Groucho Marx, Private Eye

by Ron Goulart

  “As if I give a shit,” said Maddy Dubay. “You’re damn lucky I even agreed to waste my time talking to you at a time like this, Groucho.”

  “Yes, I figured you were in mourning for Russell Benninger soon as I noticed the black swimsuit.” He dropped into a deck chair near hers.

  Through the glass wall of the indoor pool you could see down across an acre or so of landscaped gardens. There were what were probably abstract metal sculptures, large and painted in bright primary colors, out in the rainy morning. A forlorn seagull was perched on a big yellow rectangle.

  “Did you plan to sit there gawking at my LoBruttos or did you have something you wished to talk about with me?”

  “You have handsome LoBruttos,” conceded Groucho, “but I was actually looking out at those gaudy hunks of scrap metal somebody dumped on your lawn.”

  “LoBrutto is a sculptor,” Maddy informed him. “Or did you already know that and simply jump at the chance to make a crude double entendre remark?”

  “LoBrutto and I took Metal Shop together back at PS Ninety-three,” he said. “What do you know about Dr. Benninger’s death?”

  Her laugh was harsh and nasal. “You’re really a dreadful man,” she told him, reaching down to pick up her cocktail glass off the turquoise tiles. “It’s quite obvious you try to hide your personal inadequacies behind the façade of a cheap wisecracking buffoon.”

  “That’s absolutely true and only today that cheap buffoon told me he’s raising the rent that I have to pay on his façade.” He took a fresh cigar from the pocket of his greenish sportcoat, studied it and put it away again. “Benninger?”

  After finishing off the highball, the screen writer said, “As much as I’d like to see that bitch, Frances London, spend the rest of her miserable life in the hoosegow,” she told him, “I don’t think she had a damn thing to do with killing poor Russell.”

  He shifted in his chair, watching her. “Who did?”

  “I’d guess probably his hoodlum buddies.”

  “Are we alluding to Tartaglia and Jack Cortez?”

  “Among others, yes. Russell had been a business associate of theirs for … well, for far too long.”

  “If Cortez or one of his goons did do the doctor in,” said Groucho, “what was the reason?”

  “I’m not at all certain, Groucho.” She left her chair and walked slowly around the pale blue pool. At the glass wall she stood looking out into the wet, gray morning. “Bring me my robe.”

  “Yes, missee.” He grabbed it off the chair back, went trotting over to the writer.

  “Russell was extremely upset during the last few days of his life.” She slipped into the white terry-cloth robe he was holding for her. “Anguished, as though he had some very unpleasant task to face.”

  “Didn’t he confide any details in you?”

  “We slept together, but I wasn’t his confidant,” she said. “Russell never discussed his dealings with Cortez. What I knew about was all that I picked up by paying attention.” She turned her back on the view, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of the robe. “I’m considerably brighter than most of the women he fooled around with, though he never seemed to realize that fact.”

  Groucho asked her, “You think these gonifs were pressuring him about something?”

  “Probably,” she answered, “but I have no idea what it was.”

  He said, “You’ve been working on script for The Legend of King Arthur.”

  “Until Brian Montaine kicked off, yes. Now those halfwits at Paragon aren’t sure what they’re going to do.” She started walking back toward her deck chair. “My specialty for years has been coming in after several no talent hacks have screwed up a screenplay and fixing the damn thing. I’m a hell of a good script doctor.”

  “Interesting that Brian Montaine and Dr. Benninger both shuffled off in the same week.” He followed her around the pool. “And you knew them both.”

  “What are you suggesting—that I committed a double murder?” She laughed again and sat down.

  He stopped a few feet from her, locked his hands behind his back. “You’re not attending Montaine’s burial festivities?”

  She scowled. “Funerals are a stupid ritual and I wouldn’t be caught dead at one.” She paused, then made a chuckling noise. “There’s a witty remark you might want to use.”

  “I already have,” he assured her.

  Twelve

  I stepped out of the rainy morning into the Seaside Café.

