Groucho Marx, Private Eye

by Ron Goulart

  “You can stick around here, miss,” invited the lean cowboy actor. “Lot of brambles and nettles in that there woods.”

  “Thanks, but Dorgan and I consider ourselves a team.”

  The bloodhound, making small whimpering noises, was pulling against the leash, eager to head into the woods.

  “Where exactly is the Pilgrim place?” I asked Cotton.

  He pointed toward the darkening forest that rose up just to the rear of the movie town’s main street. “Due south down that there way, Frank, for maybe a mile,” he said. “You’ll come to a clearing with high hedges around it. Other side of them is a big redwood house as well as a garage, two sheds and three cottages. Looks to me like that dog’s going to lead you just about there anyway.”

  “Let’s go,” Jane said to Dorgan.

  He made a pleased sound and headed for the woods.

  “Good hunting, folks,” called Cotton.

  The bloodhound was pulling Jane after him on a zigzag path downhill. I turned on the flash and followed them.

  “In case,” said Jane over her shoulder to me, “you ever have reason to doubt my attractiveness, remember Duke Cotton.”

  “Shucks, he was just being courteous. That’s the code of the West.”

  “Where’s it say in the code of the West that you pat ladies on their backsides?”

  I slowed. “Did that son of a bitch try to—”

  “Don’t fret, I was able to dissuade him.”

  “Even so, I—”

  “Let’s concentrate on where Dorgan is leading us.”

  I was silent for a few minutes, mad.

  Dorgan, panting methodically, was heading to what might actually be due south. I was never very good on south, north, and directions like that. Left and right I’d pretty much mastered.

  “Lights showing up ahead,” I said, clicking off my flashlight. “That could be the house.”

  “Slow down a little, Dorgan,” Jane suggested to the eager bloodhound, pulling on his leash.

  Reluctantly, he slowed his descent through the brush and between the oaks and walnut trees.

  We could see the main house now. It was a two-story redwood structure and there was light showing at several windows on the ground floor. There were also lights on in one of the cottages.

  Dorgan was making small whimpering sounds, hunching his shoulders, tugging at the restraining leash.

  “Let’s see,” I suggested, “where he wants to go.”

  Jane patted the dog on his side, saying softly, “Okay, lead on, Dorgan.”

  He wound his way through the trees, head low. He lead us clear of the woods at a spot behind the main house. Then, finding a break in one of the hedges, he moved onto the grounds of the Pilgrim property.

  Darkness had closed in by now and there was no moonlight yet.

  The bloodhound ignored the house, went trotting toward the cottage where the light was showing.

  I couldn’t see anybody on the grounds, no one anywhere near the small shingled house. Very carefully we moved closer.

  Hunched low, I eased up to the window and risked a look inside.

  Frances London was in the living room, sitting up straight in a wood and leather armchair.

  And standing close to her, a .32 revolver in his hand, was Roger Pilgrim.

  They were talking, but none of the conversation got out of the room.

  At my side Dorgan suddenly made a growling sound.

  Then behind me someone said, “Evening, Frankie.”

  Thirty-three

  Maggie Barnes scowled in Groucho’s direction. “Why’d you bring that thing with you?”

  Hugging his guitar to him in a sort of maternal way, he answered, “We may have a long night ahead of us, my dear. Music helps while away the time.”

  “Not my time.” She was sitting on the rustic sofa in the large, beam-ceilinged living room of the house where she’d been kept hidden away ever since she and Groucho had jumped out of the window of the bordello. “I’m kind of starting to think I was a sap to go along with you on this latest brainstorm of yours.”

  “You’re perfectly safe, Mag.” He was perched on the edge of a rustic wood and leather armchair and he put his guitar on his knee and strummed a few chords. “Would you like to hear a medley of old Nick Lucas favorites? I’ve had oodles of compliments on my rendition of ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips.’”

  “Nick Lucas was a sissy.”

  “Well then, how about my rendition of ‘Tiptoe Through the Pansies’?”

  The blonde produced a disdainful noise. “You might as well play a funeral march, since we’re both going to get killed.” She left the sofa and walked over to the draped front windows. “There’s probably already a whole gang of them out there will tommy guns.”

