by Ron Goulart
“That would’ve capsized the canoe.” I lugged the bundle to the partition. The door made a rusty sound when I yanked it open.
“Speaking of Chico, also known as the Oversexed Rover Boy, he passed along an interesting fact about Polly’s pop.”
We found seven cubbyholes behind the partition, each one with an old army blanket on a wire serving as a door. Pinned on the second blanket from the left was a sheet of tablet paper with Marx scrawled on it in purple ink.
Groucho wandered along inspecting the labels on the other blankets. “Aha,” he said at the fourth blanket. “Rita Hayworth. A very impressive young lady and a spiffy dancer. Can’t act at all, but it little matters. I first encountered her back when she was calling herself Margarita Cansino but her father discouraged me from paying attention to her. And, when a fellow uses a knife about this long to discourage me, I tend to get discouraged and—”
“What about Pilgrim?”
Drawing aside the blanket that guarded the entry to his cubbyhole, Groucho peered in. There was a rickety makeup table with a streaked mirror attached, a folding metal chair, and a hat rack with a brass eagle atop it. The light was provided by a dangling 60-watt bulb.
“Damme, sirrah,” he remarked, “I had better quarters at MGM and Louis B. Mayer loathes me.” Entering, he placed the guitar case on the plank floor and rested the makeup kit on the table. “In fact, I had a better dressing room when we played the Black Hole of Calcutta. And it smelled a great deal more fragrant.”
“Something about Polly’s father?” I reminded.
“Like my dear scatterbrained brother, it seems Old Man Pilgrim has a fondness for games of chance and betting on sporting contests.” Groucho gazed up at the shadowy canvas top of the tent far above. “Are those bats I see dangling up there?”
“And?”
“The gent is deeply in hock, so rumor has it.”
“C’mon, Groucho, he comes from a family that’s been wealthy for generations here in California.” When I set the bundle on the chair, the chair teetered and started to topple to the left. I caught it, got it righted and balanced. “His public relations outfit takes in all kinds of dough promoting right-wing politicians and their causes. And he must skim a goodly chunk off Polly’s money.”
“Nevertheless.” Groucho was staring at himself in the mirror. “Have I developed freckles or is this thing flyspecked?”
“You’re suggesting that Pilgrim owes money to people like Vince Salermo and similar hoodlums and gamblers?”
“According to the ever reliable Chico, he owes a pretty penny.”
“Then he must be especially anxious to make sure Polly signs that contract with Paragon.”
“Exactly, Rollo,” he said, licking the tip of his forefinger and rubbing at the surface of the glass. “By the bye, my beloved sibling also informed me, when I mentioned the site of tonight’s little fiasco, that there’s something called the Filmland Wax Museum on the premises.”
“Yeah, over beyond the Fun House. I noticed it coming in.”
“There is supposedly a tableau of myself and three of my cherubic brothers on display there for all the world to see.”
“And you want to see it?”
“So few artists have ever been able to capture my true innate beauty,” he explained, “that I live in the constant hope that someone will finally succeed. Do you want to go take a gander before I have to start rehearsing?”
“Sure, okay,” I agreed. “What did you find out about the girl who slipped you the death threat?”
“Her name is Maggie Barnes.”
“An actress?”
Taking my arm, Groucho led me out of his cubicle. “This may break your heart, Merton, but I fear the lady has fallen on hard times,” he told me. “When she’s not working as a gun moll, she apparently puts in time at a local bawdy house.”
“Have you talked to her yet?”
Slouching along the sawdust aisle, he answered, “No, since she hasn’t been home all the livelong day. In a mood to sacrifice, I intend to call on her at her place of business after tonight’s festivities.”
“Hey, that isn’t safe.”
“I don’t intend to avail myself of her carnal services, Rollo, only talk with dear Maggie.”
“Every whore house in LA is owned and operated by gangsters,” I reminded him. “Suppose they find out that you’re there?”
