Murder Your Darlings Page 21

  She stood up. “No, thank you. I think I’ll seek representation elsewhere.”

  She had learned what she wanted to learn about Mayflower. That was good enough.

  But she had also embarrassed herself, and she wanted to leave quickly. What bothered her wasn’t that Ramshackle didn’t recognize her name. (Well, that bothered her a little.) But what really bothered her was that she had stooped to boasting. People quote me. Franklin Pierce Adams quotes me in the goddamn New York World.

  How shameful. She was thankful Benchley hadn’t accompanied her to hear her talk like that. She could barely look at the lawyer as she turned to leave.

  Wallace Ramshackle, for his part, was dumbfounded. He pushed his half-moon glasses up his nose.

  “Please come again,” he mumbled.

  She closed the door.

  Chapter 32

  “Dottie!”The sultry voice of Neysa McMein called from across the lobby of the Algonquin.

  Dorothy turned to see Neysa ambling toward her. Neysa wore a red plaid wool jaquette over a white silk blouse and a long, charcoal gray wool skirt. Faded streaks of colored pastel dust were visible on the cuffs of her blouse.

  “You’ll be at the little gathering at my studio tonight, won’t you?” Neysa said.

  “I wouldn’t miss it if my hair was on fire.”

  “No need to put on the dog,” Neysa said. “It’s come as you are.”

  It was lunchtime. They turned and walked together toward the dining room.

  “So, where were you yesterday?” Neysa said. “You missed lunch.”

  After the embarrassing meeting with Wallace Ramshackle the previous morning, Dorothy hadn’t felt like joining the Vicious Circle for lunch that day.

  “My yacht sprung a leak,” she replied breezily. “Had to take it in for repairs.”

  In truth, she had spent the rest of yesterday afternoon hiding out in Woollcott’s lavish apartment, playing cards and talking about books with Billy Faulkner.

  They entered the Rose Room and found Robert Benchley holding court at the Round Table. He was in the midst of recounting his peculiar adventure in the Sandman’s apartment.

  “So I found myself out on a wet, slippery ledge, in the dark, quite drunk, and the wind threatened to whisk me off to my fast-approaching doom.”

  “A drunk daredevil in a driving wind,” said Franklin Pierce Adams, chomping on his cigar.

  “Yes,” said Benchley, “I was literally three sheets to the wind. Fortunately, just then, the young husband leaned his head out his window to offer his help.”

  “What kind of help?” Marc Connelly said. “A trapeze?”

  “Another drink,” Benchley said. “And I decided it would be inhospitable to decline his offer. One way or the other, I was facing a wet Manhattan. I decided on the one that comes in a cocktail glass. So I crawled back in his window. ...”

  Dorothy was reminded of something that Benchley occasionally said—something that many of their group took to heart—“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” Benchley had called her at Woollcott’s apartment the night before to recount the story without embellishment.

  She and Neysa said quick hellos to everyone and sat down. She noticed that Woollcott was absent. As Benchley continued his story, she wondered about this, about the truth and a good story. What was the truth to this whole mess? Which part was the made-up story? She had to get to the bottom of it soon. Tomorrow was Friday—Mickey Finn’s deadline.

  She picked up a popover—which was complimentary—and nibbled at it while she mulled this over.

  Benchley was coming to the end of his story, concluding how the unseen intruder had stolen the Sandman’s army photograph.

  Neysa said, “Why would anyone want to break into this gangster’s apartment to steal an old military photo?”

  “It’s obvious,” said Robert Sherwood. “No doubt Sanderson was in the photo and so was his killer. Whoever killed Sanderson knew him from his days in the war. Benchley told us that neither he nor Mickey Finn could find in Sanderson’s apartment any evidence of a connection between the Sandman and his killer. That photo is the connection.”

  George Kaufman, always skeptical, said, “But how would the killer even know that the Sandman had such a photo?”

  “Don’t forget,” Dorothy said, “that whoever killed the Sandman did it in his apartment. He turned on the gas oven while the Sandman was sleeping. Then he must have come back later and stuffed the Sandman in the oven to make it seem like the Sandman committed suicide. So he was in the apartment at least twice already.”

