Algonquin 02 - You Might as Well Die Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for Murder Your Darlings

  “Dorothy Parker—satirist, poet, and one of the great wits of the twentieth century—is the feisty heroine of this delightful mystery.... I loved it!”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “[A] brilliant first novel. . . . Murphy has courageously ventured into Parker’s world and does a creditable job. . . . [The] invented witticisms are plausible as well as entertaining. And the mystery ain’t bad either.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Capturing the wild and crazy times of 1920s New York, author J. J. Murphy brings a charming sense of history to [the] mystery in this delightful debut story. With such a lively cast of characters to choose from, I predict that the Algonquin Round Table Mystery series will be one that fans of cozy mysteries will look forward to for a long time.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Murphy’s debut, the first in a new series set in the 1920s, will intrigue Dorothy Parker fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This historical mystery is very atmospheric, giving armchair time-traveling readers a vivid taste of the Roaring Twenties in New York City.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Some would pay a fortune for the chance to spend a few hours in the company of Dorothy Parker and the Vicious Circle; thanks to J. J. Murphy, however, you can now do so for less than the price of a drink at the Algonquin.”

  —The Season for Romance

  “This new series shows comical and intelligent promise. Each character stays true to the original in comment and personality . . . marvelous.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  “A fun read for those enamored of Dorothy Parker and her age.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  Other Books in the

  Algonquin Round Table Mystery Series

  by J. J. Murphy

  Murder Your Darlings

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 2011

  ISBN : 978-1-101-55924-6

  Copyright © John Murphy, 2011

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  To Bill Murphy and Stephen Murphy

  RÉSUMÉ

  Razors pain you;

  Rivers are damp;

  Acids stain you;

  And drugs cause cramp.

  Guns aren’t lawful;

  Nooses give;

  Gas smells awful;

  You might as well live.

  —Dorothy Parker

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dorothy Parker reportedly said, “I don’t care what is writ-Dorothy Parker reportedly said, “I don’t care what is written about me so long as it isn’t true.” Following her advice, this book is almost entirely a work of fiction, even though it is populated with many real people. The members of the Algonquin Round Table never seemed to let the truth get in the way of telling a good story—and I hope you won’t let it get in the way of enjoying this one.

  PREFACE

  In the 1920s, there was no Internet, no wireless phones, no satellite TV—no TV at all. Even radio wasn’t commonplace until the later twenties. Instead of text messages and e-mail, people sent telegrams or employed messenger boys. For music at home, they listened to a Victrola or sang around a piano.

  For entertainment, New Yorkers had dozens of theaters in which to see plays and a number of movie palaces where they could see silent films. (“Talkies” didn’t arrive until the later twenties, too.)

  For information, New Yorkers lacked twenty-four-hour cable news networks. But they did have a dozen daily newspapers to choose from. Presses ran day and night, printing morning editions, afternoon editions and special editions (“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!”).

  At this time, the people
who wrote the news also became the news. A new class of writers, editors and critics emerged. A loose-knit group of ten—and their assorted friends—gathered around a large table for lunch at the Algonquin Hotel. They went to the Algonquin because it welcomed artists and writers—and because it was convenient and inexpensive. Their daily lunch gatherings were known more for wisecracks and witticisms than for the food they ate. But they buoyed one another with merriment and camaraderie. They thought the fun would never end.

  Chapter 1

  “ Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?”

  Dorothy Parker looked up to see the eager face of Ernie MacGuffin hovering just inches away. MacGuffin was a third-rate illustrator and a first-rate nuisance.

  “Mrs. Parker,” he whispered again, only more urgently. “Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?”

  “Matter of fact,” she sighed, “I’m thinking about it right now.”

  It was just after lunchtime at the Algonquin Hotel. Dorothy sat at the Round Table in the hotel’s dining room. She had been searching in her purse for a cigarette when MacGuffin suddenly appeared. Her usual lunch companions, sometimes called the Vicious Circle, had gotten up from the table. They were saying their see-you-laters and heading back to work for the afternoon. Helplessly, she watched them go.

