by Ron Goulart
I asked, “Is there anything in Frances London’s past that might have inspired somebody to knock off the doctor?”
“It wouldn’t be jealousy I don’t think,” she said. “At least that fascist ex-husband of hers, Roger Pilgrim, didn’t much care about her anymore. He’s only interested in making lucrative deals for Polly.” She leaned back in her chair. “I can ask some discreet questions, see if that turns up anything.”
I stood up. “I’d appreciate that, May.”
“Oh, hey, I just thought of something,” she said, rising. “There was a story going around about a year ago, I heard this while I was still with our alma mater, the Times. Anyway, Dr. Benninger supposedly, while recovering from a binge, botched up one of his patient’s faces pretty badly and left her looking like Boris Karloff on a bad day.”
“Who was she?”
May said, “Fading actress named Elena Stanton. Remember her?”
“In some early talkies, yeah. Blonde, on the tall side, faint lisp.”
“That’s the lady in question.”
“Any idea where she is now?”
“None, but I’ll find out if you think it’s important.”
“So far I haven’t any damn notion as to what’s important and what isn’t,” I admitted, reaching across and shaking her hand.
“Most people in this phony town kiss me good-bye, you know.”
“That’s what makes me such a refreshing exception.” Grinning, I left her office.
Ten
Polly Pilgrim scowled. “That’s not why she was seeing that awful doctor. It wasn’t to get dope.”
I said, “That’s not what we’re suggesting.”
Groucho inquired, “Child, have you ever heard of Sarah Bernhardt, also known as the Divine Sarah?”
“No, never.”
“Well, Sarah Bernhardt was considered just about the finest stage actress of her day, perhaps of all time,” he explained. “Her only flaw was that she had a wooden leg. Do you have any notion how she came to lose her leg?”
“I don’t, no.”
“It was because she interrupted once too often whilst I was having a conversation with a colleague.” He reached across the restaurant booth table to pat her on the head.
“Ouch,” she remarked.
“What Groucho is suggesting,” I told her, “is that you let us go on comparing notes with fewer intrusions.”
“Exactly my point, Rollo.” He was sitting across the table from the singer and me, a steno notebook open beside his plate of cheese blintzes.
After our 6:00 P.M. broadcast of Groucho Marx, Private Eye we’d walked two blocks to Moonbaum’s Hollywood Delicatessen. Polly had insisted on tagging along and Groucho, after producing an impressive range of groans and pained expressions, had agreed.
“I’m,” she reminded him now, “your client. I’ve got a right to say things sometimes.”
“Clients should be seen and not heard.”
“That’s children who should be seen and not heard.”
“You still qualify, Pollyanna.” He took a few more bites of his blintz before picking up his Waterman fountain pen. “What we have to establish, Frank, is whether or not Benninger was involved in some aspect of the drug business. And if his untimely demise is tied in with that unsavory sideline of his.”
“I’ve got at least one informant who can get me something about that.” I drank some of my coffee. “I don’t think we want to contact Tartaglia or Cortez directly.”
“No, and we don’t want to drive up to Frisco and jump off the recently completed Bay Bridge.” He smiled at Polly. “That’s how we gumshoes stay alive, my child, by avoiding unnecessary risks.”
“I’ll also look into the possibility that Dr. Benninger has some disgruntled former patients who might want to get revenge on him.”
“First thing in the morning,” said Groucho, “I’ll leap from my trundle bed, whatever that is, and track down the incomparable Maddy Dubay. As quite probably the most recent intimate chum of the doc’s, she may have something to contribute to our fund of information.”
Polly asked quietly, “What about this Sergeant Branner that you mentioned, Mr. Marx? Why did he bother to warn you off?”
Groucho held up his forefinger. “A wise and insightful query, Little Dorrit,” he said. “Can you get back to Detective Lefcowitz, Frank, and find out what Branner’s angle is?”
“I was figuring to do that, Groucho, yes.”
“They’re having my mother’s hearing tomorrow morning,” said Polly. “If they’ll allow bail, she could get out of that terrible place.”
