Murder Your Darlings (10 page)

“Only me,” she said softly. “I saw him, too, remember.”

“So you’re in as much danger as Billy is.”

“Birds of a feather. Flocked together.”

Benchley gulped his whiskey sour. “You’re flocked, all right.”

Chapter 10

An hour later, which also meant several rounds of drinks later, Dorothy and Benchley had not forgotten about Billy Faulkner, but their troubles had for the moment abated.

“Well, what an evening,” Benchley said. He wasn’t yet slurring his words, Dorothy noticed, but he was extending his vowels. An
eee-ven-iing
, Benchley had said.

Finally, he added, “I think it’s time to toddle along. I have two drama reviews to write tonight. And a train to catch.”

She frowned. “I wonder where Billy wound up. I do hope he’s all right.”

“Not to worry.” Benchley helped her put on her coat. “He’s probably curled up on your davenport with your dog, both of them snoozing like lambs.”

They made their way to the door. When Dorothy opened the door, the chilly night air made her catch her breath. She stopped. Suddenly there was movement, startling her. Someone—a man—was there outside the door, now before her, face-to-face with her, his face hidden in the dark.

“Oh, Mrs. Parker, finally!” His southern voice muttered through clenched teeth. “I’ve been waiting out here in the cold for three-quarters of an hour.”

She grabbed Faulkner and hugged him.

“Wh-why, Mrs. Parker—”

“Billy, you silly boy, I’m overjoyed to see you. Oh, I’m over the moon! But why didn’t you come inside and have a nice warm cup of tea? We’ve been worried sick.”

She could feel that Faulkner’s threadbare trench coat was still wet and icy cold from the evening’s rain.

His teeth chattered. “The man at the door wouldn’t let me in. I told him I was to meet you here and he laughed. He told me to ‘vamoose.’ But I stayed right here waiting for you.”

She rubbed his sleeves. “You poor old thing. And all this time, we were inside, cozy and warm and having fun. Well, not much fun.”

“No, not much fun,” Benchley said. “We’d hoped you’d gone back to Mrs. Parker’s suite at the ’Gonk.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t move,” Faulkner said. “I don’t think I’m alone.”

“Not anymore you’re not.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Faulkner said, casting a glance along the dark, quiet street of brownstone homes. “I think he’s out there somewhere, waiting.”

“You mean—”

“The man we saw earlier. The one I saw in the lobby before Mayflower was murdered.”

“Well, there are three of us now,” she said. “Safety in numbers, though I don’t think one of us could harm a fly if put into a corner. Still, Mr. Benchley can escort us back to the Algonquin, and then we’ll pour him into a cab so he can catch his train back to his family in Scarsdale.”

She tried, as always, to keep the slight tone of jealousy out of her voice. She thought she succeeded.

Faulkner looked up. “F-family? Y-you’re married, Mr. Benchley?”

“Naturally,” she said before Benchley could answer. “Mr. Benchley has a wife and two little boys. He lives in a tidy little house in the suburbs. He rides the train from Scarsdale every morning and home again every night. Is that such a surprise?”

Faulkner’s stare ping-ponged from her face to Benchley’s and back again. She kept her expression as neutral as she could.

“No, no surprise indeed,” Faulkner said finally.

“Let’s get going, then,” Benchley said jovially, leading the way. “The Algonquin is only a few blocks away.”

Despite this purposeful and well-intentioned objective, they moved forward slowly. Faulkner was frozen stiff from standing in the cold doorway for so long, and Dorothy and Benchley were both rather intoxicated. Not stumbling drunk, she considered, just pleasantly pickled so that one’s thoughts were somehow only remotely connected with one’s movements, such that it was something of a delightful surprise to find yourself walking when the thought of doing so seemed to have originated quite a while ago. In this manner, it felt like forever to approach the end of this long, quiet block of Forty-ninth Street, where they would turn south onto Sixth Avenue.

Shortly before reaching the corner, she stopped abruptly. This caused Faulkner and Benchley to stagger to a halt as well. A shiny object on the wet pavement had caught her eye. It was a silver dollar. She was never the kind of fortunate soul who just happened to find silver dollars lying about on the pavement. She stooped to pick it up.

“Isn’t this my lucky day!” she said.

