Groucho Marx, King of the Jungle

by Ron Goulart

  “Or Randy Spellman,” I added.

  “They’ll never tie us in with that one,” Alicia told me, her smile dark and smug. “They’re still looking for Dorothy Woodrow. Jack and I fixed that up.”

  “The reason we’re being this frank with you,” said her brother, tapping the stock of his rifle, “is that you won’t be alive much longer and it doesn’t matter.”

  “Here’s my notion of how you worked it,” said Groucho. “Jack went openly onto the Warlock lot the day of the killing. He sent a fake note from Spellman to Dorothy, probably something about his needing to talk to her about their blackmail enterprises.”

  “Sure,” admitted Jack. “We knew she was helping him. That’s why we decided to frame her.”

  “And your dear sister most likely smuggled herself into the studio by hiding out in the truck that delivered the palm trees,” continued Groucho. “After she killed Spellman and planted the threatening note, she hightailed it over the rear wall and was picked up by you.”

  Alicia laughed. “Bingo, that’s just about what happened. You’re smarter than you look, Groucho.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  Jack glanced up at the clock on the office wall. “Let’s get on with it, Sis. I’ll shoot these trespassers.”

  “Put your guns aside, both of you.” Arthur Wright Benson appeared in the doorway. Unlike his offspring, he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  Jack scowled at his father. “Dad, we have to kill them,” he pleaded. “Otherwise, the honor of the Benson family—”

  “The Benson family hasn’t had much in the way of honor for quite a while now.” The author stepped into his office. “I suppose this sounds funny under the circumstances, gentlemen. But I do apologize for my children.”

  “Father, just go back to the house,” said Alicia, anger in her voice. “Jack and I are capable of handling—”

  “Yes, I know, dear. Capable of handling them the way you handled Doug and Randy.”

  “You’ve been out in the hall eavesdropping,” accused his son. “Everything we’ve done was for the—”

  “What did you do with the fifteen thousand dollars, Alicia?”

  “I have a lot of expenses, and your allowance to me has always been—”

  “Give me the revolver.” Benson held out his hand. “I imagine the police will want it.”

  “I won’t. I’m going to—”

  “Hand it to me. Now!”

  She pressed her lips together tightly, then pouted. She exhaled through her nose, glaring at her father. “Here,” she said in a small, thin voice, and slapped the gun into her father’s palm.

  “That’s a good girl.” Benson dropped the revolver into his coat pocket. “You, too, Jack. Lay the rifle on the floor and step away from it.”

  “Dad, if these two live, it will destroy your reputation. They’ll tell the papers about Alicia and me and—”

  “No, my reputation will survive,” Benson told him. “Certainly my readers will be shocked and surprised to learn that I’ve fathered two murderers, but they’ll remain loyal to Ty-Gor.”

  “Fuck Ty-Gor,” said Jack. But he placed the rifle carefully down on the tan carpeting.

  Benson said to me, “Will you call the police, Mr. Denby?”

  “I already have,” I said.

  Twenty-nine

  Two of the deputies took Alicia and Jack Benson away into the misty night. Three others ventured into the jungle to find what was left of Doug Cahan. Groucho went along to lead them to the site, explaining that he’d been one of the original founders of the Boy Scouts of America and was a crackerjack tracker. “Or possibly a trackerjack cracker, but one of those at the very least,” he’d told them.

  Meantime I made use of a smaller office in the Arthur Wright Benson, Inc., building to do some telephoning.

  Old Benson remained in his office, calling his attorneys.

  First off, I called home.

  “Jane Danner studio,” answered Myra.

  “Howdy, miss, this is the president of the Oxnard Hollywood Molly Fan Club,” I said. “We’re in town, and how would it be if all twenty-seven of us dropped over for autographs and possibly lots of glazed donuts?”

  “She’s right here, Mr. Denby. Hold on.”

  My wife asked, “Have you been injured in any way?”

  “Not at all. I merely wanted to inform you that I’m going to be late.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, I didn’t get hit on the head.”

  “Besides that.”

