by Ron Goulart
“Hi, Groucho,” greeted the freckled teenager, stopping about three feet from us and grinning.
A woman with a box camera asked, “Would you object to a group photo?”
“Depends on what group you have in mind,” he said. “I’m sort of partial to the Mills Brothers right now, though I’d settle for a nice shot of Phil Napoleon and His Emperors of Jazz. However, if you prefer a smaller group, we can lie in wait until Kate Smith comes ankling by.”
The woman chuckled. “Mr. Marx, you’re incorrigible.”
“Alas, unfortunately, I am,” he admitted ruefully. “To be frank, I haven’t been corriged for many a moon.” He leaned and tapped my knee. “Forgive me for being Frank, when you already are.”
The teenager asked, “Which is your favorite Marx Brothers movie?”
“I only have to be in the things,” explained Groucho. “I don’t have to like them.”
A thin woman in a flowered dress eased closer. “My son impersonated you in a talent show and won twenty-five dollars.”
“So where’s my split?”
“Oh, you’re such a clown.”
“A clown, is it? When’s the last time a clown asked you for twelvefifty?”
A man asked, “Are you going to be appearing at the fair at all, Mr. Marx?”
“I am appearing this very afternoon, sir,” he informed him. “We’re doing an informal version of The Mikado at the Bascom Music Pavilion at two-thirty.”
“Wonderful. We don’t want to miss that.”
Another man said, “I saw you and your brothers in vaudeville.”
“Fortunately there’s a statute of limitations in this case, so it’s too late to get your money back.”
Coughing, Peggy tapped her wristwatch.
Groucho said, “My friends, I must be going. I only have time to sing a few verses of”Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” the hit tune from my upcoming cinematic triumph At the Circus. Then I must rush off to the pavilion, where I’m certain a few choice seats are still available.”
Peggy signaled our driver to start moving again when Groucho was about halfway through the song.
Twenty-seven
When we went rolling past the Marine Amphitheatre, where Billy Rose’s Aquacade was being staged daily, Peggy announced, “There’s the Bascom Music Pavilion up ahead, Mr. Marx, just this side of the Terrace Club.”
“I was hoping we’d be working closer to the Strange As It Seems freak museum,” he complained, “so I might drop in and see if they were hiring.”
“You might want to see the Aquacade swim show later,” our guide suggested. “It’s really marvelous.”
“I try to stay clear of Johnny Weismuller, since the lad is insanely jealous of me.”
“Why would that be?”
“He saw me once at Malibu while I was wearing leopard-skin trunks and he’s been fearful of losing his Tarzan job ever since,” explained Groucho as our cart came to a stop beside the pavilion. “As soon as I perfect my jungle yell, I’m going to approach Louis B. Mayer about assuming the role.”
“There might be some chimpanzee openings right now,” said Peggy, stepping down from the cart.
“Ah, the cruel barbs of youth.” Groucho disembarked and I followed.
“There’s a sign taped to the stage door entrance,” I noticed.
“So there is, Rollo.” Groucho went loping over to the door.
The sign read, “Mikado rehearsal postponed until 4:30 P.M. Backstage area will open at 3:00.”
“Darn, things like this are always happening, Mr. Marx,” said Peggy apologetically. “I wasn’t told about it, sorry. Would you like me to take you and Mr. Denby to a restaurant for a snack while you’re waiting?”
Groucho hefted his guitar case. “I had the foresight to bring lunch, my dear.”
“Well, I can show you around some more if you’d like,” she offered. “I can’t simply abandon you here.”
“I’m frequently abandoned,” he said. “Still and all, I’d be delighted to have you act as our Virgil through this art deco inferno.”
“How about you, Mr. Denby?”
“Think I’d rather roam around on my own,” I said. “I want to pick up some souvenirs for my wife. Suppose, Groucho, I meet you back here at around three?”
He said, “I don’t know if Peggy trusts herself alone with me.”
She smiled. “It’s okay, Mr. Marx. Alex is very good at handling mashers.”
“I feared as much.” He went slouching back to the cart. “I’ll see you anon, Rollo.”
