Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders (7 page)

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Authors: Ron Goulart

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I
n Spanish the word
ratón
means mouse. At about half past three that afternoon, as the train was pulling out of Raton, New Mexico, there was a polite tapping on the door of our compartment.

Jane had been saying, “What mouse do you suppose it was named after?”

“Probably not Mickey.” I moved to the door and slid it open a few inches.

Johnson the porter was standing politely out there. “Message for you, Mr. Denby,” he said, handing me an envelope that looked to have several sheets of paper folded up within.

Accepting the envelope, I handed him a quarter. “Thanks.”

“From Groucho?” asked my wife.

I shut the door. “Nope. The envelope says it’s from Daniel Manheim Productions of Burbank, California.”

“Want to bet it isn’t an offer to go to work for him as a writer?”

I sat down in our chair and slit the envelope open with my thumb. “Arneson probably informed him that I was trying to talk to Dian Bowers,” I said, “and this is to shoo me off.”

There were four folded sheets of Daniel Manheim Productions stationery. What I had was a carbon copy of a typed memo he’d apparently sent to Groucho.

“Well?” asked Jane.

“It’s addressed to Groucho with a copy to me,” I answered after scanning the first page. “Or rather—To: Mr. Marx, cc: Mr. Denby.”

She made a keep-going gesture with her right hand. “Some details?”

“Well, Manheim starts off with ‘Let me express my sincerest appreciation to you, Groucho, for coming to my assistance during the unfortunate incident that apparently took place on this very train late last evening. I appreciate as well—which goes without saying—your timely intercession on behalf of my associate, Mr. Arneson.’ And then there’s another long paragraph wherein he says that all over again in slightly different terms.”

“This is what then—a very windy thank-you note?”

I was glancing at the other pages. “Not exactly, Jane.”

“Okay, what’s the gist of it?”

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow when we broadcast that on
Gist Plain Bill.
”

“Oh, boy,” she said, groaning delicately. “You’re coming down with another bad case of Grouchoitis.”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Would you prefer
Beau Gist
?”

“I’d prefer to know why in the heck Manheim is sending out bulky memos to you and Groucho.”

“Okay, he goes on to say that he ‘sincerely believes that the incident that took place in my bedroom last evening was more than likely the work of some deranged crank who climbed aboard the Super Chief during one of its many nighttime stops and then jumped off again after being thwarted.’”

“Think Manheim actually believes that?”

“It’s what he wants us to believe,” I said, tapping the memo pages. “The point of this all being that ‘it’s come to my attention that you and your associate, Mr. Denby, have been making admittedly discreet inquiries into the matter. This is being done, I hasten to point out, without my permission or approval. I must, therefore, respectfully request that you both cease any such activities and allow, as Mr. Arneson tells
me he informed you last evening, this unpleasant occurrence to be forgotten. Should I decide at a later date that any action should be taken, I will do so without any assistance from either you or Mr. Denby.’”

“Somewhere in all that verbiage there’s a polite brush-off,” said Jane.

I nodded, resting the pages on my knee. “Yeah, and he also warns us, politely and with considerable circumlocution, to stay away from Dian Bowers for the rest of the trip.”

Jane stood up, smoothed her tweed skirt and sat down again on the narrow sofa. “They don’t, for whatever reason, want you fellows nosing around.”

I folded the memo and put it back in the envelope. “Earlier we were talking about it sort of being our duty to dig into this business,” I said. “You implied that Groucho and I were pretty much in the same category as the Lone Ranger and Tonto. But it’s damn clear now that Manheim and Arneson really don’t want our help.”

“That’s how I’d interpret the memo, yes.”

“Okay, then. From now until New York, I’ll concentrate on dreaming up socko scenarios for our forthcoming
Hollywood Molly
radio show and not dabble in detection.”

“Might as well,” agreed Jane. “Manheim doesn’t realize what he’s missing, though. You and Groucho are pretty good detectives.” She stood again, stretching. “And I’m still kind of curious to find out what really happened and why.”

“So am I,” I admitted. “But I’m damned if I’ll try to force Manheim and Arneson to let us go on investigating this.”

“Think Groucho will agree to abandoning the whole thing?”

“I’ll go find out,” I said, getting up, sticking the envelope in my coat pocket, and heading for the door.

G
roucho was seated in the cocktail lounge demurely reading a copy of
The Woman’s Home Companion,
his guitar case leaning inconspicuously against the wall near his chair.

He became aware, after a moment, that someone was standing in front of him.

