Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders

by Ron Goulart

  “Wait now.” Arneson pushed into the bedroom, glanced at his unconscious boss, and nodded. He put a hand on the conductor’s arm. “What’s your name again?”

  “Hopkins. Leonard Hopkins.”

  “Okay, Leonard. Here’s the situation,” said the big man. “We don’t want this sort of publicity just now.”

  “But there’s been an attack on you and Mr. Manheim, possibly a murder attempt,” protested Hopkins. “I simply can’t let it—”

  “Sure, you can, Leonard,” cut in Arneson. “It’s not going to please Mr. Manheim, when he comes to his senses again, to find out that you’ve made a big stink about what is, far as I can see, a minor incident. We’re about to introduce a major new actress to the world. Unsubstantiated crap about a juvenile prank played aboard your train isn’t going to do us any good.”

  “Even so, Mr. Arneson—”

  “And, as you probably know, Mr. Manheim is a very good friend of several of your Santa Fe railroad executives,” continued Arneson, moving his hand from the conductor’s arm to his shoulder. “I’m not saying that annoying Mr. Manheim is going to affect your position with the Super Chief, Leonard, but it’s not likely it’ll do you a hell of a lot of good.”

  After a few silent seconds, Hopkins said, quietly, “I suppose, if you and Mr. Manheim don’t intend to make a complaint about what’s happened, well, then I can probably forget this.”

  Arneson grinned and let go of the conductor. “Mr. Manheim’s going to be pleased by your decision, Leonard.”

  The conductor looked down at the snoring producer, frowning. “But we’d best have a doctor look at him.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Arneson assured him. “I have some experience along that line. You just see about replacing those damaged lightbulbs, Leonard, and then forget all about this.” He lurched over to the doorway to eye Groucho. “Be nice if you didn’t blab about this either.”

  “Mum’s the word,” promised Groucho, bowing slightly in his direction. “Not much of a word, but one of the few I can think of at this ungodly hour. Good evening, one and all.”

  Ten

  Groucho, as best he could, paced his relatively small compartment while he recounted to Jane and me what had befallen him when he attempted to visit the baggage car. He paced in a sort of shuffling slouch, unlit cigar between his teeth, hands clasped behind his back.

  I was leaning against the wall, Jane was sharing the couch with Groucho’s guitar case.

  “And that, kiddies, concludes tonight’s episode of I Love a Mystery Not to Mention Three Awfully Cute Sailors,” he announced when he reached the end of his account.

  Jane watched him for a few seconds, then asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Well, I must admit I seem to be suffering from an acute case of the wimwams, but other than that—”

  “I mean this would-be assassin knocked you down,” she amplified. “Did you get hurt?”

  “I’ve taken so many tumbles that I’m immune to injury, my dear, but thanks for asking,” he said.

  “Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “Not much, Professor Quiz. Middle-sized, not tall. Since there was a minimum of illumination at the time, I didn’t see any details.”

  Jane said, “Man or woman?”

  Groucho narrowed his left eye and gazed at the ceiling of the compartment. “A man, I’m pretty certain. Although I wouldn’t swear to it in court. Although the last time I swore in court they washed out my mouth with soap and gave me thirty days. And you should’ve seen the days they gave me. Why, at least a dozen of them were Mondays and extremely moth-eaten. But, then, so was I.”

  I asked, “Are you thinking about our looking into this incident?”

  “No, definitely not, nope, nosiree.” Groucho held up his right hand in a halt-right-there gesture. “I might also add nay and not at all. This will be a detection-free sojourn. I merely, since you’ve occasionally served as my Boswell—that’s James not Connee—was anxious to fill you in on what’s been occurring in my rich and eventful life. The next event, by the way, will be the Annual Strawberry Festival, which will commence just the minute the strawberry in question arrives from far-off—”

  “When I referred to this guy as an assassin, you didn’t correct me,” put in Jane. “Do you fellas believe that somebody tried to murder Manheim?”