  “Seriously,” MacGuffin said, hurriedly taking the seat next to hers. “I want to know.”

  She looked at him. He was a skinny scarecrow. Messy, nut-brown hair. Cheap necktie. Paint-stained fingers. Dirty fingernails. A small smear of egg salad at the corner of his mouth. She felt both pity and disgust for him.

  “Suicide?” She lit her cigarette. “Sure, I’ve tried it. Who hasn’t these days? It’s like the Charleston—everyone’s doing it.”

  “I knew it!” He leaned closer. “What happened?”

  “What happened?” Her cigarette almost fell from her mouth. “Can’t you guess? It didn’t stick.”

  He nodded as if he was about to suggest how she could get it right next time.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  MacGuffin inhaled deeply. He was clearly debating whether he could trust her with something.

  MacGuffin was a poor man’s Norman Rockwell. He aspired to paint covers for Collier’s, Vanity Fair and The Saturday Evening Post, but most of his works were for pulp magazines like True Crime or Old West. He was not an invited member of the Round Table. Instead, he rode on the coattails of Neysa McMein, a first-rate illustrator and one of the few women besides Dorothy who were welcome at the Round Table.

  Unlike Dorothy, Ernie MacGuffin took this conversation very seriously. “Your suicide—were you afraid?”

  “I was afraid I would wake up.” She brushed aside the brunette bangs that shadowed her pretty face. “Again, what’s this all about?”

  He seemed to come to a decision. “I knew you knew all about it. Now I know I can trust you. Here.” He handed her an envelope. “Don’t open it until midnight. Promise me.”

  No one took Ernie seriously. Not his friends, not the art world, not the public. She looked at the plain white envelope and handed it back.

  “Nothing doing,” she said. “If you mean to commit suicide, don’t get me involved. If you go toes up, I don’t want that on my head.”

  He looked disappointed and confused.

  She softened. “Don’t kill yourself, Ernie. Take it from me. Attempting suicide after lunchtime will simply ruin your whole day.”

  Ten minutes before midnight, Dorothy and Robert Benchley, her closest friend, were at Tony Soma’s, their favorite speakeasy.

  Earlier in the evening, Tony had been waltzing around the loud and lively crowd, chatting with all the customers, singing opera and pouring drinks. Now he approached Dorothy and Benchley. His smile had disappeared.

  “Mrs. Parker. Mr. Benchley,” Tony said sternly. “There’s a little matter I’d like to discuss. It’s about the bill.”

  “Ah, yes.” Benchley rocked back on his heels, nearly spilling the drink in his coffee mug. “Our cups and our tab runneth over.”

  “Tony, you know we’re good for it,” Dorothy said, gently swatting him on the arm. “We’ll pay in full next time.”

  Tony’s deep-set eyes turned darker. “That’s what you said last time. It’s been weeks since you paid.”

  He slid his hand inside his vest pocket. Dorothy, less than five feet tall, instinctively edged behind Benchley.

  Tony pulled out an envelope. “Your bill.”

  Benchley glanced at Dorothy. He reluctantly took the envelope and gingerly pried it open.

  This prompted Dorothy to remember MacGuffin’s envelope. She hadn’t given him a single thought since lunchtime. She didn’t care much for Ernie, but she hoped he had gotten over whatever itch had been bothering him.

  Benchley gasped when he read the bill. Dorothy grabbed her purse and quickly pulled out her horn-rimmed glasses. She scanned down the long column of numbers to the total....

  Four hundred and eighty-five dollars! Her big, dark brown eyes grew wide. That was well more than she earned in a month.

  “Have we really drunk all this?” Benchley asked her.

  She silently returned his glance. Of course they had. The bill was only a column of prices. It didn’t list the many different types of drinks. But she could imagine—double scotches, whiskey sours, gin martinis, gin rickeys, gin and tonics, sidecars, orange blossoms, Tom Collinses, Rob Roys, old-fashioneds . . . and more Manhattans than they could remember.

