Murder Your Darlings (23 page)

His chin sank into his hands. “I’m running around, trying to write most of the stories and edit the rest, but I also oversee the printing and advertising, and the day-to-day operation of this entire plant—the accounts, the bills, the inventory, the employees. It’s a kick, I’ll tell you. I love it all. But it’s killing me. It’s just killing me.”

Here they were to tear the guy to shreds, Dorothy thought, and he was doing it for them. How could she slap his wrist when she felt the need to pat his hand?

“We can see that this place isn’t King Solomon’s mines,” she said, “but can’t you afford to hire a few more people, at least temporarily?”

Battersby brightened. “Oh, you’re mistaken. It’s extremely profitable. I’m bringing it in hand over fist. The
Knickerbocker
, my pride and joy, does little more than break even. That’s true. But most of my business is industrial catalogues, seed catalogues, several trade publications, company and commercial directories, hymnals and religious tracts. We do a big calendar business that keeps growing every year. Those printing presses are running around the clock. We can barely keep up. The money is practically pouring in.”

“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—

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.