Murder Your Darlings (5 page)

“Finally,” Fairbanks said, stepping up into the elevator, which was off by a full foot above the level of the floor. “I’ve been waiting a dog’s age—” He stopped short. “Benchley, is that you?”

“Certainly it’s me, Douglas.”

“But an elevator operator?” Fairbanks was aghast. “What kind of a job is this for a man like you?”

“Oh, well, you know what they say. It has its ups and downs.”

O’Rannigan stomped along the fourth-floor hallway. “You’re not going to tell me which room is yours, are you?”

“Sure, I will,” Dorothy said.

O’Rannigan stopped. She almost bumped into him.

He said, “But the answer will be a lie, won’t it?”

“Would I lie to you? A detective with the police force?”

The detective squinted. “Why are you trying to cover for this Dachshund? What’s he to you?”

“He’s an innocent, lost little boy, trying to find his way,” Dorothy said, without thinking. “I know he didn’t kill anybody.”

“Then he’s got nothing to be afraid of. Now, what’s your room number?”

“Four twenty-six.”

O’Rannigan shook his head. “I’m a detective, and I can read you like a book.”

“Is it a good book?”

“It’s fiction and fantasy.”

“I knew it wasn’t a romance. At least you didn’t say it was a tragedy.”

“Cough it up. What’s your real room number?”

Dorothy bit her lip, thinking how to respond.

O’Rannigan said, “Like I told you, I’m a detective, so now I’m going to do a little easy detective work. Give me your room key. Now.”

He stuck out a hand that was as large as a salad plate. She stared at the policeman’s big hand a moment. Then she opened up her purse, fished inside and dropped her key ring into the man’s open palm.

He smirked. “I just knew a bobbed-haired vamp like you would never have bothered to take the number off the key.”

She didn’t mind about being called a vamp. “I don’t have bobbed hair,” she said, insulted.

O’Rannigan looked at the key fob.

“Two thirteen?” His expression twisted in anger, and he shook a meaty fist in front of her face. “On the last floor down—the third floor—you said you lived on the next floor.”

“I said I lived one floor away,
Detective
. You were the one who jumped to the conclusion that I lived on the floor above, not the floor below.”

He grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her back toward the stairs.

This was cutting things too close, she thought as O’Rannigan hurried her along. Benchley probably hadn’t taken Faulkner safely out of her room just yet. Or had he? She secretly crossed her fingers and hoped so, for all their sakes.

Chapter 5

Benchley knocked on the door of Dorothy’s suite.

“Billy, come on, now. We have to go.”

Faulkner opened the door. He held a highball glass of amber liquid.

“What’s that?” Benchley said.

“I think it’s supposed to be bourbon. But it tastes like lighter fluid.”

“Let me see that.” Benchley deftly snatched the glass from Faulkner’s hand, put it to his lips and swallowed it before Faulkner could say a word.

“Well?”

“Puts hair on your chest.” Benchley coughed. “Then burns it off again. Let’s go.”

He handed the empty glass to Faulkner, turned and strode away quickly.

“Go? Where?” Faulkner shut the apartment door and hurried to catch up. He still carried the glass in his hand.

Benchley called over his shoulder, “To the elevator, of course. Douglas Fairbanks is operating it and he doesn’t have all day. He’s a very busy man.”

“
Douglas Fairbanks
is operating the elevator?”

Dorothy Parker reached the second-floor landing before Detective O’Rannigan. She stopped and fished in her purse.

“Quit stalling,” he puffed as he descended the last few stairs. His face was redder than before. A ribbon of perspiration stained the headband of his derby.

“Smoke break.” She removed a cigarette from her bag and popped it in the corner of her mouth. “Have a light?”

He made a fist. “No, but I’ll make you see stars.”

“Now, that’s the last straw.” She flung the cigarette to his feet. “First, you call me a spinster. Then you call me homely, then a liar, then a vamp. And for the second time in mere minutes, you threaten me with violence. If this is the state of law enforcement today, then I prefer anarchy. I refuse to help you any longer!”

She flattened her back against the hallway door and crossed her arms.

“Suits me fine.” He reached past her and grabbed the door handle. “You ain’t been doing nothing but running me around in circles anyway. I have your key. So what do I need you for?”

He pulled open the door and pulled her along with it. Her shoes skidded along the tiled floor.

Now he was in the hallway. But she was after him.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m about to apprehend a murderer.”

At the far end of the hall, far beyond the hulking silhouette of O’Rannigan, she heard the elevator door close. She hoped that was Benchley and Faulkner making their escape.

“That’s not all you’re up to,” she said.

O’Rannigan glanced at the numbers on every door they passed. They had nearly reached her suite.

“Yeah, I’m running you in for obstruction, too.” He stopped at her door, room 213. “Ah, here we are.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She lightly laid her hand on his as he inserted the key into the lock. “You came up here to see my boudoir.”

He looked at her momentarily and sneered. Then he threw the door open with a crash. “Awright, Dachshund. Come out!”

O’Rannigan pulled away from her and entered. Dorothy held her breath and remained standing at the doorway.

“Come out now, Dachshund,” he yelled, stomping about. “Don’t make me tear this lady’s place apart to find you.”