As Jane stepped clear of the shower stall, she heard the telephone ringing. Tugging on a white terry-cloth robe, she barefooted to the phone that sat next to the bed. “Hello?”
A desk clerk said in a polite, nasal voice, “Mrs. Denby, we have a collect long-distance telephone call for your husband. It’s from Los Angeles, California.”
“Who’s calling?”
“His name is … it seems to be Tim O’Hara.”
“Might it be Tim O’Hearn?”
“Yes, that’s likely it. Is your husband willing to accept the call?”
“Frank isn’t here just now, but he’s been trying to get in touch with Mr. O‘Hearn for quite some time,” said Jane, noticing that she’d left damp footprints on the bedroom’s thick flowered carpet. “Tell Mr. O’Hearn that I can talk to him and pass along the information to my husband.”
“Very well, Mrs. Denby.”
After a moment O’Hearn inquired, “Who is this again?”
“Jane Denby.”
“I thought Frank’s wife was named Jane Danner.”
“Same person. Jane Danner’s my professional name. Frank’s been trying to get hold of you since—”
“I was sick and I got worse,” explained my informant. “I had to go to the damn clinic and they kept me there almost a whole afternoon, Jane.”
“You’re okay now?”
He coughed a dry cough, then wheezed. “Well, my chest is always weak and when I come down with a cold, it’s worse,” he said. “But, yeah, I guess I’m better than I was. I’m not so dizzy now and the fever’s gone.”
“That’s good,” she told him. “So what have you found out about—”
“I suppose I can trust you.”
“Frank does.”
“You draw for the funny papers, huh?”
“I do, yes. What have you—”
“Did Frank explain to you he was going to wire me another twenty bucks?”
“When you came through with more information.”
“So can you get that dough off to me the next couple hours, Jane? They got me taking some cough medicine that costs an arm and a leg.”
“I can wire you the money, yes. Tell me what—”
O’Hearn coughed again. “I found out why Manheim got so riled up about Nick Sanantonio,” he confided. “Seems like, after Sanantonio quit hanging around with Willa Jerome, he decided to get back with this Dian Bowers.” “I see.” Jane had started making notes on a sheet of hotel stationery with a fountain pen of mine she’d found next to the table lamp.
“Dian wasn’t, so I hear, especially interested in that, but Sanantonio threatened to tell the papers about their romance unless she gave in and took up with him again,” continued O’Hearn. “The guy was even aiming to follow her to New York and crash her meetings with the reporters.”
“That would’ve messed up Manheim’s plans considerably.”
“You’re not kidding. And that’s the reason, according to the way I hear it, that Manheim arranged to have Sanantonio taken care of.”
Jane asked, “And did Salermo, in turn, have Manheim taken care of?”
“He would’ve, but somebody beat him to the punch.”
“Anything else I should pass on to Frank?”
“Well, I’ve also been hearing that Willa Jerome was still carrying a pretty big torch for Sanantonio. She was figuring to win him back from the Bowers dame—but then he got rubbed out,” said the informan
t.
“She might want to get revenge on the man who killed her boyfriend and ruined her plans,” said Jane. “Thing is—did Willa know Manheim was responsible for having Sanantonio killed? And if so, how the heck did she find out before Salermo and his boys did?”
“I don’t have all the details on that yet, Mrs. Denby, but it looks like she did.”
“Knew about it before she boarded the Super Chief last Friday night?”
“That’s the way it’s shaping up, yeah.”
“Anything more?”
“That’s about it for now,” said O’Hearn, coughing again. “I’ll get back to you folks soon as I find out anything else.”
“Well, thanks a lot. I’m sure Frank will—”
“And my money?”
“It’ll be winging its way to you soon as I get to the nearest telegraph office,” she promised.
“I appreciate it, ma‘am,” said O’Hearn. “And let me tell you, much as I like Frank, you’re sure a lot easier to do business with.”
Twenty-eight
Strolling the fairgrounds, I decided I’d like to take a look at the robot our guide had mentioned. Making my way through the afternoon crowds, I crossed the short, arching Empire State Bridge and made my way to the Commerce Circle.
