Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders

by Ron Goulart

  A thin young cartoonist held up a rough sketch of a comic book cover when I passed through his section of the big room. “I need an outside opinion, pal. What do you think?”

  The work was untitled. “Is that Hyperman?”

  “Naw, it’s Capt. Starr.”

  I noticed that the hero did have a star emblazoned on his broad, sketchy chest. He was wrestling with a gorilla who wore a Nazi armband, intent on saving a blonde girl who was about to be bronzed in a huge smoking cauldron.

  I said, “It’s action-packed.”

  “I know, but is it believable?”

  “Matter of fact, I just witnessed a similar scene at the corner of Madison and Fifty-third,” I assured him.

  “Another wiseass.” Slapping the drawing back against his slanted drawing board, he turned his back on me.

  Finding a door marked Hollywood Screen, I tapped on it.

  “If you’re not Frank Denby,” called May Sankowitz, “you can go to hell.”

  “What a break for me that I’m the world’s only existing Frank Denby,” I said, entering the small, narrow office.

  May was seated behind the cluttered desk, legs up, shoes off. Her hair was now a quiet shade of red. “Throw that crap on the floor, Frank dear, and sit yourself down.”

  “New shade of hair,” I mentioned as I removed the stack of Hollywood Screen page proofs and some photos off the only other chair in the little office. The top photos were glossies of Dian Bowers. She looked very demure.

  “Yeah, this is my Manhattan hair color,” explained my writer friend. “It’s not as subtle as my LA hue.”

  “True.” I settled into the chair.

  “The closer you get to fifty, the more obvious you tend to be.” May swung her legs off the desktop, sat up straight. “Before I provide you any more free and valuable inside info, dear, tell me every blessed thing you know about the Manheim murder.”

  “I got there after he was killed, also after he fell out of the closet and onto the stage at the Coronet,” I told May. “Most of what I know is hearsay.”

  “Firsthand hearsay is just fine.” She made an impatient start-talking gesture with her right hand. “Tell me.”

  I gave her a quick account of what I knew. “Now, as to why I—”

  “And they arrested Bill Washburn?”

  “Not exactly, May. They seem to be holding him for questioning.”

  “My deal to accompany the so-called Dian Bowers as she gets introduced to New York City has been postponed,” she said. “But now I think I can work up something a lot juicier. I Stood By My Killer Husband! Perfect for our moronic subscribers.”

  “You can run a picture of Washburn wrestling a gorilla on the cover.”

  “Huh?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. I’ve been reading too much Capt. Starr,” I said. “I want to know about your friend Len Cowan.”

  “Who?”

  “The dancer, the guy who was supposed to be part of the Chicago Step Right Up company,” I said. “I saw him with you when we arrived in New York the other morning.”

  “Leonard, sure. Cute kid, though a little young for me. And a lousy temper.”

  “Why isn’t he in Chicago?”

  “Oh, he got a better offer and quit.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “Something to do with a musical show that’s going to be staged at the World’s Fair. Supposed to pay better and Leonard’s going to be a featured dancer in it.”

  “Know the name of the show?”

  May rested both elbows on the desk. “Why all this interest in an erstwhile chorus boy, dear?”

  “He may tie in with the Manheim business somehow. Groucho and I are interested in—”

  “I thought you swore to me that you fellas had quit playing detective.”

  “That was before Manheim got killed. Now, to make sure that Washburn doesn’t get railroaded for the crime, we—”

  “Why do you give a good god damn about what happens to a onetime B-movie actor?”

  “We’re also concerned about Dian Bowers.”

  “Ah, yes, right. Just like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, you’re dedicated to looking after sweet innocent maidens.”

  “It’s a little more complex than—”

  “Only hitch, sweet, is that little Dian doesn’t quite qualify for the role of dewy-eyed virgin.”

  “Yeah, I figured that after marrying Washburn, she lost her status as—”

  “I was alluding to the fact that she’s also spent some time in the sack with Nick Sanantonio,” said May. “That sort of thing can—”

  “Is this Hollywood gossip or do you know for—”

  “Most gossip, Frank, is built on a firm foundation of truth,” May reminded me. “And I know for a fact that the now-saintly Dian was as cozy as you can get with that gangster.”

