Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders (14 page)

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Authors: Ron Goulart

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I held on and in about two minutes a different voice inquired, “Yeah?”
“Tim O’Hearn’s room, please.”
“Don’t think he’s in.”
“Try him,” I advised whoever was manning the switchboard at the second-rate downtown hotel where my informant was living.
“Okay, buddy, hold on.”
Some buzzing and crackling followed. Then O’Hearn said, “Yeah, hello?”
“It’s Frank.”
“Which Frank?”
“Frank Denby, Tim, the same guy who phoned you a couple hours ago.”
O’Hearn coughed. “Jesus, Frank, I got a real lousy cold.”
“You told me. Have you found out anything?”
He coughed again—a dry, rattling cough. “How much money did you say you were going to wire me?”
“Ten bucks.”
“That’s what got here, Frank, but I thought you promised me twenty.”
“Ten in front.”
“This isn’t, you know, as simple as you made it sound,” complained my longtime informant. “Not only is it a damn tough assignment, Frank, but it could be dangerous. I’m going to have to have at least twenty more.”
“Okay, but tell me what you’ve dug up so far.”
He coughed some more. “This cough syrup I’m taking doesn’t work at all,” he said.
“What sort of word is floating around out there about Nick Sanantonio’s murder?” I reminded.
“The cops don’t have this yet,” said O’Hearn, “but I hear that one of the guys who was in on the killing is no longer among the living.”
“Who was he?”
“Don’t have a name yet, but he was an import.”
I asked, “Who imported him?”
O’Hearn coughed yet again. “Way I hear it this movie guy who got bumped off back there where you are, Frank, maybe had a hand in hiring some guys to do the job.”
“You mean Daniel Manheim?”
“That’s him, yeah.”
“The idea being that Manheim got hold of some freelance hoods to kill off Sanantonio,” I said, frowning. “Why?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Does it have something to do with Dian Bowers?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out so far, Frank,” O’Hearn told me. “When I’m, you know, working for chickenfeed, it takes longer to—”
“What about Willa Jerome?”
“Yeah, she had a hot-and-heavy fling with Sanantonio all right. Word is, he called it quits and she ended up carrying the torch.”
I asked him, “And who took care of the hired killer—Salermo?”
“Pretty sure it was some of his boys, although nobody’ll ever prove that.” He began coughing again.
“Okay. Keep digging on this, Tim.”
“Huh? I didn’t hear you because I was hacking away.”
“Get me as much more information as you can. I’ll call you again either tonight or early tomorrow.”
“Wire me the rest of the dough,” he said and hung up.
T
he next afternoon, as soon as the
Mikado
rehearsal was over, several reporters descended on Groucho.
“Is this about what people will get when they attend the rehearsal at the World’s Fair tomorrow afternoon?” asked the guy from the
New York Post
.
“Pretty much so, except I’ll be singing on key.” Groucho settled into a folding chair along one wall of the practice hall.
“Have you been out to the fairgrounds yet?” asked the
Daily News
reporter.
“Not since long before the fair. I used to hang around there quite a bit years ago when it was a garbage dump, though.”
“Are you looking forward to visiting the World’s Fair?” asked the
Daily Mirror.
“Yes, and I think it’ll be even more fun than the garbage dump.”
The man from the
World-Telegram
said, “Word is that
At the Circus
is funnier than
Room Service.”
Groucho frowned. “That’s not saying much.
The Lower Depths
is funnier than
Room Service.”
“Is it true,” asked the
New York Times,
“that you’re planning to quit the movies?”
“Yes, ever since I was passed over for the lead in
Gone with the Wind
, I decided to retire from the screen,” he answered. “And I think I would’ve made a delightful Scarlett O’Hara.”
The reporter from the
News
asked him, “What about the murder of Daniel Manheim?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Are you investigating the case?”
“Investigating isn’t exactly the word I’d apply,” answered Groucho. “Mucking up is the apt phrase.”
The
Times
said, “Aren’t you being overly modest, Groucho? You solved several murder cases out in California.”
“Sure, but that’s California, where murderers aren’t as smart as they are here in the big city,” he pointed out. “And the light’s better.”
The reporter from the
Sun
asked, “About Manheim, Groucho—can you tell us who done it?”
Groucho extracted a cigar from a pocket of his navy blue blazer. “No, but I can tell you who
didn’t
do it. And that’s Bill Washburn.”
“Anything else to pass along?”
Groucho stood. “Look me up in a couple more days, lads,” he advised. “I’ll tell you everything I know about the case.”
“Why not tell us now?”
“That would spoil the suspense.” Unwrapping the cigar, he headed for the doorway.
In the hallway the assistant director of the show came up to him. “Somebody called for you, claimed it was important,” he said, handing Groucho a memo and pointing at a small office. “You can use the telephone in there.”
 