Lowering his magazine, he saw a plump grey-haired woman gazing, with furrowed brow, down at him. “Just the sort of person I want to see,” said Groucho. “I’m dreadfully anxious to try this new recipe for pineapple upside-down cake. But, alas, the last time I attempted an upside-down cake, I got it backwards and ended with a right-side-up cake. It was terribly embarrassing, because my smart-set friends were expecting an upside-down cake and when I offered them a mundane right-side-up cake, they were deeply offended. And, much to my chagrin, I also discovered that I was two friends short of a complete set. What I need, therefore, is your expert advice on—”

“Could you help me settle a bet?” the woman interrupted shyly.

“Gambling is a dreadful habit, dear lady,” he warned. “My brother Chico, for example, is shunned by polite society because of his unfortunate—”

“It’s a bet I made with my husband,” she continued. “He says it isn’t you, but aren’t you Groucho Marx without your moustache?”

“Ah, no, without my moustache I’m Tom Mix,” he replied. “With my moustache I am sometimes Groucho Marx and other times Harriet Beecher Stowe or Grover Whalen, depending on the weather. And without a song the day would never end.”

“Then you
are
Groucho Marx?”

He lowered his voice. “Just between us, my dear, I am indeed,” he confided. “But I’ll deny it in court.”

She smiled, somewhat perplexed, and returned to her husband and her highball.

Groucho returned to his magazine.

It was suddenly yanked out of his hands by an angry young man. “I’m Len Cowan,” he announced, scowling.

“Maybe
you
can help me with my upside-down-cake problem,” said Groucho. “Or did you skulk over to beg me to sing”Lydia the Tattooed Lady” yet again? I understand the tune will soon be climbing up the
Hit Parade
list, which is somewhat better than climbing up a slippery elm or—”

“Quit poking your nose in my business,” warned the young dancer.

“Is this a threat? I hope so, because I always say there’s nothing that livens up a dull journey like a threat from an impetuous young nitwit.”

“I’m not interested in jokes, Groucho. What I—”

“Then you ought to flock to
At the Circus
when it’s released,” he advised. “Not a joke in a carload.”

Cowan gave him a lopsided glare, his hands fisting. “You’ve been asking people questions about me.”

“You’ve got me mixed up with Professor Quiz.”

“If you’ve got something to ask, ask me to my face, damn it.”

“I will, my lad, soon as you and your whiskey breath get downwind.”

“Ask me, damn you.”

“Okay. Did you attack Hal Arneson and Daniel Manheim last night?”

“None of your damned business.”

“With answers like that, you ought to be able to understand why I have to go to strangers for my—”

“How’d you like a poke in the nose?”

“Is this an essay question or multiple choice?”

“Don’t try these wiseass answers on—”

“Go and sit down,” I suggested. I’d come into the cocktail lounge about twenty seconds earlier, hunting for Groucho.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Cowan, turning to glare at me.

Quietly I said, “I’m the guy who’s going to escort you the hell out of here in a very rough way, Cowan, unless you scram right now.”

“Another damn fascist,” he muttered. Staggering slightly, he made his way out of the car.

“Maybe you ought not to carry that guitar around with you,” I suggested to Groucho as I settled into the chair next to his. “It seems to inspire attacks and assaults.”

“True, but the open case comes in handy for catching money when
people throw pennies,” he said, locating a cigar in one of the pockets of his mustard-colored sports jacket. “Am I correct in assuming that you also have perused a copy of Manheim’s latest memo, which literary critics have certified as being nearly a thousand words longer than
Remembrance of Things Past?”

“I read the whole thing, yeah.”

“May we have your conclusions, Rollo?”

“I’ve got nothing against going around doing good deeds,” I answered. “But I’ve decided we might as well quit working on this whole Manheim mess.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Groucho said. “I intend to devote my time henceforward to astronomy, quilting, and Honeymoon Bridge.”

“Fine,” I said.

He lit his cigar and blew a wispy smoke ring. “But I don’t think Manheim’s troubles are over,” he said.

Thirteen

M
y troubles weren’t over either. I didn’t come to grief, though, until late that night, somewhere in the vicinity of Hutchinson, Kansas.

When Jane and I came back from having dinner with Groucho, I was saying, “He’s fairly generous after all.”

“Offering to treat everybody in the dining car to water isn’t my idea of generosity.”

I eased our door open. “I was referring to the fact that he paid for our dinners.”

“After lecturing us on the many virtues of fasting.”

I clicked on the lights. “Hello! What’s this?”

Jane eyed me. “Nobody says that in real life.”

“All too true,” I admitted, genuflecting and picking up the pale blue envelope I’d noticed lying on the floor of our compartment. “But I’ve always admired the way British sleuths exclaim that in B movies.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Jasmine.”

“Yep, it sure smells right pretty, and it’s addressed to me.”

“Would you like me to step out into the corridor while you read it?”

