Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders

by Ron Goulart

  “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.”

  Twenty-five

  I’m only going as far as Queens,” I reminded.

  “Even so,” said Jane, “I think it’s my wifely duty to see you off.”

  We were standing on the midday Manhattan sidewalk in front of the St. Norbert Hotel, awaiting the advent of Groucho and the limousine.

  Across the wide street a horse-drawn carriage was just entering Central Park.

  “I’ll try to bring you back as many World’s Fair souvenirs as I can,” I promised my wife while scanning the approaching traffic for a sign of Groucho.

  “Anything is okay except Trylon and Perisphere salt and pepper shakers,” she said.

  “Gee, I sort of had my heart set on salt and pepper shakers.”

  A grey limousine slid to a stop at the curb and the doorman hurried over to open the rear door.

  Groucho leaned out. “We’ve come to collect your husband, Mrs. Denby,” he said. “Usually we insist that all contributions be placed in galvanized cans, but we’ll waive that rule in your case. And later on we’ll be waving the North Dakota state flag.”

  “Good afternoon, Groucho,” said Jane, escorting me over to the long, low car.

  “The same to you, my dear,” he said as I climbed into the limousine.

  I bid good-bye to my wife, pulled the door shut, and the car went gliding away. Groucho’s guitar case was sitting on the seat between us. Sniffing at the air, I inquired, “What’s that scent?”

  “Does it smell like hot pastrami or corned beef?”

  I considered. “Pastrami,” I decided.

  “Then that’s me.” He patted the guitar case, producing a hollow thump. “I’ve got two pastrami sandwiches packed in here with my guitar in case of an emergency.”

  “What if I’d answered corned beef?”

  “That’s our driver. He’s got two corned beef sandwiches in the glove compartment.”

  “I take it you dropped in at a delicatessen en route.”

  “I’m under doctor’s orders to visit a deli at least once each day.” From the pocket of his blazer he withdrew a wrapped bar of halvah and handed it to me. “A small token of my affection.”

  I took it and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Noticing the glass partition that separated us from our wide-shouldered uniformed driver, I decided we could talk about the case without being overheard. “I’ve been finding out some stuff about the Manheim business,” I said.

  “So have I, Rollo, and this pilgrimage to the shrine of Grover Whalen will afford us ample opportunity to compare notes,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “The first note I was going to compare was a mash note recently sent to me by Eleanor Roosevelt wherein she confessed an unbridled passion for me. I decided against that, however, since I don’t want to provoke your jealousy or envy.”

  I asked, “First off, what sort of progress is your chum Lieutenant Lewin making?”

  “Despite a respect for me that borders on idolatry, Herb Lewin has refrained thus far from confiding much of anything,” answered Groucho. “So we’re going to have to rely on what we’ve dug up on our own.”

  I nodded. “I’ve lost touch with my best informant out in Los Angeles,” I told him. “But before that happened, he told me that the word was that Daniel Manheim was probably involved in the killing of Nick Sanantonio.”

  “Involved just how?”

  “So far the police apparently don’t even know about this. But it seems that three freelance out-of-town killers were hired for the job,” I said.

  “And Manheim did the hiring?” Groucho sat up.

  “That’s what the consensus is,” I said. “And one of the suspected hired killers has been taken care of so far.”

  “Probably by our friend Vince Salermo.”

  “Yep.”

  “We’ll get back to gangland in a moment,” said Groucho, producing a cigar from his pocket. “Firstly, though, why would Manheim want to get rid of Sanantonio?”

  “It could tie in with Dian Bowers.”

  “Possibly, Rollo, since we know she had an affair with the gambler,” said Groucho, unwrapping the stogie and lighting it. “And we also know that Manheim was noted for the violent methods he used in shooing off unwanted suitors of his actresses.”

  “He had people worked over, but would he go so far as to order somebody murdered?”

  “Leo Haskell implied that he would and probably did on one or two prior occasions,” said Groucho, exhaling smoke. “But why, specifically, would he want to get rid of Sanantonio?”

  I suggested, “Could be Sanantonio didn’t want to stop seeing Dian Bowers. Might even be she didn’t want to stop seeing him, huh?”

  “She assured me their romance was over.”

  “That’s what she says,” I pointed out. “A nice girl, sure, but, Groucho, she hasn’t been exactly open and truthful with you.”

  Groucho said, “It could also be that Sanantonio wanted to resume the romance and made it known that he was going to do it openly, with or without Dian’s okay. Having his newest star actress linked in the news with a notorious hoodlum wouldn’t help Saint Joan at all.”

  “And it sure wouldn’t please the people who’re Manheim’s financial backers, the ones he brought Dian here to Manhattan to meet and impress.”