  “But that’s precisely what we want,” he reminded. “That’s how a trap works. You place the bait at point A. and then the quarry appears at point B. and moves toward point A. At which time—”

  “They shoot us full of holes.” Maggie reached out to part the drapes, then decided she didn’t want to look out into the darkness beyond the house. Instead she returned to the sofa, sat down hard, folded her arms under her breasts. “I gave that skinflint lawyer of yours my statement, Groucho, and that should’ve been enough.”

  “It’s a step in the right direction,” he conceded. “But we can also use more direct evidence.”

  “How about my lifeless corpse chock-full of bullet holes? That direct enough?” She shook her blond head. “Like I told you, Groucho, I’m sorry I agreed to this half-assed plan of yours.”

  “Frankly, Maggie, I was growing impatient,” he said. “I’m hoping this’ll nudge them into tripping themselves up.”

  “Yeah, and knocking us off in the process.”

  “If it works, you’ll be safe. Free to come and go as you—”

  “Swell,” she said. “Then I can go back to being a hooker and have the time of my life. I can sleep with a bunch of assholes and not have a care in the world.”

  “You won’t have to return to that particular mode of employment.”

  “So what do I do instead? Strap on some roller skates and work as a car hop in some half-baked drive-in out in Pomona?”

  “Actually, the chain of half-baked drive-ins I have influence with only operates out of Oxnard. However, one of the advantages of working for them is that you get to keep the roller skates. Plus you get all the french fries you can—”

  “Level with me, Groucho,” the young woman cut in. “If I don’t end up in Forest Lawn after tonight, are you really going to help me get work?”

  “I’ve already begun the process,” he assured her. “As soon as the coast is clear, we’ll start rolling. Ah, but keep in mind that we’re referring here to the coast of Yucatán, which usually requires just an awful lot of work to clear. In fact, the last time we tried to clear it, why, all the king’s horses, all the king’s men and the entire outfield of a Japanese baseball team took days and days to—”

  “Does your wife ever get fed up with your kidding around all the time?”

  “Frequently, yes,” he admitted. “Matter of fact, I’m already on my second wife. I wore the first one down to a nub with my jocularity and frivolous remarks. I imagine that—”

  At the moment he was interrupted by the front door being booted open.

  * * *

  Gesturing at Jane with his .45 automatic, Pilgrim’s chauffeur ordered, “Keep that damn mutt quiet.”

  Jane knelt on the hooked rug and patted the growling, grumbling Dorgan on his side. “Hush up, boy,” she suggested, “or the lout’s liable to shoot you.”

  The dog made a shuddering movement and quieted down.

  “That’s enough of that kind of talk, lady.”

  “Careful,” I told her. “It’s not a good idea to insult louts. Particularly armed louts who—”

  “Unfortunately, Frank,” said Pilgrim, “you seem to have picked up some of Groucho’s inappropriate flippancy.”r />
  “It has nothing to do with Groucho.” Jane straightened up. “He’s been this way since birth.”

  Pilgrim was standing directly behind the chair Frances London was sitting in. “None of this is particularly funny, Miss Danner.”

  “He’s going to have to kill you, too,” said the blond actress. “After he gets finished arranging my suicide.”

  “C’mon,” I said to Pilgrim, “you can’t get away with a multiple suicide. I doubt if even crooked cops will—”

  “You two will be having an automobile accident,” Pilgrim informed me. “Afraid that Frances was planning to take her life, you came rushing up here in that unsafe little car of yours. In your haste you misjudged a dangerous curve and…” He shrugged, smiled thinly. “Egon will arrange the details.”

  After a few seconds I realized that Egon must be the chauffeur. Up until now nobody had ever bothered to introduce the guy to me.

  “That’ll make Egon a murderer,” said Jane.

  “That doesn’t bother me, lady.”

  “Roger’s been trying to get me to sign a suicide note, confessing to the murder,” Frances told us and touching at a red spot on her cheek.

  “Eventually you’re going to sign the note,” her former husband promised. “A farewell letter, confessing all and expressing profound guilt over what you’ve done. That will add a convincing touch.”

  “A little flaw there,” I mentioned. “She didn’t kill the doctor.”

  “No one’s ever likely to establish that.”

  “Groucho is,” I told him. “Probably tonight.”

