by Ron Goulart
“How was that going to happen?”
“She didn’t provide any specific details, Frank. I suspect, though I hate to say this about anyone who was sort of a friend of mine, that Marsha was blackmailing somebody.”
“You don’t know who?”
Shaking her head, Victoria replied, “She never confided anything in me about it. My suspicion grew out of stuff I overheard, just fragments of a couple of telephone conversations, and things I inferred.”
“You expected to find something here?”
“I thought that if I could find anything pointing to whoever Marsha was trying to blackmail, that would give a pretty good idea of who killed her. That is, if she was murdered and they made it seem like an accident,” Victoria said. “If I did come up with a substantial clue, I was planning to turn it over to you and Groucho to investigate, or, in a pinch, to the police.”
I pressed the palm of my right hand to the floor, announcing, “I’m going to try to stand up.”
The blonde got swiftly to her feet, took hold of my hand as I tottered upward. “If you feel woozy, holler.”
“And then what?”
“Well, at least I’ll know you’re woozy.”
I was able, with Victoria’s help, to get myself seated on the bed. “Thanks,” I said, and then noticed the portfolio. “The books. Look over on the dressing table—any books there?”
She crossed over, then shook her head and knelt. “Nothing on top and … nope, nothing on the floor either. What sort of books?”
“Hate literature is what I guess you’d have to call it. Three works by Dr. Helga Krieger—in German.”
Victoria frowned, running her tongue over her upper lip. “I think I heard that name someplace.”
“From your roommate?”
“Marsha didn’t mention it to me directly, no, but I seem to recall hearing her say it once while she was on the telephone in the kitchen.” She, slowly, shook her head. “Darn, I’m simply not sure, Frank. Is Dr. Helga Krieger a Nazi or something like that?”
“All I know so far is that she was living in Munich in 1930 and wrote some lousy books.”
“The person who bopped you obviously swiped the books.”
“Apparently so, yeah.”
“That means they must be important.”
“That it does, but thus far I haven’t any idea why.”
A frown touched her forehead. “I wonder if that’s what they were looking for at our place, if, indeed, as I sort of suspected at the time, it was searched.”
“Somebody searched your house?”
“I’m fairly certain, yes,” she answered. “See, Frank, I came home from the radio studio the night after Marsha was killed, and, you know, I felt bad about performing so soon after her death but, show business being what it is, you have to go on no matter what, especially with radio because you can’t simply have dead air, although I suppose they could have rounded up somebody to fill in for me, and I got the distinct impression that somebody had been in the place. It was subtle, the furniture hadn’t been tossed around or pictures taken off the wall, but things just didn’t seem like they were exactly where they had been.”
“You report it to the police?”
She shook her head. “Lots of people, especially of the official sort, tend to write me off as a scatterbrain,” she answered. “So I didn’t say anything to anybody, until now. But it’s possible they were hunting for those same books.”
“But you never saw anything like that around the house? Or anything else Marsha might’ve been hiding?”
“Not a thing, no, Frank, although, obviously, I had no reason to think the poor kid was hiding important books or documents, you know. It was only after Denker’s murder that I really decided to do some snooping around. I didn’t find anything at home, so I decided to come here.”
I felt in the coat pocket where I’d earlier stowed the borrowed picture of Denker and the girl who was probably Marsha Tederow. Finding that the photo was still there, I took it out. “Would this be—”
“Look, here’s your wallet.” She reached over next to a leg of the dressing table and retrieved it.
I hadn’t realized it had been removed. After she returned it to me, I checked the contents. I still had my thirty-seven dollars in cash and all my identification and the strip of photos of Jane and me we’d taken at a penny arcade last summer. “Well, now the Phantom knows who I am, even including how much I weigh and what my Social Security number is,” I reflected, sticking the wallet back in my hip pocket. “He may, of course, have known that already.”
“Where’d you get that picture of Marsha and the weasel?”
“Mantel up in the living room. It is her?”
