by Ron Goulart
He pointed at a chair facing his desk, shut the door. “You sure you want to know about what’s really going on down at Lockwood Aero?”
“I do, and so does Groucho.” I sat down.
Settling in behind his desk, my friend said, “I know quite a bit that I’m not supposed to know, Frank. The thing is, if I pass it on to you, you could eventually get in trouble with the FBI.”
“I’m already in trouble with the FBI,” I assured him. “So tell me.”
On the other side of the apartment door, the radio was playing. Johnny Whistler’s midafternoon Hollywood gossip program was just coming on. “Good afternoon to you and you and especially to you,” he was saying in his high-pitched nasal voice. “I’m told that Dinah Flanders, Mr. and Mrs. Moviefan’s favorite blond bombshell, is still in deep mourning over the suicide of her hotshot director husband, the late Eric Olmstead. So much has her hubby’s death affected her that dear Dinah refuses to accept the fact that the British import was a suicide … .”
Groucho leaned closer to the pine door and knocked.
“ … addled by grief, she’s asked aging baggy-pants comedian Groucho Marx to look into the circumstances of Olmstead’s death. C‘mon, Dinah darlin’, the police have already made their minds up, and you sure don’t need a funnyman who’s slipping at the box office to muddy the waters. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now an Open Letter to Robert Taylor. Bob, we all—”
The radio was turned off.
Groucho knocked again on the door. “Remind me to take Whistler off my Christmas list,” he muttered. “Rumpled and saggy pants, but baggy never.”
The door opened, and a pretty blond girl of about twenty-two looked out. She was wearing white tennis shorts and a faded UCLA sweatshirt. Her eyes went wide suddenly, and she took a step backward. “My gosh, you’re Groucho Marx without your moustache.”
“Sometimes I’m even Groucho Marx with my moustache,” he admitted. “And you’re Kathy Mirabell, are you not?”
“Gee, yes,” the actress said, opening the door wider. “This is, you know, pretty darn exciting. What I mean is, when I was a kid back in Evanston, Illinois, I saw you and your brothers in Monkey Business, and we just couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Yes, a lot of unfortunate children in Evanston, Illinois, suffered a similar experience,” he said. “Fortunately a vaccine was developed that effectively stopped—”
“Why in the heck are you here, Mr. Marx? It can’t be because my half-wit agent sent you over to offer me a part in your next movie?”
“Alas, no, my dear, although now that I’ve seen you without your Boop accoutrements, I might well put in a good word for you with my agent brother, Zeppo,” he said. “But today I’m hoping you can give me some information about the Lockwood Halloween party Monday night.”
Kathy sighed. “You and the cops and the FBI.”
“Then I’m not the first to evince curiosity?”
“Heck no.” She backed further from the door. “Come on in, won’t you, Mr. Marx? I’ve got to admit, though, that you’re the most interesting one so far.”
“And certainly the most charming?”
She considered that for a moment. “Pretty much so,” she decided finally. “Although the guy from Warlock Pictures was pretty smooth.”
“Which guy from Warlock would that be?”
“He left his card.” The young actress walked over to the coffee table in the small, tidy living room, scooped up a business card. “Here.”
Groucho took it. “Val Sharkey,” he read, recognizing the name of Warren Lockwood’s chief studio troubleshooter. “What did he want to know?”
She sat on the small yellow-polka-dot sofa. “Same thing they all wanted to know—same thing I guess you want to know, Mr. Marx. Who was the person in the Grim Reaper outfit who scared the Bejesus out of Olmstead?”
“And what did you tell all and sundry?”
“Same thing I told people the night it happened, same darn thing I’m going to tell you,” she answered. “I have no idea who that was.”
“You said ‘person’ instead of ‘man.’ Could it have been a woman?”
Shaking her head, Kathy said, “Nope, because he had a deep voice, a guy’s voice.”
“Then you heard him speak?”
“No, but Randy did.”
“Randy would be?”
“He’s Randy Kincaid—well, his real name is Ira Glanzman, but Randy Kincaid is his movie name,” she said. “He’s sort of my steady boyfriend just now.”
