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I ever heard.”

Chapter 4
    T ogether Dorothy and Benchley left the Algonquin, silently and slowly strolling along Forty-fourth Street toward the Condé Nast building, which housed the offices of Vanity Fair .
    Dorothy inhaled the last of her cigarette and dropped it into a street sweeper’s ash can. “Making money from MacGuffin’s suicide in order to pay our tab at Tony’s . . .” She sighed, exhaling the smoke. “That doesn’t seem right.”
    “Don’t feel bad just yet,” Benchley said brightly, puffing on his pipe. “We haven’t made a red cent. We still need to write the darned article, and soon.”
    “There’s the rub,” she said. “How do we begin? Who do we interview?”
    They looked at each other. Neither one had a good answer.
    A brown sedan pulled to the curb. They recognized it as Detective O’Rannigan’s car because the detective opened the door and got out. “Just the folks I was looking for.”
    Dorothy frowned. “You managed to track us down in front of the Algonquin after our well-known and usual lunchtime? Incredible police work, Detective.”
    “Funny business is over.” He rounded the front of the car and stood in their way. “I want to talk to you about Ernest MacGuffin, the painter.”
    Benchley looked around uncomfortably. “Shall we take this inside? Not quite civil to discuss suicide on the sidewalk.”
    They went back inside the Algonquin and found a small table in a dark corner of the hotel’s luxurious lobby. Dorothy dropped into one of the plush lounge chairs. “MacGuffin’s dead. What’s so urgent?”
    O’Rannigan tilted his small derby back on his balding head. “Explain to me why he gave you his suicide note.”
    “I was wondering the same thing myself,” Dorothy said.
    “I should have collected it from you last night.” O’Rannigan held out a large hand, palm up. “Give it over. It’s police evidence.”
    Dorothy grabbed her purse and held it tight. “Like hell it is. MacGuffin gave it to me. Go get your own suicide note.”
    O’Rannigan snapped his fingers and held out his palm again. Dorothy grudgingly dug the note out of her purse and slapped it in O’Rannigan’s hand. He unfolded it, glanced it over and folded it up again. “Now talk. Why did MacGuffin give this to you?”
    “We’ll talk if you will,” Dorothy said.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Quid pro quo,” she said. “We tell you what we know, and you tell us what you know.”
    O’Rannigan leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “You don’t make deals with the New York City Police Department.”
    Dorothy clucked her tongue. “What are you afraid of? Or maybe you just don’t know anything.”
    “I ain’t afraid. But you’re right—I don’t know anything. I mean, I can’t tell you anything. Now you talk.”
    So Dorothy talked. She told him simply that Ernie MacGuffin gave her the suicide note because he knew that she had once tried to commit suicide.
    “Oh—yeah?” O’Rannigan seemed unsure whether to make fun of her or feel sorry for her.
    “Yeah,” she answered, not wanting either reaction from him. “And that’s all I can tell you. Now your turn. You talk.”
    “There ain’t much I can say. What do you want to know?”
    Dorothy leaned forward. “His body? Did you find it?”
    “Nah, not yet,” O’Rannigan said. “We had a couple boats out this morning looking for it. No luck so far. But don’t worry. He’ll turn up eventually. They almost always do.”
    “Almost?”
    “Well, the East River flows out to the bay and then directly to the Atlantic Ocean. I can’t guarantee that the body didn’t catch a current and is halfway to Spain by now. But probably not.”
    “Probably not?” Dorothy asked. “Probably what, then?”
    “Probably the body will rise to the surface in a few days, bloated and blue, maybe with a few bites out of it, and wash ashore somewhere.”
    Bloated and blue, maybe with a few bites out of it? The thought made Dorothy sick.