  Behind the counter Enery was serving a plate of waffles and pork sausage to a cowboy bit player, in costume, who was hunched on a stool.

  In one of the booths a midget couple were arguing in whispers, glowering at each other and ignoring their breakfasts.

  “You better not try to upstage me again, schmuck,” the little blonde warned.

  Enery nodded in the direction of the sixth, and most distant, booth. He lifted his left shoulder slightly, looking concerned. “Want anything, Frank?”

  “Just coffee.” I stopped, leaned an elbow on the counter. “I’ll get a cup here and carry it back with—”

  “I’ll bring it.”

  I grinned. “I probably won’t need protection, but okay, thanks.”

  The police detective, from the look of him sitting down far back in the booth, just made the height requirements for the Bayside force. He was thickset and dark.

  “I’m Frank Denby.” I slid in opposite him.

  “Leo Conway,” he said, voice low. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”

  “Okay, fine.” I clasped my hands together and rested them on the tabletop.

  Detective Conway had a pack of Lucky Strikes resting on the table next to his rain-spotted hat. “You’re looking into the Benninger killing,” he said. “You and Groucho Marx.”

  “That’s right. Do you have—”

  “You’ve got to be damn careful.”

  “Is this a warning to lay off?”

  “No, Denby, it’s a warning about Branner. He knows—” He stopped talking when Enery delivered my cup of coffee.

  “Everything going right, Frank?” asked the actor.

  “Seems to be.”

  “I’ll be right over there.” He started walking away.

  The midget couple was still arguing and Enery halted beside their booth.

  “How about refills on the coffee, folks?”

  “Scram,” the man suggested.

  I nodded at Conway. “What about Sergeant Branner?”

  “The bastard knows you guys are nosing around and trying to get the London dame sprung.”

  “We’re already aware of that.”

  “But you probably don’t know why he’s trying to scare you off.” He rested his elbows atop the table, leaning forward.

  “True,” I agreed.

  “Branner had some kind of deal going with the doctor.”

  “What sort?”

  “Benninger was up to here in the dope racket.”

  “We’ve heard something about that. How did Branner tie in?”

  “He was on the take, getting dough to see that nobody bothered the doctor.”

  “Benninger’s practice was in Beverly Hills, he only lived in Bayside,” I pointed out. “Did the sergeant see that he wasn’t bothered at his office either?”

  Conway nodded. “Yeah, Branner is damn good at arranging stuff like that, Denby.”

  “Who were the Beverly Hills cops in on the deal?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  I asked, “What about Tartaglia? Does he figure in this?”

  The detective answered, “Sure, but Jack Cortez was the guy who dealt with the doctor.”

  “And did Cortez have something to do with his murder?”

  Conway shook a cigarette out of the pack, rolled it around between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know about that, but Cortez was the one who was supplying Benninger with dope to sell to his high-class customers,” he said. “And Branner, that son of a bitch, was looking
out for them.”

  I tapped the side of my coffee cup. “But you don’t intend to mention this to anybody official.”

  “You’re damned right I don’t.” He lit his cigarette. “But when Lefcowtiz—he’s a pal of mine—mentioned what you were trying to do, I figured I’d better talk with you.”

  “What do you want out of this?”

  “I’d like to see Branner get cut off at the knees,” the detective replied. “And I wanted to let you know that he was gunning for you two guys.”

  “Can I contact you again if—”

  “Hell no,” he said. “You don’t even know me, Denby, you’ve never met me.” Gathering up his cigarette pack and his damp hat, he left the booth. “See you.”

  After Detective Conway had gone, Enery came back. “You all right?”

  “All right, yeah, but watchful.”

  “The cop threaten you?”

  “Nope, just passed on some helpful advice.”

  “Are you and Groucho messed up in something dangerous again?”

  “It certainly seems like we are,” I admitted.

  * * *

  After descending from his Beverly Hills interlude with Maddy Dubay, Groucho later told me, he drove down and parked his Cadillac on Doheny. He headed on foot for a favorite smoke shop of his. The rain was coming down in a misty drizzle.