  I told her about finding the missing accountant, being tracked through the fog-ridden jungles, establishing who’d murdered Randy Spellman, and summoning the local law.

  She said, “Those nitwits might’ve shot you, Frank.”

  “Such was their intention, but they failed,” I pointed out. “By hiding in the trees we lost Jack Benson for a spell, and then Arthur Wright Benson dropped by in the nick of time.”

  “What it comes down to is that Dorothy Woodrow is in the clear as far as the murder of Spellman goes.”

  “Sure, but that’s not going to mean much to Enery.”

  “She was involved in Spellman’s blackmailing game,” said Jane. “That may still mean trouble for her.”

  “Whether it does or not, I don’t think she’s going to keep up her romance with him,” I said. “My problem is, I keep getting movies and real life mixed up. So I was hoping for a happy ending.”

  “We’ll have to settle for a not-too-miserable ending.”

  “Afraid so. Are you in shipshape condition?”

  “A few cramps, but otherwise hunky-dory.”

  “Good, I’ll be home as soon as I can. Bye, Love.”

  “Same here.”

  I next called Mitch Tandofsky’s home number.

  “What?” my Studio City police friend answered. I heard what sounded like an Artie Shaw band remote broadcast playing in the background.

  “I didn’t know you were a swing fan, Mitch.”

  “Sure, I’m a hep cat. Was that what you called to find out, Frank?”

  “No, I wanted to inform you, old buddy, that you ought to get in touch with the sheriff’s substation near Rancho Tygoro,” I said. “Alicia Benson and her brother, Jack, have been arrested on suspicion of murder. She knocked off a missing bookkeeper named Doug Cahan and the late Randy Spellman. Her brother lent aid and comfort in various ways.”

  He produced a dejected sound. “I suppose you and your comedian friend solved the whole thing?”

  “A good part of it, although the Benson kids filled in a lot of details.”

  “They confessed?”

  “Only because they were planning to add us to the list of victims.” I went on to tell him how Arthur Wright Benson had stepped in to come to our rescue.

  “You guys ought to do a turn on The Amateur Hour,” Tandofsky said. “But I guess as amateur detectives you’re not bad. Thanks, Frank. Good night.”

  Next, I called Larry Shell to suggest he might get some nice pictures for the LA Times if he got over to the sheriff’s place. And I left a message with May Sankowitz’s answering service with enough details to provide her with some items for her various Hollywood gossip outlets.

  When I stepped into the hallway, Groucho was slouching my way. I noticed both of his trouser knees were muddy. “Why’s that?”

  “Even expert trackers stumble now and then, as Confucius often remarked,” Groucho said, rubbing at one damp knee. “In fact, he took to saying it so often that we quit inviting him to our tea dances. That turned out to be a mistake, since he was the one supplying the tea. However—”

  “What say we take our leave?” I asked.

  Shall I bring the car to a full stop?” enquired Groucho. “Or would you prefer to make a dramatic leap as I merely slow down to fifty miles an hour?”

  “I’m a little weary tonight,” I said as the Cadillac entered our block. “You might as well stop.”

  The night fog was
heavy, and the lighted windows of our house were fuzzy yellow rectangles. From the Pacific came the hollow moan of a lone foghorn.

  Groucho hit the brakes. “We still have a collection of loose ends, Rollo,” he said. “Notably the fate of Dorothy Woodrow.”

  “Once she hears she’s not a suspect in Spellman’s murder, she’ll come out of hiding.”

  “Probably so, since the two Benson tots aren’t likely to talk about being blackmailed.”

  “They’re going to be indicted for Doug Cahan’s murder first, most likely.” I opened my door and almost yawned. “Could be a while before they go to trial for knocking off Randy. If ever.”

  “Quite true.”

  I stood on the foggy sidewalk near his open window. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” This time I yawned fully.

  “Best wait until the chariot of Apollo lights the sky,” he advised. “And in our neighborhood Apollo doesn’t go over until about midday. That’ll give me time to catch up on my insomnia. Farewell.” He drove away.

