Murder Your Darlings (29 page)

“Going to nab Mayflower’s murderer tomorrow?” Fairbanks asked, not slowing his pace. “Break a leg!” He escorted the young actress through the crowd and toward the open door to the balcony.

Benchley smiled, taking in the scene. Then he turned to Faulkner. “So, it’s your night on the town,
Mr. Dachshund
. How about a little hair of the dog?”

“Most certainly,” Faulkner said.

“Make that two,” Sherwood added.

“Make it three,” Dorothy said.

Benchley gave a little bow, turning halfway toward the bathroom. “You’ll have it in a trice.”

“I’d prefer it in a glass,” she said, “but any port in a storm.”

“It’s not port,” Benchley said, calling over his shoulder. “It’s gin.”

As Benchley went off to get the drinks, Dorothy remembered her promise to Lou Neeley, that she’d take up a collection to help him pay for Leland Mayflower’s funeral. She took off her hat and handed it to Sherwood.

He was perplexed. “What’s this for?”

“A good deed for a bad seed,” she said, then explained Neeley’s predicament. Sherwood looked skeptical until she told him how Mayflower’s body was likely in the same morgue with that of the Sandman.

“Okay, I’ll pass it around,” Sherwood said. “It’s funny how things turn inside out. It was only a few days ago that you called Mayflower a ‘malevolent old shit.’”

“I’m not so concerned for the dead as for the living,” she said. “Why should poor Lou Neeley have to suffer any further? He already lost Mayflower. His only fault was falling in love with the wrong man. That’s heartbreak enough.”

Sherwood leaned toward her. “And what would you know about that?” he asked with a knowing wink, as Benchley returned, carefully balancing four martini glasses in his hands.

Sherwood grabbed a glass from Benchley and moved off into the crowd, her hat in his other hand.

Benchley handed them each a glass of gin. She sniffed hers. It smelled like turpentine.

“Here’s to laughter,” Benchley said, raising his glass.

“Here’s to luck,” Faulkner said.

“Here’s two years off your life,” she said.

They clinked glasses and drank. She was still angry with Benchley. He didn’t even seem to notice.

Over the rim of her glass, she saw Sherwood approaching Harold Ross and his wife, Jane Grant, who were talking heatedly with the yeast magnate (and sometime poker player) Raoul Fleischmann. Undoubtedly, she thought, Ross and his wife were trying to get Fleischmann to put his money into their magazine idea. Hopefully, Sherwood would have better luck getting a few dollars out of Fleischmann than Ross and Grant.

Suddenly, a nasal voice wailed like a siren in her ear. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She turned to see Woollcott’s round face pinched with rage and disgust. Behind him, Harpo Marx silently mimicked Woollcott’s expression.

“Drinking turpentine,” she responded blandly. “What does it look like we’re doing?”

“You’re feeding that hack Battersby quotes that I never said!” Woollcott cried.

He explained that “some liquored-up loudmouth” had just approached him and praised him for “throwing down the gauntlet” in the
Knickerbocker News
.

“Apparently,” Woollcott continued, “said gauntlet was thrown at lunch today at the Algonquin. That bird-brained Bud Battersby doesn’t have the imagination—or the impudence—to fabricate phrases I never uttered. So I know those words could only have one origin.” He jutted a stubby finger at her.

She watched Harpo silently mouth Woollcott’s words, and she couldn’t help but smile. Woollcott, who was wearing his silly opera cape, turned around theatrically. Harpo’s expression went blank. Woollcott turned back to face her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Tell the truth,” Woollcott said. “Do you have a copy of that
Knickerbocker
rag?”

Faulkner gulped his drink and turned away slightly. In his jacket pocket was the copy of the newspaper that Mickey Finn had given to them.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Faulkner said.

She glanced at his empty glass. “Going for a refill?”

“Oh, yeah, that, too,” Faulkner said. He slinked away sideways.

“If there was any justice in this world, you’d be drawn and quartered,” Woollcott continued. “You’d hang by your thumbs—”

Woollcott’s beady-eyed, bespectacled gaze shifted to someone behind her. Dorothy turned around, expecting to see Harpo Marx playing some prank.

Instead, she faced Detective O’Rannigan and Captain Church. Benchley yelped, and she almost spilled her drink.

Chapter 34

“Providence be praised!” Woollcott cried. “Officers, arrest these two.”

“Maybe we’ll arrest the whole lot of you for violation of the Volstead Act,” O’Rannigan sneered, tipping his tiny brown derby forward on his fat forehead. He grabbed Dorothy’s glass, sniffed it and winced.

“You can arrest them anytime for that,” Woollcott said. “This time, they’ve used my name in vain. They bore false witness against me.”

“Go cry someplace else,” O’Rannigan said. “We got business to talk with these two. So scram, fattypants.”

Harpo laughed loudly at this. Woollcott, O’Rannigan and Church all looked at him angrily. Harpo shut up. Woollcott grabbed Harpo’s arm and pulled him away.

O’Rannigan shoved the glass back into her hands. Benchley looked nervously at his own glass, as if unsure how he had acquired it.

“So is this a raid?” she asked. “Are you going to run us all in?”

“Drink yourselves blind for all we care,” O’Rannigan said. “But you’re going to cooperate.”

“Cooperate?”

Captain Church finally spoke. “Show us the telegram you received this afternoon.”

She looked to Benchley. He had pocketed it after lunch. He glanced about for a place to set down his drink. He handed the glass to O’Rannigan; then he fumbled in his jacket pockets for the telegram. He grabbed his drink from O’Rannigan’s hand and replaced it with the crumpled telegram.

The detective gave Benchley an angry look, then carefully unfolded the telegram and handed it to Church. While the police captain inspected it, O’Rannigan said, “Why didn’t you bring this to our attention right away, instead of giving it to the first reporter you could find—and then holding on to it? We had to read about it in the tabloid, for Pete’s sake.”

“You’re a big fan of Franklin Adams’ column in the
World
, right?” Benchley said. “Wait until you read about it in there.”

Church grimaced. “For the hundredth time, Mr. Benchley, stop treating this like some joke.” He held up the telegram. “This is evidence.”

“Not only that,” O’Rannigan said. “Your little prank about challenging the murderer to appear tomorrow could interfere with our investigation. You call it off.”

“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—”