  He went loping along, hands in his trouser pockets and shoulders slightly hunched. When he pulled open the glass-paneled door of VANGELDER, TOBACCONIST, a small bell tinkled at the far end of the narrow shop.

  The scents of cigars, pipe tobacco, and old smoke were thick in the air. VanGelder, a middle-aged man with a stubble of beard, was behind the counter.

  “That’s the worst case of five o’clock shadow we’ve had in these parts in years,” observed Groucho.

  The proprietor smiled. “Groucho, what a coincidence,” he said. “Your brother was in here not a half hour ago.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” suggested Groucho. “At the time of the last census it was determined that I was in possession of four siblings. Technically that’s known as a gaggle. And I’m sure that if you gaggle twice a day with warm water and salt, why, you’ll be up and around in no time.”

  “It was the funny Marx Brother who was just here.”

  “I, sir, am the funny Marx Brother.” He rose up briefly on his toes. “And I assure you I haven’t set foot in this shabby firetrap in a week.”

  “No, I mean the Italian one. Chico. That’s who it was. He—”

  “Whatever you do, don’t loan that man any money,” warned Groucho, reaching across the counter and around the displays of pipes and lighters to clutch the owner’s arm. “Oh, I know too well that, because of his glib banter and his sparkling Romanesque person, people often mistake him for Mussolini. Unlike that renowned dictator, however, Chico has never managed to get a single railroad to run on time and he has never paid back a loan. Unless he owed the money to some goniff who was in a position to attack his knees with a baseball bat.”

  The proprietor freed himself from Groucho’s grip. “Chico bought a box of Dunhill Four-tens.”

  “My favorite smoke.”

  “He told me he was buying them as a present for you, Groucho.”

  He shook his head. “That wasn’t Chico,” Groucho assured him. “Chico hasn’t bought a present for me since I was in swaddling clothes. And that’s got to be, oh, at least eight or nine years ago.”

  VanGelder produced a box of Groucho’s favorites and set it atop the glass counter. “Chico informs me that you’re going to be making a new movie.”

  “Actually it will be a series of lantern slides entitled Ten Nights in a Bar Room and Two Weeks in Traction. I portray Little Egypt and perform the Dance of the Six Veils. Initially it was intended to be the Dance of the Seven Veils but our director, noneother than D. W. Griffith, saw me in the all together and suggested that I keep at least one veil—preferably of a strongly opaque nature—on during the entire proceedings.”

  “Your brother said the movie is going to be called Room Service.” VanGelder wrapped the box of cigars in dark green paper. “What’s it about?”

  “About a hooker who makes house calls,” explained Groucho. “I was going to star as her pimp, but then the International Brotherhood of Pimps, Panderers, and Procurers lodged a formal complaint. They claimed I’d dishonor their profession.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be funny.” He handed Groucho the package.

  “Faith is a marvelous thing.” Groucho rolled his eyes heavenward, paid for his purchase, and left the shop.

  He was planning to stroll over to Chasen’s restaurant on nearby Beverly Boulevard for an early lunch. After Groucho had covered less than a block, a very attractive blonde stepped out of the recessed doorway of an antique shop.

  “Would you be Groucho Marx?”

  “Not if I had any choice,” he answered, stopping. “But by now the name is on all the towels and silverware and it’s just too much trouble to change it.” His eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the approaching young woman. “You look moderately familiar, my dear. Did I make some sort of lewd advance toward you on a prior—”

  “Oh, nothing like that, Mr. Marx. I’m simply a great fan of yours.” From her large black shoulder bag she withdrew a nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope. “Would you do me a really big favor and autograph this photo for me?”

  “Of course, my pet.” He gave her one of his moderately leering smiles. “Let me step over under the protection of yon awning so the ink won’t run.” He trotted over to the doorway and under the shelter of the candy-striped antique shop awning.

  He slid the photo free and turned it over. “Oy, not a very flattering shot.”