A cold, raspy voice answered, “Your luck just ran out, lady.”

Chapter 11

Dorothy rose slowly, the silver dollar in her hand.

First, she saw the man’s expensive leather shoes. Then, she noticed his long, loose wool coat. One flap of the coat was pointing at her—inside the pocket, the man apparently clasped a pistol. Then she noticed the sparkling gold chain of his pocket watch and saw for the first time the single bone white tooth dangling there like a miniature skeleton swinging in a noose.

The man’s eyes were in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. But she could see the leathery scar that bisected his mouth.

He had emerged from a tiny, dark alleyway—a narrow, coffin-sized opening—between two of the brownstone houses. His voice was like a nail file scraped across a tin can.

“Give me back my dollar.”

“Easy come, easy go,” she sighed, her hand outstretched. “Men and money simply slip through my fingers.”

“Shut up.” The man snatched the silver dollar from her palm. “Shut up and give me the rest of your money. This has to look like a stickup.”

Benchley coughed. “I really don’t think—”

“I don’t care what you think.” The man pulled the pistol from his pocket. “Dead or alive, I’m taking your money. Hand it over. Now.”

Faulkner and Benchley reluctantly dug in their pockets.

“You didn’t hear me, lady?” the man said, raising the gun. “Hand it over.”

“I’m afraid I’m in an awkward position,” she said. “I don’t carry any money.”

There was a pause.

“All right. Where you’re going, you won’t need it anyway.”

Faulkner held out a handful of change. “If you’re just going to kill us anyway, what does it matter if we hand you our money or you simply steal it from our cold and lifeless bodies?”

The man seemed to consider this.

“You’re right.” Then he snatched the money from Faulkner’s hand. “Get in that alleyway. It’s time you went to sleep. Shut your goddamn mouths for good.”

Faulkner hesitated. In one quick motion, the man stepped forward and put the barrel of the pistol to Faulkner’s temple. “Go. Now.”

Faulkner stepped into the inky darkness of the alleyway.

The man pointed the pistol at Dorothy. “Get in there.”

“First Dempsey and now you,” she said lightly. “Two lady-killers in one night. Lucky me.”

The man’s cold, raspy voice perked up. “You met Jack Dempsey?”

She felt a spark of hope. “Yes, I certainly did.”

“I lost a bundle betting against that asshole Dempsey. Get in the alley.”

She went in the dark, narrow alley. She could sense rather than see Faulkner in front of her. She stood against him and reached for his hand.

Benchley held out his money clip and his silver tiepin. “Just take it.”

“Those cuff links,” the man said. “They gold? Give me them, too.”

“These were a present from my wife.”

“I said, give me—”

“With pleasure,” Benchley said brightly, unbuttoning the cuff links. “I can’t stand the things. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

“Hold on. What’s that?”

“Cuff links, my man. What do you think they are, gold teeth?”

“No, in your other hand. Is that a notebook? Is that
Mayflower’s
notebook? How the hell did you get that?”

Benchley had taken the small notebook out of his pocket when he withdrew his other possessions. Dorothy saw the glint of the gold filigree monogram on the cover—
L.M.
The man reached to grab it. Instinctively, Benchley pulled away.

“You some kind of jackass?” the man said. “Give me that. Right now.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but it has my notes in it. I’m afraid I can’t let you have it.”

The man raised the gun. “Hand it over or I’ll let
you
have it.”

Benchley shook his head, adamant now. “No, sorry, old man. I need it.”

The man’s voice grew louder. “Like I told the other jackass, where you’re going, you won’t need it. Hand it over right now or I splatter your brains all over the pavement.”

Dorothy had rarely seen Benchley angry. Now he spoke petulantly, like a ten-year-old boy denied his dessert. “Fine, then. Take it!”

Benchley belligerently flipped the book in the air, in the direction of the man’s head.

The man jerked backward, and the wide brim of his hat flicked the book farther upward. He reached up for it, but his one hand held the gun and his other held Benchley’s valuables. The notebook bounced off the man’s fingertips, fluttering upward like a thick paper moth in the night air. He reached again, now attempting to clap the book between his hands, but it fumbled out of his grasp and rebounded off his forearm.

Dorothy scurried forward out of the alley. The man didn’t see her coming—he was looking down now as the notebook tumbled to the ground. She stomped her heel hard on the toe of his shiny shoe. The man howled.