  Pilgrim stroked his chin with his free hand. “It might be better then to have Frances kill herself simply out of remorse over all the trouble she’s caused us.”

  “I’m never going to sign a damn thing.”

  Pilgrim said, “We’ll persuade you. In ways that won’t leave any traces.”

  I asked him, “This will be your first killing, won’t it? The way Groucho and I have figured this out, Dr. Benninger was—”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” said Egon, “what you guys think.”

  “No, I appreciate their interest.” Pilgrim pointed his revolver at me. “You don’t believe I killed the doctor—then what am I up to here, Frank?”

  “Well, despite your look of affluence and financial stability,” I said, “you’re really like one of those old West towns. Nothing much behind the false front.”

  “You writers certainly have a gift for lively expressions.”

  I moved a step closer to the sprawled dog. “Actually, Pilgrim, you’re in hock to some mean-minded gamblers.”

  “So that’s the reason,” murmured Frances.

  “The money Polly’s going to get from that new Paragon Pictures contract is going to save your neck,” I continued. “Sure, I know there are laws to protect the incomes of kid stars, but you’re shrewd enough to get around those. You’ve probably already promised Salermo’s boys that you’ll be sharing the wealth with them until your debt’s canceled.”

  Frances looked up at her former husband, shaking her head. “He’s worried because Polly and I are close again.”

  “Yep, Pilgrim’s afraid she’ll want to use her money to help you out,” I said. “And also that if you and Polly stay friendly, you’re going to find out he’s tangled up with a lot of prominent mobsters. You’d be able to get the court to return custody of your daughter to you.”

  “He did take care of my bail and—”

  “More front. He wanted to look good, so nobody’d suspect what he was really up to,” I said, easing nearer to the dormant Dorgan. “But he got a little too eager to make you look like a potential suicide and it got Groucho to wondering.”

  “What the hell is this,” asked the annoyed Egon, “the goddamned Gettysburg Address?”

  “The Gettysburg Address is much shorter,” said Jane.

  “So this is all about Polly’s money,” said Frances.

  “Money’s a very popular motive.”

  The actress asked me, “You don’t think he had anything to do with killing Russ Benninger?”

  “Nope, he just took advantage of your getting tangled up in the murder,” I replied.

  “If I’m going to rig a fake accident with that jalopy of his,” said Egon, “I better get started.”

  “First things first,” said Pilgrim. We have to take care of Frances.”

  “Too many people know bout this place. I think—”

  I nudged Dorgan hard in his backside with the toe of my shoe.

  The bloodhound yelped, shot straight up, and then lunged for the chauffeur’s leg.

  I lunged, too, and managed to grab the startled Egon’s gun hand before he could use his automatic.

  I spun him around, getting him between me and Pilgrim.

  Jane meantime had dived to the floor and scooted behind a table.

  Next came two shots.

  Pilgrim made a strange gurgling sound. He raised his gun up chest high, then dropped it. The front of his suit coat was growing bloody. He fell to the floor just in front of his former wife’s feet.

  “Good thing I came on down here to look around,” said Duke Cotton from the open front doorway. He held a six-gun in each hand. “I kept that varmint from shooting you all up.” He glanced over at Jane. “You all right, miss?”

  “I’m fine.” She got up. “Thanks.”

  “Better let go of your gun, Egon,” I told the chauffeur.

  We’d been struggling for possession during the shooting.

  “Shit,” he complained and released his grip on the automatic.

  Thirty-four

  The short, handsome Jack Cortez smiled at Groucho. “You must be one of the few guys left who brings a guitar along when he shacks up with a broad,” he observed.

  “Music hath charms.” Groucho stood up and carefully leaned the instrument against the chair he’d been sitting in. “Which is more than I can say for either you or your sidekick. And if anybody ever needed a good swift kick in the side, it’s you, Sergeant Branner.”

  The thin cop, cigarette in one knobby hand and .38 revolver in the other, had followed the mobster from out of the night into the living room. “This is what comes from playing detective, Julius,” he said. “I warned you about fooling around with this case.”

  Groucho glanced up at the beamed ceiling. “I know, sarge, but playing detective is so much more fun than playing Monopoly or even playing the harmonium, that I couldn’t resist. My brother Chico feels the same way about playing the horses. When I was asked to play a horse, though, I turned them down because they didn’t offer me the leading part. I, therefore—”

  “Suppose you shut up.” Cortez shut the door and moved farther into the room.