  Halting and frowning in my wife’s direction, Groucho said, “It makes no nevermind, Little Dorrit. The firm of Marx and Denby—Ratiocination While You Wait—isn’t interested in whether or not somebody attempted to bump off a mamzer like Manheim. I only wanted to inform you of—”

  “Seems to me,” she said, “that you can’t pick and choose, Groucho. I think you two ought to look into this some more, because maybe next time this mystery man will succeed in killing him. I wouldn’t want something like that on my conscience.”

  Groucho lit his cigar, slowly. Then he nodded in my direction. “What’s your opinion, Rollo?” he asked. “Are we obliged to protect Manheim?”

  I took a slow breath in and out. “We can at least poke around a little,” I told him. “Even though, from what you told us, Arneson wants to keep the lid on this.”

  Jane said, “That’s something else you two might think about. Why’s a publicity man so eager to cover this up?”

  I said, “That’s what a troubleshooter is supposed to do, Jane. Keep scandals hidden, see that the newspapers don’t find out about embarrassing—”

  “But that’s just it,” she persisted. “Why is this embarrassing? You could get a lot of swell publicity from it. You know, ‘Producer of Saint Joan Victim of Mystery Attack,’ ‘En Route to Introducing Dian Bowers to World, Manheim Attacked by Mystery Assailant.’”

  “That last one’s way too long for a headline.”

  “So make it a subhead. You ought to be wondering why Arneson doesn’t want this to get out.”

  Groucho exhaled smoke. “What’s your theory, Nancy Drew?”

  “Well, it could be that the guy knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “Knows who it was who assaulted him and Manheim?” I said.

  “Maybe so. But, listen, you fellas are the detectives, remember?” she said, grinning. “I’m only a gadfly. And a sleepy one at that.”

  Groucho had commenced pacing again, a bit more slowly than before. “One thing to establish is what was actually afoot in Manheim’s bedroom,” he said. “Somebody rendered him unconscious with chloroform. And that somebody was seen, by a reliable witness—one Julius Marx, unemployed steeplejack—in the producer’s vicinity clutching what looked very much like a knife.”

  I said, “That somebody also knocked Arneson out, probably with a blackjack. Then he goes in and chloroforms Manheim, so that he can then take his time stabbing him and making sure he hits a vital spot.”

  “What about the lights in the corridor?” asked Jane.

  “Hm?” I inquired.

  “Why did the mystery man put out the lights in the corridor.”

  “So he could sneak up on Arneson, probably,” I answered.

  “The lights were on when Arneson got slugged,” said Groucho. “Besides, it would be difficult to smash the lights without attracting the guy’s attention, since he was patrolling the area.”

  “So he bops him, goes in and drugs Manheim, comes back out to put the lights on the fritz, then goes back in to try his stabbing?”

  “He no doubt wanted to work under the cover of as much darkness as possible—one reason he brought a flashlight along,” said Groucho, dropping into a chair.

  Jane snapped her fingers. “Hey, suppose there were two people involved,” she said, straightening up. “One to deck our erstwhile football player, the other to go in and knife Manheim.”

  Groucho shook his head. “I didn’t see anybody else lurking around.”

  “It was dark,” reminded Jane.

  “Arneson’s a former fullback,” I said. “If a former fullback falls over in the corridor, wouldn’t som
ebody have heard it?”

  “Is this one of those philosophical speculations,” asked Groucho, “like the one about the tree falling in the forest?”

  “Apparently Manheim didn’t hear anything,” said Jane. “It might be worthwhile to talk to the other passengers in that car. Does this protégée of his, Dian Bowers, have a bedroom in that same car, for instance?”

  “Am I correct in concluding that you think we should go ahead and investigate this sordid incident?” Groucho asked me.

  “It’ll help us pass the time on the trip,” I pointed out.

  “Okay, but I prefer cribbage,” said Groucho. “Or, if worse comes to worst, corned beef and cribbage.”

  “What about motive?” said Jane.

  “Our motive, according to your common-law hubby, is to avoid playing cribbage and enjoying scenic America while rushing eastward in this streamlined cattle car.”

  “I mean the motive for killing Manheim. Any notions?”