“You’re unlikely to find them underfoot. They’re usually lolling around their mansions in Bel Air or Malibu, my lad,” he assured me. “I shall simply pop in, convince the lass she should tell all, and then take my leave. I won’t even hug her, I’ll eschew a farewell address.”
“Even so, Groucho, you—”
“Of course, if the eschew is on the other foot, there’s no telling what could transpire.”
“I think you ought to wait and see her at home.”
“Should I have said something about taking a plug of eschewing tobacco along?”
“No.”
We were outside now and the amusement park was starting to come to life. Few guests had arrived, but more and more colored lights were blossoming across the darkening sky, neon signs were starting to blink and flash, several kinds of loud music were pouring out of speakers.
“While we’re en route to this temple of the arts,” suggested Groucho, “we can compare notes. I was intending to entitle my report on my activities My Day, but it turns out Eleanor Roosevelt beat me to the title.”
“I think you’ve mentioned that to me before.”
“Brilliant remarks, let me remind you, can certainly bear repeating,” he pointed out. “Take that ‘To be or not to be’ routine. You’ve heard that more than once, I’ll wager.”
Rising up in front of the brightly painted Fun House was a huge automated clown inside a glass cage. He was wearing a silky crimson costume, had a white goggle-eyed face dominated by a red bulb of a nose. “Ho ho ho,” he said. “Ho ho ho.”
“Let’s make sure that chap gets a front-row seat for the show,” said Groucho.
There was no ticket taker on duty at the Filmland Wax Museum. Tacked to the front of the ticket booth was a hand-lettered sign announcing, FREE TONIGHT!
Gingerbread trim painted blue, red, and gold framed the entrance and a cloth banner strung above the doorway promised LIFELIKE, LIFE-SIZE REPLICAS OF THE GREATS OF FILMLAND!
Groucho and I entered. The place apparently consisted of a linked series of small display rooms and we had the initial one to ourselves. It was chill, musty. Set up around the room on low wooden pedestals were wax effigies of Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, Laurel and Hardy, W. C. Fields, Bob Hope, and a skinny fellow I didn’t recognize. Most of the likenesses weren’t bad, although the comedians all had the complexions of painted dolls.
“Explain to me why I’m not in this room.” He gestured at the array of figures. “It’s obviously devoted chiefly to great comedians.”
“Maybe the great comedians who are members of family groups have a separate room.”
Hands behind his back, Groucho went shuffling over to study the statue of Bob Hope. “Upstart,” he muttered. “Judging by what you learned from the valet, Rollo, and what I persuaded Tad Ballard of Paragon Pictures to confide, we can pretty much conclude that Brian Montaine was murdered and that Dr. Benninger played a part in the killing.”
“We can’t prove Montaine was murdered,” I said. “And after the funeral, as Jane told us, they cremated the guy.”
“Sifting that hambone’s ashes won’t establish he was bopped on the coco before being giving a lethal shot in the tochis.” He sighed, turning his back on Hope. “Imagine spending all eternity with no backside.” He drifted toward the doorway to the next chamber. “What do you think of Janey’s theory?”
“That Dianne and the valet teamed up to bump Montaine off?” I followed him. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t believe he was killed so somebody could inherit his money.”
“Silencing him se
ems the more likely motive. Ah, here’s Joan Crawford.”
A dozen wax figures of movie actresses circled this room. Joan Crawford, in her Sadie Thompson costume, was sitting in a chair on the platform to the right of the entrance.
“Did I ever tell you about what transpired between Joan and myself in that phone booth in Tijuana?”
“You did, yes sir.”
“Would you like me to retell it?”
“Nope.”
“Perhaps I’ll write it up and sell it to the Reader’s Digest.” He moved further into the room. “The Most Unforgettable Character I Ever Shared a Phone Booth With.”
“Snappy title.”
“I’ll be jiggered. They’ve got Louise Brooks on display.” He was gazing up at the wax figure of the dark-haired actress. “Takes me back to my youth—and that’s starting to be an all-day trip. I had an enormous yen for her in the early twenties.”