“I imagine Caldwell can arrange that,” Groucho told the girl. “Is your father prepared to take care of the bail bond?”
Polly nodded. “He told me he’s going to spare no expense,” she answered. “I’m really hoping that this whole mess will bring them back together again.”
Groucho’s eyebrows rose. “What would you pick, Frank?” he asked me. “Life in a cell at the Tehachapi prison for ladies or sharing a bed with Roger Pilgrim?”
“That’s a tough one, Professor Quiz.”
“It is, bless my bones, a near classic example of the old Scylla and Charybdis dilemma,” he observed. “Not to mention the equally dangerous Wheeler and Woolsey double bill. Or the—Yoicks!”
Polly had apparently kicked him in the shin.
She settled back, saying, “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve previously looked this up in the Private Investigator’s Manual, Almanac and Perpetual Calendar, my child,” he told her, “and it clearly states therein that clients are forbidden to kick their detectives. The vice versa setup, however, is allowable in most states and territories that—”
“I lost my temper,” Polly said. “I apologize.”
Groucho stroked his chin, scanned her, and adopted his old vaudeville Dutch accent. “I think we’re making progress with this patient, Carl. She actually apologized for a rude—”
“That’s marvelous, Groucho, really.” A broad-shouldered gray-haired man was standing beside our delicatessen booth. He was recently shaven, wearing an expensive double-breasted gray suit and a quiet gray silk tie. “I wish I had the ability to kid with Polly the way you do.”
“Buy a copy of my book, How to Kid Around in Ten Easy Lessons,” Groucho suggested to Roger Pilgrim.
The political publicist slid in, uninvited, and sat next to Groucho. “You and I are usually on different sides of the fence, and I really think it’s a mistake on your part to hang around with radicals like Fredric March and Melvyn Douglas. But, even so, I have a great deal of admiration for you, Groucho, and I’m really pleased that you’re helping Polly.”
Groucho, lips tight shut, made a low growling sound. Then he said, “Forgive the unseemly noise—I was biting my tongue.”
Pilgrim leaned his elbows, carefully, on the tabletop and smiled at his daughter. “They told me at the studio you were over here, princess,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in on you and your friends.”
“Is it about my mother?”
Pilgrim stretched, took hold of her hand. “Yes, I do have some news, pet. I had a nice conversation with Mr. Caldwell late this afternoon,” he told her. “He assures me that he fully expects to get the judge to agree to bail for your mother. She should be free by midday tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful, father.” She squeezed his hand, laughing.
“We have to keep in mind, remember, princess, that she’s still going to have to stand trial for murder.”
“I know, yes, but at least she’ll be out of that awful place.”
“For a time.” He let go of her hand. “Groucho, I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to offer you a fee for all that you’re doing.”
“No, sorry.” Groucho gave a negative shake of his head. “So far we run our detective business on a completely altruistic basis—somewhat in the manner of Robin Hood. If you can envision a middle-aged Yiddish Robin Hood.” He glanced over at
me, eyebrows rising. “I suppose Rueben Hood would be too obvious a name?”
“Too obvious for the public in general or too obvious for you to say?”
“Nevermind, let it pass.” He gathered up our check and handed it to Polly’s father. “Since you’re in a generous mood, Pilgrim, you can pay this while we pussyfoot back for the repeat broadcast.” He stood. “Keep in mind that I’ve a reputation for being a lavish tipper.”
* * *
Harry Whitechurch usually had two Manhattans with his dinner, which resulted in his being even more deep-voiced and jovial on our nine o’clock broadcast.
His third commercial was particularly exuberant that evening. “Just taste a succulent serving of Mullens Vanilla Pudding, folks, and you’ll know why Mullens is the greatest name in pudding,” he concluded. “And, you can take my word for this, folks, every scrumptious spoonful will have you exclaiming, ‘My oh my, it’s Mullens’—and it’s mighty mighty good!’”
Up in the control booth Annie Nicola pointed at her ear, then made a lower-it motion with her hand.