Victoria had picked up the photo I’d dropped to the bedspread when she handed me my wallet. “Yes, that’s Marsha with Denker,” she answered quietly. “I know you’re supposed to speak well of the dead, but I believe that everything bad that happened to her was his fault.”
I took the picture back, asking, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Hush up, you mean?”
“No, it’s that I’d like to try to drive home to our place in Bayside. You got here in a car?”
“Yes, and I can give you a lift home. That’d be much safer than my trailing you all the way to Bayside to make sure—”
“I’m reluctant to leave my Ford sitting here until I can arrange to come back for it.”
“Okay,” she said, holding out her hand again. “I’ll get you tucked into your car and then tag along behind you.”
“That’s swell, Victoria.”
“If you feel at all woozy or dizzy or poorly in any way while you’re driving, simply stick your hand out the window and wave, or if you’re too weak to do that, toot your horn. If you’re not up even to that, I’ll just have to wait until you careen off the road and hope for the best and that I can get there before you do serious harm to yourself.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
Our caravan made it home without my careening off the road once.
Thirteen
“This is quite a treat,” Groucho told the hovering British actor, “getting to meet the Giant Rat of Sumatra in person like this. Any red-blooded Conan Doyle fan would envy me.”
“If only your own obvious appreciation of your inane remarks were shared by the world, my dear Groucho, you’d be a clever man indeed.” Uninvited, the slender, vaguely handsome Miles Ravenshaw seated himself opposite Groucho and took a puff of his meerschaum pipe.
“Do they know at Mammoth that you’re bringing your Sherlock Holmes props home from work, Ravenshaw?”
Before the actor could respond, a waiter had trotted over to ask, “Will the gentleman be joining you, Mr. Marx?”
“No, and neither will Mr. Ravenshaw.” Groucho tapped the menu. “My appetite, alas, has seriously faded. I do believe I’ll simply have a bowl of soup.”
“We have beef barley and chicken noodle.”
“I’ll try the chicken noodle.”
“Very good, sir.” The long, thin waiter jotted down the order, bowed, and started walking away.
Groucho called after him, “Quick, Watson, the noodle.”
Ravenshaw exhaled smoke. “I hope you understand, my dear fellow, that such crude—”
“Does your valet have to iron your profile every morning to get it to look like that?”
“When I noticed you sitting here, I stepped over to pass along some advice.”
Holding up his right hand in a stop-right-there gesture, Groucho suggested, “What say we have a man-to-man discussion? And, yes, I’ll wait until you go out and get a man to represent you.”
“Frankly, Groucho, your—”
“Here’s the sum total of what I have to say to you at this time.” Groucho rested both elbows on the tabletop. “I don’t believe you give a damn about who killed Felix Denker or about seeing justice done. You’re in this solely to promote The Valley of Fear.”
“Ah, yes,
and I suppose your motives are noble and completely unselfish.”
“They are indeed, Shylock. I’m interested in furthering the cause of a deserving group of unemployed vaudevillians.”
“You’re dead wrong about me, Groucho,” the actor assured him. “As a former Scotland Yard inspector, with considerable experience in murder investigations, I know I can solve the murder of Felix Denker. And, frankly, I shall accomplish that before the police do.” He leaned forward, holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “I can safely state, my dear fellow, that I am this far from a solution.”
“Congratulations, it isn’t every man who’s as close as his own putz length to solving a murder case.”
Bestowing a disdainful expression on Groucho, the actor said, “Your so-called droll remarks are growing exceedingly—”
“How about a picture, fellows?” A pudgy young man with a camera had stopped beside the booth. “I’m with the Associated Press and a photo of you two friendly rivals having a powwow will—”
“Oh, dear, I fear not,” said Groucho demurely. “As a dedicated disciple of both Mahatma Gandhi and Greta Garbo, I shun the limelight and passively avoid all forms of vulgar publicity.”