 
D
r. Dowling’s speech was only very slightly slurred. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered me, Mr. Marx,” he was saying on the phone.
Groucho, perched on the edge of the small dark wood desk, said, “You are, my dear doctor, the most unforgettable character I have ever
met. In fact, I’ve been meaning to write a piece to that effect for the
Reader’s Digest,
but it keeps slipping my mind. And how may I be of service to you? We just got in a new supply of lumberjack jackets and they’re all in your size. With each one we throw in a free whistle and a sturdy oak tree. For five bucks extra we throw in Nelson Eddy and—”
“I saw in Leo Haskell’s column today that you’ll be appearing at the World’s Fair tomorrow.”
“Exactly. We’re putting on an informal rehearsal of
The Mikado.”
The doctor said, “Willa Jerome is going to be touring the fair tomorrow afternoon. A publicity jaunt to promote
Trafalgar Square.
I’ll be, as usual, tagging along.”
“Well, if you can tear yourself away,” invited Groucho, “drop in on our little madrigal. We’ll be holding forth at the Bascom Music Pavilion, wherever that is, commencing at two-thirty P.M.”
“Yes, there’s something …” His voice trailed off.
“How’s that, old man?”
“Well, there’s something that’s been coming back to me,” said the doctor quietly. “It’s a somewhat fuzzy recollection of events on the Super Chief.”
“This is connected with Daniel Manheim’s murder?”
Dr. Dowling hesitated. “As I believe I told you, I’m somewhat hazy about the journey,” he said. “But for the past couple days I’ve been feeling very uneasy and I’m trying to jog my memory. It’s not exactly something I can go to the police with. However, since I know you’re working on the case in an unofficial sort of way, I’d like to talk the matter over with you.”
“If you’ve got fuzzy notions and vague thoughts, I’m your man, Doc,” Groucho assured him. “Is there anything a bit more specific you can tell me right now?”
Dr. Dowling said, “I’m hoping I’ll be in a better position to do that tomorrow, Mr. Marx. I’ll see you at the World’s Fair.”
“Okay. I’ll tell them at the door to let you come backstage,” promised Groucho.
“That’ll be just fine.”
Hanging up the receiver, Groucho sat on the edge of the desk for nearly five minutes.
 