The announcer nodded, grinned up at her, and lowered his voice a few notches. “And now we return to the gloomy Uppercase Mansion for the exciting conclusion of tonight’s hilarious episode of Groucho Marx, Private Eye.”
I think I should point out that I didn’t write the commercials or the segue lines. The colonel’s New York advertising agency provided that stuff.
Margaret Dumont, as Mrs. Uppercase, was sharing a microphone with Groucho.
Groucho rested his hand on her backside. “Feast your eyes on this chamois bag, dear lady. Or perhaps you’d rather join me in a chorus of ‘I Wish I Could Chamois Like My Sister Kate’?”
She took hold of his coat sleeve between thumb and forefinger and lifted his hand away. “Oh, Mr. Transom, have you found my missing jewel and brought it back to me?”
“I have indeed, old girl. This is the fabulous Keeler Ruby.”
“I shall be eternally grateful.”
“I don’t think I can wait that long,” read Groucho. “So here’s my bill and my expense account right now, my dear.”
Our sound man crumpled a sheet of paper up close to his mike.
Margaret Dumont said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain many of these items on your list of expenses.”
“I was afraid of that. Okay, fire away.”
“What does this mean—overhead?”
“I bought a toupee.”
“But, Mr. Transom, you have a perfectly good head of hair.”
“This toupee was a birthday present for the dean of my mail-order detective school. Perhaps you’ve heard of him—Gunga Dean?”
“Now how about this item—two hundred dollars for greasing palms.”
“Well, I had to pay out a few bribes.”
“Three hundred dollars for greasing pigs?”
“We took some time out for a bit of sport.”
“Barn raising?”
“That was my fault, Mrs. Uppercase. One of the important clues rolled under the barn and there was nothing to do but lift it up.”
“Barn setting?”
“Obviously, we couldn’t leave the barn up in the air. I had to pay some roustabouts to set it down again.”
“I suspect that this is so much flimflam.”
“No, no, the flimflam is listed under Incidentals.”
“And how do you explain one hundred dollars for flowers?”
“Those were the roses I showered you with on your birthday. I was toying with the idea of giving you the toupee but the dean kicked up such a fuss that—”
“You have the audacity to ask me to pay for my own flowers?”
“You wouldn’t want some total stranger to get stuck with the tab, would you?”
“I’m very disappointed with you, Mr. Transom.”
“Not half as disappointed as you’re going to be when you find out that the ruby is actually a glass eye.”
After clearing his throat off mike, Harry said, “You’ve just heard Groucho Marx, Master Detective. Brought to you each week at this time by Mullens Pudding—It Comes In Five Flavorful Flavors. Tonight’s script was by Frank Denby and our director was Annie Nicola. Tippsy Transom was played by Polly Pilgrim, the little songbird of the cinema. Hans Conreid appeared as Inspector Sprudelwasser, Rob Stolzer was Rosco. Others in the cast were Gale Gordon, Jerry Marcus, and Elena Steier. And now here’s an important message from our star, Groucho Marx.”
Groucho leaned toward the mike. “Good night, folks.”
Annie touched her finger to her nose, smiled, and made a throat cutting motion. “I was quite impressed by your deportment tonight, Grouch,” she said over her mike.
“That’s because I’ve taken a part-time job in a deportment store,” he explained, taking a cigar out of his coat pocket.
Polly came over and hugged him. “You were even funnier on the second broadcast, Mr. Marx,” she told him.
“And you were even more lyrical, dear child.”
Harry eyed me. “Is this a mirage?”
“It’s a new era of good feelings,” I said.
“Won’t last,” he said and walked off.
Eleven
“I didn’t say that,” said Jane.
“It’s okay if you don’t think a line is funny,” I assured her. “I can detach myself from my scripts. Of course, I have to admit, I thought last night’s show was exceptionally funny.”
“A laugh riot?”
“Damn close to.”
“Um.” She was hunched in front of the dressing table mirror, adjusting a small black hat.
