Groucho Marx, Private Eye

by Ron Goulart

“On the contrary, I suspect she’s played a couple of interesting roles very recently.” He got up, moved to the desk and rested his left hand on it, palm down. “Where can I find her?”

  “Take a look in the phone book, pal.”

  “I already did that, dear friend. She’s not to be found in any of the directories for all of Greater Los Angeles.”

  “I’ll be honest with you,” the agent said. “I don’t represent Maggie any longer. We had a parting of the ways and—”

  “Where is she?”

  McCloskey swallowed once, glanced toward the tiny window on his right. “Not so loud, Groucho,” he said, lowering his voice. “Suppose I gave you a tip on how to contract this broad? Would it be worth, say, fifty bucks?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “C’mon, I’m risking my neck here.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s tied in with a guy named Jack Cortez.” His voice was even dimmer. “And Cortez works for—”

  “That part I already know.”

  “I’m not going to put this in writing,” said the agent, glancing again at the window. “I’ll tell you the phone number and the address and you jot it down. Okay?”

  Groucho drew out his notebook and then his fountain pen. “Dictate away, Rupe.”

  “What about the twenty-five clams?”

  “After I have the information.”

  McCloskey made a surly noise, then said, “She lives in Santa Rita Beach. The address is three-oh-six Loma Vista Way, phone’s Ocean fourteen-oh-five.”

  Groucho wrote that down, capped his pen, and shut the notebook. “If the lady isn’t at home, Rupe, where else might I find her?”

  The fat agent’s sigh had a wheezy quality. “Don’t tell anybody I told you this,” he said. “Sometimes—things have been tough for Maggie lately, I hear—sometimes she works at a place in Bayside.”

  “A place frequented by lecherous sailors, wayward husbands, and callow college youths?”

  “A whorehouse, yeah. This one’s run by a lady calls herself Mrs. Ferguson.”

  “Who’s bordello is it?”

  “Word is it’s one of Vince Salermo’s,” the agent answered. “But I hear Tartaglia may be a silent partner in this particular setup.” Almost whispering, he gave Groucho the address.

  “Is Maggie to be found there most nights?”

  “Naw, she only works Fridays and Saturdays. So she’ll be on duty tonight from about ten on.”

  Groucho put the notebook away and fetched out his wallet. “You’ve been a prince, Rupe.” He gave him two tens and a five.

  The agent snatched the bills, tucked then away in his pants pocket. “Could you get the hell out of here now, Groucho? I really don’t want anybody to know you were talking to me.”

  “A lot of people seem to feel that way. Do you think I should start bathing in Rinso?”

  The agent hurried over to the door and yanked it open. “Scram, please, huh?”

  “I can take a hint.” Groucho, after another puff on the cigar, crossed the small, low room. “You apparently want me to depart.”

  “But, hey,” said McCloskey, “if you decide not to go with Lucille Ball, give me a jingle. I got just the dame for you.”

  Nineteen

  “No, it doesn’t bother me,” I said to Jane. “I’ve been doing this for months now, remember?”

  “True, but since we’re going to be moving into new quarters soon, I wanted to make sure.”

  I handed her another freshly washed soup bowl. “I haven’t been helping with the household chores because I was trying to worm my way into your affections,” I assured her as she dried the bowl with one of those embroidered dishtowels her aunt up in Fresno kept sending her.

  “Some men, you know, resent housework, consider it beneath them.”

  “I don’t know about them other fellers you’ve lived with, ma’am, but far as I’m concerned—and I can’t speak for the other wranglers—I sure don’t feel like no sissy ’cause I do these here dishes.”

  “There you go again, getting silly when I’m trying to be serious.”

  I passed her the saucepan I’d just scrubbed. “What you’ve got is opening night jitters,” I suggested. “We’ve lived together peaceably since way last fall. Moving into a new and bigger house isn’t going to affect how—”

  “Up until now, though, you’ve had a separate house of your own and so have I,” Jane persisted while drying the pan. “When we move next month, we’ll be committed to one house. If you want to be by yourself for some reason, you won’t have a spare place to go to. Neither will I.”