  “So why didn’t he take the photo then?” Kaufman said doubtfully, peering at her over his glasses.

  “He probably didn’t put two and two together at the time,” she said. “It was only later, after he had time to think about it, that the killer must have realized that his appearance in the photograph could link him to the Sandman’s death. So he came back to remove it—unfortunately it happened to be at the same time Mr. Benchley was there, too.”

  “Maybe all is not lost,” said Adams, puffing on his cigar. “Benchley, you said you read the sign that the soldiers were holding. What did it say?”

  “Well,” Benchley gulped. “Let’s see. Something with a three, I think.The Fighting Three ? And there was a twenty-seven, I think. The twenty-seventh infantry, perhaps.”

  “And the town in which they took the photo?” Adams said.

  “Bellicose, I believe,” Benchley said. “That sticks with me because it reminds me of war.”

  “So what do you say, Ross?” Adams said, removing his cigar.

  Everyone turned to look at Harold Ross, who was in the middle of a mouthful of stuffed cabbage. “Hmph?”

  “Yeah, what do you say, Ross?” Dorothy said. “Can you track down the names of the soldiers in this troop? You edit that American Legion magazine. You were the editor for the Stars and Stripes during the war. You could call your pals in the War Department and find out who else was in the Sandman’s regiment.”

  “Goddamn it,” Ross muttered, gulping down his meal. “Is that all I’m good for? Nobody wants to help me with my idea for a smart magazine for New Yorkers. But how about calling up the War Department with hardly any idea of the name or number of the regiment, and Ross is your man?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”

  Ross threw down his napkin. “You people will have me in the bughouse. I guess I’ll go make a telephone call. What was the regiment again, and the town?”

  “Three,” Benchley said. “Or, perhaps, twenty-seven? I’m sure the town was Bellicose, France. I think.”

  “Goddamn it,” Ross muttered as he stood up and stalked away from the table, headed toward the lobby.

  “Speaking of making phone calls,” Dorothy said, turning to the rumpled figure of Heywood Broun, “did you get my telegram yesterday? Did you talk to your colleague at the Wall Street Journal?”

  “I did receive it, and I did talk to him.” Broun scratched his disheveled hair. “But he couldn’t find any trace of the New Canaan Bible Company. It doesn’t exist.”

  “It exists, all right,” she said. “Their truck nearly killed us. Your friend didn’t look hard enough.”

  Broun frowned, shifting his massive bulk in his chair. “He looked plenty. He checked all the companies listed on the stock exchange. He checked all the companies incorporated in New York and in all of New England. He checked to see if the company ever filed a federal tax return. Nothing. The company—on paper at least—doesn’t exist.”

  “How could it not exist?” she asked. “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m a sportswriter.” Broun shrugged. “I can’t explain all the whys and wherefores. What he told me was that it’s probably owned by some other company but doesn’t use the same name.”

  “Like a pseudonym,” Benchley said. “A pen name.”

  “Something like that,” Broun said.

  They sat silently a moment, eating their lunch and think
ing.

  “Mrs. Parker.” Adams put down his cigar and picked up his cup of tea. “Mr. Benchley tells us you visited Leland Mayflower’s lawyer yesterday morning. Did you learn anything of interest?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” she said.

  She told them how she had learned that Mayflower was apparently protecting himself against a libel suit that might arise from his memoir. (She did not mention how she had lost her head and boasted to Ramshackle.)

  “I don’t understand,” Neysa said. “Mayflower was afraid someone would sue him for something he was going to write in his memoir? If Mayflower planned to write his own memories, how could anyone say that’s libelous?”

  “It’s all in what you say and how you say it,” Adams replied. “If you write something that someone else can prove is both damaging and untrue, then that’s libel.”

  “The question is,” said Sherwood, “who didn’t want Mayflower to publish his memoir?”

  “His boon companion, perhaps?” Adams said.

  “Lou Neeley?” Dorothy said. “I doubt it. He was the one who told me Mayflower was writing his memoir in the first place. Besides, he was such a nice man. And he was totally devoted to Mayflower.”