“Do you always put the hat on before the dress?”
She was wearing only a lacy black slip. “Hey, do I razz you because you put on your shoes before your trousers?”
It was a rainy Friday morning, windy.
“So tell me which line in last night’s show you didn’t think was funny.”
“Lines.”
I’d been leaning in the bedroom doorway. I straightened up. “I thought it was just one.”
Jane tilted her head to the left, then the right. “Not somber enough,” she decided as she took off the hat.
“Which lines?”
“Well, the stuff about chamois like my Sister Kate was a little too obvious.”
“But that’s the Groucho Marx style,” I explained, patiently I thought. “Every so often we have to pop in an audacious pun or—”
“Audacious is one thing, but dumb is something else again.”
I was silent for nearly a minute. “It has long been my custom,” I announced finally, “never to debate with a woman who’s in her underwear. Far too distracting. Once, while on the debating team in high school, I was quite taken aback when Doris Dinkins appeared at the podium wearing nothing more than—”
“Whoa, stop.” She smiled over her bare shoulder at me. “I’m sorry I’m in a bitchy mood. It’s probably because I’m not all that fond of funerals.”
“So you said. Okay, we’ll change the subject,” I told her. “What about the new house? Do you really—Not, by the way, that I resent any sort of positive criticism about my writing—do you really like it?”
“I do, absolutely. Don’t you? I think we ought to call Mr. Farris this afternoon and tell him we’ll definitely take it.”
I nodded. “I like it, sure. But maybe we ought to look at a few more before—”
“Keep in mind, Frank, that this is only going to be temporary.” She bent, lifted another hat out of the hat box sitting on the rug. “We’re on our way toward being immensely rich—you with your eventual movie scripts, me with Hollywood Molly. So we have to think of this new place as simply a temporary stopover on the road to fame, fortune, and Beverly Hills. Or Bel Air.”
“Actually my ultimate goal in a home has always been a cottage small by a waterfall, but if you like this new dump—it’s okey-doke by me.”
“You’re one man in a hundred, Frank.”
“Wh
ich one?”
“Number twenty-six last time we checked.” She tried on the new hat, didn’t like it, tossed it back in the box. “I just don’t seem to have any serious hats.”
“Wear a scarf.”
“You can’t wear a scarf to the Hollywood Memorial Park, it’s too ritzy a place. Valentino is buried there after all,” she told me, “besides, whenever I wear a scarf I look like Una O’Conner or somebody in a Sean O’Casey play.”
“You’re cuter. The fact is—”
The phone started ringing out in the living room. “Answer it, will you, Frank?”
I obliged. “Hello?”
“Hi, Frank.” It was Enery McBride at the Bayside Diner.
“Did you get the part in the Mr. Woo movie?”
“I did, yeah, but that’s not why I’m phoning,” he said. “There’s somebody here wants to see you.”
“Someone who intends me bodily harm perhaps?”
“Nothing like that. It’s a cop who says he’s a buddy of that other cop, your pal Detective Lefcowitz,” Enery explained. “He seems awfully eager to have a conversation with you, but he provided me with no details.”
“Okay, tell him I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
“Groucho?” asked Jane.
“Nope, it was Enery. Says some cop wants to see me at the café.”
She came into the room, a pair of black silk stockings in her hand. “Quite a few of the Bayside force aren’t especially fond of you,” she reminded me. “Be careful, huh?”
“I was planning to,” I said, kissing her. “Have fun at the funeral.”
* * *
The thin, pale blonde in the black bathing suit told Groucho, “You don’t look like much off the screen.”
He took a slow puff of his cigar before saying, “If you reflect for a moment, dear lady, you’ll come to realize that I don’t look like all that much on the screen.”
“Must you smoke that terrible cigar?”
“I’ve been experiencing a slight financial recession and terrible cigars are all I can afford.”
“Snuff it out in that ashtray.”
He ground the cigar butt into the seashell ashtray that rested on a rattan table beside the large indoor swimming pool. “I can’t say much for your poolside manner,” he mentioned.
