Murder Your Darlings

by J. J. Murphy

  “That was Woollcott who said that—,” she began.

  “Knock it off,” O’Rannigan said, leaning over her. “We know that was you two. Your chubby buddy Woollcott just told us as much.”

  “We are very close to capturing this killer,” Church said. “We have an excellent idea of his identity. Your imbecilic charade tomorrow puts that in jeopardy.”

  “Speakin’ of stupid,” O’Rannigan said, glancing at the faces of partygoers around the room. “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to have brought Dachshund here, would you?”

  “Sure, we’re stupid enough,” she said. “Look up there. He’s swinging on the chandelier.”

  O’Rannigan and Church automatically looked up to the ceiling high above. Not only was there no Faulkner; there was no chandelier.

  While they were momentarily distracted, she glanced toward the bathroom to see Faulkner coming out. He held three martini glasses. She shook her head, and he quickly ducked back in.

  “So you still think this is funny—,” Church said. Then he was suddenly distracted. His expression changed from seething rage to shameless rapture. “Is that who I think it is?”

  She followed his gaze to the small crowd around the piano.

  “Why, certainly. It’s Irving Berlin, the Broadway composer.”

  “No,” Church said, mesmerized. “Standing next to him!”

  “Oh, of course,” she said. “Surely you know him. That’s Ed McNamara, the singing policeman.”

  Church groaned. “Not him either. Her! That’s Billie Burke, the actress.”

  “Ah, yes, the great Ziegfeld’s wife.”

  Church—and O’Rannigan, too—couldn’t take their eyes off the red-haired beauty. Dorothy Parker glanced slyly at Benchley.

  Benchley’s eyes lit up. “Would you like me to introduce you to her?”

  Church could scarcely look away from the actress. “Do you know her?”

  “Well,” Benchley said, rocking back on his heels, “I know Irv Berlin. He could introduce you. Come on, let’s go!” Eagerly, Church and O’Rannigan followed Benchley toward the trio at the piano.

  Then Woollcott came bobbing up from the other direction, looking even more angry. His hands were flailing; his cape was flapping.

  Jeez, Dorothy thought, what a swell party this was turning out to be.

  “Does your brazenness know no bounds?” Woollcott cried.

  “I refuse to bind my brazens,” she said. “So what has your brazens in a bind now?”

  “You’re passing the hat for Mayflower!” Woollcott cried. “Why not just slap me in the face?”

  “How tempting. And how inconsiderate of me to take up a collection.”

  “It’s inconsiderate to almost everyone here. To honor Mayflower’s name is an insult to the good working folk gathered around us.”

  She momentarily considered explaining Lou Neeley’s plight, as she had to Sherwood. But she didn’t get the chance.

  “And speaking of insults,” he continued, “I insist you hand over that tabloid rag in which you besmirched my good name. I know you have a copy on your person.”

  “My person has no such thing, and neither do I.” She saw Sherwood approaching and caught his eye. “I gave it to Mr. Sherwood, here.”

  “Is that so?” Woollcott turned as Sherwood joined them. “Today’s Knock-kneed News, do you have it?”

  “Oh,” Sherwood said, catching on. “I handed it to Harold Ross. You can find him on the balcony, smoking a Camel.”

  Woollcott sensed a trick. “Why would he go out to the balcony to smoke a cigarette?”

  “Because it’s a lovely night,” Sherwood said.

  “And because it’s a real camel,” she said. “Couldn’t fit it in the studio. Now, go.”

  Woollcott departed reluctantly, glancing suspiciously over his shoulder. But Dorothy didn’t yet breathe a sigh of relief. William Faulkner was now approaching, nearly staggering with the three martini glasses in his hands. She gave a quick glance toward the piano—Billie Burke had O’Rannigan and especially Church enthralled. Benchley winked his assurance.

  “Now, this is the literary life,” Faulkner said, his smile beaming, nearly spilling the drinks as he handed them to her and to Sherwood. “This is what I always thought a writer’s life would be like in New York.”

  Faulkner wasn’t quite three sheets to the wind, she thought, but his foresail and his mainsail were clearly loose and flapping in the breeze, and his mizzen sail was threatening to come untied.