  “A recent survey conducted by the Mind Your Own Beeswax Foundation of Petaluma determined that well over fifty percent of the people in the movie business have good reason to loathe Manheim and wish him dead,” said Groucho, puffing on his cigar. “We’re going to have to work some to narrow that list down. I’d also estimate that half the people on this streamliner don’t like him.”

  “The dancer,” said Jane.

  “You think maybe?” I said to my wife.

  “He’d be on my list if I were a sleuth, yes.”

  “Oh, what fun,” said Groucho, clapping his hands together. “I just love guessing what in the blue blazes you two pixies are babbling about.”

  I explained about the young dancer who’d heckled the movie producer during the platform press conference. “His first name is Len,” I wound up.

  “I’ve been able to establish diplomatic relations with several of the young ladies in the Step Right Up dance troupe,” said Groucho. “I’ll make a few discreet inquiries come morning.”

  Jane yawned a small yawn. “Morning’s not that far off,” she said, standing. “We better think about turning in, Frank.”

  “Go right ahead, you young folks,” said Groucho. “I’ll be just simply fine all alone here in my cell, with only my memories and those tusks we brought back from our last expedition to Tarzana.”

  Jane crossed to him, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “Send for us if you fall over again, Groucho.”

  I said good night and we went along the corridor to our compartment.

  Eleven

  The next morning, as the speeding streamliner was approaching Gallup, New Mexico, Groucho came slouching into the slightly swaying dining car and seated himself next to the pretty red-haired dancer. Her name was Franki Rafferty and Groucho had, he later told me, arranged to meet her for breakfast so he could gather information. “And I wasn’t above gathering a few rosebuds while I might,” he added.

  Outside the diner windows showed an immense stretch of desert, dotted with prickly organ-pipe cactus and spiky yucca plants.

  “No funny stuff,” Franki warned as Groucho dropped into the chair next to hers.

  Groucho straightened up, assuming a fairly convincing maligned expression. “Funny stuff? I’d like to see the man who dares accuse Groucho Marx of being funny.”

  “I mean funny stuff of a hugging, pinching kind, Groucho,” Franki amplified. “Everything’ll be hunky-dory if you keep both hands in plain sight at all times. Okay?”

  He sighed. “It’s going to make it more difficult for me to guess your weight, my child,” he said. “But so be it.”

  She returned to studying the menu. “I take it you’re picking up the tab?”

  “I’ll have you know that the Marx clan is famed throughout the South for never allowing a lady to pick up a check,” he assured her. “Of course, I think it only fair to warn you that we’re not in the South at the moment.”

  “I think I’ll have the French toast.”

  Consulting his menu, Groucho said, “I suppose we can afford that,” he decided. “I don’t see any gruel listed on the bill of fare, so I’ll have—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Marx.” A plump middle-aged woman in a flowered dress had stopped beside their table, a small box camera held tightly in both hands.

  “Ah, I see they’ve taken to heart the note I dropped in the suggestion box on my last trip and have added gorgeous waitresses to their staff. We’ll have—”

  “No, I’m a fellow passenger,” she corrected. “May I take your picture?”

  Groucho leaned back in his chair, took a cigar from his breast pocket. “That’s going to depend, dear lady, on which picture you want to take,” he informed her as he unwrapped the cigar. “The framed Varga girl I have in a place of honor over my bedstead I’d miss a lot. However, the dying cowboy that hangs over the mantel in the living room you can swipe whenever you’re in the neighborhood. His horse is wall-eyed and—”

  “No, I meant,” she said, holding up the camera, “I want to take your picture with my Brownie.”

  He shook his head. “Alas, due to an onerous clause in my contract, I’m not allowed to be photographed with elves, gnomes, trolls, or brownies,” he explained. “However, should you care to snap an informal portrait of me and this far-from-zaftig young lady, why, shoot if you must.”

  “That’s what I had in mind, Mr. Marx,” she said, looking down at him through the camera.

  “Hands in plain sight,” reminded Franki as Groucho started to put an avuncular arm around her.

