Groucho Marx, Master Detective

by Ron Goulart

  “I’d say it’s a squirrel eye.”

  “You think so? No, squirrels usually look smarter and more honest than that.”

  Jape put in, “Groucho, we’re supposed to go on the air with your new radio show in less than two weeks. If we can’t get together with the client and the network on these minor changes—well, we may have to drop the project.”

  “That’s okay by me. I have an offer to work as a prioress down in Tijuana. Pays better than this halfwit show and I don’t have to drink anybody’s vile coffee.” He popped to his feet, took a few slouching steps toward the door. Then he halted, smacked his forehead and returned. Scowling down at the white table, he said, “The last time I saw a table like this, there was somebody being dissected on top of it.” He put a paternal hand on my shoulder. “I just realized I can’t leave this poor lad in the lurch—especially since his lurch is in such pathetic shape. All rusty and covered with those odd little bumps.”

  “Can we,” requested Jape, “get back to the script?”

  “The script is perfect as it is.” Groucho sat, took a puff of his cigar. “I might go so far as to say it is the most brilliant and hilarious script I have ever had the pleasure to read. I might even go so far as Pasadena if my folks will let me borrow the car tonight.” Leaning closer to me, he whispered, “The rewrite is okay, isn’t it? I haven’t had time to look at it.”

  “You were right the first time,” I assured him. “It is brilliant.”

  “Then screw these bastards. We’ll stand our ground. Although J. Hawkshaw Transom is a lousy name.”

  “Not lousy, mediocre at worst. But in the tradition of most of your movie names,” I reminded him. “Dr. Hugo Z. Hackenbush, Otis B. Driftwood, Waldorf J. Flywheel, etc.”

  “True,” he admitted. “By the way, Rollo, you look strangely elated this morning—it can’t be this godawful get-together.”

  “I’m pretty sure I fell head over heels in love about an hour and a half ago.”

  Smiling, Groucho leaned back, exhaled smoke and rubbed his hands together. “Ah, splendid,” he said, “I’ll do my best to screw that up for you.”

  Three

  There was a warm wind drifting in across the darkening Pacific.

  Jane and I were holding hands by the time we left the Neptune Café. The electric shocks had subsided for the most part.

  She wore a simple pale green dress and her reddish hair was held back by a single twist of black ribbon. “Usually their clam chowder has clams in it,” she was explaining. “Tonight was an exception.”

  “Everything was great,” I assured her.

  We began walking slowly along the twilight beach, heading for my humble cottage.

  “I suppose I ought to warn you,” she said.

  “That you’re eventually going to abandon me on the church steps?”

  “No, not at all,” she told me, laughing. “What I’m feeling is that you’re going to be the exception.”

  “Did I mention that I got an electric shock the first time I touched you?”

  “Irish witches on my mother’s side.”

  The day continued to fade and by the time we reached my weathered cottage darkness had closed in.

  Jane stopped. “Is that your house yonder?”

  “The one that looks like Hillbilly Willie’s homestead, yeah.”

  “Well, there’s somebody lurking on your porch.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “That’s a familiar silhouette.” I guided her onto the cracked flagstone path that cut up across my sparse front yard. “Groucho?”

  “I telephoned twice, Frank, but didn’t get an answer,” said the actor from the shadowy porch. “I decided to drop over. I want to talk to you about something.”

  “This is Jane Danner,” I said when we reached the porch. “I was telling you about her.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Marx. Telling you what?”

  “The lad is completely smitten, Miss Danner.” Groucho shook her hand and bowed slightly. He was carrying a folded copy of the Los Angeles Times under his arm. “I hate to interrupt you kids, but this is important.”

  “That’s okay.” I located my key and unlocked the front door.

  “Smitten, huh?” Jane said to Groucho.

  He nodded. “Head over heels was how he put it. And I’d say he had good reason.”

  A large flowered sofa and two matching armchairs crowded my small living room. The pair of matching floor lamps had parchment shades depicting sailboats in the sunset. A husky radio sat in a corner.

