by Ron Goulart
“Suggesting that you stay away from your wife?”
“Exactly, yeah. He told me that he knew I’d invited her to the opening performance tonight,” said Washburn. “That I was going to ruin her career if I didn’t give her up completely and—”
“I know,” cut in Dian. “I’ve been trying to explain to him that being his bright new discovery didn’t mean I was his indentured slave.”
Groucho was glancing over at the dead movie producer, who was spread out facedown on the library carpet. “Couple of cuts and bruises on what you can see of Manheim’s cheek,” he observed. “Seems unlikely he did that when he fell.”
Washburn shook his head. “No, I did that,” he admitted. “He tried to take a poke at me and … well, I slugged the bastard a few times.”
“And then?”
“They called me to go on,” answered the actor. “So I left Manheim sitting, groggy, in the armchair in my dressing room.”
“You never saw him again until he came tumbling out of the closet?”
“That’s right, Groucho,” said Washburn, nodding. “See, Andy Truett doesn’t actually do the fall out of the closet. It’s supposed to be a realistic-looking dummy.” He pointed a thumb at the open closet door. “Thing is rigged to come toppling out when I yank the door open. Then just before the Act Two curtain rises, Andy comes out and takes the dummy’s place. Saves a lot of wear and tear on the old boy.”
“Any idea how Manheim came to replace the dummy?
Washburn said, “Nope, not a one.”
The gaunt man said, “I noticed the dummy lying behind the flat. That’s where whoever tossed it when they replaced it with this guy.”
“Anybody see that happen?”
“Nobody’s mentioned it as yet, but things are still pretty confused around here.” He held out his hand. “I’m Peter Goodwin, by the way, the stage manager.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Groucho said. “I’m merely an old busybody who’s taking an interest in this business.”
“I saw you and your brothers in I’ll Say She Is when I was a kid,” said Goodwin. “You were terrific.”
“I used to be, yes,” said Groucho. “Where’s this Andy who plays Lawyer Pringle?”
“Probably snoozing in his dressing room,” answered Washburn. “That’s what he did during our last couple of dress rehearsals.”
“And who would’ve—”
“Would you folks mind if I took over and asked some questions?” A middle-sized, dark-haired man in a rumpled grey suit had stepped onto the stage and was striding toward them. “I’m Lieutenant Lewin, New York City Police.”
Groucho frowned. “About ten years ago weren’t you the patrolman Herb Lewin whose beat was the theater district?”
The plainclothes policeman looked more closely at Groucho. “By gosh, Groucho Marx,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you right off without your moustache.”
After touching his upper lip, Groucho shook hands with the cop. “All the public opinion polls seem to agree on that point,” he said.
Lewin said, “The rest of my crew will be here in a minute or so. I’d appreciate it if all of you got off the stage and waited for me in the wings.” He moved closer to Groucho. “I hear you’ve been solving mysteries out in Hollywood, playing detective.”
“Actually, Herb, I’ve mostly been playing Old Maid and Gin Rummy.”
“And you don’t intend to poke around in this case?”
Groucho eyed the catwalks high above the stage. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said, “I might do a wee bit of poking.”
The body was being carried out of the backstage entrance on a stretcher as we arrived at the Coronet. Three photographers and four reporters were already in the alley, where they’d been working at trying to persuade the two uniformed policemen on duty there to allow them inside the theater.
They went scattering backwards now, turning and following the stretcher. The photographers started to shoot pictures of Manheim’s corpse as it was being hauled toward the waiting ambulance.
Jane and I approached one of the cops, a large heavyset guy. “I’m Frank Denby,” I said.
“Are you now? And so what?”
My wife smiled at him. “We’re wanted inside and we were told we’d be admitted to—”
“Oh, you must be Jane Danner,” he said. “I read Hollywood Molly every blessed day in the Sun. And this lad with you is who exactly?”
“My current husband,” she explained, taking hold of my arm.