  She glanced to Sherwood. “He’s been around that bathtub too long already.”

  Then she saw Benchley covertly waving to her from across the room. Billie Burke had been momentarily diverted by, of all people, Jack Dempsey. Even from this distance, she could tell the cops didn’t like being brushed off and were getting ready to give up if Dempsey didn’t walk away soon.

  In front of her, Faulkner simply stood there with a bemused smile.

  “Take him back to the bathtub and dry him out,” she said to Sherwood.

  Sherwood shielded Faulkner from the policemen’s view as he escorted him back to the bathroom.

  “What’s Woollcott’s problem?” A familiar midwestern voice spoke beside her.

  She turned to see Harold Ross, with a cigarette dangling from his down-turned mouth.

  “Where do I begin?” she said. She was amazed to see that Ross’ cigarette was indeed a Camel.

  “Woollcott said you told him that I had a copy of today’s Knickerbocker News. Now, why would you say—”

  She tuned Ross out. The policemen were moving. Church and O’Rannigan had given up on the red-haired actress. Now, as they turned to go, their eyes locked on Dorothy.

  “I don’t even read the lousy Knickerbocker,” Ross was saying. “I haven’t bought a copy in years—”

  Church and O’Rannigan marched past on their way toward the door, their gaze still holding hers.

  “Watch out tomorrow,” the detective snarled at her. Then he followed the police captain out the door.

  She sighed once they were gone. That was at least one problem finished with for the night.

  Benchley had been a few paces behind the policemen. Now he came over. She then realized that Ross was still grousing at her.

  “Say, Ross,” she interrupted. “Did you ever get any answers from your pals at the army board? Did they provide the names of the Sandman’s troop—or his regiment, or whatever?”

  “Not yet,” Ross grunted. “They’ll wire me a list tomorrow.” He turned to Benchley. “You didn’t make it easy. Third something or other of the twenty-seventh or so infantry ... And there’s no town of Bellicose in France, by the way.”

  Benchley was shocked to hear this. “Well, there should be.”

  “You two figure that out,” she said. “I have to go save a Dachshund drowning deep in drink.”

  In the bathroom, she found Faulkner sitting on the edge of the tub. Sherwood stood leaning against the sink.

  Faulkner looked up as she entered. His gaze floated all around her but couldn’t quite make a landing.

  “Why, hello,” he said. “Our hostess—what is her name?”

  “Ms. McMein.”

  “Ms. McMein. Oh, yes. Look at how elegantly she sherves—she serves her guests.” Faulkner gestured to the tub. The drink sloshed in his hand. “Unlike the back-woods boys I’ve met down South, Ms. McMein doesn’t distill her own gin. She must buy the grain alcohol in quantity. Then she pours it in this gargantuan glass punch bowl here and sets it ever so nicely in her ice-filled tub—it’s so much more hygienic and appealing than actually using the tub itself—”

  “Billy—,” she said.

  “And inside the punch bowl, the alcohol steeps in juniper berries, oil of coriander and orange peel. But look, you can add your own juniper berries.” He picked up a tiny blue-black berry from a small silver bowl, squished it between his fingers and let it fall—plop!—into his glass. “Delightful.”

  “Billy—”r />
  He raised the glass and slurped it down, juniper berry and all.

  She looked at Sherwood, who was grinning, his eyes half lidded. He looked like he might slide off the sink at any moment.

  “You were supposed to cut him off,” she said.

  “Don’t you worry.” Sherwood waved his hand. “This boy can hold his liquor.”

  “Yes, he’s now holding a glass of it in each hand,” she said, and grabbed one of the glasses from Faulkner. Faulkner used the free hand to steady himself on the edge of the tub.

  Benchley entered, took one look around the small room, then stepped forward and dipped his martini glass into the big punch bowl. Contentedly, he sat down on the edge of the tub next to Faulkner.

  “Oh, well,” Dorothy sighed, giving up. Then she, too, filled her glass. “No one frolics like we alcoholics.”

  She sat down on the edge of the tub on the other side of Faulkner. She took out a cigarette, which prompted Faulkner and Sherwood to light up cigarettes as well, and Benchley took out his pipe.

  They sat contentedly smoking and drinking for only a moment when Woollcott suddenly stood in the doorway.