  “Place came furnished,” I informed everybody after turning on the overhead light. “My wife got our real furniture when—”

  “It’s very quaint,” said Jane.

  Groucho crossed to an armchair, sat and tapped the folded newspaper on his knee. “I need your help, Frank.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with our radio show, does it?” I sat myself on the sofa, facing the actor.

  “Nothing at all, no.” From an inner pocket of his sport coat he extracted a pair of rimless reading glasses. He put them on and opened the Times to a middle page. “Somebody called me about this a couple hours ago.” He coughed into his hand, adjusted the glasses, looked away from the paper for a few seconds. “It’s this little story here in the middle of the page, about Peg McMorrow. ‘STARLET TAKES LIFE. DESPONDENT YOUNG ACTRESS A SUICIDE.’”

  “That’s the girl this morning.” Jane sat next to me and touched my hand. “I meant to tell you.”

  Groucho took off his glasses and stared at the two of us. “You know something about Peg’s death?”

  “Not exactly. But that’s what caused the traffic tie-up this morning.”

  “Which is how we met,” continued Jane. “Everything was all tangled up in the vicinity of her cottage, Mr. Marx. You know, police cars, ambulances, reporters, gawkers and all that. At the time we didn’t know exactly who had died, but somebody did say an actress had killed herself.”

  I was watching Groucho. “You knew her, obviously.”

  Standing up, he tossed the paper to the faded carpet. “Two years ago I…” Groucho rubbed his knuckle under his nose and began pacing. “Let’s say we were good friends for several months back in 1935. Peg—Christ, Peg would only be twenty-two now. She was twenty, fresh from Iola, Wisconsin, of all places. She was pretty, bright…” He shrugged. “Not a bad actress either.” He moved to the window and looked out across the beach toward the dark ocean. “I haven’t seen Peg since then, but I’ve more or less kept up with her. Abe Bockman’s been her agent for over a year and I run into him fairly often at the Hillcrest Country Club. A real schmuck, but a passable agent.”

  I asked, “How exactly can I help you?”

  Turning his back on the night sea, Groucho replied, “Peg would never have killed herself.”

  “Anybody can commit suicide. Dying is easy.”

  “No, not Peg. She wasn’t that kind of—”

  “Two years, Mr. Marx. That’s a long time ago,” Jane said. “People change.”

  Groucho went over and picked up the fallen newspaper. “This rag quotes her suicide note. She supposedly said she was depressed because her career wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “People kill themselves for lesser reasons than that,” I pointed out.

  “I ran into Abe only last week and he told me Peg was about to sign a three-year contract with Paragon Pictures.”

  Jane suggested, “Maybe that deal fell through.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Have you talked to Abe Bockman since you heard about her death?”

  “I tried, but his secretary informed me he’s up in Frisco on some deal and can’t be reached,” said Groucho. “I’ll tell you something else, kids. They found Peg in her garage, slumped in the front seat of her little coupe. They claim she sealed up the garage and sat in the car with the motor running until she died.” He shook his head. “Peg had a bad case of claustrophobia. She’d never lock herself inside a small space like tha
t—not even to kill herself.”

  I was frowning. “Wait now, Groucho,” I said slowly. “Peg McMorrow is dead and you don’t believe she killed herself. That doesn’t leave many other possibilities. Chiefly accident or murder.”

  Groucho lowered himself into the armchair. “Somebody killed her.”

  “What’s the motive?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  “Was she involved with somebody who might have—”

  “I’m going to find out.”

  Jane asked, “Why is this so important to you, Mr. Marx?”

  He looked at her and then up at the peach-colored ceiling. “That’s a very pertinent question, Miss Danner,” he answered finally. “I have to tell you that I’m not exactly certain. Could be I’m getting sentimental as I dodder into middle age.” He paused, took out a cigar. He put it in his mouth but made no attempt to light it. “What I am sure of is that I have a very strong feeling that something’s wrong here.” He pointed at the newspaper. “For instance, you saw reporters flocking around this morning. And think about this—a pretty young actress dies mysteriously. That’s headline stuff, yet not one of the newspapers hereabouts paid much attention to the story. All of them buried it.”