  “What ended it?”

  “Don’t know, but I’d guess that Manheim pulled in her reins.”

  “I hear he did things like that.”

  “He kept a very close watch on his discoveries.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “And now, dear, I have to attend a press conference and two screenings simultaneously. Bye.”

  “Good-bye,” I said and left.

  Groucho, as he later told me, stepped from the afternoon brightness of the Manhattan sidewalk into the shadowy quiet of a tearoom. The name of the place was the Queen of Cups and it was on a side street at the edge of the Gramercy Park area.

  Even though there were only a few patrons in the small tea parlor, he didn’t initially notice Dian Bowers among them. At the table nearest the tiny foyer a large blonde woman in a vaguely Gypsy outfit was using a deck of oversized tarot cards to give a reading to an uneasy tourist couple.

  “Over here,” said a quiet voice off in the shadows on his right.

  Dian was sitting alone at a small circular table. She wore a simple grey suit and dark glasses, no makeup, and a scarf over her closecropped hair.

  “What news?” asked Groucho, sitting opposite the actress.

  She gave a small sigh. “They’re still holding Bill, but the attorney I hired for him tells me they’ll be releasing him in time for tonight’s performance of Make Mine Murder.”

  “You seem far from pleased by the news.”

  “I think maybe they’re only giving him enough rope to hang himself.”

  “He’s innocent, so he can’t very well do that,” he pointed out. “And we intend to find out who the real killer is.” He paused, watching her. “You do believe Bill’s innocent, don’t you?”

  After a few silent seconds, she answered, “I do, yes, but …”

  “But?”

  “It’s only that …” She shook her head, leaned closer to him, lowered her voice. “There are some things that the police don’t know about yet.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, out in Los Angeles last year-”

  “Would the gentleman like a cup of tea?” inquired the thin waitress who appeared beside their table. She, too, was in a vaguely Gypsy costume.

  “Are you referring to me?” said Groucho, eyebrows rising. “If so, I must warn you that there are such things as slander laws in this state, miss, and calling me a gentleman in public constitutes—”

  “Oh, you’re Groucho Marx,” the waitress suddenly realized. “That explains it. For a moment, you see, I thought you were just another rude middle-aged moron trying to be funny.”

  “Right on both counts,” he said. “I’ll have the same thing the lady’s having.” When the waitress departed, he frowned across at Dian. “You were about to reveal some deep dark secrets in your husband’s past.”

  “I didn’t behave too well to Bill,” she said quietly. “I let Manheim persuade me that it would be a great idea to separate from my husband. I … well, I pretty much turned over my life to Manheim.” She tapped her fingertip against the handle of her teacup. “At one point Bill got very angry and tried to get in to see me. Manheim had some men who were sort of ext
ra bodyguards … or maybe bouncers is a better word. Anyway, I’m pretty certain that Manheim had them work Bill over. Beat him up, then warn him to keep away from me.”

  “Where were you residing at the time?”

  She looked down at the crisp white tablecloth. “Well, okay. I did live at Manheim’s mansion for a few months.” Groucho said, “Of course, I’m not the average husband, but I think I, too, might be a trifle upset if my wife was domiciled with a movie mogul.”

  “I didn’t say it was a smart thing to do. But I did it.”

  “Being beaten up on orders from Manheim—that would give Bill one more reason for wanting to kill him,” Groucho said. “It definitely adds an item to his list of motives for murdering the guy. Who knows about it?”

  “Enough people,” she answered, sipping her tea.

  “Then eventually Lieutenant Lewin is going to get wind of it.”

  “I’m afraid that’ll happen, yes.”

  Groucho’s tea arrived. He ignored it and rested an elbow on the table. “There’s another rumor that’s come to my attention,” he told her. “And I’d like a bit more information.”

  “Something else about Bill?”

  “About you,” he corrected.