  The plump woman snapped two quick pictures, thanked him, and went back to her place a few tables away.

  After the waiter took their written breakfast orders, Groucho got to the real point of this get-together. “Forgive an old man’s curiosity, Francesca, but I’m eager for information about some of the other members of your gifted ensemble.”

  “So you did have an ulterior motive for inviting me to breakfast, huh?”

  “Yes, I did,” he confessed. “But that’s better than a posterior motive, which is what often drives my—”

  “Maggie was right.”

  “Is she one of the blondes?”

  “At the moment, yeah. She told me that you’re probably playing detective again,” said Franki. “Because of that attack on Manheim.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You lasses know about that?”

  “C’mon, Groucho, it’s all over the darn train.”

  Dropping the unlit cigar back into his pocket, he asked her, “Any ideas about who’d try to do him harm?”

  “Ask me, it’s a publicity stunt. To promote that flat-chested latest discovery of his. Joan of Arc, my fanny.”

  Groucho observed, “A somewhat drastic way to get publicity.”

  “Manheim, so I hear, is a pretty drastic guy.”

  Groucho asked, “What about the chap who heckled him in Union Station yesterday?”

  “Len Cowan?” She gave a shake of her head. “He’s just a harmless hothead. I’ve worked with Len before—a year or so ago at RKO—and he’s the kind of guy who’s always flying off the handle. But he limits himself to yelling and making scenes and doesn’t go in for physical assaults.”

  “Who was the Kathy Sutter he alluded to?”

  Franki looked out the window, watching the bright morning desert rush by. “Well, her real name was Kathy Cowan.”

  “Len’s wife?”

  “Sister.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Groucho, resting an elbow on the tabletop. “And how does it tie in with Manheim?”

  “It was about two years ago,” she said. “Kathy was … hell, she was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three.” She took a slow breath in and out. “Manheim discovered her, too.”

  “But something went wrong?”

  “Yeah, just about everything,” Franki answered. “Kathy had never gotten out of the chorus, but she’d studied ballet since she was a kid. Anyway, Manheim noticed her. See, he was planning to do an epic about Pavlova and he had a hunc
h he could turn Kathy into a star and that she’d be perfect for the leading role. She became one more of his discoveries and he groomed her, had his people remodel her and … well, they became lovers for a while.”

  Groucho nodded.

  Franki said, “After about five months Manheim decided he wasn’t going to make a Pavlova flicker after all. From that moment he wasn’t interested anymore in having her at his studio or in his bed.”

  Frowning deeply, Groucho said, “I remember her now, reading about her in the papers. She—”

  “Killed herself, yeah. Swam out into the Pacific from Santa Monica one night until she couldn’t swim anymore,” said Franki quietly. “Then she drowned. A nice Hollywood finish.”

  “And her brother blames Manheim for her death.”

  “Sure, wouldn’t you?” she said. “Kathy, poor kid, was sort of soft and not very sure of herself. Me, I would have spit in Manheim’s eye and told him where he could stuff Pavlova. But Kathy … she just gave up.”

  “Did you folks know that Manheim was going to be traveling on this particular Super Chief?”

  “Sure, it was in all the trades. Don’t you read them?”

  “I can only afford to subscribe to Nick Carter’s Weekly, I fear.”

  When the breakfasts arrived, Franki looked down at her plate and then shook her head. “Funny, I don’t feel hungry at all, Groucho. Think I’ll head back to my roomette.” She pushed back from the table.

  “If you don’t mind, my child, I won’t escort you,” he said, watching her get up. “Someone had better stay here and look after all this French toast.”

  While Groucho was occupied in the diner, I headed up through the train toward the bedroom car where Manheim had his trouble. Groucho had suggested that I talk to Dian Bowers and find out what she knew about the attack.

  Making my way through the car that housed the roomettes—which even Santa Fe literature described as tiny—I had to dodge wandering members of the Step Right Up bunch, who were room-hopping, heading for the dining car, or simply loitering.

  A blonde, freckled dancer signaled me as I passed her open roomette. “You’re a friend of Groucho Marx, aren’t you?”