Murder Your Darlings Read Free

said Sherwood, towering over them. He looked amiably toward Faulkner. “Did a new cowboy mosey into town?”
    Dorothy began to speak, but Woollcott snapped, “Introduce your snot-nose yokel some other time. Right now, a very serious matter is much more pressing.”
    “And what’s so dire?” she said, casting a silencing glance at Benchley and Faulkner. “Are they not serving rice pudding today?”
    “They’re not serving lunch whatsoever,” Woollcott said. His nasal voice was high and rising. “The dining room is closed off. The police have been summoned.”
    “No meal for Aleck,” Benchley cried. “Muster the police! Police the mustard!”
    “Apparently it is a matter for the police,” Sherwood said in an even slower, graver tone than usual. “I overheard the waiters chattering. Something very bad has happened.”
    Woollcott dabbed a silk handkerchief at his glistening forehead. “Of course it had to happen today of all days. Today, when I invited Leland Mayflower to join us.”
    Dorothy had a sickening feeling all of a sudden.
    “Leland Mayflower, the drama critic for the Knickerbocker News ?” she said, genuinely alarmed. “Why in the world would you invite him to lunch with us? He’s your fiercest competitor. You two hate each other.”
    Woollcott’s beetlelike eyes became slits. “Because he sent me word that he had some extraordinary news he wanted to share in person. Probably some little unnoteworthy achievement of his that he wants to brag about. By allowing him to lunch with us, I had hoped I could parade the shriveled old crow in front of you all and finally demonstrate what a scheming, backbiting fraud he is.”
    “Sounds like it would have been a jolly good time,” Benchley said drily. His glance to Dorothy conveyed that he also had a suspicion. “Perhaps you can intercept him on the street.”
    “Excellent idea,” Woollcott said, oblivious to Benchley’s sarcasm. He floated off like a hot-air balloon.
    Sherwood watched him go, then turned to his friends. “Truth be told, I’m no fan of Leland Mayflower either. I wouldn’t mind seeing him get his comeuppance.”
    Dorothy put a hand on Sherwood’s elbow. “You have every right to begrudge old Mayflower, of course. He didn’t give your play a review. He gave it an obituary. He was a malevolent old shit.”
    “Was?” Sherwood said.
    “Never mind Leland Mayflower,” Benchley said hurriedly. “You haven’t met our new friend, here.”
    “This is Billy Faulkner,” Dorothy said, ushering him forward. “He’s a hopeful young writer from the South.”
    “Hopeful, eh?” Sherwood said. “Don’t pin your hopes on a writing career, my son. It’s not too late to consider more lucrative and honorable employment, maybe as a tax collector or a gigolo.”
    “Those didn’t really pan out,” Faulkner said.
    Sherwood’s laugh was deep and resonant.
    “I’ve decided to take him under my wing,” Dorothy said.
    “Watch out, Billy,” Benchley said. “She’s no mother hen. Cuckoo bird maybe.”
    Sherwood said, “Birds of a feather flock together.”
    “Go flock yourself,” she said. Then she saw a knot of men arrive. “Now what fresh hell is this?”
    Three policemen entered the hotel. The first man was a heavyset detective in a snug brown suit and a brown derby hat two sizes too small. Two officers in navy blue, brass-buttoned uniforms followed him. They quickly crossed the mosaic-tiled floor and were met at the front desk by the manager of the hotel, Frank Case.
    The solicitous Mr. Case had sensitive, apologetic eyes and a bald head like the dome of a cathedral. Dorothy, Benchley and Sherwood knew him well. They watched him, his hands clasped, talk tactfully with the policemen. Then they watched Mr. Case lead the men through the crowd, between the curtains and into the now well-lit dining room.
    A few moments later, Frank Case and the policemen reappeared. One of the white-aproned waiters, Luigi, joined them. From across the