“What happened?”
Eyebrows climbing, he looked at me briefly over his shoulder. “You refuse to hear a recounting of my tender telephonic interlude with Miss Crawford, you young reprobate, but the possibility that I diddled a madcap Follies girl excites your lewd libido?”
“That must be it, yes.”
“I was going to digress and make a few well-chosen remarks about Ida Libido, but I shall refrain,” he decided. “As a matter of fact, Dr. Adler, I believe I am the one and only Broadway playboy who didn’t carry on with Louise. It has all the ingredients of a romantic tragedy, though I’ll be the first to admit that Groucho and Louise doesn’t have quite the zing of Romeo and Juliet.”
Shaking his head sadly, Groucho loped into the next room.
“Eureka,” I heard him exclaim.
The Marx Brothers figures were there, standing side by side with arms linked. Except for Harpo, who had his knee being held up by Groucho. Chico was there along with Zeppo.
As he shuffled around the platform, Groucho observed, “Gad, Zeppo hasn’t looked this good in years. He really should come here and have his puss waxed by these people.” When he halted before his own image, a scowl appeared on his face. “I, on the other hand, look like Rasputin on a bad day.”
He rose up on tiptoe, stretching to flick a speck of lint off the frock coat of the wax Groucho.
Behind us I heard a leather shoe sole rasp on wood and a metallic click.
“Look out.” I dived forward and tackled Groucho.
We both went slamming into the floor and up above us the head of the Groucho figure exploded when the bullet hit it.
Twenty-three
The second bullet went thunking into the floor about six inches from where the real Groucho’s head had been seconds earlier.
He’d gone rolling across the floor, then scurried behind the platform that held what was left of the wax Marx Brothers.
Myself, I’d rolled, too, bumping against the platform and causing Harpo’s hat and wig to go flying free of his head.
Just as I ducked down beside Groucho, a third slug hit Zeppo in the knee and sent fragments of cloth and wax raining down on us.
The wax figure lurched, swayed and fell over backward off the planks. Zeppo dropped down on us both, his right hand giving me a waxy smack in the eye.
The manikin rolled free, slammed into the floor behind us, and one of his glass eyes popped free of its socket.
There was no more shooting and an immense silence seemed to close in on us.
Then I heard footsteps running away.
All I’d ever seen of the gunmen was part of his right arm thrust through the doorway, a gun, a gloved hand, and a dark blue coat sleeve.
“Are you bullet-ridden, Rollo?” Grunting and scrambling, Groucho got himself into an awkward sitting position.
“No. How about you?”
He shook his head, shedding flecks of wax. “I’m still as sound as a dollar,” he said. “Make that sound as two-bit piece.”
I figured it was safe to rise. On my feet, I extended a hand to help Groucho get up. “Think that was a real attempt to kill us?” I asked him. “Or only one more try to scare us?”
After frowning at the sprawled wax replica of his fallen brother, Groucho answered, “I don’t know about you, Eloise, but I was sufficiently scared already. Still and all, if they’d been trying for a serious assassination, they would probably have sent someone who was a better shot.”
Bending, I gathered up the battered Harpo hat and curly red wig. “You and Zeppo sustained the most damage.”
“It was that way around the house when we were youths, too.” He squatted, poked at the remains of his waxen head. He picked up the nose, turned it around in his hand. “No wonder I’ve been drummed out of the lonely hearts club. What rational woman could love a shnoz like this?”
“When did you start going in for rational women?”
“People who live with cartoonists shouldn’t throw stones,” he advised. “Though if you want to throw a scone on occasion, that might be allowed. It would depend, of course, on the occasion. For example, National Scone Throwing Day might be suitable. However, if—”
“We’re going to have to report this to somebody.”