The Westinghouse Building loomed up across the way from the General Electric Building, which had an immense stainless-steel bolt of lightning striking its roof. Westinghouse had worked up considerable publicity with their Time Capsule. It was a torpedo-shaped container they’d buried some fifty feet down in what they were labeling the Immortal Well. The capsule was stuffed with everyday artifacts of life in 1939 plus several million pages of microfilm. The thing wasn’t due to be dug up and unpacked until the year 6839.
It was sunk in the courtyard in front of the streamlined, futuristic building. As I passed by the site and the thirty-some visitors gathered around under the circular metal canopy with THE TIME CAPSULE etched around it, I got a sudden unsettling intimation of my own mortality. I realized that I’d be dead and gone thousands of years before anybody unearthed the capsule. New York might be long gone as well by then.
After nearly bumping into a bunch of ogling sailors, I went inside. It took a few minutes to find my way to the Hall of Electrical Living, where Elektro the robot was on display. He was up on an elevated stand, a railing around him. Elektro was about eight feet tall, a glistening metallic fellow who looked like a cross between an animated furnace and the Tin Woodman of Oz. The robots to be seen on the covers of pulp fiction magazines were most often sinister lads, with a fondness for carrying off sparsely clad young women. But Elektro seemed to be an amiable, if somewhat clunky, mechanical man.
As I stood watching in the small circling crowd, he sang a little song, spoke a few sentences in a rumbling tinny voice, counted to ten on his long metal fingers, and played with his small robot dog, who we were told was named Sparko. Electro also gave a demonstration of his ability to sweep floors—Westinghouse apparently was hoping for a future that included mechanical servants in every middle-class American home.
Not convinced I’d want a giant robot lumbering around our place, I enjoyed the demonstration anyway. I didn’t look toward the Time Capsule on my way out and headed back in the direction of the entertainment area.
At a book and magazine kiosk between the Macy’s and Gimbel’s buildings on World’s Fair Boulevard, I noticed a copy of New York World’s Fair Comics on sale. It contained Superman, plus some other characters I’d never heard of, including a magician named Zatara and a mysterious fellow who wore a gas mask and called himself The Sandman. It sold for two bits and I figured it would make a nice souvenir for Jane. She’d been picking up an occasional comic book off the newsstands lately and there’d already been some talk about reprinting Hollywood Molly in that format.
On Orange Blossom Lane, still a good half mile from the Bascom Music Pavilion, I came upon a small theater named the Little Broadway. It had a big, bright poster tacked up on one of its walls next to the closed ticket booth. The poster announced, “Opening Tonite! Jitterbug Follies! With Ella May Keaton, Andy Sherriff, Len Cowan, and 24 Gorgeous Rug-Cutters!”
Len Cowan was the angry dancer who’d had a grudge against Manheim.
I was standing there reflecting on that fact when somebody suddenly pushed me hard in the back. I went slamming into the wall.
“I’m tired of you bastards spying on me.”
Groucho leaned back on the tan-colored bench, spread his guitar case across his knees, and opened it. As he withdrew the second pastrami sandwich, he asked Peggy, “You’re absolutely certain, my child, that you won’t share my humble repast?”
Nose wrinkling slightly, the young guide said, “No thank you, Mr. Marx.”
The cart was parked beside the grassy glade, Alex standing beside it gazing in the direction of the towering Pylon.
Snapping the case shut, Groucho rested it on the ground next to the bench. He unwrapped the sandwich, took a bite, and then picked up the guidebook that rested on the seat beside him. “I want, once again, to thank you and Mr. Whalen for presenting this handsome book to me,” he said, chewing. “Official Guidebook Twenty-Five Cents. I’m most grateful.”
“We do it for most of our celebrities,” answered Peggy, who was sitting as far from him on the bench as she could without actually falling off. “Are there any further attractions you’d like to visit before we take you back to the music pavilion?”