  “A coverup?” I asked.

  “We’ll find out,” promised Groucho. “You used to handle the crime beat, right?”

  “For the Times for nearly six years.”

  “I want to see copies of all the police reports on this, I want to know what the coroner has to say,” Groucho told me. “Pictures, too, and any reporters’ notes you can get hold of. For details on Peg’s private life and her career I have contacts of my own.”

  “The Bayside police,” I mentioned, “are not the most honest and forthright in the land. And lots of them don’t like outsiders and amateurs nosing around.”

  “Bribe somebody if you have to.”

  “No, I know a few relatively honest cops I can talk to. I still have a contact with someone who can get us the medical stuff.”

  Groucho said, “I also want to find her body.”

  Jane sat up straight. “Is it missing?”

  “I’m thinking of taking care of the funeral if nobody else does. She didn’t have much in the way of next of kin.”

  “Just phone the authorities and—”

  “Did that,” said Groucho. “I got the run-around.”

  I scratched at my chin. “That is kind of funny,” I said. “I’ll find out about that, too.”

  Groucho said, “Can you start right now?”

  “Sure,” I told him.

  He glanced from me to Jane. “Over the years I’ve realized that I have a real knack for detective work,” he said. “Why, back during my vaudeville days, I was the one who found out who shot Ginsburg the Human Cannon Ball.” Shoulders slouching, he began to pace on my threadbare imitation Persian rug. “Nobody much liked Ginsburg, because he was always going off half cocked. Still, as Ben Franklin so wisely put it, half a—Ah, but I shouldn’t be jesting at a time like this.”

  “You’re using humor to hide your true feelings of grief and sorrow,” Jane told him.

  Groucho stopped still, straightening up. “Jove, this woman is absolutely brilliant.” He leaped clean over the coffee table and grabbed her hand up out of her lap. He did a deep bow and kissed it several times. Then he looked at me and added, “Get rid of her at the earliest opportunity, Rollo. Brilliant women can ruin a chap.”

  Taking back her hand, Jane asked me, “Are you going to help him, Frank?”

  I’d already made up my mind on that one. “Yeah, with a detective like him and a reporter like me— Hell, we ought to be able to solve this.” I nodded at Groucho. “You’re sure you want to go ahead with this—no matter what we turn up.”

  “I want to find the bastard who killed her,” he said evenly.

  I held out my hand. “Then you’ve got an assistant.”

  “You’re a good lad, Rollo.” After shaking hands, he reached up and patted me on the head. “By the way, before all this started for me I got around to reading your rewrite of our radio script.”

  “And?”

  “Not too terrible,” said Groucho.

  Four

  The next day started off chill and foggy. When I took off my hat after entering the small Bayside Diner at a few minutes after ten A.M., I noticed that it was damp with mist. The narrow restaurant appeared to be entirely empty, but then I heard a groaning noise coming from behind the counter.

  Crossing the room, I went up on tiptoe to peer over.

  Stretched out face down on the floor was a husky black man. Breathing heavily, he was doing pushups while counting to himself.

  “Six … shit … seven … oh Jesus … eight … goddamn.”

  “Enery?” I inquired.

  Enery McBride, who ran the Bayside most weekday mornings, let out a sigh and stretched out flat. “I have to get back in shape quick,” he explained, not looking up. “That’s because my career’s taken a turn for the better.”

  “Which profession are we talking about?” I asked, settling onto a stool. “Fry cook or actor?”

  Slowly he rolled over onto his back and then, groaning some more, he sat up. “Acting, Frank.”

  “Great. What?”

  He scrambled up into a standing position. “I’m going to be playing royalty in a new movie that starts shooting over at Paragon come Monday.”

  “Royalty, huh?”

