, on the sidewalk, she turned to him. “What do you make of that?”

  “That Billy is a strange bird,” Benchley said, looking up and down the street. “Speaking of
strange, there seems to be no one here waiting—Look out!”

  Tires screeched. A horse whinnied. A car horn blared. To her left, a truck was suddenly rushing at her. It jumped the curb. The front end smashed apart the back corner of a horse cart. Shards of wood flew everywhere. Then the truck was on the sidewalk, almost on top of her before she could even move.

  Arms grabbed her. She saw the truck’s grille zip just inches in front of her eyes. Then she was pulled into the door of an automobile. The door swung closed. The car lurched forward.

  She sat up. She heard a loud clang. She looked out the car’s window to see that the truck had struck the light pole in front of the Algonquin. On the side of the truck’s cargo panel was printed in large letters: NEW CANAAN BIBLE CO.

  B enchley, who was sitting in the car beside her, looked out the window, too.

  “I’ve heard of Bible-thumping,” he said, “but that’s taking it too far.”

  As the car pulled away, she could see the truck slowly reverse. The truck lurched forward, puttered off the curb and merged back into traffic. Then the car turned the corner and the truck was lost from view.

  “What do you make of that?” Benchley asked her.

  “Divine intervention?” she said.

  “A Holy Roller?”

  “The Ford of Gideon?”

  One of the men in the seat facing them said, “You came close to meeting your Maker, sure. I think we saved your souls.”

  The man seated across from her wore a hat and a long coat. The man sitting next to him wore the same.

  “The biggest piggy bank in the world couldn’t save my soul,” Dorothy said.

  She recognized them as Mickey Finn’s men from the greasy spoon. They were inside what appeared to be a long limousine. Another man in a similar hat drove the car.

  “Well, it’s not your soul we’re interested in anyway,” the man said. “But lucky for us, and for you, we showed up when we did.”

  “Lucky?” Benchley said. “You mean that wasn’t one of your boys behind the wheel of that truck?”

  The man looked at Benchley as if he were stupid.

  Dorothy explained, “A messenger boy just came for us. He said there was a man waiting outside with a surprise. Certainly that was your trick to kidnap us. You used the truck to scare us so you could grab us like a pair of frightened rabbits.”

  “Scare you?” the man said. “Lady, whoever was driving that truck wanted to do more than scare you. If we hadn’t come along when we did, you’d be rabbit stew by now.”

  “So it wasn’t you who sent the messenger boy? It wasn’t one of your fellows who drove that truck?”

  “Course not,” the man said. “If we don’t bring you to Mr. Finn like he wants, see, we’d be the ones meeting our Maker.”

  She turned to Benchley. “Then, who sent the messenger boy?”

  “That’s easy,” the other man said. “It was whoever drove the truck.”

  “And the message is,” Benchley said, “drop dead.”

  Chapter 29

  The limousine rolled through a part of the city that Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley didn’t know well. She figured they were in some corner of the Bowery. The few folks on the street looked down-at-the-heel. Many of the storefronts were dilapidated, their windows dark or broken.

  The car slowed down in front of what appeared to be a large abandoned brewery building. The front door was boarded up. Across the boards, someone had painted in whitewash, Prohibition, go to hell!

  The limousine slowly rounded the corner. On this street was a short row of derelict stores, backed up against the brewery. Only one of the stores still appeared to be in business. The car came to a stop in front of it: PROF. ODDBALL’S MAGIC & NOVELTY EMPORIUM.

  One of the men swung open the car door and stepped out. He held the door open. “Get out.”

  “A magic shop?” Benchley said to Dorothy.

  “This is how they make people disappear,” she said, then took her time getting out of the car. Benchley followed. The other man got out, and then the car drove away. Dorothy was surprised to realize it was not a long black limousine, but a long white one.

  “Get inside,” said the first man.

  The windows of the magic shop were filled with tricks, props and curiosities. Magic rings. Magic boxes. A crystal ball. Sneezing powder. Itching powder. An assortment of colored silks. A monkey’s paw. An upturned top hat with a glassy-eyed, stuffed rabbit peeking out. All the things were covered in a thin gray layer of dust.

  Dorothy opened the door and stepped inside, with Benchley and the two men close behind her. The place was dark and smelled musty. The shelves were filled with all kinds of cheap novelties, games, toys and magic tricks. But they all appeared untouched, as if no one had bought anything here in a long time. An enormous, ornate cash register sat on the counter, with nobody behind it. No one was running the store.