“He was the fellow in the Zorro costume?”
“That was him, yes, Mr. Marx. I told Randy he was too skinny to be wearing those tight black pants and that he ought to pad the legs and the fanny, but he wouldn’t listen to—”
“Any notion where I can find Randy?”
Smiling, she pointed at the closed bedroom door. “You’re in luck—he spent the night.”
“Have the FBI and the police and Sharkey talked to Randy?”
“No, because he’s been away on location the past couple days,” she said. “He had a pretty good bit part in the new Three Mesquiteers movie over at Republic. He got to speak two lines, and then Bob Livingston threw him into a horse trough.”
“I’ll be watching for that,” said Groucho. “Might I talk to the lad?”
She stood up. “Sure, he’s a big fan of the Marx Brothers, and he’ll be real thrilled to meet you, Mr. Marx,” she assured him. “I guess I ought to warn you, though, that he likes Harpo better than you.”
“So do I,” said Groucho.
Sixteen
The police car, he later told me, stopped Groucho’s Cadillac about three blocks from our Bayside house.
He’d decided a few minutes earlier to turn on the radio, in hopes of tuning in on some enlightening or uplifting program such as Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy. Instead, he came upon the Reverend Noah Hobson.
Organ music, of the sort you’d hear in an upper-class funeral parlor or at a very ornate society wedding, came pouring out of the dashboard speaker. A rich-voiced announcer said, “Once again, friends, it’s time to visit the Little Church by the Side of the Road … and the beloved radio preacher, Reverend Noah Hobson.”
“This mamzer has a regular radio show, and I don’t,” observed Groucho.
The music soared, then began slowly to fade. Reverend Hobson, whose voice was thin and reedy, said, “Bless all of you in my radio flock.” The last notes of the organ died. “Have you sent off that forceful telegram to President Roosevelt? Have you written that angry letter to President Roosevelt? If you haven’t, my dear friends, please, do so at once, because the fate of our entire great Christian nation hangs in the balance. Tell the president that you don’t want America to go to war. Tell him that if he aids Britain and France, he will antagonize Adolph Hitler and the brave people of Germany. He must not risk the future of our country simply to save the bloated financial interests of the European Jews. As we all know, my friends, that’s what this so-called Second World War is all about. The Jews, let me remind you, are also deeply entrenched right here in Los Angeles. They control our motion-picture industry, and they’d like very much to make you believe—”
Producing an angry sound, Groucho clicked off the car radio. “I’ve always been a champion of free speech,” he murmured, “but sometimes I wonder.”
By now the day was fading, the sky was graying, and a light rain had started to fall.
The dark sedan, with Beverly Hills Police Department markings on its door, pulled up beside him just as he was turning on his windshield wipers.
The lean plainclothes cop in the passenger seat motioned him to pull over.
Groucho obliged, easing his car into a parking space in front of a boarded-up bait shop.
The police car pulled up close behind him, and the tall, thin man in the blue double-breasted suit climbed out. He opened a plain black umbrella, held it over himself as he walked up to Groucho’s side of the Cadillac.
&n
bsp; Groucho rolled down his window partway.
“I’m Sergeant Jake Fuller of the Beverly Hills Police, Mr. Marx.”
“A bit out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”
Fuller’s smile was on the bleak side. “We like to look after our Beverly Hills people,” he said.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but I hate to see you getting rained on,” said Groucho. “Suppose I drop into headquarters some afternoon real soon and we can talk until we’re blue in the face. Which, in your case, probably won’t take all that long.”
“I’m afraid this really can’t wait, Mr. Marx,” said Sergeant Fuller, shifting his grip on the handle of his umbrella. “It’s come to our attention that you might be offending certain agencies of the United States government.”
“Ah, that must be because I’m not using the right dentifrice and my best friends are afraid to tell me,” said Groucho out into the rain.
“What we’d like to suggest, in your best interest, Mr. Marx, is that you lay the hell off the whole damn Eric Olmstead business. He’s dead and done for, so just back off.”