  Dorothy felt unsteady. She needed a cigarette—and another drink. She reached into her purse for her pack of Chesterfields, but her hand touched paper. She pulled an envelope from her purse—MacGuffin’s envelope.

  “What’s that, Mrs. Parker?” Benchley asked, his thin mustache twitching. “Another bill?”

  “You pay mine first,” Tony said, folding his arms over his barrel chest.

  “Might be nothing,” Dorothy said, holding it in her quivering hand. “Might be something.”

  MacGuffin must have slipped it into her purse after lunch. He had told her not to open it until midnight. She grabbed Benchley’s arm and looked at his wristwatch. Just a few minutes until midnight. Something told her to open it right now.

  She ripped it open, unfolded the plain white paper and skimmed through the handwritten note.

  To whom it may concern. At midnight tonight . . . will meet my fate in the waters beneath the Brooklyn Bridge . . . My last will and testament . . . Once I am dead and gone in this life . . . A new and better life awaits me. Good-bye, cruel world.

  “Oh crap!” She clutched Benchley’s arm. “It is a suicide note. That Ernie! Come on, we have to go.”

  She stepped forward, but Tony blocked her way. “Sorry. I cannot let you leave until you pay.”

  “Tony, what is this?” she said. “A friend of ours—well, a man we know—is about to kill himself. We have to stop him. We have to leave now.”

  Tony shook his head. “Nobody leaves until the bill is paid up.”

  Benchley was puzzled. “We don’t carry that kind of money around with us. How can we get you any money if you won’t let us leave?”

  Tony merely kept his arms folded and jutted out his round chin.

  “Please, Tony,” Dorothy said. “A man might be dying. Right at this moment.”

  He shrugged, indifferent.

  “Oh, Tony, old pal—” Benchley began kindly; his eyes were merry and twinkling.

  Dorothy interrupted. She had had enough. “Don’t make me make a scene,” she said quietly, but Tony heard every word. “Really, is that what you want? A short, hysterical woman shrieking in your speakeasy?”

  Underneath it all, she knew Tony was a softie. His tough facade cracked. His eyes changed from unforgiving to apologetic.

  “My friends, I’m so sorry,” he sighed, his hands cradling his sagging cheeks. “It’s the wife, Mrs. Soma. She’s on my back day and night. No more freeloading, she says.”

  “Freeloading?” Do
rothy gasped. “Well, I never.” She eyed Mrs. Soma across the room. Mrs. Soma returned Dorothy’s glance with an icy glare.

  “Look around,” Tony said, exasperated but with a touch of pride. “We’ve paid for a lot of improvements. If we get raided, we put in trapdoors behind the bar where the bottles can drop out of sight.”

  Benchley nodded approvingly.

  Tony continued. “See all these new potted plants with the big ferns? If the cops bang on the door, you dump your drink in there, and we fill up your cup with tea or coffee. And don’t forget all the palms that need to be greased—the patrol cops, the lookouts, the city officials. I can’t run the place on goodwill!”

  “Of course,” Benchley said. He held out a few bills. “Take this for now. We’ll pay you the rest as soon as we can.”

  Tony took it and stepped aside. “Go on. Go help your friend. But please bring in the money soon, okay?”

  “Sure,” Benchley said, patting him on the shoulder. Dorothy kissed him on the cheek.

  They hurried outside and down the steps of the brownstone. They looked in vain for a taxi. The darkened street of town houses was quiet as usual.

  “Stop right there!” Mrs. Soma shouted from the doorway. “You pay your tab or you’ll never drink in this club again!”

  Tony grabbed her arm to drag her back inside. She shook him off easily and pushed him away.

  Dorothy and Benchley paused only a moment. Then they turned and ran.

  Mrs. Soma yanked off her apron and threw it back inside. “Tony Jr.! Get your backside out here and catch these scroungers! Now!”

  Chapter 2

  “ Tony Jr.!”Mrs.Soma yelled again.