“Well, let’s see. We’ve already visited such illuminating sites as the Infant Incubator Building, Frank Buck’s Jungleland—complete with thirty Malays and twenty-five seals—the Boy Scout Camp, and Salvador Dali’s Dream of Venus.” He sighed. “My sense of wonder probably can’t take much more.” He began leafing through the pages of the thick paper-covered book as he ate. “Ah, how about the Timken Roller Bearing Company? We can actually see, so they say, ‘a mechanical display of the elements that go into a hundred pounds of alloy steel.’ That’d be something.” He shut the guidebook and concentrated on his sandwich for a moment. “I’m also torn between Nature’s Mistakes and George Jessel. Although I can see more than enough of Jessel in Los Angeles, if not in this context.”
“Mr. Jessel doesn’t actually appear in the Old New York show every day,” Peggy pointed out. “He supervises the entertainment that—”
“Next thing you’ll be telling me that Gypsy Rose Lee doesn’t appear in her show and then I won’t have anything to look forward to.”
“No, you can see her perform her striptease tonight if you’d care to.”
Out on the wide sunny roadway a Greyhound Bus jerked to a halt opposite to Groucho’s bench. The front door hissed open and the uniformed driver called out, “Hey, some of my passengers say you’re Groucho Marx.”
Groucho jumped to his feet, glaring. “How dare you call me that?” he demanded, grabbing up his guitar case and striding up close to the stopped bus.
“Well, are you?”
“Alas, no. I’m merely Groucho Marx’s stand-in.”
There were about twenty passengers inside the bus and they’d all moved to the windows on Groucho’s side.
A plump woman tugged her window open. “Groucho Marx doesn’t use a stand-in,” she stated.
“Then who do you think does all that horseback riding stuff, madam?”
“He doesn’t ride a horse in his movies,” said a skinny teenage boy.
“He doesn’t?” Groucho gave a puzzled shrug. “Then it could be I’m the stand-in for Bob Nolan and the Sons of the Pioneers instead.”
“Can we have your autograph, Mr. Marx?” requested a slim young woman from another window.
“Why certainly, my dear.” He whipped out a pen and inscribed his name on the side of the bus. “And now, to speed you on your way, I’ll sing you the complete lyrics of “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” the hit tune from the forthcoming Marx Brothers epic, At the Circus.”
“We’re running behind schedule already, Mr. Mar
x. Sorry.” The driver shut the door, the passengers waved good-bye, and the bus went rumbling away.
Shoulders hunched dejectedly, Groucho carried his guitar case back to the bench. “It’s difficult to hold an audience when they’re on wheels,” he told Peggy.
She checked her wristwatch again. “We’d best be heading back anyway, Mr. Marx.”
As their cart was passing by one of the many splashing fountains, they noticed a small crowd gathering at the edge of the water. Two husky uniformed World’s Fair police officers were wading into the fountain.
“Something’s amiss,” said Groucho.
“We can take a look.” Alex stopped the cart.
Peggy and Groucho climbed down and moved to the edge of the fountain.
“He’s dead,” said a dark-haired woman. “I just bet that poor man’s dead.”
“He’s dead sure enough,” seconded a gaunt man in a tan suit and Panama hat.
“Is he dead?” asked a ten-year old boy.
“Stand back, folks,” ordered one of the cops. “We’re going to try to use artificial respiration on this man.”
“You’re not going to revive that guy,” said a young sailor, pointing out the dripping body of the plump middle-aged man. “See—he’s been stabbed in the back.”
“Damn,” said Groucho quietly. “Too late.”
Peggy frowned at him, puzzled. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, that’s Dr. Dowling,” he answered. “He thought he had something important to tell me.”
Twenty-nine
Spinning around, after I’d detached myself from the Jitterbug Follies poster, I found I was facing Len Cowan in person.
“Nosy asshole,” he accused, starting to throw a punch at me.
I sidestepped, caught the dancer’s fist, and twisted his arm up behind his back. “Neither Groucho Marx nor I have been trailing you,” I assured him as I shoved him against the ticket booth. “Encountering you here and now was a coincidence. However, we would like to have a chat with you.”
“Take a flying leap for yourself,” he said, wincing.