  I gestured in the direction of the Pacific Ocean with the hand that wasn’t holding the sponge. “I can always sleep on the beach if we have a quarrel,” I told her. “You aren’t having second thoughts about this merger, are you?”

  “No, but I want to make sure that you aren’t.”

  Dropping the sponge in the sink, I wiped my hands on her dishtowel and then put them on her shoulders. I leaned and kissed her.

  The phone in the living room commenced ringing.

  We continued kissing for six more rings and then I moved back and away. “Better answer.”

  I picked it up on the ninth ring. “Okay,” I said.

  “Hello, Frank, how are you?”

  “I’m okay, Polly. Did your mother come home?”

  Polly Pilgrim sounded both polite and happy. “Yes, and I’m at her house now with her,” she replied. “I tried to telephone Groucho to tell him the news, but his son answered and said he was out and probably wouldn’t be back all afternoon.”

  “He’s tracking down clues, Polly.”

  The young singer asked, “Are you getting anywhere? What I mean is, do you have any evidence that she’s innocent?”

  Jane was leaning in the doorway, watching me. I smiled at her. To Polly I said, “We haven’t got anything to take to the law yet, but we’re finding out quite a bit.”

  “Like what, Frank?”

  “Groucho and I want to talk to your mother—sometime today if possible—and we’ll go over everything then, Polly.”

  “She can’t see you today.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s not feeling very well, she’s sick really.”

  “You talk to a doctor?”

  “Yes, my father sent Dr. Steinberg over. That’s our family doctor.”

  “And he says?”

  “Probably influenza, but not a serious case. Though maybe it’s food poisoning from the jail meals.”

  “Okay, tell Frances that Groucho and I will drop in soon as she’s feeling up to it,” I said. “We’ll be seeing you at the Colonel’s festivities tonight, won’t we?”

  “I don’t want to go, I’d rather stay with my mother,” said Polly forlornly. “My father says, though, that everybody’s depending on me to sing tonight. And my mother says if you’re a real professional, you go on no matter what’s happening offstage. So, yes, I guess I’ll be there tonight, Frank.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you at Playland,” I said. “Tell your mom we’re glad she’s out and we’re going to see that she stays out.”

  “Thanks, bye.”

  I hung up.

  Jane asked, “Frances London is free?”

  “Right now, yeah. But it could only be a temporary condition.”

  “You and Groucho have sure found out enough already to convince you she’s innocent.”

  “Convincing Groucho and me isn’t exactly the same as convincing cops and lawyers and judges and the district attorney,” I pointed out. “But let’s get back to my housework. Soon as I finish that, I’ve got to use the phone to set up interviews with more people.”

  “Make the calls now,” she said. “I’ll finish the dishes.”

  I said, “That’s right neighborly of you.”

  * * *

  Groucho also did some telephoning that afternoon, installed in one of the phone booths at the back of a Thrifty Drug Store in Pasadena. As he dropped his n
ickel into the slot, he eyed a young woman in yellow slacks who was bending down to select a love story magazine off the rack a few feet away.

  “I prefer an ocean view,” he said to himself, “but this is pretty scenic in itself.”

  “Number, please,” requested the operator in a somewhat nasal voice.

  Groucho gave her the Maggie Barnes number he’d just bought from her erstwhile agent. “I’d like Ocean fourteen-oh-five, my dear,” he said.

  The operator said, “There’s something very familiar about your voice, sir.”

  “If you think that’s familiar, you ought to see how I behave on the dance floor.”

  “I know. You must be Groucho Marx.”

  “Yes, I must,” he replied. “It was either that or spend six months in the brig.”

  “This is certainly a thrill for me, Mr. Marx.”

  “And for me, too, dear child. Giddy fool that I am, I expected to plop a hard-earned coin into the slot, recite a phone number, and be swiftly put in touch with the person I actually had some desire to talk with,” he told her. “But instead, I get to devote untold quantities of precious time to gabbing with a complete and total stranger who—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Marx.”

