Groucho Marx, Master Detective

by Ron Goulart

  “The trouble is we don’t know enough about the damned gunman to even—”

  “So there you jerks are.” Jape Griffin, the account exec on Orem Bros. Coffee, was trotting down toward us.

  Drawing himself up to his full height, Groucho pointed an admonishing finger at him. “I resent deeply, sir, the term jerks,” he said. “That is, I resent your using it in the plural. My associate, as I’ve long suspected, may well be a jerk. I, however, am known in academic circles—and I’ve been going around in academic circles so long that I’m getting terribly dizzy—I, have a care, am known far and wide—or is it wide and far? Be that as it may, all is forgiven and the curfew shall not ring tonight. But keep next Tuesday open.”

  “I hope to god you’re going to be funnier than that when you read the goddamn script to this bunch,” said Jape forlornly. “Speaking of which, you were due to start ten minutes ago. Where the hell were you?”

  Groucho unwrapped a new cigar. “It was such an absolutely gorgeous day, Jape, that we couldn’t keep from gamboling on the sward,” he said. “We were also contemplating trying a little Morris dancing, but Morris’s tootsies are bothering him something awful. Now if you’re completely through babbling, lead us, if you will, to the scene of our upcoming triumph.”

  After making an exasperated noise, the big account man said, “Come on, gentlemen.”

  “Watch who you’re calling a gentleman.” Groucho lit his cigar.

  * * *

  As I should have anticipated, the reading of my script was a definite hit. That was due in large part to Groucho. I’d never seen him work with an audience before and I hadn’t realized how that buoyed him up. It even, somehow, seemed to improve the material.

  About a hundred or more of Warren Stander’s guests were crowded into the beam-ceilinged music room to hear us run through the half-hour radio play. Junior Orem, a lank, leathery man, shared a loveseat with Jape Griffin up near our improvised stage.

  Before we ever got around to the actual script, though, Groucho did some performing on his own. It turned out he’d brought along his guitar, something I wasn’t even aware of until he hopped up on the small rectangular stage clutching it. He opened with a medley of songs from the Marx Brothers movies, including “Ev’ry One Says ‘I Love You’” from Horse Feathers and “The Monkey Doodle-Doo” from The Cocoanuts. For an encore he led everybody in a rendition of the Captain Spalding song from Animal Crackers. When I noticed Junior Orem clapping his hands and laughing during that one, I experienced something approaching optimism.

  Groucho’s second medley consisted of Gilbert and Sullivan material, mostly from his favorite, The Mikado.

  By the time I joined him to deliver the script, that audience of movie people and businessmen was gratifyingly receptive. Groucho had persuaded Margaret Dumont to read the part of the rich client, Mrs. Uppercase, and she did a perfect job. For good measure, Carole Lombard, admittedly a shade tipsy by that time, played our femme fatale. Mickey Rooney insisted on being the detective agency office boy and we allowed him to do that, but only after he agreed not to borrow Krupa’s drums and add a drum solo to the reading. I took the five other speaking parts and provided the simpler sound effects. I sounded pretty good at everything except the Swedish maid.

  Chester Morris shook my hand again as I was leaving the music room. “Not bad for an amateur, kid,” he said. “But I’d stick to the writing. That you do pretty good.”

  I departed and retrieved my car from its hiding place amid the shrubbery on a little side lane. I climbed in and headed home for Bayside. I was going to have an early dinner with Jane, then meet Groucho at his place in Beverly Hills.

  Little did I know what was actually going to befall me.

  Sixteen

  Groucho, he later told me, had lingered at the mansion after our performance and dusk was spreading through the Rodeo Drive area of Beverly Hills when he parked his car on a narrow side street. Since the oncoming evening was warm, he left his houndstooth sport coat draped on the passenger seat and went forth in his short-sleeved shirt, which was just about the color of lemon sherbet.

  Several of the shops along the Drive were still open and their lights were coming on, with early diners already drifting into the latest fashionable little restaurants. At the corner a large gray-haired woman noticed Groucho, did a gratified take and commenced producing the familiar sounds of recognition.

  “Mr. Marx,” she said, approaching him while he waited for the light to change. “I simply adore you.”

  After glancing furtively around, Groucho hunched slightly and said, “Eunice, what did I tell you about following me around like this and declaring your mad passion for me?”

  She blinked, puzzled. “Oh, I don’t happen to be this Eunice,” she assured him. “I’m Rena Valerio from Woodland Hills, in town for a shopping—”

  “Eunice, the good lord knows I’ve struggled mightily to fight this burning desire I have for you,” he continued. “But seeing you like this again … And, by the by, what happened to your vow to renounce the sins of the flesh and enter a convent? Well, I suppose with that much flesh, it proved to be too much of a chore.” He chuckled, slipping an arm around her ample waist. “I take it Dr. Kammerman knows you’re loose? Well, no matter, let’s make the most of—”

  “Please, Mr. Marx.” She struggled to get free. “You, really now, have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “I’ve got you mixed up? How do you think I must feel, Eunice? Knowing that you’re dying of euphonic plague, knowing as well that I probably caught it from you and have only months to—”

  “Nice meeting you, Mr. Marx.” She pulled free of him to go hurrying away into the gathering twilight. “I do like you in the movies, though.”