  “And too old to be in the war, wasn’t he?” Benchley said.

  “If not him, then who?” Adams said.

  “Someone who was in the war,” Dorothy said slowly and thoughtfully. “Someone who was in Knut Sanderson’s troop—or regiment or division or whatever. Someone who had it in for Mayflower.”

  They all looked at one another a moment.

  Finally, Dorothy said, “So where the hell is Woollcott?”

  A moment after Dorothy said this, Frank Case, the hotel manager, glided into the dining room. He carried a yellow envelope.

  “Good day to you all,” Case said smoothly. “I have a telegram for you.”

  “For who?” Adams said.

  “All of you,” Case said. “It’s addressed to ‘The Vicious Circle.’”

  “I’ll take it,” Dorothy said. Case handed her the envelope.

  Suddenly there was a clamor at the entrance. The group turned to see Alexander Woollcott burst into the dining room, with Bud Battersby following closely on his coattails.

  “Leave me be, you pestilential parasite!” Woollcott cried. He scurried toward the Round Table, then halted suddenly—Battersby nearly collided with him—and thrust a chubby finger at Dorothy.

  “You! I have been your prisoner for nigh on a day and a half. I will tolerate it no longer. I want out of—”

  “Stop right there,” she said to him, her eyes darting to Battersby. “You said I had your word you wouldn’t speak about this.”

  “That word was given to a friend,” he said haughtily. “And certainly my word is as good as gold—”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said.

  “But some friend you turned out to be,” Woollcott huffed. “There are no chocolates, as you led me to believe. And the—” He sought another way to refer to her dog. “The former president is simply intolerable.”

  Battersby’s glance followed their conversation at first. But the quizzical look on his face was fading. He appeared slightly puzzled, but he seemed to think that this squabble was nothing interesting—nothing worth reporting, Dorothy surmised. She watched his glance roam over the faces of the other members of the group.

  Woollcott now looked around as well. “And no chair for me! Now, this is the last straw.” He glared at Frank Case. “If this is how you choose to run your hotel, my worthy innkeeper, your license should be revoked.”

  Case smiled warmly. “I shall make certain that Luigi finds you a chair—before I lose my license.” He turned away in search of the waiter.

  “Take Ross’ chair, Aleck,” said Heywood Broun. “Who knows when he’ll be back?”

  Woollcott observed the half-eaten plate of stuffed cabbage at Ross’ seat. He turned his nose away.

  “I’d rather stand for now,” he said.

  “Let him stand on principle. Let him walk on egg-shells,” Benchley said. “Me, I’m sitting on the edge of my seat! What’s in that telegram?” He pointed excitedly to the yellow envelope in Dorothy’s hand.

  By this time, Frank Case had returned, followed by Luigi, who carried a chair for Woollcott. But Woollcott was peering over her shoulder. So was Bud Battersby. The others seemed to lean forward as well.

  Dorothy ripped open the envelope and unfolded the telegram. She read the message aloud. “MAYFLOWER HAS BEEN PLUCKED. SANDMAN WENT TO SLEEP. ROUND TABLE YOUR TIME HAS COME FULL CIRCLE. PREPARE FOR TRIAL BY FIRE.”

  “Trial by fire?” Benchley said.

  “Threats at lunchtime?” Woollcott cried. “This is the very last straw!”

  “Who would send such a thing?” Sherwood asked.

  “We know it isn’t from a rival writer,” Dorothy said.

  “How do you know?” said Bud Battersby.

  They ignored him.

  “How do you know?” echoed Neysa McMein.

  “Because it’s so poorly and unimaginatively written,” Dorothy said.

  “It sounds like the work of a half-literate anarchist,” Adams said.

  “It sounds like the work of a half-witted amateur,” Woollcott said. “My money’s on Dachshund. You call off your hound right now, Dorothy. Enough of these pranks.”

  Her eyes flashed to Battersby, who had pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Billy had nothing to do with this,” she said firmly.