  “And well you should be, Beulah.”

  “It’s only that I’m such an admirer of your work.”

  “That’s a new one on me. I haven’t worked since I left Cripple Creek before the—”

  “I meant your work in the movies. I think you and your brothers were wonderful in A Night at the Opera. My boyfriend, though, prefers A Day at the Races. What do you think?”

  “Well now, in my opinion, for what it’s worth—and the highest bid thus far has been for three dollars and ninety-six cents—in my humble opinion, let me say without fear of contradiction, or of contraception, for that matter, in my view those two flickers are as different as night and day.”

  Out in the drug store the girl in the tight slacks was still bent and scanning the love pulps.

  “Oh, that’s a play on words, isn’t it? I mean, night is in the title of one of the movies and—”

  “Say, did the phone company ever get anywhere with that idea of installing a system whereby a person could stroll into something called a phone booth, insert five cents, and actually get to the party he was desirous of chatting with? It seemed like a simply delightful idea at the time and I can’t help wondering if—”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll put through your call right away, Mr. Marx.”

  “Thank you, little missy.”

  “It’s been swell talking to you.”

  “Yes, it has,” he agreed. “In fact, my conversation has been so scintillating that you ought to pay me a nickel.”

  “I’m ringing Ocean fourteen-oh-five,” the operator said, “and getting no answer.”

  “Give it a few more tries. The young lady in question may just be coming out of a drunken stupor, or a drunken suitor.”

  “I’m afraid there’s still no answer.”

  Groucho gazed again toward the magazine stand. The pretty girl was gone and a small, extremely freckled boy of about eight was reviewing the latest issue of Tip Top Comics. “Were I to mention another phone number, my dear,” he said into the mouthpiece, “do you think you could get it for me right away without further discourse?”

  “Yes, certainly, Mr. Marx.”

  “It’s not that I don’t deeply enjoy intelligent conversations,” he assured the operator. “As everyone knows, that’s the reason I listen regularly to Professor Quiz. However, I’m in a bit of a rush just now and I’m also eager to find out if this phone actually works.” He told her the number of Tad Ballard, the troubleshooter at Paragon Pictures.

  Twenty

  I wasn’t expecting her to answer the door. Far as I knew, Dianne Sayler wasn’t even supposed to be at the Brian Montaine mansion on Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills.

  It was a sprawling place in the style real estate people call Early English. There were tall eucalyptus and pepper trees dotting the large emerald lawn. The front door, which looked to have been borrowed from another house, was ornately carved oak.

  “You’re early,” accused Montaine’s widow, frowning out at me. She was wearing slacks and a cable-stitch sweater and her face was flushed. “That is if you happen to be Fred Denby.”

  “Frank Denby. Jane talked to you about my interviewing Edwin Kingsmill, who worked as—”

  “Don’t I know what Jane talked to me about?” She scrutinized me, slowly, from top to bottom and back to top again. “Well, you’re not as dippy looking as I imagined. The way Jane described you, I was expecting a shrimp like Mickey Rooney.”

  “You should have had her draw you a picture.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Another wisenheimer,” Dianne observed. “Jane has always had a weakness for lunks with smart mouths.”

  “Yes, I understand she once had a torrid affair with Albert Einstein. Is Edwin here?”

  “Taking a shower. You’re early.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Dianne sighed. “Hell, you might as well come on in.”

  I came on in. She led me along a hallway floored with salmon-hued squares of tile and into a beam-ceilinged living room that held too many antique chairs plus a harpsichord.

  “You don’t want a drink, do you?” inquired the widow, pointing me at a tufted sofa.

  “Not especially.” From the lavender sofa you could see the swimming pool outside and the row of potted palms on its far side. On the near side of the big turquoise pool a pair of swimming trunks, still damp, was draped over the back of one of the white deck chairs.