  Enery nodded. “I’m signed to be the king of the cannibals in the latest TyGor the Jungle Boy flicker,” he explained, grinning. “I think it’s an impressive step upward from playing the porter in Murder Express.”

  “Oh, without a doubt.”

  “If I keep on climbing at this rate, I’ll be doing Othello for MGM in—what?—another year tops.”

  “Shouldn’t even take that long.” I glanced back at the door. “Anybody been by asking for me?”

  “Not so far.” Enery brushed dust off his white apron. “Coffee while you’re waiting?”

  “Might as well, sure.”

  “What do you think about Norma Shearer opposite me as Desdemona?”

  “No, too old.”

  “Mae West?”

  “Better.”

  He poured coffee into a tan mug and set it down in front of me.

  I rested an elbow on the counter, asking, “You ever run into Peg McMorrow?”

  Enery looked down, sighing again. “Yeah, poor kid,” he answered. “It’s funny, too, Frank. Because I heard she was going to be playing the white goddess in this latest TyGor epic.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not a hundred percent, but the scuttlebutt was she was all set.” He poured himself a mug of coffee. “So she shouldn’t have been very unhappy, not like the papers said.”

  The door opened and I glanced over my shoulder.

  George Tomley, a large wide man in his middle thirties came in. His blue suit already had a full day’s worth of wrinkles and his polka dot tie was askew. He nodded at a rear booth without saying anything.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Enery.

  “A leftover from my reporter days, yeah.” I gathered up my cup and headed for the booth.

  “Morning,” said Tomley in his raspy voice, settling into the seat.

  Frowning, I sat down opposite him. “I don’t notice any folder, George,” I said. “Not even a memo.”

  “You’re very perceptive.” He rested both big hands flat on the tabletop. “That’s a great asset for a crackerjack reporter.”

  “Or a crackerjack police detective like you, George,” I said. “When I phoned you last night, you promised to sneak out the file on Peg McMorrow’s death.”

  He hunched slightly, voice dropping lower. “The case is closed, Frank,” he told me. “Shut tight. Over and done. On top of which, old buddy, the file turns out to be missing.”

  “C’mon, she only died yesterday,” I said, eying him.

  The plainclothes Bayside cop twiste
d his thick fingers together. “Seriously, Frank, this isn’t anything you want to dig into any further. Okay?”

  “Meaning what—some kind of coverup?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “What about getting a look at the autopsy report?”

  After several silent seconds, Tomley replied, “That’s not available.”

  I leaned forward. “Well, can you get me in to see her body?”

  He shook his head. “Too late for that.”

  “What do you mean, George? They misplaced that, too?”

  “She was cremated,” he said, gesturing toward the foggy ocean outside. “And her ashes scattered over the Pacific.”

  “Who the hell’s idea was that?”

  “Hers.”

  “Oh, so? Where’d she request that—in a P.S. to her suicide note?”

  Tomley coughed into one big hand. “I snuck over here to fill you in as best I can, Frank,” he said. “Even if you were still a reporter with the Times, I’d advise you to forget about it. And, hell, as an ex-reporter—this sure isn’t anything you want to fool with.”

  “Where’s the pressure coming from, George?” I asked. “Are we talking about movie people, local hoods or—”

  “We’re not talking about anything.” He rose up, lurched free of the booth. “This is just one more suicide. They happen all the time, especially around Hollywood.” He leaned over, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It can be a very depressing town.”

  The big cop let go of me, nodded once and went walking out into the morning fog.

  From behind the counter Enery called, “You want something to eat, Frank?”

  Shaking my head, I got up. “Nope,” I answered. “Turns out I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  Five

  At about the same time that I was getting nowhere with my most reliable contact on the Bayside police, Groucho, as he later told me, was slouching along La Cienega Boulevard in West Hollywood. He was wearing a tan checked sport coat, a lime green polo shirt and a pair of vaguely tweedy slacks. The cigar he was absently chewing on was unlit and his hands were thrust deep in his trouser pockets.