  “In the back,” said the man.

  She went along a narrow aisle toward the back of the little shop. She saw a figure in the dimness coming toward her. As she approached the figure, she could make out that it was a woman. The woman was abnormally tall, with a dark blue coat and a brimless cloche. Shadows of other people appeared to be behind the woman. But when Dorothy slowed her step, the woman hesitated, too.

  That was when she realized she was looking at her own reflection. It wasn’t a regular mirror, though. It was a fun house mirror that elongated her shape. No wonder she didn’t recognize herself in the dark. She moved forward confidently. She didn’t want Finn’s men to think she had been fooled by such a dumb trick.

  She went right up to the mirror and looked at her seven-foot-high reflection. So that’s what she would look like if she were as tall as Robert Sherwood. Maybe being petite was not so bad after all, she thought.

  “I must stop working so hard,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?” Benchley kindly responded.

  “Look at me. I’ve stretched myself way too thin.”

  Behind them, one of the men shuffled impatiently. “Shove it, lady.”

  “Pardon me?” she said. “You shove it, pal.”

  “The mirror. Shove it forward.”

  She faced the mirror and placed her hands on it, meeting the lengthened reflection of her own hands. She pushed.

  Silently, the mirror glided away from her.

  It was a secret door. She looked inside at what must have once been a storeroom. The room was dark and empty, but on the far side of the room was an open doorway. Bright light, music and laughter came through that doorway.

  “Go on,” the man said. “Mr. Finn is waiting for you.”

  As they stepped into the large, brightly lit room, Mickey Finn jumped up. His yellow, polluted grin spread across his handsome face. The sounds of fiddle and piano came from somewhere.

  “Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here,” he sang, prancing toward them with a sideways, crablike jig. “We’ve been waiting for you. Couldn’t start the party without you.”

  He was in his shirtsleeves, his jacket draped over a chair. He had a glass mug of beer in one hand and a large cigar in the other.

  “You and you,” he called to two men slouched in armchairs. “Get up. Give ’em a place to sit.”

  They were in a bar as big as a cafeteria. Dorothy realized it was the employee tavern inside the brewery building. Before Prohibition, such a room would have served as the lunchroom as well as the after-hours hangout for the brewery workers, she knew. Now it was the private hideaway for Mickey Finn and his gang.

  Most of the bar tables and benches had been removed or pushed to the walls. In their place were armchairs and a few couches. About ten or so of Finn’s men sat or milled about. A white-haired old man with furry black eyebrows stood behind the long bar. A trio of statuesque women in flashy dresses—low cut and high hemmed—stood poised on a makeshift stage at the far end of the room. One of the women (a real beauty, Dorothy had to admit, despite the streetwalker dress) alighted from the st
age and came forward with a bewitching grace.

  “Now, listen,” Mickey Finn said, steering them into seats. “I want to apologize for the other night. I wasn’t acting like myself. I’m a likable guy, really. You’ll see. I’ll prove it to you. How about a cigar for the gentleman? A cigarette for the lady?”

  He hooked his fingers, and one of his men jumped up with a wooden box full of cigars. The beautiful woman produced a silver cigarette case. Someone shoved a cigar into Benchley’s mouth and a cigarette into Dorothy’s. Finn snapped a match on his thumbnail, and the flame danced in his hand. With a fluid motion, he lit her cigarette and Benchley’s cigar. Benchley didn’t notice the cigar. He was gawking at the stunning harlot.

  “Let’s get these two swell folks something to wet their whistle. How about a goblet of choice wine for the lady? And a mug of fresh beer for the gentleman?”

  Benchley’s attention was momentarily distracted away from the woman. “A mug of fresh . . . beer?”

  Beer had never been Benchley’s drink, Dorothy knew. But since Prohibition had gone into effect, good beer had been nearly impossible to acquire. Liquor could be smuggled in, but casks of beer? That was unheard of. The current saying went: “Prohibition succeeded in replacing good beer with bad gin.”

  “Lucy, fetch this estimable man a mug of our finest. Do you know my Miss Lucy?” Finn said as the woman sashayed toward the bar. “Ah, I can see the gentleman does.”

  Dorothy leaned toward Benchley, who was transfixed by the woman’s posterior.

  “Who is she?”

  “Lucy Goosey, the famous stripper,” Benchley mumbled. “Or . . . so I’ve heard.”

  “A striptease artist,” Finn corrected affably. “She’s an artist.”

  “Oh, right,” Dorothy said. “I’ve seen her oeuvre in the Louvre.”