  “What the deuce is going on in here?” Woollcott glared at each of them in turn. His eyes nearly popped out when he looked at Faulkner. “Is that my tie, young man?” He turned to Dorothy. “Is he wearing my necktie?”

  Woollcott fluttered forward, his cape flapping behind him. He stood over Faulkner and Dorothy. “You two overtake my humble abode for who knows how long! You hold out the promise of chocolates that never existed! You besmirch my good name by fabricating lies and deceit in a lowly tabloid! And you solicit funds for my foe’s funeral! To top it off, you purloin my most treasured necktie! I won’t stand for this!”

  “Then, take a seat,” she said calmly, pointing at the toilet. “The john is unoccupied.”

  Woollcott ignored her. He continued his tirade, now demanding that Faulkner take off the tie. Then Woollcott demanded that Faulkner and Dorothy never return to his apartment.

  Dorothy noticed Neysa McMein standing in the bathroom doorway, seemingly indifferent to Woollcott’s temper tantrum. In her hands, she held Dorothy’s upturned cloche. Neysa came forward, handed the hat to her, shrugged, then left the room.

  Dorothy looked into the hat. It was almost as empty as when she had taken it off earlier. At the bottom were a few wadded-up dollar bills, a handful of loose change, a couple cigarette butts and a gum wrapper.

  Well, what had she expected, after all? Did she think she could help Neeley pay for Mayflower’s entire funeral expenses by passing around a hat at a party of his rivals?

  Still, she was disappointed just the same. She sucked away the last of her cigarette and tossed the butt into the hat with the others.

  “Hold on, now, just a minute,” Faulkner was saying. Unsteadily, with the assistance of Benchley, he rose to his feet, inches from Woollcott’s pinched nose. “Maybe I can make up this to you, sir.”

  Faulkner fumbled in his pockets and finally withdrew a shiny object. “Here!”

  He dropped it into Woollcott’s open palm. Woollcott actually jumped when he realized what it was: the tooth from the Sandman’s watch chain.

  Woollcott’s upper lip curled in disgust. His chubby fingers could scarcely hold the thing.

  Benchley clapped Faulkner on the shoulder. “Well done, my lad! How did you find it?”

  Faulkner smiled; his eyes tried to meet Benchley’s but couldn’t quite make it. “Simple. I went looking for it the following morning. There it was in the gutter, covered by a leaf.”

  “Take this thing away!” Woollcott cried. He held it at arm’s length.

  Faulkner shook his head. “No, please, you keep it. You’ve been so gener—”

  Woollcott was nearly shaking. His doughy face was pale. “I won’t be insulted like this!”

  Faulkner smiled again. He didn’t seem to understand. “Think nothing of it.”

  Dorothy stood. It was time to use the secret weapon. “Billy,” she said, “give him the thing in your other pocket.”

  She had to repeat it, and even so, it took a moment for Faulkner to comprehend. Finally, from his other jacket pocket, Faulkner removed the box of liquor-filled chocolates. He looked at it and his jaw dropped. He was seemingly unaware of how it had gotten there, as though he had just pulled a rabbit out of his pocket.

  Woollcott stopped shaking. His whole demeanor changed. “Now, that’s more like it—”

  Then, with stunned surprise still etched on his face, Faulkner passed out. He fell forward, collapsing directly into Woollcott, tearing his cape and landing facedown on the bathroom floor, crushing the box of chocolates beneath him.

  For once, Woollcott was speechless. For a long moment, no one said a word. They just stared at Faulkner lying on the floor.

  “Alcohol,” Dorothy said. “The life—and the death—of the party.”

  Chapter 35

  Dorothy rolled over and fell to the floor. Her head pounded furiously. She stared at the carpet. It was not her carpet. It was much nicer. She slowly turned her head and looked at the sofa on which, until just a moment ago, she had been sleeping. It was not her sofa. It was much nicer. She realized it was Woollcott’s sofa, and she wondered for a moment how Woollcott’s carpet and sofa had found their way into her apartment. Then she realized it was not her apartment. It was much nicer. It was Woollcott’s apartment.

  Then, still lying on the floor, she began to piece together the final events of the night before.