  “That’s an interesting motion. Is there a second?”

  Branner said, “You’re forgetting, Jack, that this guy thinks he’s a comedian. Let him have one last fling.”

  Maggie had started crying softly. “He made me come here, sergeant,” she told him, sniffling into a lace-trimmed hankie. “I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. But, I swear, I haven’t told him anything.”

  “At this point it really doesn’t matter, Maggie,” said the cop.

  “But you can trust me not to blab. You don’ have to—”

  “We do have to, honey,” said the policeman. “Let me explain the scenario to you, so you’ll understand your part in it.”

  “If it’s all the same with you guys,” she said, “I’d like to retire from acting right about now.”

  “It’s a very simple part.” Branner rested his free hand on the arm of her chair, leaned close, and exhaled smoke. “See, this is a love nest we’ve discovered here.”

  “I’m not an especially critical person,” put in Groucho, “but I would like to point out that you’re lacking some of the essential ingredients for a first-class love nest.”

  “We’ve got all we need.” The cop kept his eyes on the tearful blonde. “We’ve got a well-known
whore and a dirty old man. Perfect setup.”

  “I deeply resent being alluded to as a dirty old man,” complained Groucho. “A dirty middle-aged man perhaps, yet not—”

  “Shut up,” advised Cortez. From his shoulder holster he produced an automatic.

  “Well, when you put it that way,” said Groucho.

  Branner backed away from Maggie. “Groucho, as the story will go, developed this obsessive passion for you, Maggie. He broke into Mrs. Ferguson’s joint and dragged you off against your will. Plenty of witnesses to that. He kept you a prisoner here and, when you refused to give in to his perverse sexual suggestions, he threatened you with a gun. You struggled and in that unfortunate struggle, the gun went off—twice. Killed you both.” His shook his head in mock sadness.

  “Colossal,” remarked Groucho. “Who do you see in the role of Groucho?”

  “Let’s get this started,” suggested Cortez.

  Holding his right hand in a wait-a-minute gesture, Groucho said, “I guess this is the end of the trail, Branner. And, as you prophesied, my trying to be a detective has brought me to an ignominious end, whatever that might be.”

  “Yeah, so?” said the impatient Cortez.

  To the cop Groucho said, “I developed a theory, even though I’m only an amateur at this game, and…” He paused to sigh a forlorn sigh. “Well, shucks, before I take off for Glory, could you satisfy my curiosity?”

  Cortez said, “Let’s just shoot them and—”

  “What was it you wanted to know, Julius?”

  “Why are we wasting time with this bullshit?” demanded Cortez.

  “It’s my last request,” Groucho pointed out. “Law officers have to honor those. You’re lucky I didn’t also order a pastrami sandwich and a blueberry knish for my last meal. Or the services of a rabbi.”

  “We can spare a few minutes,” Branner told the gangster.

  After another glance toward the ceiling, Groucho said, “I truly appreciate this, Branner, and I’ve come to the realization, albeit a bit late in the game, that you’re not quite as rotten a rat as I’d originally surmised.”

  “What’s your theory?” asked the sergeant.

  “It all began with Brian Montaine,” said Groucho, raising his voice some. “He was still in love with his wife—one more proof of the saying that there’s no accounting for taste. All right, the deluded hambone was still enamored of Dianne Sayler and he vowed that, to win her back, he was going to kick the dope habit for good and all. To help him reach his goal, Montaine intended to make his addiction public. That would probably finish him in the movie business, but since he possessed a nest egg of massive proportions, he didn’t care about that. As part of his plan he meant to tell all he knew about the Tartaglia-Cortez drug operations and about the interesting role Dr. Benninger was playing. Now, granted, several important cops in the Los Angeles area, including you, Branner, already knew all about that but were being paid to pretend otherwise.” Groucho paused, cleared his throat, and continued. “However, if Montaine made a public confession, then everybody would know. It would be in all the newspapers, Time would give it a cover story, all the trade papers would write it up, Johnny Whistler would devote two or three minutes to it on his radio show. Even in a state as corrupt as California, there would have to be an investigation. The federals would come in on it, too.”