by Ron Goulart
Jane said, “What the heck are you doing here?”
“I first dropped by your cottage and found you out,” he replied. “I came here next, hoping against hope that you’d eventually turn up at your favorite haunt.”
“We were taking Dorgan for a walk,” I said.
“A likely story. You’ve probably been luring merchant ships to their doom on our rockbound coast and then looting them for rum.”
“Well, that, too.” Jane tied Dorgan to a low nearby post. “Stay here, boy, and we’ll bring you a snack in a few minutes.”
The dog produced a gurgling whimper.
“You don’t want to get too close to Mr. Marx, do you, Dorgan? You know his scent makes you sneeze.”
The bloodhound subsided, settling himself into a patient waiting position on the weedy sand.
Enery McBride was behind the counter, consulting a thick cookbook he had opened in front of him. “Welcome back,” he said to Jane and me. Now that he was acting fairly regularly in the movies, he only worked occasional nights at our neighborhood diner. “And congratulations on landing the radio show.”
“How’d you know about the Hollywood Molly deal?” I leaned an elbow on the counter.
“It was in Variety and on Johnny Whistler,” he answered. “Oh, and I think Leo Haskell had an item in his column, although I’m not quite sure what he was trying to say.” He tilted his head in Groucho’s direction. “I think I can do it.”
“What’s he going to try to make for you?” Jane asked.
“Blintzes.” Groucho returned to the booth where he’d been waiting for us.
“They’re pretty much like crêpes,” decided Enery, shutting the cookbook and returning it somewhere under the counter. “You guys want an order, too?”
Jane shook her head. “Just cocoa for us, Enery.”
He looked at me. “She makes all your food decisions now?”
“Yep, and also picks out my pajamas.”
Jane said, “And a hamburger for Dorgan.”
“He prefers cheeseburgers,” said our friend.
“Cheese then.”
When we were seated across the booth from Groucho, I asked him, “Any special reason for your running us to ground?”
He said, “I got a long-distance telephone call from Lieutenant Lewin of the New York constabulary, my dears.”
“And?”
“It seems Hal Arneson was found shot dead in his Manhattan hotel room at approximately noon today.”
“Jesus,” I said, sitting up. “Somebody from Salermo’s mob must’ve caught up with him.”
“That’s Herb Lewin’s theory,” Groucho said. “Though he doubts he’ll ever be able to prove it.”
Jane shivered, hugging herself. “I know Arneson was probably as guilty as Manheim,” she said quietly. “But I’m scared by this vigilante stuff.”
“You can call it that, true,” said Groucho. “You can probably also call it poetic justice. Even though it doesn’t rhyme.”
Also by Ron Goulart
Elementary, My Dear Groucho
Groucho Marx, Private Eye
Groucho Marx, Master Detective
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
GROUCHO MARX AND THE BROADWAY MURDERS. Copyright © 2001 by Groucho Marx Productions Inc. and Ron Goulart. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781429938839
First eBook Edition : July 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Goulart, Ron.
Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders / Ron Goulart.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-26598-0
1. Marx, Groucho, 1891-1977—Fiction. 2. Broadway (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. 3. Comedians—Fiction. 4. Theater—Fiction. 1 Title
PS3557.O85 G75 2001
813’.54—dc21
2001019157
First Edition: July 2001