Groucho dropped the wax nose into his jacket pocket and left the room. “All in good time, Renfrew,” he said as I followed him through the room where the images of the movie actresses were. “I don’t imagine the management of this vast illuminated flea market is going to be too very upset about losing a few carven images of the Marx Clan.” He paused to give Joan Crawford a friendly pat on the backside and then continued toward the way out. “Now, had it been the Three Stooges or—”
“As I recall, though, Emily Post tells us it’s bad manners not to report an attempt on one’s life.”
“Shooting a wax dummy isn’t a crime, is it?” He increased his pace as we neared the final exit.
“Even so, I think … Well, good evening, Sergeant Branner.”
The Bayside police detective was leaning against the wax museum ticket booth. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but his suit was a dark blue.
“Is this indeed our favorite most minion of the law, the flatfoot’s flatfoot Sergeant Branner?” Groucho produced a fresh cigar and unwrapped it. “You’re certain it’s not another of those clever wax dummies?”
“Am I wrong,” asked Branner, smiling thinly, “or did I hear some shooting just now?”
“Somebody took a few shots at us.” I pointed back toward the museum. “In there, which you probably already know about.”
“I was thinking about going in and investigating,” the lanky cop told us. “In fact, I’ll have a look right now. Did you shoot anybody?”
“No, we were the targets.”
He reached out and took the book of matches from Groucho’s hand. “Mind if I borrow a light?” After lighting his cigarette, he continued. “Either of you see the guy who did the shooting?”
“No, only part of his arm sticking through the doorway,” I answered. “Looked like a .38 Police Special. His suit was the same color as yours.”
“It’s a very fashionable shade this season,” said the detective, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “Tell you what. I’ll give the museum the once-over, see what I can turn up. Considering that Colonel Mullens wouldn’t like a full-scale police investigation interrupting his big bash here, I’ll keep the lid on this for now.”
Groucho lit his cigar. “That is, surprisingly, an excellent idea, sergeant.”
Branner tapped me on the chest with the hand that held the cigarette. That got ashes on my tie. “This incident, Denby, is a good example of what happens to saps who get the idea they’re detectives. Think about that.”
“You might think about it, too.”
Groucho tugged on my sleeve and got me headed back toward the tent.
The Mullens Maidens sidetracked us.
Or rather, they sidetracked Groucho. I just hung around to make certain he got safely back to the entertainment tent.
There were a half dozen of them,
all dressed in low-fronted, short-skirted costumes that made them resemble wholesome cigarette girls. Each one carried a wicker basket full up with the yellow and blue cardboard packages of Mullens Pudding. All five flavorful flavors were available to the Colonel’s impending guests.
Five of the Maidens were gathered in front of a kiosk that had been set up on the amusement park grounds. It was labeled MULLENS PUDDING PAVILION. A smaller sign invited guests to MEET THE MULLENS MAIDENS AND GET YOUR FREE BOX OF DELIGHTFULLY DELICIOUS MULLENS PUDDING!
The sixth girl had set down her gift basket and climbed up a stepladder that was leaning against the kiosk. She was struggling to post a sign that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, COLONEL MULLENS!
She was a redhead and when Groucho noted her having trouble with her tack hammer, he came to a stop. “Here’s a damsel in distress, Sancho, or I miss my guess,” he announced. “And, since I’ve already missed my bus, there’s time to tarry and offer her assistance. There might even be time for Terry and the Pirates.”
“By now Polly’s probably at the tent,” I mentioned. “If you intend to impersonate Nelson Eddy, you ought to—”
“Spontaneity has always been the key to my performances.” He flicked ashes from his cigar and started trotting in the direction of the redhead on the ladder. “And the Rosetta Stone has always been the key to deciphering my after-dinner speeches.”
After I took a couple of deep breaths in and out, I walked over to the Pudding Pavilion.
“Pudding, sir? It’s absolutely free.” One of the Mullens Maidens had stepped into my path, preventing me from continuing in Groucho’s wake. She was a slim blond girl of about twenty and the chill night wind coming in off the Pacific was causing goose bumps on her bare arms and legs.
“I’m Frank Denby,” I told her. “I work on the show and get all the free pudding I can use.”