  Letting myself into the house, I was greeted, quietly but enthusiastically, by Dorgan. He came padding out of Jane’s studio making low pleased noises.

  Myra followed. “Jane turned in about an hour ago, Mr. Denby.”

  “She’s okay?”

  “Yes, the cramps didn’t last long. She’s fine now.”

  “I’m glad you could stay until I got back.”

  “Hey, I’m glad to,” she said, getting her coat on. “Besides, Jane pays me overtime wages.”

  “Yes, I believe that was also what kept Florence Nightingale in the field for so long,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  After Jane’s assistant had left and I’d bent to massage Dorgan’s belly, I went quietly into our bedroom.

  Jane, not fully awake, said, “Are you sure you didn’t get hit on the head again?” in a small, blurred voice.

  “Absolutely. You can feel my head if you’d care to.”

  But she was already asleep.

  Thirty

  When Dorgan and I returned from our morning stroll, Jane met us in the doorway. “You were right,” she said.

  “About what exactly?”

  “Dorothy Woodrow.”

  After snuffling around my wife’s legs, our bloodhound entered the living room.

  Jane and I followed. “Dorothy telephoned?”

  “A few minutes ago.” Jane continued on into the kitchen. “Now that she knows they don’t want her for murder, she’s getting ready to reappear. She wants to see you first, though.”

  It was commencing to grow bright and sunny in there. Coffee was perking. “Where is she?”

  “At her place in Manhattan Beach.” Jane took two cups off their hooks in the cupboard, set them on the table. “She’d like you to go over there. She wants to talk to you.”

  “I take it she doesn’t want me to bring Enery along?”

  She took the coffeepot off the burner, brought it to the table, and poured. “Dorothy went so far as to say she didn’t even want you to tell him where she is,” Jane replied. “You going to go?”

  “Yeah, it’s something I’d better do.”

  Jane sat down, rested her folded hands on the table near her coffee cup. “I was the one who urged you and Groucho to get involved with this case in the first place,” she said. “It hasn’t, you know, turned out the way I expected.”

  “Well, it was never going to turn out very well for Enery,” I said, sitting across the table from her. “But we didn’t know that much about Dorothy then. Anyway, we did find out who killed Randy Spellman.”

  “That’s important,” she said. “I suppose.”

  “Sure, and the cause of justice has been served.”

  “Phooey,” Jane said, “is how I sum it all up.”

  Dorothy Woodrow lived in a small white stucco house about a half mile from the Pacific. The street was narrow, and an old Blue Ford missing a rear tire was dying in the weedy driveway next door. The grass had grown up about running-board-high all around it, and a sooty seagull was perched on the hood.

  A light rain had been falling ever since I got to the town of Manhattan Beach. I parked next to a stretch of curb that had Dorothy’s address number stenciled on it, got out, and jumped across a muddy flower border.

  Three long-ago-painted red steps led up to the orange door.

  As I raised my hand to knock, the door opened.

  “I’m glad you could make it, Frank.” Dorothy was wearing jeans and a candy-stripe shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back, and she wore no makeup. “You didn’t tell Enery I was back here, did you?”

  “Nope.” I followed her down a narrow pale yellow hall, into a small parlor.

  “The phone’s been ringing a hell of a lot, but I’m not answering,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. You wanted to talk to me.”

  She lowered herself onto a narrow tan sofa. Attached to the wall behind it with red-headed pushpins was a large bullfight poster. The matador had just thrust his sword into the bull.

  “What do you think,” the young woman asked, “is going to happen?”

  “Well, first off,” I answered, sitting in a slightly lopsided white wicker chair, “Alicia Benson’s going to be tried for murdering Doug Cahan. Eventually they may also charge her with killing Randy Spellman. It all depends on—”

  “I know all that, Frank. I heard it on the radio, then read it in the papers,” Dorothy said in a tired voice. “That’s why I came back home. What I meant was—what the hell is going to happen to me?”