“Could you tell me, again in my best interest, exactly why, Sergeant?”
“Afraid I’m not at liberty to do that, Mr. Marx,” Fuller answered. “Let’s simply say that a lot of people, a lot of important people, would be happier if you gave up the idea of being a detective.”
Groucho said, “Alas, I have a stubborn streak. If it wasn’t raining so hard, I could take off my shirt and show it to you. The point is, I really hate to quit anything I start.”
Fuller leaned closer to the car window. “I’m sure, after you think about this for a spell, Mr. Marx, you’ll end up doing the right thing.” Turning on his heel, he went striding back to the police car.
“The whole dadburned world is starting to sound like Louis B. Mayer,” he observed, rolling up his window and starting his Cadillac. “Everybody wants me to quit.”
Jane had been dozing on the sofa, with Dorgan curled up at her feet. She sat up, smiling, as I let myself in from out of the rainy afternoon.
“Is it raining?” she asked, yawning and stretching.
“Or something very like.” I crossed our living room, bent and kissed her.
Our bloodhound stretched up, put his forepaws against my arm, and gave my cheek a slurpy lick.
“Ah, what a pleasure it is to come home to my humble crofter’s cottage after a long, weary day of crofting. It fair warms the cockleburs of my heart, with enough left over to heat up an average parlor.”
“Grouchoitis,” said Jane, smoothing her skirt.
“You think Groucho’s wife pipes up with ‘Frankitis’ every time he comes up with a witty remark?” I eased our bloodhound over a bit and sat down beside my wife.
Jane reached over to the end table to pick up a notebook. “I got some information from my friend Marlene at Starlite Costumes,” she announced. “Well, actually some information and a puzzle.”
“I do hope it’s not a crossword puzzle. I’m just terrible at … oof!”
She’d elbowed me in the ribs. “Just sit quietly and listen,” Jane advised. “Who’s that fat detective who never goes out and just sits around and solves things?”
“Nero Wolfe.”
“I think I do my best work that way, too.” She opened the notebook. “And I’m getting fatter every day.”
“You’re not planning to balloon up to three hundred pounds?”
“Some mornings I feel like I already have.”
“All of us fellers around the bunkhouse still call you Slim.” I kissed her again. “So what did you find out?”
“First, the information part,” she said, consulting her notes. “Ellison Costumes in Hollywood has two Grim Reaper outfits. But they only rented out one for the night of the thirtieth. That went to a Herman Brix. I’ve got his address.”
“He’s the B-movie actor who played Tarzan a couple years back,” I said. “I doubt he’s the one, but we can check it out.”
“Okay,” she said, tearing a page out of the book. “Here are the three other people who rented Grim Reaper costumes from various places for the night of October thirtieth.”
I studied the list, recognizing none of the names. “I’ll check on these tomorrow, too,” I said. “Now what about the puzzle?”
“Marlene also contacted her contacts at the various movie studios,” Jane said. “Three of the studio costume departments let people borrow Grim Reaper or Death costumes, but all of those went out on Halloween itself.”
“Interesting, but not puzzling.”
“Okay, here’s the puzzle. On the thirty-first somebody wanted to use the Grim Reaper outfit that they have at the Warlock Pictures Costume Department. It wasn’t there.”
I straightened up. “Somebody borrowed it on the thirtieth?”
“There’s no record of anybody taking it out or of how long it’s been missing. It’s just not there anymore,” she said. “I imagine that people, especially actors, swipe costumes and clothes now and then. Still, Frank, it’s probably more than a coincidence that that particular outfit disappeared.”
“If that’s our Grim Reaper, we’re going to have a tough time tracking it. Even with your burgeoning Nero Wolfe abilities.”
“If somebody on your suspect list works for Lockwood, that’ll narrow things down.”
“True, Jane, except that I must admit that Groucho and I don’t even have a suspect list so far,” I confessed. “Fact is, we’re not completely sure of all the things we have to suspect them of.”
Dorgan rose, gazing at the door. Quietly barking, wagging his tail, he hopped to the floor and trotted over to it.