  “Sure, a fellow with Manheim’s outlook probably wouldn’t balk at killing someone if it meant saving a million-dollar movie and an actress worth potentially more than that to him,” conceded Groucho. “His moral code was pretty much akin to Salermo’s.”

  “It’s a perfect Hollywood motive,” I added. “So now, Groucho, let’s tentatively assume that Manheim had Sanantonio killed. The next question is—who killed Manheim?”

  “Salermo would be high on the list, except for the fact that he apparently didn’t know anything about Manheim’s involvement in Sanantonio’s death until a couple
days ago,” said Groucho. “Meaning the attempt on Manheim’s life on the Super Chief almost certainly couldn’t have been arranged by him.”

  “And we’re pretty much convinced that the person who killed Manheim at the Coronet Theater was the same one who made the try on the train.”

  “Agreed,” Groucho said. “Although it could be that the killer had an entirely different reason for killing Manheim, one that has nothing at all to do with Sanantonio.”

  I asked, “Do you believe that?”

  He shook his head and took a puff of his cigar. “Nope. I have a feeling the two killings are tied together.”

  “So maybe what we have to find is someone who knew Manheim was responsible for Sanantonio’s death and killed him out of revenge.”

  Groucho made a brief shivering motion. “I have to admit that might well be Dian, if she was still in love with Sanantonio,” he said ruefully. “Manheim kills her lover, she kills Manheim. A trite situation, but a possible one.”

  I said, “Sanantonio had other lovers, if revenge is the motive. The list includes Willa Jerome, who was also on the train.”

  Groucho blew a smoke ring, then watched it dissolve. “Which brings us to Dr. Dowling,” he said. “Although it would be too simple if what he wants to tell me is that he has proof that his only patient did Manheim in.”

  “Dowling didn’t say what exactly he wants to talk about?”

  “He provided precious few details, Hortense, other than that he’d been brooding about certain events that took place on the Super Chief as it raced across the continent,” said Groucho. “Apparently, having come out of one of his drunken stupors, the good doctor starts remembering what went on around him while he was in a soused state.”

  “And what he’s getting vague memories of has something to do with the attempted attack on Manheim?”

  “So he implied, although it’s possible he merely wants to hear me sing”Lydia the Tattooed Lady” yet again and this is but a flimsy excuse to contact me.”

  I said, “Willa Jerome is supposed to be a very feisty lady. She might go so far as to murder Manheim for killing her lover.”

  “She might,” agreed Groucho. “That is, if the lady knew for certain he’d ordered the deed done to Sanantonio.”

  “We don’t, as yet, know that she did.”

  “We’d best strive to find out—and how she might’ve learned.”

  “There are some other people we have to learn more about,” I reminded. “For instance, there’s also Len Cowan, the dancer. His motive would be revenge for the death of his sister.”

  “A long shot,” said Groucho. “But we’d best determine where he was on the night of the Manheim murder.”

  By this time our limousine was traveling along Grand Central Parkway and we were nearing the fairgrounds.

  Twenty-six

  The New York World’s Fair, which had opened at the end of that April, covered some twelve hundred acres. Its theme was the World of Tomorrow and almost all the many buildings and pavilions had a streamlined, futuristic look. On first arriving at the place, you felt that you’d wandered onto the set of the most expensive science-fiction movie ever made. Part Oz and part the sort of future envisioned in films like Things to Come. In fact, H. G. Wells himself had earlier visited the World’s Fair and given it his blessing.

  There was a great deal of white, but each of the seven distinct zones of the fairgrounds had a specific identifying color that dominated walls, murals, and decorations—red, blue, yellow, and so on. At what was considered the center of things rose the Trylon and Perisphere. A triangular pylon, the Trylon rose up 700 feet in the air beside the 200-feet-in-diameter Perisphere. Both of these structures were stark white and towered over a large lagoon. At the other end of the lagoon stood a 65-foot statue of George Washington. Supposedly the fair was commemorating the 150th anniversary of his inauguration.

  Several years in the making, the fair included exhibits from thirty-some states and nearly sixty countries—including Italy and Russia but not Germany. There were vast modern buildings devoted to such outfits as Ford, General Electric, DuPont, Heinz, Wonder Bread, and RCA. You could see a demonstration of television, watch cows being milked by machines, see Eleanor Holm and Johnny Weismuller swim, talk to a robot, and get an idea of what an ideal city would look like in 1960. There was an abundance of outdoor artwork, with huge statues and murals. A Greek god here, a husky workingman there, a water nymph guarding a fountain. Trees, shrubs, and hedges flourished everywhere.

  The president of the World’s Fair, and its most active publicist, was a stocky moustached fellow named Grover Whalen. A former Manhattan police chief and later the city’s official greeter from the 1920s on, Whalen even provided special transportation and a personal guide around the fairgrounds for Groucho and me.