  She gave him a perplexed look. “I’ll tell you anything I can, if it’ll help my husband.”

  “You knew Nick Sanantonio a lot better than you let on when you were chatting about him on the train,” he said.

  “That’s not true.”

  Groucho said, “So your story is you were just friends?”

  “If you’re supposed to be a friend of mine,” she said, angry, “then I don’t know what purpose it serves to dig up some cheap gossip about me.”

  “I’m supposed to be a friend of both you and Bill,” he corrected. “Sanantonio was also killed and it occurs to me that there might be some connection between the two murders. If you maintain you barely knew him, then we’ll drop it and I’ll search around for—”

  “All right, Groucho,” the actress said. “I guess it won’t do much good to pretend that I’ve been a loyal wife ever since Bill and I split up.” She took a slow deep breath in, then slowly exhaled. “Yes, I had an affair with Nick. It lasted for a couple of months and it might be dragging on still if Manheim hadn’t cracked down.”

  “Cracked down how?”

  “He had Arneson contact some people and they contacted Nick,” she answered, her voice faint. “Basically they told him to lay off me or he’d be in serious trouble.”

  “Sanantonio agreed?”

  “For a while,” she answered.

  Groucho narrowed his left eye, studying her. “Meaning what exactly?”

  “I think Nick broke up with whoever else it was he’d been seeing recently,” she said. “He apparently decided he’d like to start dating me again. He telephoned me a few times, tried to come see me. I wasn’t interested, though, and that ended it.”

  “Did it now?” Groucho picked up his teacup, then set it down. “Were Manheim, Arneson, and their assorted heavies aware of this newest attempt by Sanantonio?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe so,” she answered, not too confidently. “But then there wasn’t much about my life and times that they didn’t know.”

  “Is Willa Jerome a pal of yours?”

  “Hardly,” she replied. “She was on the Super Chief with us and we exchanged hellos. That’s about it. Why?”

  “She was, supposedly, another one of Sanantonio’s girlfriends.”

  “I’ve heard gossip that she was, but he never mentioned her to me,” said Dian. “I hear she’s not that terrific an actress and that she made all kinds of trouble during the shooting of Trafalgar Square.”

  “Everybody in the movie business isn’t as easygoing and even-tempered as I am,” he reminded. He tasted his tea, winced.

  “Listening to myself talk just now,” she said after a moment, “I don’t sound especially saintly.”

  “Saint Joan was a movie,” he told her. “And this is real life or at least a reasonable facsimile.”

  Twenty-three

  From the large windows of Conference Room 3 on the eleventh floor of the Amalgamated Radio Network building on Madison Avenue you could look out at the surrounding office buildings and a patch of clear blue afternoon sky. I was doing that when the Vice President In Charge Of Night Time Programming came striding into the room.

  He was followed by a trim brunette in a tan suit who announced, “Mr. Gramatky apologizes for being ten minutes late.”

  “He’s twenty minutes late,” I said to Jane, who was standing beside me at the big window.

  “He’s probably operating on Eastern Executive Time,” she suggested, leading me back to the oval conference table.

  Wardell Gramatky was a plump, well-groomed man in his early forties, resembling a sort of preshrunk Paul Whiteman. “Very happy to meet you, Miss Danner,” he said, installing himself at the end of the table. “And your gifted husband.”

  As soon as he sat, his secretary came around to our side of the cherry-wood table to give us each a fresh yellow legal tablet and a brand-new mechanical pencil. “To keep track of what’s going on,” she explained.

  The only other person at the meeting was Milt Banion, the lean blonde executive from the McKay and Forman advertising agency. He was in charge of producing the Hollywood Molly radio show for the network.

  “Does the afternoon find you well, Milt?” inquired Gramatky.

  “Never better, Wardell. And you?”

  “My ruptured disc is acting up and I’m afraid I’ll be heading straight from our little meeting to my chiropractor.” He smiled brieffy “But let’s get down to business. Jane—if I may call you that?—Jane, I’ve read all the proposed story lines for the Hollywood Molly programs and I love them. Miss Farmer will testify that I chuckled more than once while reading the batch.”

