Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders

by Ron Goulart

  “But you are Groucho Marx, aren’t you?”

  “Certainly, but that’s no reason why I have to look like him.”

  The light changed and he went loping away across the street. Halfway up on the next block Groucho entered Alfie’s Pub.

  Leo Haskell, the New York Daily Tab columnist, was sitting at the first booth to the left of the doorway. A pudgy bald man in a wrinkled sharkskin suit was leaning over the table, trying to show him some publicity photos.

  “She’s a real looker, Leo.”

  “Average puss, average stems.”

  “She’s always coming up with witty lines.”

  “So you claim, buster.”

  “She’s about to take over the lead in Kick Up Your Heels.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “One damn mention in your column, Leo.” The perspiring bald man held his thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart. “Just this much space. It would be a terrific break for the kid.”

  “You can shuffle off now, Otto,” suggested Haskell, noticing Groucho’s approach. “Park your cadaver, Julius.”

  “Glad to see you again, Groucho,” said the plump man as Groucho seated himself across from the columnist. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  “I would, except that not ten minutes ago I was stricken with severe amnesia.”

  “I’m Otto Zimmer, the publicity guy.”

  “You know, I was guessing you were Otto Zimmer the Gypsy violinist,” said Groucho. “Which shows how amnesia can play hob with your memory.”

  “Take a powder, Otto,” advised Haskell, pointing a thumb in the direction of the door to the dim-lit bar.

  “See you guys around.” The rumpled Zimmer, sliding the photos back into his scuffed briefcase, made his way out of the moderately crowded room.

  Haskell picked up his glass of Chivas Regal scotch and took a sip. “So you’re going to be appearing at the World’s Fair this Friday, my boy?”

  “We’ll be putting on an informal rehearsal of The Mikado at the Bascom Music Pavilion out there, yes,” replied Groucho. “It’s a one-shot charity festivity that our producer and Grover Whalen cooked up. They only got around to mentioning it to me this afternoon. I was planning to enter a six-day bike race on Friday, but now I’ll have to wait around until they hold a five-day bike race.”

  Haskell made the dry barking noise that he used for a laugh. “I see old age hasn’t dimmed your sense of humor, Julius,” he said, taking another sip. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I’d rather you buy me a controlling interest in the Brooklyn Dodgers, but I’ll settle for a ginger ale.”

  The columnist signaled a waiter, then said, “I’m plugging your Friday clambake at the fair in my column mañana, Julius. You’ll have standing room only, pal.”

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping I’d get to sit down.”

  “You never get tired of kidding around.”

  “As a matter of fact, Leo, I do. I’m seriously considering quitting show business and taking up folk painting. I plan to call myself Grandma Marx.”

  Somebody dropped a nickel in the jukebox and it commenced playing “The Beer Barrel Polka.”

  After the waiter took Groucho’s order and moved away, Haskell said, “Are you and your brothers really going to make more movies?”

  “We’re committed to doing two more for MGM.”

  Haskell shook his head. “I was going to suggest you bail out while you’re ahead, but from what I hear about At the Circus, it’s already too late for that.”

  “What we’re going for now is an item in Ripley,” explained Groucho. “First comedy team to make a motion picture without one single laugh in it. We’re getting closer every film.” He hunched his shoulders slightly and rested his elbows on the table. “One of the reasons I wanted to chat with you, Leo, is because you know a lot of scuttlebutt and—”

  “You really are working on this Manheim thing, huh?” said Haskell. “You’re trying to prove Bill Washburn isn’t the guy who did it.”

  “I’m interested in the case,” admitted Groucho. “Have you heard anything about who else might want to—”

  “You and that writer pal of yours had some luck solving mysteries out on the Coast,” said the columnist. “You even outwitted Sherlock Holmes.”

  “We outwitted a hambone actor who was playing Sherlock on the silver screen,” corrected Groucho. “Have you—”

  “If you solve this one, Julius, will you give me an exclusive? Clown Catches Killer! That’s front-page stuff, pal.”

  “Not to mention alliterative.” Groucho glanced at his just-arrived glass of ginger ale. “Who else might want to do Manheim in?”

  “There are a lot of contenders,” answered Haskell. “Of course, I’d put Washburn high on the list. Manheim gave Washburn’s missus the usual treatment. Seduces her away from her marriage, tries to turn her into a movie star, and, for good measure, has her hubby worked over to keep him in line.”

  “You know for a fact he did that to Washburn—had him beaten up?”

  “You’ve got to follow my damn column more often—I’m in twenty-six papers out in California,” Haskell said. “I had an item about that last year. ‘What low-budget fillum thesper got a darkalley drubbing at the behest of what Tinselvania moompitcher nabob?’”

  “Give me a rough translation.”

  “Manheim hired some heavies to work the Washburn lad over,” replied the columnist. “My sources out in Movietown tell me that Manheim made a habit of discouraging his rivals in that fashion, Julius.” He frowned in the direction of the jukebox across the smoky room. “I loathe that goddamn song.”

  “You wouldn’t have a list of the folks who benefited from beatings that Manheim arranged?”

  “Nope,” said Haskell, shaking his head. “Do you figure one of his victims decided to get even by writing the poor sap into Make Mine Murder?”

  “Well, revenge does make a dandy motive.”

  “Suppose Manheim had been involved in something more serious than having somebody worked over?”

  Groucho sat up, eyebrows rising. “Such as what—a murder?”

  “This is only a very vague rumor so far,” answered Haskell. “Much too vague even for my column.”

  “And who, according to your vague sources, was the recipient of Manheim’s attentions?”

  “Soon as I have specifics that I can hint at,” promised the columnist, “you’ll be among the first to know, pal.” He stood up. “I’ve got to catch a nap before I commence my nightly round of hot spots, my boy. Keep in touch, huh?”

  “Oh, I will,” promised Groucho.

  After six rings, somebody answered the phone at the Ivy Hotel out in Los Angeles. “Hold on,” requested a blurred voice.

  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.

  Twenty-four

  The 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.”

  Dr. 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.”