  A slim red-haired young woman, clad in the tan uniform of an official guide—complete with the Trylon and Perisphere patch on the left sleeve—approached our limousine as it pulled to a stop in the Special Visitors section of the vast parking lot. “Mr. Marx?” she inquired uncertainly as he came slumping out of the backseat.

  “To the best of my knowledge, I am. Although there’s been some talk to the effect that I am actually the lost dauphin of France.” He took hold of her hand, bent to kiss it.

  She tugged her hand free before his lips made contact. “I wasn’t immediately certain, because I guess you use a lot of makeup in the movies,” she said, “and it must hide most of those wrinkles.”

  “Wrinkles, my dear? Why, I’m noted in Hollywood for my smooth, unruffled skin,” he told her. “Out there I’m often alluded to as that baby’s bottom with a moustache.”

  I said, “I’m Frank Denby, miss.”

  “Oh, and I’m Peggy Kurtin,” the girl said. “Mr. Whalen’s office sent me over to welcome you and Mr. Marx, give you a brief tour of the fair, and then deliver you to the Bascom Music Pavilion.”

  “A few laugh wrinkles around the eyes maybe,” Groucho was muttering. “But that’s due to the fact that I’m such a merry, fun-loving fellow.”

  “You also have a moustache usually,” added Peggy, beckoning us to follow her.

  “I lost everything in the Depression,” he said.

  The uniformed guide led us to a sort of cart that was pulled by a small electric tractor. “Climb aboard, gentlemen,” she invited, standing aside. After Groucho and I had taken the rear seats in the open cart, she sat in the front seat. “You can start now, Alex.”

  “Right you are, Peg.” The driver was young, blonde, and sun-tanned.

  “We’ll swing by the Trylon and Perisphere and then cut over to the entertainment area, Mr. Marx,” Peggy explained.

  Groucho took out a cigar. “How’d you end up in this racket, sister?”

  “I came to New York exactly a year ago to break into the theater,” she said with a slight shrug. “I’m still waiting, so when I heard they were looking for pretty girls to work here at the World’s Fair, I tried out.”

  We crossed something called the Bridge of Wings and moved toward the symbolic center of the fair. The afternoon was warm, the sky cloudless, and hundreds of people were roaming the tree-lined streets.

  “This is an exceptionally clean locale, Rollo,” observed Groucho.

  “We keep it spotless,” said Peggy.

  “I’ve always been partial to a few spots here and there,” said Groucho. “Especially on leopards and polka-dot bow ties.”

  “There’s the Westinghouse Building over there on the right,” Peggy pointed out. “That’s where you can see Elektro the robot.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a leftover brother,” said Groucho, lighting his cigar. “We could call him Elektro Marx.”

  “If you have any time after the performance,” Peggy told us, “I can escort you through the Democracity exhibit inside the Perisphere. It’s a diorama that shows what an ideal planned community will look like in the future.”

  “Good thing this isn’t Europe,” said Gro
ucho. “The chief ingredient of the communities of the future over there will be rubble.”

  “I think you have to have a positive attitude about the future, Mr. Marx. The underlying notion of this whole fair is optimism about tomorrow.”

  “Hitler’s idea of what constitutes the World of Tomorrow and the fair’s differ somewhat,” he said. “I hear that Grover Whalen and his pal Mussolini also think Hitler has some dandy notions.”

  “I know people say nasty things about Mr. Whalen behind his back, but—”

  “It’s a pretty wide back, kiddo. There’s a lot of room behind there for making nasty remarks.”

  “Well, he’s a very personable man and he did more for the New York World’s Fair than just about anybody.”

  Groucho nodded. “He did a lot for Red-baiting back a couple decades ago, too.”

  Peggy looked back at him, a frown on her face. “You’re not as cheerful as I imagined you’d be.”

  “I’m not even as cheerful as I imagined I’d be,” he replied, exhaling smoke.

  After circling the imposing Trylon and Perisphere, we headed back toward the entertainment area.

  We were rolling along toward the Empire State Bridge and Liberty Lake, when a group of fair visitors started emerging from the General Electric building and spotted Groucho. “It’s Groucho Marx,” yelled a fat man in a double-breasted blue suit. “Groucho. Hey, Groucho,” shouted a freckled teenager. “Is that one of the Marx Brothers?” cried another. “Groucho! Groucho!” called several.

  “Lepers met with a similar reception in the Middle Ages,” observed Groucho, casually thumbing his nose at the small crowd.

  Our electric wagon slowed as a good two dozen tourists came spilling out into the street. Before they were directly in our path, the wagon halted.

  Peggy inquired, “Do you wish me to shoo them away, Mr. Marx?”

  “No, my child. As one of the leading intellectuals of our era, I’m often being pestered by my disciples and I feel it’s my obligation to toss a few pearls of wisdom their way,” he told our guide. “Stop and I’ll radiate for a few minutes.”