“That’s not his agitated bark,” said Jane. “I’ll bet that’s Groucho.”
And it was.
Seventeen
Groucho set his coffee cup on the end table next to the armchair he was slouched in. “Okay, thus far you’ve been warned off by the minions of J. Edgar Hoover,” he said, summing up, “and I’ve been advised to forget the whole darn thing by the fashionable Beverly Hills police.”
“Don’t forget the anonymous fascist, or whatever he was, who threatened you on the telephone,” Jane reminded.
“Three warnings to date.” Groucho fished several sheets of folded yellow paper from a pocket of his desert-color sport coat. “Let us now compare notes, Rollo,” he suggested, unfolding the wad of papers. “Firstly, we shall discuss what information Zeppo turned up at—according to him—great personal expense from his business connections in London.”
“About Olmstead’s background?” I asked.
“Well, rather about Olmstead’s notable lack of background.” Groucho brought his notes up closer to his face. “He seems to be traceable no further back than nineteen-thirty-six when he directed a quota quickie for the Gifford Studios in Great Britain.”
“Didn’t the guy work his way up from rags to riches?”
“It’s possible,” said Groucho, “yet nobody has any idea of what he did or where he was before he materialized to direct She’s in the News in nineteen-thirty-six.”
“What’s his studio bio say?” asked Jane, who was sitting on the sofa with Dorgan beside her.
“The stuff Warlock hands out says Olmstead was born in Somerset, England, in the eighteen-nineties, attended Oxford, and entered the movie business in nineteen-thirty,” answered Groucho. “But like many a studio biography, most of it doesn’t seem to be true. And one of Zeppo’s sources of information happens to be a private-inquiry agent based in London.”
I was leaning in the kitchen doorway, ignoring the mug of coffee in my hand. “We had a similar situation back when we investigated the death of Felix Denker,” I said. “There the somebody with a faked background turned out to be a planted German agent.”
Groucho said, “And it seems as though Olmstead also had a faked background, Rollo.”
“But that doesn’t mean he was a Nazi spy,” Jane pointed out.
“If he was, however,�
� said Groucho, tapping his notes with his unlit cigar, “it would certainly tie in with other things I’ve found out.”
“If he was,” I added, “it would tie in with what I’ve found out.”
Nodding in my direction, Groucho said, “You first.”
Crossing the living room, I sat down on the sofa, with our bloodhound sprawled between me and my wife. “My friend Leon Elfson tells me that for the past several months a Professor William Cheshire of Cal Tech has been doing secret research for Lockwood Aero,” I said. “Cheshire’s developing a new airplane fuel that’s going to be very important to the defense effort, when and if we go to war.”
Groucho sat up. “Ah, once again it looks as though life is imitating art. And we’ve got spies trying to get hold of the plans.” He inserted his cigar between his teeth, lit it. “German agents would certainly be interested in the details of Cheshire’s fuel.”
“I know it sounds sort of like something out of Groucho Marx, Secret Agent,” I admitted. “But Elfson says that the Pentagon is very enthusiastic about what Cheshire’s working on and that all sorts of security measures are being taken to make sure nobody gets any information about his formula.”
Groucho left his chair and started pacing. “A chap who was married to Dinah Flanders would have access to Warren Lockwood and could probably even get into the Lockwood Aero setup, despite all sorts of security measures.”
Jane said, “You guys figure Olmstead was a German agent and that he married Dinah just because she was so cozy with Lockwood?”
“Sure sounds like a possibility,” I said.
“Keep in mind, my dear,” added Groucho, hands clasped behind his back, “that the Nazis may have a dozen agents working on finding out about the Cheshire formula. If Olmstead didn’t succeed, someone else might.”
Jane looked skeptical. “How’d they know for sure she’d go for him and marry the guy?”
“They didn’t,” I said, “but it was sure as hell worth a try.”
“Would Dinah Flanders be dumb enough to fall for something like that?”
“She’s probably not as discriminating at choosing mates as you are, my dear,” said Groucho.