  The glossy photograph showed a corpse lying on a slab. Someone had scrawled a crude moustache on the dead man’s face. Printed across the lower half of the picture were the words—THIS IS YOU IF YOU DON’T FORGET ABOUT FRANCES LONDON!

  “A very poignant invitation to develop amnesia, but I’m afraid I’m not going to quit.” He looked up and realized that the blonde had long since departed.

  “Darn, every time I meet a really nice-looking girl, she turns out to have some flaw or other.” Shaking his head, he very carefully returned the threatening picture to its envelope and folded both away inside his coat.

  He decided to cancel his lunch plans.

  Thirteen

  The Hollywood Memorial Park cemetery is on Santa Monica Boulevard, just about on top of the Paramount studios. In addition to Valentino, quite a few other silent movie stars are interred there, including Barbara LaMarr, Renee Adoree, and Theodore Roberts. There are a lot of impressive tombstones, vaults, mausoleums, and, this being Hollywood, palm trees.

  The afternoon of Brian Montaine’s funeral service there were also several hundred fans, tourists, and onlookers crowding the acre of lawn that fronted the Chapel of the Pines. Cops were dotting the gray, rainy cemetery grounds and keeping the crowd at a distance. Black umbrellas rose up all around.

  Jane made her way up the gravel pathway toward the chapel. It was a long, low stucco building with slanting red tile roofs. There were several large palm trees in front of it and a stand of pines behind.

  A pair of uniformed policemen framed the entryway and just behind them loomed a large fat man in tailcoat and striped trousers. He scanned Jane, obviously unable to recognize her as anyone.

  She took out the invitation her friend, Dianne Sayler, had sent her and handed it to him.

  He read it, smiled a minimal smile, and said, “Go on in, miss.”

  Nearly all the pews were already occupied. The gray day gave an odd glow to the stained glass windows.

  As Jane hesitated on the threshold, Conrad Nagel spotted her and got up from his seat to hurry over to her.

  “Miss Danner, isn’t it?” the dapper blond actor asked.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t recognize—”

  “Conrad Nagel. I was the master of cerem
onies at the premiere of The Pirate Prince at Klein’s Babylonian a few months ago,” he explained quietly.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. I remember you now, Mr. Nagel.”

  “Your friend, Groucho Marx, disrupted the whole evening,” he whispered, obviously still unhappy about it.

  “Yes, but to catch a killer,” she reminded him.

  Nagel adjusted the carnation he was wearing in his lapel, then glanced around the crowded chapel and at the open doorway. “You’re not planning to do anything like that here today, are you?”

  “Not that I know of,” she told the uneasy actor. “Of course, Groucho can be extremely unpredictable and so you can never—”

  “I have the honor of having been invited to deliver the major eulogy for my dear friend, Brian Montaine.” Nagel looked around again. “I would hate to think that Groucho Marx was intending to disrupt my—”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Nagel,” Jane advised him. “Even if Groucho does burst in—I’m almost certain he’ll wait until you’ve spoken your piece.” She smiled, eased around him, and seated herself at one of the few remaining vacant spots.

  Outside the crowd murmured loudly and a few people shouted.

  A moment later Errol Flynn, with a very young blond girl on his arm, entered the chapel and started down the aisle toward the seats that were being held for him. He paused on his way to shake hands with David Niven and Cesar Romero and then to kiss Dolores Del Rio on the cheek.

  Jane found herself next to a middle-size, heavyset man.

  “Don’t let Nagel intimidate you,” he told her.

  “He’d have to be about six inches taller and about fifty percent a better actor before he’d have much chance of doing that.”

  “I’m Edward Arnold,” he said. “I have a hunch you didn’t recognize me.”

  “I don’t go to the movies very often.”

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Dianne, all in black, was standing in the aisle and leaning close to her. “I’m awfully glad you showed up, Jane,” she whispered. “I can’t talk to you now, but can you meet me afterward?”

  “Sure, of course. Tell me where, Dianne.”