  “He did,” confirmed the dark-haired secretary.

  Jane said, “That’s very gratifying.” She began to doodle on her tablet.

  “There’s really only one story idea we can’t use on ARN and that’s because—which you had no way of knowing—it doesn’t conform to our standards,” said Gramatky, a little sadly. “While murder is perfectly permissible on our successful mystery shows—such as The Casebook of Dr. Thorndyke, The Amazing Mr. Woo, and Bentley of Scotland Yard—we simply frown at using murder on a comedy show.”

  “It goes beyond frowning,” said Banion. “You absolutely can’t have any killings on a comedy show.”

  Jane squeezed my hand below the level of the table. “I’m certainly glad you’ve cleared that up for us, Mr. Gramatky,” she said sweetly. “As you know, Frank wrote Groucho Marx’s comedy mystery show for two seasons and there—”

  “Different networks, different standards.” Gramatky smoothed at his thin moustache.

  I asked, “Are we allowed a jewel theft or a burglary now and then?”

  Gramatky considered. “If you absolutely must, but we’d like to see that sort of thing only rarely.”

  Banion suggested, “This would be a good time to bring up the dog.”

  “What dog?” asked Jane and I, just about simultaneously.

  “Do you have that memo from Research?” Gamatky asked his secretary.

  From one of the three manila folders before her, Miss Farmer extracted a mimeographed sheet. “Here it is.”

  Gramatky took the page, scanned it. “Yes, we’ve found that most people like dogs better than cats,” he told us.

  “And?” asked Jane.

  Banion said, “We’ll be changing Molly’s cat—Boswell, is it?—to a dog. Young boys relate to dogs better, so does the average family. And I can get one of the top dog impersonators in the business to play the—”

  “Boswell is a cat,” said Jane. She pressed so hard with her mechanical pencil that the lead snapped.

  “In your comic strip, yes,” agreed Gramatky. “For the purposes of our radio show, however, we—”

>   “He’s going to remain a cat,” Jane said firmly. “If you guys want a dog, we’ll come up with a new name.”

  “Dorgan,” I offered.

  “We’ll call him Dorgan, sure,” said Jane, nodding.

  “If Research determines that the name is acceptable,” said Gramatky, touching his moustache again.

  “It doesn’t have to be Molly’s dog,” said Banion. “It can just as well be her brother’s.”

  “She doesn’t have a brother,” I reminded.

  “It’s our feeling over at McKay and Forman, as I’ve mentioned before, Miss Danner, that a kid brother will add a heck of a lot of appeal to the show.”

  “Hooey,” remarked Jane.

  “Let’s get back to that dog for a moment, Milt,” said Gramatky. “It occurs to me that a dog will sit very well with old Dr. Weber.”

  “Right. He loves dogs.”

  “Who,” asked Jane, “in the heck is Dr. Weber?”

  Banion replied, “He’s very interested in sponsoring the Hollywood Molly show.”

  “We’re pretty certain,” added Gramatky, “that he’ll sign up for a trial thirteen weeks.”

  Leaning toward Jane, Miss Farmer said, “Dr. Weber’s Tooth Powder—Regular and Mint Flavor.”

  “‘For That Million Dollar Smile,’” added Banion, smiling.

  Jane said, “We’ll concede on a dog. But no kid brother for Molly.”

  Gramatky nodded and scribbled something on his own yellow pad. “What sort of dog do you have in mind?”

  The meeting went on for another hour and ten minutes.

  Twilight was settling on Manhattan and Groucho, softly whistling “I’ve Got a Little List” from The Mikado, was slouching his way up Broadway.

  When he halted at the curb for a traffic signal, a plump woman pedestrian in a tan cloth coat came to a stop beside him. She glanced casually over at him, then gave a surprised gasp. She said, “You look like Groucho Marx.”

  “And that’s precisely why I’m suing my plastic surgeon,” he replied. “I was supposed to end up looking like Cesar Romero.”