She peered through the door. Her suite was small—a small parlor, a small bedroom, a small bathroom, no kitchen. Even this tiny residence was more than she could afford. Most months, she handed Frank Case an empty envelope. Case was decorous enough never to mention that she’d failed to enclose a check. (She knew he liked having writers, actors and artists in his hotel, often to his financial loss.)

The detective raced from room to room. In the bedroom, he was startled to see a lumpy figure in the small bed. He grunted in triumph and yanked the covers away.

But it wasn’t Faulkner. It was a surprised bug-eyed, bat-eared Boston terrier. The ugly dog had a mangy short-haired coat the color of vomit.

“Come here, Woodrow,” Dorothy called, crouching down. The dog leaped off the bed and into her open arms.

“Woodrow Wilson. Named after the only politician I’ve ever trusted. Until he sent us to war. A noble failure, like this dog.”

The detective scowled and continued his search. In just a few moments, he had inspected all the possible places a man could hide—under the bed, behind the sofa, in the closet, in the bathtub and that was all. He had come up empty. He stood in the middle of the parlor, baffled.

 

Douglas Fairbanks was several years older and several inches shorter than Benchley, though Faulkner noted that the famous movie actor’s clean, handsome, unwrinkled face looked younger. Fairbanks wore his characteristic pencil-thin moustache. He held the elevator operator’s lever with one hand and a tennis racket with the other. He pulled the lever and the elevator began to descend.

Faulkner suddenly realized he still had the empty highball glass in his hand.

“What’s that?” Fairbanks said.

Faulkner was as surprised as if the celluloid version of Fairbanks had spoken to him from the screen. “It—it used to be bourbon,” he answered.

“Not on your life,” Benchley said. “If that was bourbon, I’m a monkey’s uncle. It was bootleg whiskey distilled through someone’s boot. But never mind that now, Billy. We have to get you out of here.” The elevator came to a halt. Benchley spoke like an elevator operator. “Here we are, ground floor. Ladies’ dresses up, men’s pants down. Thank you for shopping at Macy’s.”

Fairbanks reached to open the door.

“Just a moment, Mr. Fairbanks,” Faulkner said hurriedly. “There’s something I need to tell Mr. Benchley.”

“Right now?” Fairbanks frowned, which failed to ruin his good looks. If anything, it brought his matinee-idol features into sharp relief. “I’m late for a tennis date.”

“Have no fear, Douglas,” Benchley said. “She’ll wait.
You
don’t need to worry about that.”

“
She
is Florenz Ziegfeld.”

“Florenz Ziegfeld, the Broadway producer?” Faulkner sputtered insensibly. “She’s a he. I mean, he’s a man.”

“That’s a generous description,” Fairbanks said. “I would have called him a greasy rat. In any case, get on with your discussion so I can get to my game.”

Faulkner looked doubtfully from Fairbanks to Benchley.

“Oh, he’s okay,” Benchley said to Faulkner. “Whatever it is you have to say, Douglas won’t bother to repeat it. Unless it’s something flattering about him.”

“All right,” Faulkner said, speaking low regardless. “I was trying to tell Mrs. Parker something important before she shut me up in her apartment.”

“Something important?” Benchley said. “About what?”

A loud banging came from the other side of the elevator door, followed by the muffled bawl of an old man.

“Let me in, you crooks,” came the creaky voice of Maurice, the elevator operator. “You stole my elevator.”

“Never mind him,” Benchley said. “What was it you wanted to tell Mrs. Parker?”

Faulkner’s voice dropped so low, Benchley had to strain to listen. “I saw a suspicious man in the lobby this morning. Before that drama critic was murdered.”

“A suspicious man? Suspicious in what way?”

“There was something dark and dangerous about him,” Faulkner said.

Maurice hammered his fist on the door again. Fairbanks sighed.

Benchley’s eyes were fixed on Faulkner. “Why didn’t you tell us this before? Why didn’t you mention this when the police detective was questioning everyone, including you?”

“I don’t know.” Faulkner looked down at his hands. “I went dumb as a stump.”

Benchley turned to Fairbanks. “Open the door, Douglas. Time to go.”

When the doors opened, Maurice stood there, puffing and as hot as a steam engine. Benchley, Faulkner and Fairbanks ignored him and entered the lobby.

The elderly elevator operator stood fuming. He spat, “You can all go to hell.”

Over his shoulder, Benchley said, “Guess who goes first, Maurice.”

 

Now that Dorothy knew that Benchley had taken Faulkner from her room, she wanted to catch up with them quickly. That meant getting rid of O’Rannigan.

“It’s just a small place,” she said. “Only enough room to lay my hat—and a few friends.”

The detective ignored her. He stood in the center of the parlor, his hand on his round jaw, his gaze off in the middle distance.

“You see?” She moved toward him. “We’re alone. Just like you planned.”

“Like I planned? I planned to find Dachshund—that’s what I planned. Now where the hell do I look?”

“Look right here.” She fixed her eyes on his. “Isn’t this what you expected to find?”

He backed away a step. “What are you talking about?”

She approached him like a cat stalking a mouse. “You called me a liar? Maybe. You called me a spinster? Someday probably. You called me a vamp? Definitely.”

She put her tiny hand on his chest. He batted it away as if it was a spider. He raced out the door, like a child running from a haunted house.

She turned and watched him go. This, she thought, was always what happened when she threw herself at a man. It made him run for the hills.