“C’mon, Groucho, you know damned well that—”
“Well, perhaps merely one fleeting shot, young man,” he conceded. “But, mind you now, see to it that it’s not too flattering and do try to arrange things so that I don’t come out looking too much more dazzlingly cute than Mr. Ravenshaw. You might also want to make certain that Mr. Ravenshaw doesn’t look too much like John Barrymore again, because that’s simply going to lead to another of those annoying plagiarism suits. For myself—”
“My dear Groucho, do allow this long-suffering young chap to take our photograph, won’t you, please? After that, I can, having done my best to dissuade you from your path of folly, take my leave and—”
“Of course, yes, forgive my schoolgirl prattle.” Groucho smoothed out the front of his jacket. “Be sure you bring out the sparkle in my eyes.”
Grinning, the photographer backed a few feet and readied his camera.
A few seconds before he was about to shoot, the waiter returned with Groucho’s bowl of chicken noodle soup.
At that same instant, Groucho decided to hop up and seat himself on the edge of the table with both hands locked under his chin in a cherubic pose. Somehow his elbow managed to whap the soup bowl and send its steaming contents splashing down into Ravenshaw’s lap.
Looking both stunned and uncomfortable, the Holmes impersonator started to leap up off his seat.
That scene was the one that went out on the AP wire across the country that afternoon.
Before returning to his Cadillac, Groucho decided to stop at a small cigar store to use the telephone.
He was about ten feet from the narrow doorway when a plump middle-aged woman stepped into his path. Lurking to her rear, clutching a box camera, was a plump middle-aged man.
“Mr. Marx, would you pose with me?” she requested
He halted and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “By jingo, that’s a top-notch suggestion,” he said, starting to undo his necktie. “There’s nothing I enjoy better than posing in the nude.”
Holding up both hands in front of her, she took a step back. “No, no, I meant just pose for a snapshot.”
“It doesn’t have to be an oil painting, dear lady,” he assured her. “I’m equally happy to pose for a nude snapshot. Come along now, start shedding those garments.”
“I’m afraid I got off on the wrong foot,” she said, glancing over toward her husband. “All I want is a simple snapshot of you and me standing side by side. Fully clothed.”
Looking disappointed, Groucho said, “Well, okay, if you’ve gotten cold feet. And, from what you’ve just told me, they’re the wrong cold feet at that.”
Cautiously, she moved near to him again. “I truly appreciate this, Mr. Marx,” she said. “I’m a real admirer of the Marx Brothers.”
“Could I interest you in some nude photos of the whole set of them?”
Inside the cigar store, Groucho stepped up to the counter. “Give me a couple of Don José cigars,” he told the small, pale proprietor.
“Those are expensive. Cost you four bits each.”
“I can afford it. I just won the Yiddish Sweepstakes.”
The man handed him an open box of cigars. “Don’t I know you?”
“Quite probably. I’m the Lost Dauphin of France.”
“No, you’re Groucho Marx.”
“You think so? Darn, that means I’ve been wearing this uncomfortable iron mask for naught all these years.” He selected two cigars, placed a dollar bill on the glass countertop. “And you should see what naught’s been wearing for me.”
“Can I ask you something, Groucho?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve my steamy sex life or the capitals of the states.”
“How come you guys made a clunker like Room Service?”
“It’s part of a religious rite known as penance,” explained Groucho as he tucked the cigars away in the breast pocket of his jacket. “They promised us that if we made that movie, why, ten thousand suffering souls would be released from purgatory.” He consulted his wristwatch. “And, now, with considerable reluctance, I’m going to bid you fond farewell and journey over to that phone booth yonder.”
“Be my guest, Groucho.”
Inside the booth, he first called the office of his brother Zeppo.