The policeman nodded. “Lieutenant Lewin did mention you’d be dropping by, Miss Danner,” he acknowledged. “You and this fellow can go right in, but, and this is straight from the lieutenant, be sure you don’t get in the way.”
“We’ll be very unobtrusive,” she promised as we climbed the three concrete steps to enter the backstage area.
There were several plainclothes officers in the theater, including a forensic crew that was prowling out on stage.
“There he is,” I said, spotting Groucho standing by himself over in front of a closed dressing room door. Both his hands were behind his back and he had an unlit cigar grasped in his teeth. “You seem to be lost in thought, Groucho.”
“Well, that’s better than being lost in the Himalayas,” he answered. “And warmer, too.” He executed a slouching, flat-footed skating motion and caught Jane’s hand. After kissing it with appropriate sound effects, he told her, “Ah, it’s a distinct pleasure to see you once again, Miss Jane. You’re looking stunning this evening.”
“I’m aware of that, yes,” she said. “In fact, I paused to stun a few passersby on the way over here, which is why we’re a little late.”
Groucho gave me a sad look, shaking his head ruefully. “I suppose, Rollo, it’s too late to have your marriage annulled?”
“Yeah, because I foolishly went ahead and consummated it already,” I replied. “How was Manheim killed?”
“Very dramatically,” he said. “He was part of the play and provided, quite probably, one of the best first act curtains in dramatic history. Selznick, Zanuck, and DeMille will have to go some to depart this world as flamboyantly as did Daniel Manheim.” Groucho then outlined to us what had happened during the performance of Make Mine Murder.
“Was he stabbed?” I asked when he concluded the account.
Groucho nodded. “Three times, near the heart,” he answered. “Very forceful blows.”
“Ruling out a woman?”
“Not if she’s an athletic type.”
Jane asked him, “How come you have details about the wounds and such?”
“Firstly, I am a brilliant observer,” he said, holding up his right hand and ticking off a finger. “Secondly, I am a crackerjack detective. And, most important of all, I know Lieutenant Herb Lewin, who’s in charge of this investigation, and he told me.”
“You’re getting cooperation from the police?” I said, surprised.
“We all knew Lewin. He was a pal of ours, back when he was a beat cop here in Manhattan and we were the toast of Broadway,” he explained. “Or rather, Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo were the toast and I was the marmalade.”
I noticed that Bill Washburn’s name was on the placard tacked to the dressing room door. “You told me Washburn was a possible suspect.”
Taking my arm and making a come-along gesture toward Jane, he escorted us over to the vicinity of an old humpback prop trunk. Perching on it, Groucho said, “I don’t suspect the lad, but Herb Lewin, I’m pretty sure, does.”
“Seems unlikely Washburn would murder somebody and hide him on the set of his own darn play,” observed Jane.
“My feelings exactly, Nurse Jane,” agreed Groucho. “But I’m not a Manhattan minion of the law. And, we must admit, Washburn and Manheim had a conspicuous row in his dressing room just before Washburn went on stage. Further—which didn’t please the cops at all—Washburn admits punching our defunct producer. The chaps made considerable noise, which was heard by all and sundry. Includi
ng Our Gal Sundry.”
“People heard the fracas,” I said, “but nobody saw who switched Manheim’s body with the dummy?”
“That brings up another interesting point,” said Groucho, taking his unlit cigar from his mouth and holding it like a pointer. “It was dark backstage and, because of the aforementioned thunderstorm effects, noisy and distracting. The stagehand who is usually stationed near the backside of the closet door to facilitate the dummy’s safe passage fell asleep on the job.”
“With some help?” I asked.
“Exactly, Rollo. Somebody bopped him on the coco with the proverbial sap.”
“What it sounds like to me,” I said, “is the same person who tried for Manheim on the Super Chief. His favorite tools included a blackjack and a knife.”
“And that would rule out Washburn, since he’s been rehearsing this storm-tossed melodrama right here in New York City for over a week and hasn’t been aboard even so much as a subway.”