  Faulkner had passed out on the floor of Neysa McMein’s bathroom. She remembered that very clearly. Woollcott, who had been indignant a moment before, suddenly changed his tune and became devilishly merry. He abruptly bid them good night, saying he was returning, as planned, to Dorothy’s apartment at the Algonquin.

  Forget it, she had told him. The ruse is no longer necessary. He could have Wit’s End back.

  Wouldn’t think of it, Woollcott had said. A deal’s a deal.

  She realized he was doing this just to spite her—the distance to Woollcott’s apartment was several blocks farther away than the distance to the Algonquin, which would make transporting Faulkner that much more difficult.

  But before she could protest, Woollcott had turned and was gone with a swish of his torn opera cape.

  Eventually, Benchley and Sherwood pulled Faulkner to his feet and managed to walk him out to the street and fold him into a taxi. Fortunately, getting Faulkner to Wit’s End wasn’t much different from getting him to the Algonquin, just an extra few blocks in the taxi. Again, Benchley and Sherwood lugged him out and into Woollcott’s apartment building, and up the elevator to the apartment, and dumped him onto Woollcott’s bed.

  To celebrate getting Faulkner back safely, they decided to empty Woollcott’s liquor cabinet. They plopped down on the sofa and managed to empty half a bottle of brandy before they gave up at around three o’clock in the morning.

  One thing Dorothy remembered clearly: After Sherwood excused himself for a minute, Benchley turned to her.

  “Is there anything at all the matter?” he asked casually. “You’ve been giving me that evil eye of yours all night.”

  “As a matter of fact”—she couldn’t stop herself—“I’m annoyed how you talked to that Goosey woman. You already have a woman who loves you. You shouldn’t need to look at and talk to that harlot that way.”

  His smile faded. “I know my wife loves me.” The words stung her. “But I can’t help but notice that stripper. She’s like an eye-catching billboard or a rare animal in a zoo. One’s attention is attracted to such spectacles. As for talking to her—”

  “Yes, did you have to inquire about her romance with Mickey Finn? ‘What do you see in this man?’ That was shameful.”

  Benchley considered this. “I was merely curious about her welfare in a very small way, much the same way you’ve been a mother hen to our little Billy. I wasn’t looking to rescue her or—heaven forbid!—fall in love wi
th her, if that’s what you mean. My, my, Mrs. Parker, I had no idea you were such a slave to propriety,” he teased.

  She realized she felt relieved. “I’m no slave to propriety.” She leaned toward him and held out her empty glass. “Nor to sobriety. Fill ’er up, Mr. Benchley.”

  Later, she had a vague recollection of Sherwood and Benchley saying good night. She recalled that Sherwood had offered Benchley his couch. She also seemed to remember that Sherwood had given her a hug, which made her feel warm, and Benchley had kissed her forehead, which made her stomach flutter.

  Had she dreamed that? The members of the Vicious Circle didn’t hug. They certainly didn’t kiss.

  Must have been a dream, she decided.

  But having decided this, she felt sad. And that got her thinking about other sad things. She felt sad that she had been able to collect only a few dollars for Lou Neeley. She felt sad that she had allowed Faulkner to get stone drunk, as if she had misled him somehow, as if this whole sordid affair was somehow her fault and she had dragged him into it. She knew that wasn’t how it really was, but she couldn’t help but feel it.

  She also felt sad for poor Woodrow Wilson, who had been cooped up with Woollcott for three days, and she hadn’t even visited him to take him for a walk or pat him on the head. She assumed Woollcott would have it in his heart to care for the poor dog.

  Her thoughts turned back to Benchley, and now she felt sad for herself. But she silently cursed herself for feeling this way. What right did she have to feel sad for herself when she caused so much trouble for everyone else? She curled up on the carpet and put her hands over her eyes.

  Still, she wanted to see Benchley. She felt at loose ends now, but seeing him—being around him, with his easygoing, cockeyed confidence—would make her feel like herself again.

  Well, she would see him soon. She would see him at the ’Gonk for lunch—

  Oh, shit!

  She sat up and looked around for the clock.

  Oh, shit!

  It was ten minutes past noon! They gathered for lunch at one o’clock.

  She dragged herself up off the floor, her head swimming. She staggered into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face.