“Good afternoon, brother mine, this is your favorite sibling and … What do you mean, it doesn’t sound like Chico? It is I, the incomparable Julius, who … No, I’m definitely not comparable. Now then, Zep, to business and … Of course, I have time for purely sociable conversation. How are you? Good, now then … I didn’t know you had a sore throat, or I would’ve inquired about it. I was saying just the other evening to Louella Parsons, while she was modeling some of her latest winter underwear for me and Willie Hearst, that if there was one thing in this cockeyed world I was truly interested in, it was my youngest brother’s throat. So how’s your throat already? … No, I’m sincerely interested. Better, huh? Well sir, there’s the sort of news that’ll cheer the boys at the front and, I’ll wager, make Kaiser Bill think twice about … Straying from the point? I’ve had the point clearly in mind ever since I wandered into this phone kiosk several hours ago and … Well, actually, Zeppo, I’d like you to do me a small favor. What I … No, that’s certainly not true. I don’t just telephone you when I want a favor. If you’ll think back to the year 1911, you’ll recall that I telephoned you to say nothing more than that I had spilled soup on that vest of yours I’d borrowed to wear to the Harvest Moon Ball. I distinctly … the favor? You have, because of your activities as an internationally successful talent agent, contacts in London. I’d appreciate it if you would contact a reliable source over there and see what you can come up with on Miles Ravenshaw. He claims to … You do? Well, thank you. Yes, it should provide some nice publicity for me and Frank and our proposed screwball comedy. But I really do want to solve this damn case. Anything you can dig up about Ravenshaw’s association with Scotland Yard, scandals, feuds, possible prior connections with Felix Denker or Erika Klein, will be greatly appreciated and … I know it’s expensive to phone or cable London. That’s exactly why I’m turning to my most solvent sibling. I’ll let you get going on the project, Zeppo.”
Dropping in another nickel, he dialed his office.
“Groucho Marx Enterprises,” answered Nan.
“This is Julius the Magnificent. I seem to be suffering from partial amnesia and can’t remember what comes after hocus. Can you suggest—”
“Quit clowning. Frank’s been hurt.”
“How seriously?”
“He’ll be okay. Poor guy got slugged by somebody with a blackjack.”
“Where is he?”
“Home, with Jane taking care of him,” she answered. “She just had a doctor in looking him over and
he’s going to be okay. But he has to rest up for a day or so.”
“I called to tell you I was planning to head out to Altadena Community College next,” Groucho said to his secretary. “But this alters things. I’ll scoot over to Frank’s.”
“That would be the thoughtful thing to do.”
“Okay, but don’t go blabbing to anybody that I actually did something thoughtful.” He hung up.
Fourteen
When Jane opened our front door, a large floral horseshoe came walking in out of the waning afternoon. The banner across its front proclaimed Lots of Luck with Your Kosher Butcher Shop!
Carrying the flower piece across the living room and draping it on an arm of the sofa I was reclining on, Groucho explained, “This was the closest thing I could find to ‘Sorry you got conked on the noggin in the line of duty’ at the day-old florist shop. There was an awfully nice wreath of yellow roses, but it read ‘Rest in Peace, Aunt Edith, from the Amalgamated Tool and Die Craftsmen.’ That struck me as a trifle morbid.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” I assured him, sitting up.
He leaned close, stretching in an attempt to get a look at the back of my head. “Nan informs me you’re not seriously incapacitated.”
“A minor concussion,” I said. “The blow was sufficient to knock me cold, but it didn’t do any major damage.”
“It could’ve, though,” said Jane, gathering up the flower piece and carrying it over to lean against the wall. “You fellows have barely started investigating this business and already Frank’s getting bopped on the head.”
I said, “It’s okay, Jane, you and I have already talked about this and—”
“I’m not nagging,” she said. “What I’m doing is reminding you two Junior G-Men that you’re messing around with something serious.”
“You’re absolutely right, Jane.” Groucho settled into an armchair. “And I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting your hubby to be attacked so early in the game. Usually he doesn’t get coldcocked until the third or fourth day of the—”
“What say,” I suggested, “we quit chatting about my stupidity and compare notes on—”