Jane suggested, “So maybe you’re worrying over nothing, Groucho. It’s unlikely the police will—”
The door of Washburn’s dressing room snapped open and a middle-sized, dark-haired plainclothes cop came striding out. “We found the weapon, Groucho,” he said, holding up a handkerchief-wrapped knife.
Twenty
Just as the police were escorting Bill Washburn out of the theater for further questioning downtown, a very agitated Hal Arneson came pushing his way backstage.
When he recognized the actor, Arneson made a lunge in his direction. “You son of a bitch, you killed Manheim,” he accused loudly, attempting to take a swing at him.
One of Lieutenant Lewin’s men caught the husky publicity man’s arm, tugging him off balance and back. “That’s enough, buddy.”
Lewin had been standing nearby, talking to Groucho, me, and Jane. “Who’s this guy?” he asked us.
“Hal Arneson,” I answered. “He’s Manheim’s flack, troubleshooter, and bodyguard.”
“He didn’t do too well on that last chore,” observed the cop.
“You had it all worked out, huh?” the angry Arneson was shouting. “Decoy me to goddamn Greenwich Village and then lure Manheim here so you could murder him.”
“You’re nuts,” said Washburn. “I didn’t have a damn thing to do with—”
“Suppose you talk to me, Mr. Arneson?” the lieutenant said, moving closer to the group. “I’m Lieutenant Lewin, New York Police.”
We followed.
“This bastard,” said Arneson, breathing through his open mouth, “left a phony message for me at our hotel. It said that Dian wasn’t coming here to the Coronet at all. No, she was going to meet an entirely different boyfriend at the Fischer Hotel in the Village. Gave the room number and every—”
“You believed that of me, Hal?” Dian had been quietly watching them lead her husband out.
“Hell, if you’ll sneak off to meet Washburn, there’s no telling what—”
“Got that note, Arneson?” Lieutenant Lewin held out his hand.
“Naw, I tossed it in a trash can down on Bleecker Street.”
“Did you send it, Washburn?”
“No, damn it,” denied the young actor. “This guy is full of baloney. He and his boss were always imagining that Nancy was up to some—”
“Who might Nancy be?” asked the lieutenant.
“He means me,” explained Dian. “My real name’s Nancy Washburn.”
“To some people it looked overprotective,” said Arneson, frowning. “But this is show business and we were only protecting a valuable property.”
I asked him, “How’d you know Manheim’d been killed?”
He glared at me. “Who asked you to butt in again? Didn’t we make it clear on that train that we didn’t want any help from you or Groucho?”
“It’s commencing to appear,” said Groucho, “that you would have been wise to let us lend a hand on the Super Chief after somebody tried to shuffle Manheim off.”
“That was our problem,” the big man told him. “We didn’t need a baggy-pants clown to interfere.”
“My pants may be roomy,” admitted Groucho, “but they are, sir, far from baggy. In fact, my pants have been held up as examples of natty dressing. James Fenimore Cooper it was who held them up as examples of Natty Bumppo. But he was full of cute tricks like that and back at the stockade we paid him no never mind.”
“I’d like to know more about this attempt on Manheim’s life that took place on the train,” said Lieutenant Lewin.
“You can breathlessly await the full and lurid account that will appear in next month’s issue of True Confessions,” Groucho said, “or I can drop in on you tomorrow and tell all.”
“Tomorrow,” said Lewin. “About ten.”
“Why give a damn about that?” asked Arneson, jabbing a forefinger toward Washburn. “You’ve got the killer right there.”
“What we’ve got,” corrected the lieutenant, “is somebody we’re going to talk to.”
Shaking his head, Arneson took a few steps toward Dian. “C’mon, kid, I’ll see you get back to the Waldorf.”
She shook her head. “Groucho’s going to escort me home.”
“You’ve fallen a long way from grace,” Groucho pointed out to the publicity man, “when a woman trusts me more than she does you, old boy.”
About a half hour later Jane and I were walking, hand in hand, along Broadway. Groucho, after borrowing cab fare from me, had left to escort Dian Bowers back to her hotel. The marquee in front of a small newsreel theater we were passing asked, “War Near?”