“It’s our policy to share all our clandestine affairs.” Opening the envelope, I extracted the sheet of pale blue notepaper enclosed. “It’s from Willa Jerome.”

The actress’s name was printed in a delicate typeface in the left-hand corner of the page.

“Is she maybe looking for a screenwriter?”

“She says, and I quote, ‘If you meet me in the observation car tonight at eleven, I can tell you something important about what’s been going on. Your Friend, Willa J.’” I let the hand holding the letter drop to my side. “Gosh, an audience with the star of
Trafalgar Square
.”

“It was my impression at dinner that you and Groucho were dropping this case.” Jane sat on the sofa.

“We are, we did,” I said. “But even so, Jane, if she knows something about who tried to knife Manheim, maybe I ought to go talk to her.”

“I think slim, pretty witnesses are always more fun to interview than dumpy—”

“Hey, you come tag along with me,” I invited. “If this were some kind of romantic interlude, she wouldn’t want to meet me in the observation car. Where people could observe us.”

“I trust you, Frank,” Jane assured me. “You can go to your rendezvous solo.”

“Okay, I guess I will.” I went over to the window, spread a couple of the Venetian blind slats apart, and gazed out at the growing darkness we were traveling into.

A
few minutes after eleven Groucho, he later told me, was settled in his compartment. Well, not exactly settled, since he was pretty sure he was going to have another night of insomnia.

“A sleeping potion might prove useful,” he said to himself. “Although a love potion would also help while away the wee hours of the night.”

He opened the small narrow clothes closet to select a sports coat. Because of the motion of the speeding streamliner, the coats were
swinging gently on their hangers. He caught a nubby earth-brown jacket and put it on.

“Perhaps I can kill an hour or two in the observation car,” he decided, unlocking his door and stepping out into the corridor.

The clacking of the wheels on the tracks sounded louder out here.

As he pushed open the door leading to the passageway connecting our car with the observation car, Groucho became aware of a faint groaning.

He squatted, staring into the shadows.

There was an unconscious man huddled there.

It was me.

“Frank!” recognized Groucho.

I groaned again.

As Groucho leaned closer, he saw the sheet of white paper that had been left on my chest.

It read, “Quit now!”

I
became completely conscious to find a plump, white-haired man feeling the back of my head.

“I don’t believe,” I managed to say in a voice that I didn’t quite recognize, “in phrenology.”

“Returning to ourself, are we?” he asked in a sympathetic voice.

“Who exactly are you?” My voice was sounding more like my own.

“I’m Dr. Mackinson,” he told me.

“He’s the best we could find on such short notice,” explained Groucho, who I now noticed was crouching next to the concerned doctor.

I also noticed that I was still on the floor of the passageway. “Where’s Jane?”

“Right here, darling.” She was standing just behind Groucho. “Groucho came and got me soon as he found you, then we asked the conductor to find a doctor. You okay?”

“I think I might be.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” inquired the doctor.

“Three,” I replied. “Does anybody have any idea what actually happened to me?”

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to provide some details on that.” A uniformed conductor stepped out of the shadows beside my wife.

“Don’t you have any idea, Frank?” asked Jane.

“All I’m certain about is that I got hit on the head.” I winced as Dr. Mackinson shined his pocket flashlight into my eyes, left first, then right. “When I entered this damn passage, I heard a sort of rustling behind me and then … and then I was slugged, hard, from behind. That’s it, until now.”

“Possibly you,” suggested the conductor, “were robbed.”

“Of what? I left my wallet and money in our compartment with my wife.”

“My colleague obviously has no notion of what befell him,” put in Groucho, straightening up. “If it’s okay by the sawbones here, I suggest we help Frank back to his quarters. You can interrogate him in the morning when he’s feeling peppier and—”

“I understand you were involved in a similar incident last evening, Mr. Marx,” said the conductor.

“In both instances I was nothing more than an innocent bystander,” Groucho assured him. “Now, Doc, can we haul him off?”

“Yes, that will be all right.” The doctor studied Groucho for a few seconds. “I didn’t realize I was addressing one of the famous Marx Brothers. Which one are you?”

“Quacko, the medical member of the family. Frank’s okay then?”

“Yes. He’s not likely to suffer more than a bad headache.”

“I really ought to fill out a report,” complained the conductor.

“Tomorrow will do.” Groucho and Jane helped me to rise to an upright position again.

I felt pretty wobbly. Putting an arm around Jane, I recalled where I
had been heading when I got conked. “What about my meeting with Willa?”

“She’s not in the observation car,” said Jane. “I checked. Never was.”

I glanced toward Groucho. “Looks like we’re still involved with something.”

“Apparently so,” he agreed. “I just wish to hell I knew what it was.”