Suddenly, Faulkner lunged forward and hurled the man to the hard pavement. Dorothy saw a glint of something white—the tooth from the watch chain—skitter sideways across the concrete sidewalk. With a swift kick, Faulkner knocked the pistol from the man’s hand and into the gutter. The gun fired with an earsplitting blast. The bullet shattered the windshield of a parked Packard across the street.

With one hand, Dorothy grabbed Faulkner’s coat sleeve. With the other hand, she clutched Benchley’s wrist. “Shall we go, gentlemen?” she said breathlessly. “Party’s over.” She pulled them quickly toward the corner of Sixth Avenue, glancing over her shoulder. The man was moving slowly, groggily, to his knees, and began searching in the gutter for his gun.

“The notebook!” Benchley cried.

But she dragged them forward. They rounded the corner. Suddenly, they were on the busy, well-lit avenue. Automobiles and trolley cars trundled by. Well-heeled, bundled-up city folk hurried past in the chilly dark to get home. Workmen wearing heavy denim coats and carrying lunch buckets lumbered along on their way to the night shift. Dorothy, Benchley and Faulkner paused momentarily, as if surprised to find themselves back in their own bright and bustling world.

Then Dorothy quickly scurried forward, this time toward the street, nipping lightly onto the platform of a passing streetcar.

Benchley and Faulkner exchanged an astonished glance, both amazed to be alive. Then they ran to catch up with her.

Chapter 12

Back safely in her apartment at the Algonquin, Dorothy sat on her sofa while Woodrow Wilson lolled belly up on her lap. The dog’s eyes were closed in contentment; his short legs splayed in the air; his tongue hung limply from his open mouth. She absentmindedly scratched his fat belly with one hand. With the other hand, she sipped a scotch highball and puffed a cigarette.

She turned her gaze to the clock. It was ten minutes past two in the morning.

Benchley loosened his collar and tie. His tuxedo was rumpled. His fingers stabbed the keys of her dilapidated Royal typewriter, a plain black economy model as battered and as functional as an old tortoise. He was growing increasingly frustrated with it. He slugged down his gin martini, growing increasingly inebriated. He glowered at her. “Mrs. Parker,” he observed, “your dog is dead.”

She glanced down at the motionless dog in her lap. “What makes you say that?”

“The smell.”

“Nonsense. All dogs are going to heaven, and all dogs are going to smell.”

She stopped rubbing the dog’s belly to take a drink, then a smoke. The dog opened his eyes and impatiently cocked up his head. She resumed grazing his belly with her fingernails. The dog’s head dropped again to her lap.

Benchley clacked slowly on the typewriter. The dull little bell signaled the end of the line, and he swung the carriage back for the return. The handle came off in his hand.

After a moment of silent fury, he blurted, “How do you write with this infernal device?”

“Poorly,” she said. “Don’t worry. The handle goes back into place.”

He harrumphed, then fitted the handle back onto the carriage and undertook typing the second line of the review of the first of the two plays he had seen earlier that night, before the gunman accosted them.

Benchley grunted again. The handle of the typewriter carriage had come loose in his hand for the second time.

“Pretend it’s a woman,” she said, closing her eyes, taking another drink, leaning her head back. “Treat her gently and she’ll respond to your every command.”

“It’s not a woman. It’s a machine. I could bang on it all night and it still won’t—” He stopped himself. “Never mind.”

But he didn’t resume typing. She kept her eyes shut, imagining him sitting there, fuming.

Finally, she said, “Ignore it, then, and hope the problem fixes itself. Then again, that
is
how you treat a woman.”

As soon as she had said it, she regretted it. They had unspoken rules, and one of the unspoken rules was not to speak about things like that.

Benchley didn’t respond. She felt her face blush. Finally, she opened her eyes.

He wasn’t there.

She felt a quick, cool wave of relief. Why should she be angry with him, anyhow? He had chosen to stay in the city tonight rather than go home to his family in Scarsdale. On theater nights, and after a few drinks, he often slept on her couch. Now it was two a.m., the height of the night. Let tomorrow take care of tomorrow. She lifted the dog off her lap and onto the couch, and raised herself slowly to her feet, careful not to spill her drink.