“Hitler’s going to move on Poland any day now,” I said, glum.
“Think about the murder,” advised my wife. “It’ll take your mind off the world situation.”
“I’m not feeling much like a detective at the moment,” I admitted. “You and I and Groucho poked around backstage, questioned people, and almost stepped on several cops.” I paused, shrugging. “We sure didn’t find out a hell of a lot.”
“We found out that nobody saw who propped Manheim’s body up to fall out on the stage,” she reminded. “It was dark backstage, with only an occasional flash of lightning and a lot of noise from the imitation thunder. Distracting—and somebody also knocked that stagehand out.”
“Yeah, and all he remembers is that just before he got conked on the head he smelled some kind of leathery aftershave lotion.”
“Could be a clue.”
“Sure, we can ask Lewin to round up all the guys in Manhattan who smell like an old saddle.”
Jane said, “Manheim was a pretty hefty guy. You’d have to be husky to lug him around backstage.”
“Then the killer is probably a circus strong man who smells like an old saddle.”
She let go of my hand, made a fist, and gave me a light poke in the upper arm. “C’mon, let’s have a little less gloom,” she suggested. “You and Groucho are eventually going to solve this.”
“So you and Groucho seem to think. Myself, I—”
“Frank! Frank Denby! Hey, wait up.”
I halted, glancing back over my shoulder. A small man, not more than twenty-five or so, was running along the night street in our wake. He had wavy dark hair and was dressed in the kind of expensive double-breasted suit you usually see in men’s fashion magazines and not in real life.
Panting, he reached us. “Gee, I had to run a whole block to catch up with you, Frank,” he said, smiling, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again.”
I shook hands, not sure who he was. “Same here, I guess. Who exactly—”
“It’s me. Nigel Windhurst,” he announced.
That didn’t mean anything to me.
Jane said, “You wrote Make Mine Murder.”
“Bingo,” he said, grinning at her. “You’re Frank’s wife, huh? You ought to do something about his clothes.”
“I’ve thought about burning them, but he gets cranky when I suggest that,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Where does Frank
know you from, Mr. Windhurst?”
“When Frank and I were buddies, my name was Stanley Sherman,” he told her. “Many’s the happy day we—”
“Stan?” I said, taking another look at him. “Where’d you get the dark wavy hair?”
“It’s not entirely mine, Frank,” he admitted. “You remember how they used to razz me on the Los Angeles Times because I was going prematurely bald? Well, when I struck it rich, I figured I could afford not to be prematurely bald anymore. I also capped my teeth.”
I turned to Jane. “Stan was a copyboy on the Times when I—”
“Cub reporter,” he corrected. “I came to Manhattan about four years ago and after the customary period of struggle, I clicked on Broadway. First with The House on Gallows Hill, which ran for fourteen months, and then with Murder Gets Married. That’s still playing over at the Belasco. Sort of in the Thin Man vein, only a lot funnier and with a better plot.” He sighed. “Gosh, when I heard you’d been backstage at Make Mine Murder, I got really excited, Frank.” He grinned at Jane. “I haven’t seen this mug for years, Mrs. Denby.”
“Don’t be so formal. You can call me Mrs. Mug.”
The playwright chuckled. “Terrible about Daniel Manheim getting killed in the middle of our play,” he said, taking on a more serious expression. “But, gee, that publicity’s going to be great. ‘Real Murder Halts Make Mine Murder.’ A terrific headline, don’t you think?”
“What’ll you do,” asked Jane, “if they arrest your leading man for the murder?”
Stan frowned. “That would be a bum break,” he acknowledged. “But we could run with his understudy if we had to. Although, heck, I’d hate to see Bill Washburn get in any big trouble. He’s such a nice guy.”
“I didn’t notice you backstage, Stan,” I mentioned. “Were you—”
“Cops wouldn’t let me back until they were finished nosing around. Gee, I told them I was the author, but that didn’t mean much to them,” he said. “I’d been watching the play from the back of the house when Manheim fell out of the closet.”
