Murder Your Darlings Read Online Free PDF

single women. I should write to my congressman.”
    “I never said any such thing.” He began to wheeze. “Don’t write your congressman.”
    “Now you’re telling me what to do.” Her quick, birdlike movements carried her up the stairs briskly. “I can’t land a man. I can’t exercise my civil rights. What next? I suppose you probably want all homely women shut up in an institution somewhere so they won’t bother you busy policemen. And you won’t have to look at them or think about them.”
    He exhaled forcefully. “No, of course I don’t want all homely women shut up—”
    “So you think I’m homely, do you? That’s what you said just now. I’m homely.”
    “Ah, jeez.”
     
    Benchley had turned the overhead light back on. He took another hard look at the operator’s controls. But he quickly gave that up and looked at the elevator doorway, which was still open. He knew that old Maurice, as well as every other elevator operator, always shut both the outer door and the inner accordionlike gate before moving the elevator up and down. So that must be the first job to perform. Benchley found the handle for the inner gate but couldn’t budge it. Then he tried the handle for the outer door, but it, too, was immovable.
    How could a frail elderly man like Maurice move these leaden doors, and do so hundreds of times a day at that?
    In times of trouble, Benchley always considered the logical, levelheaded approach, which he then quickly dismissed. He daydreamed instead. He now imagined he was Samson, trying to move a gigantic boulder or a massive marble column. He squared his shoulders, threw back his imagined thick lion’s mane of hair, planted his feet wide, took a grip of the handle with his imagined mighty fists, inhaled a deep breath, then pulled with all his might. He suddenly flew backward and landed with a jarring thump.
    He lay there and said to himself, “Haven’t had one drink today and already I’m flat on the floor.”
    Something had tripped him, he realized. Something had caught at the heel of his foot. He lifted his head and inspected the dusty elevator floor. There, below the operator’s controls, was a large black button set into the floor. It was about three inches in diameter and was raised about an inch off the floor. The button was scuffed and well worn.
    Benchley stood up and tentatively pressed the button down with the ball of his shoe. He winced, but nothing happened. Holding the button down, he again tried the door handle. To his amazement, the door moved easily, and he pulled it closed with a satisfying snap. He tried the inner gate and closed it just as smoothly.
    Of course, one would never see this safety button, Benchley realized. Maurice and every other elevator operator must always be standing on it.
    With confidence now, Benchley took another look at the operator’s controls. He flipped a switch. The lights went out again.
    With the door now closed, it was completely dark inside the elevator. He couldn’t locate the light switch again. He found a lever and drew it toward him.
    The elevator began to move.
    It was on its way up, going fast. Benchley felt his stomach flip and felt the strange pressure of gravity pulling against his body. He looked out through the small, saucer-sized window in the outer door. The elevator was flying up the floors quickly.
    He suppressed a growing anxiety. “Now, what would old Samson do in a pickle like this?”
     
    On the third-floor landing now, Dorothy waited and watched Detective O’Rannigan slowly climb the stairs one flight below. She tapped a fingernail against the railing and considered how long it would require for the average person to ride the elevator up to her suite, fetch Faulkner, bring him back down to the lobby and whisk him out to an Automat or a coffee shop or some other safe, neutral waiting place. She guessed it would require about eight to ten minutes at the most.
    Since it was Benchley, she doubled that number.
    “What