  “Are you so sure?” Woollcott sneered. “Do you watch his every move? Can you read his murky thoughts? I say we have an enemy in our midst. A thorn in our side.”

  “A fly in our soup,” Benchley said.

  “Calm down, Aleck,” she said, glancing again at Battersby, who was scribbling notes. “Instead of mixing your metaphors, go mix yourself a drink and cool off.”

  “Cool off?” Woollcott’s eyebrows rose ever higher. His face turned pink. “I will not cool off! How dare you! You trespass on my goodwill. You lie to me about the chocolates. You take my honored seat at the table—”

  “I didn’t take your seat,” she said.

  Woollcott ignored her. “Now we have this maleficent missive from a Mississippi misanthrope! This shot across the bow from a southern sociopath! It is all too much. I cannot take any more. This is absolutely the last straw.” His hands fluttered in the air. “I’m going to the Plaza for lunch, and the hell with Dachshund! And the hell with all of you!”

  He paused for effect, but no one said a word or made a move to stop him. With a harrumph, he turned on his heel and bustled out of the dining room. They watched him go.

  Now the only sound was Battersby’s pencil scratching in his notebook. He looked up. “Is Mr. Woollcott always—”

  Ignoring Battersby, Dorothy waved the telegram. “What do you think it all means?”

  “Read it again,” Adams said, inhaling thoughtfully on his cigar.

  She read, “Mayflower has been plucked. Sandman went to sleep—”

  “That’s clear enough,” Broun said. “It means both of them were murdered.”

  They all nodded in agreement.

  She continued, “Round Table your time has come full circle. Prepare for trial by fire.”

  “Our time has come full circle?” Benchley repeated.

  “I don’t think that’s any kind of riddle,” said Adams, who loved word games. “I think we can simply take it at face value—our time is up.”

  “So what’s the trial by fire?” Dorothy said.

  They stared at one another a moment.

  “A courtroom in candlelight?” Benchley offered.

  “A hearthside hazing?” Sherwood smiled.

  “Go ahead and joke all you like,” Adams said. “But I’m with Woollcott in one respect—I’ve had enough of the gloomy shadow casting its pall over our little circle here. This telegram just makes it worse. It’s time to cut to the chase.”

  Dorothy sat up. “What do you suggest w
e do?”

  “Whoever sent the telegram wrote that we need to prepare for trial by fire,” Adams said, jamming his cigar back in his mouth. “I say, let’s fight fire with fire.”

  “I’m with you in spirit,” she said. “But how?”

  “We write a reply that says: Go to hell!”

  “But to whom?” Benchley said, plucking the telegram from Dorothy’s grasp. “There’s no name on the telegram to send a reply.”

  “I never said we’d send a telegram,” Adams said, smiling craftily.

  “Now I get it,” Dorothy said. “We all know that two out of three New Yorkers read our esteemed Mr. Adams’ daily column in the New York World. If we want to send a message—”

  Benchley said, “Adams can write it in his column, and all of New York will be able to read it.”

  Battersby, still standing, continued to scribble everything they said in his notepad.

  “Sure,” Dorothy said drily. “If they don’t read about it in Adams’ column in the World, they can read it sitting on the john before using the Knickerbocker as toilet paper.”

  Battersby’s face reddened, but he didn’t look up. He just kept jotting notes.

  “You can quote me on that,” she said to him, and turned back to Adams. “Now, what will you write?”

  “I’ll write a short description of what happened here today, and then the exact contents of the telegram, and then our response.”

  “Fine,” she said, surveying the group around the table. “How should we respond?”

  “I have it,” Benchley said. “This telegram pricked the ears and innocent soul of Alexander Woollcott. ‘Come and get me,’ he boldly stated.”

  “No adverbs,” she said.

  Benchley continued, “‘Come and get me,’ Mr. Woollcott said, actually throwing down his glove. ‘I shall be at the Algonquin as usual at lunchtime tomorrow. If you want to show your face, you murderous coward, you can find me there.’”

  “Sounds just like Woollcott,” Adams nodded, writing it down in a notebook. “That should draw out our murderer.”