 
I
straightened up and pulled back from the portable typewriter I’d rented the day before at the Gotham Typewriter Shop over on Sixth Avenue. “Done,” I announced, noticing that the afternoon was starting to fade outside.
Jane, legs tucked under her, had been sitting in an armchair going through the newspapers. “Want to read it to me?”
Tugging the final page of the second draft of our first
Hollywood Molly
radio script out of the machine, I answered, “Nope, no, not at all. As I recall, it was Aristotle who first advised, ‘Don’t read anything you’ve just written to the missus, fellas.’ And it’s remained sound advice even to this day.”
“Okay, I’ll take it into the bedroom later and read it to myself.”
“So long as I don’t hear any groans or cursing.”
Jane said, “But seriously, Frank, what do you think?”
“Seriously, I think it’s terrific,” I answered. “Especially considering that we had to accommodate the whims, taboos, and totally irrational obsessions of your syndicate, the advertising agency, the network, and our potential sponsor.”
“I hope you have Molly brushing her teeth a lot,” said Jane. “In case we do land Dr. Weber’s Tooth Powder as the sponsor.”
“That’s one of the things I’m a mite uneasy about,” I confessed. “I have her keeping the toothbrush in her mouth throughout the entire show and I’m not completely convinced that it won’t interfere with the delivery of her wisecracks.”
“Don’t see why it should.” She smiled at me, stretched, and then tapped the scatter of newspapers on her lap. “I see by the papers that Manheim Productions is going ahead with the premiere of
Saint Joan
next week.”
“I bet a spokesman for the company said that Manheim would’ve wanted it that way.”
“Arneson himself made just such an announcement,” said Jane. “And they’re turning the initial screening into a combination premiere and memorial service. Conrad Nagel is flying in from the coast to act as master of ceremonies.”
“We can but hope, when our time comes, that we get such a sendoff.”
“You can have Conrad Nagel. Me, I’d prefer Louis Armstrong singing ‘I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You.’”
Gathering up the twenty-six typed pages of script, I rose from the sofa. My bones produced several small, odd creakings. Shuffling the pages into a coherent and neat stack, I placed them on the coffee table beside the rented Royal portable. “Think I’ll make one more try to get in touch with O’Hearn.”
“You still haven’t been able to contact the guy?”
“Not once today, no,” I answered. “Every time I telephone his tumbledown hotel in LA, they say my informant hasn’t come back yet. I hope he isn’t—”
The phone rang.
Jane picked up the receiver from the end table next to her chair. “Hello,” she said and listened for a moment. “Let me take a look. No, he’s not down in the street rolling in the gutter. What’s that? Hold on. No, I don’t see him out in Central Park gamboling with underage convent girls. Oh, wait, Groucho, he just came in from attending the stevedores’ picnic.” She handed me the phone. “Groucho.”
“So I deduced. Yes, sir?”
“Rollo, I am about to offer you a once—twice at best—in a lifetime opportunity,” he began.
“We already have a set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica.”
“This will be even more enlightening. How’d you like to accompany me to the New York World’s Fair tomorrow out at the aptly named Flushing Meadows?”
“You’re putting on that charity rehearsal, aren’t you?”
“I will be using my God-given angelic voice for the sake of charity, yes,” he replied. “And I’m also scheduled to meet with Dr. Dowling, who is perhaps better known as the Pickled Physician of Pasadena.”
“With Willa Jerome’s personal doctor, huh?”
“He’s implied he has something to tell us about the Manheim case.”
“Such as?”
“No details at this time,” said Groucho. “You can bring the wife in case you don’t want to travel alone with a noted roué such as myself.”
“What time?”
“My benevolent producer is sending a limousine at noon tomorrow to convey me to the fairgrounds. Originally he planned on providing a Good Humor wagon, but I persuaded him that a limo offered more room to stretch one’s legs,” said Groucho. “We can swing by your hostelry and scoop you up at twelve-fifteen or thereabouts.”
“Hold on a second.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Groucho’s invited us to go to the fair with him tomorrow.”
“We have to deliver that radio script to Banion at McKay and Forman tomorrow afternoon and talk to him about it,” she reminded, setting the newspapers on the living room carpet and standing.
“Oh, right, I forgot. I’ll tell him we—”
“I can see Banion by myself and you can go along with Groucho,” she suggested. “This has something to do with the case, doesn’t it?”
“Probably, yeah.”
“Then go.”
“But I hate to leave you with the job of—”
“I’ll have a quick meeting with the ad people and then spend the rest of the afternoon someplace like the Metropolitan Museum,” she said.
Into the phone I said, “Jane can’t make it, Groucho. But you can pick me up at twelve-fifteen.”
“Fine,” he said. “I understand that Gypsy Rose Lee is appearing out there and I’ll see if she can round up a friend for you.”

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