  “Alicia and Jack Benson know you were working with Randy on his blackmail racket,” I told her. “That’s how they were able to lure you to his trailer that night. The story you gave us wasn’t altogether true. The note they faked had something to do with Randy wanting to see you about business, didn’t it?”

  She sighed. “Yes, I made up some parts of my story,” she admitted. “Enery never knew I was still involved with Randy or what was going on. See, I didn’t want to hurt the poor guy.”

  “Oh, I can sense that, yeah.”

  “No, honestly, Frank. I really liked Enery,” she said.

  “That sounds like so much bullshit to me,” I observed. “Though maybe Enery, who seems to be in love with you, will buy it.”

  “It doesn’t matter, since I’ve decided not to see him from now on,” Dorothy said, resting her palms on her knees. “But you’d be doing me a terrific favor, Frank, if you‘d’ tell him that I’m sorry about all—”

  “No, nope. I won’t deliver any more messages for you.”

  “Look, I was involved in helping Randy blackmail people,” she said. “But keep in mind that every damned one of them had done something that was—”

  “Hey, you don’t have to convince me of anything.” I stood up. “Groucho and I figure you were also the one who went to Randy’s ex-wife’s place to look for more of his blackmail files. A stuntwoman could dive out that high window with no trouble. Even one with a bum leg.”

  “If I was going to carry on the business, I needed all the material I—”

  “I will be talking to Enery, since he’s a friend of mine,” I cut in. “When I tell him about your part in all this, you probably won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  “No, I don’t want him to know I was—”

  “Too late.”

  Dorothy got up from the sofa. “If it gets out that I was Randy’s partner, will the cops come after me, do you think?”

  I moved into the hall. “Maybe you ought to talk to a lawyer.”

  She gave me a thin smile. “I know what’s really bothering you,” she said. “You and Groucho both. You thought I was sweet and innocent, then you found out that I’m not quite as nice as you’d imagined. That’s what’s got you pissed off.”

  “That could be part of it.”

  “I didn’t kill Randy or anybody else.” She walked beside me down the yellow hall. “The Bensons tried to frame me. Alicia is as cr
azy as a—”

  “Talk to a lawyer,” I repeated, and I left her house.

  The rain had grown colder and more persistent.

  Thirty-one

  Ty-Gor was tied to a stake in the center of the cannibal village. About twenty feet away a dozen very belligerent natives were beating on large primitive drums. Enery McBride, wearing a lion-skin loincloth, an ornate feathered headdress, and a necklace of fake human teeth, was seated upon a large throne that was supposed to have been carved from raw stone.

  “You will now be sacrificed to the devil god,” he said, pointing at the captive jungle king.

  Beside Enery a gaunt witch doctor, wearing an outfit made of an imitation zebra skin and some real ostrich plumes, bent close to whisper in his ear.

  “And then, white trespasser, you shall provide a meal for my warriors,” added Enery in a booming voice.

  Standing just to the rear of the script girl, I winced. The dialogue for this sequence hadn’t been brilliant from the start, yet somebody else, probably the erstwhile pulp writer Wallace Deems, had added the “white trespasser” part. But I had to admit to myself that “you shall provide a meal for my warriors” was all mine.

  The director, Joshua Borkman, was moving uneasily in his canvas chair. A thickset man of fifty, he was one of those directors who actually wore riding breeches and boots. He was glaring now at Carl Nesbit, our new Ty-Gor.

  Finally, with an exasperated snort, he jumped to his feet. “Cut,” he hollered. “Why the hell are you making those funny faces, Carl?”

  “Sorry,” the actor apologized. “It’s my chest.”

  “And what is wrong with your frigging chest, Carl?”

  “It itches,” explained the new Ty-Gor. “They shaved all the hair off and then slapped pancake makeup all over, and …” He shrugged as best he could while lashed to a pole. “It itches, but I can’t scratch.”

  “Stanley,” shouted the director. “Do something. Fix his goddamn chest. We’ll try this dim-witted scene again in fifteen.” He went striding off toward another part of the soundstage as a makeup man and his assistant came hurrying over.