  “Why does Brian’s death interest you anyway? Jane didn’t make that especially clear.”

  “We figure it ties in with Dr. Benninger’s death somehow.”

  She laughed. “This is wonderful,” she told me, still laughing. “Here you say we and act like you’re partners with Perry Mason or the Lone Wolf. When in actuality, you’re helping a onetime vaudeville comedian who goes around with a greasepaint moustache.”

  “Only when he’s acting.”

  “What I’m getting at is—don’t you feel stupid being Dr. Watson to Groucho Marx? Is that, after all, a name that commands respect in detective circles?”

  “We did okay finding out who murdered Peg McMorrow last fall,” I mentioned. “And we’re going to find out who’s trying to frame Frances London.”

  “I suppose she’s told you she’s innocent?”

  “Yep, yes.”

  “I’ve known quite a few drunks in my life,” she said, “and I was married to a dope addict. They’re all liars.”

  “Would you care for a drink, madam?”

  “No, Edwin.”

  I stood and turned.

  Edwin Kingsmill was not the typical valet as portrayed on the screen by the likes of Eric Blore and Arthur Treacher. He was a dark and handsome fellow, built along the lines of Gilbert Roland and Cesar Romero.”

  “You’re certain, madam?” He nodded politely at me. “And you, sir?”

  “No, thanks. What I’m here for, Kingsmill, is to ask you about—”

  “I’d prefer to be addressed as Edwin, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Edwin,” said Dianne, “I told you about Fred here. He’s Jane Danner’s boyfriend and he wants to ask you some questions about the night my husband died.”

  “Your first name is Frank, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yeah.” I sat down again.

  Kingsmill came over and stood with his back to the window and the view of the pool. “How may I help you?” he asked. “Mrs. Montaine has given me permission to discuss the incident with you.”

  “I think I will have a drink after all.” The widow was looking out the window, eyes narrowed slightly.

  “At once, madam, if you’ll—”

  “No, you stay here with Dr. Watson and I’ll go fix myself something.” She left the room.

  Kingsmill watched her walk away. “M
adam, if I may say so, hides her grief behind a mask of flippancy. But inside, I’d venture to say, she’s mourning for—”

  “Twentieth Century Fox,” I said.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  Outside I saw Dianne go dashing over to the damp bathing suit and grab it free of the chair back. Holding it close to her, she ran back toward the house. Kingsmill was unaware of her poolside raid.

  “What I meant was, you used to be a player at Twentieth,” I told the valet. “I saw you over there a couple of times while I was still working for the LA Times and they took me off the police beat to cover show business.”

  The handsome valet grinned. “I decided I preferred the security of regular employment,” he answered. “I haven’t been near a sound stage since nineteen thirty-five.”

  “Perfectly rational decision. Can you tell me about the night you found Brian Montaine’s body? And go ahead and sit down.”

  “I prefer standing, it helps me keep in character.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “It wasn’t until around two in the morning. I had a date over in Pacific Palisades that evening.”

  “You found him where?”

  Kingsmill’s eyes looked ceilingward. “Up in the master bedroom. Actually he was spilled out on the floor of the bathroom. He usually injected the stuff in his butt and his trousers were down and the hypo was still sticking in his backside when I found him. He must’ve given himself too big a dose or it was a bad batch of heroin. I’d guess he died within a few seconds of shooting it into himself, died and fell flat on his face.”

  I rested my hand on my knee. “Anything to indicate that he might not have given himself that fatal shot?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I heard the ice in Dianne’s glass rattle somewhere behind me.

  I kept my attention of the valet. “What I mean is, were there any signs that somebody might have given him the shot?”

  The widow came striding into my line of vision. “Are you saying he was murdered?”

  “I’m saying he sure as hell might’ve been.”

  She glanced at Kingsmill. “You didn’t mention anything about his having been—”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened, madam,” he answered. Then he frowned. “Of course, there was a bruise on his head.” He touched his forefinger to his left temple. “I assumed he was injured when he fell to the tiles.”