  Groucho fetched out a cigar and crossed the street against the signal.

  * * *

  The lights were on in the interior decorating establishment. In the narrow display window sat the skeleton of a single un-upholstered armchair. There was a partially unfurled bolt of crimson silk leaning against the chair and five paper roses were scattered around its raw wood legs. Inscribed low on the glass door in very small gilded italics was the name Justin LaSalle.

  Groucho entered the stark reception room. It contained a small potted palm in an ebony pot, a white desk and chair and a very blond receptionist in a starkly simple black frock.

  “Yes?” she inquired, looking briefly up from the thick, slick architectural magazine she was leafing through.

  “I want to see LaSalle,” he informed her.

  “That’s highly unlikely,” she said, returning her attention to the magazine.

  “Oh, so?” Crossing the black and white floor, Groucho perched on the edge of her desk. “I’m especially eager to do business with him.”

  “You and half the other misguided dimwits in this town.”

  “Suppose you tell him I’m here?” he suggested. “You probably don’t recognize me without my makeup, but I’m Lionel Barrymore and I’d like to have LaSalle redecorate my sister Ethel and—”

  “You’re, in point of fact, Groucho Marx, which is bad enough.” She grimaced at him. “John Barrymore was in here a few days back and he pinched my rear end, relieved himself in that pot yonder and then went to sleep on Mr. LaSalle’s drawing table.”

  “Yes, Jack’s an awful lot of fun, isn’t he? Where’s LaSalle?”

  “Away,” she said.

  “Are you ordering me to go away or telling me that LaSalle is away?”

  “He’s in Florida.”

  “Whereabouts in Florida? As I recall they have several different towns down there.”

  “He didn’t confide in me.”

  “How can I contact him?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Okay, when is he due back from Florida?”

  “It’s my impression that Mr. LaSalle will be out of town for quite some time.”

  “Left in a hurry, did he?”

  Nodding, she once ag
ain turned to the open magazine.

  Groucho leaned closer. “Perhaps, then, you can help me,” he suggested.

  “Not much of a chance of that.”

  “Give it a try. After all, the bridge is out and we’re likely to be stranded here until the next thaw,” he said. “Answering some questions will help pass the time away.”

  She said nothing.

  “I was,” continued Groucho, “a friend of Peg McMorrow’s. What I’d like to—”

  “You don’t want to ask questions about that McMorrow girl.” She shut the magazine and stood up.

  “I’m curious as to why LaSalle paid to have her cremated. Were they friends or did someone else ask—”

  “The reason Mr. LaSalle is out of town, if you want my opinion, is because of this McMorrow business.”

  “I agree. If you could provide some details or tell me why you suspect—”

  “We’re closing for the day.” She picked up a small black purse from the side of the white desk.

  “Did someone send LaSalle down there—or did he decide to skip town?”

  “That’s all I can tell you,” she said. “You wouldn’t want me to start screaming and then tell whoever comes running that you made an obscene proposal to me, would you?”

  “I’d probably have to work long and hard to come up with a proposal that you’d find obscene, my child,” he said, then shrugged. “But we may as well avoid a scene. Good evening.” He tipped an imaginary hat and went strolling out into the dusk.

  * * *

  Groucho was still a half block from his car when a man who could probably have gotten work doubling for Clark Gable came up beside him.

  “Mr. Marx,” he said quietly.

  “Okay, where’s your autograph book?”

  “Probably in the attic in my grandmother’s farmhouse up in Fresno.” He jabbed a gun into Groucho’s right side. “Walk right on by your car and climb into that gray Cadillac at the corner.”

  “If it’s all the same with you, I’d just as soon start running as fast as my little legs can carry me,” countered Groucho. “I suddenly remembered that my doctor advised me to get plenty of sleep, fresh air and exercise. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll—”

  “Beverly Hills is a fairly conservative place, Mr. Marx.” The pressure from the barrel of the gun increased. “They get very angry and upset every time I shoot down somebody on their streets. But if you don’t get your ass in that Cadillac right now, I’m going to have to—”

  “I’ll get in your car,” said Groucho obligingly. “I can run twice as far tomorrow.”

  Seventeen

  There was a chill wind blowing in off the night Pacific. Standing on the private wharf, Groucho shivered and said, “I wish you lads had allowed me to gather my jacket.”

  “Here.” The large thickset man standing close on his left shrugged out of his camel hair overcoat. “Put this goddamn thing on and quit bellyaching.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. It’d be easier if you just run me back to Beverly Hills to—”

  “Put it on.”

  Groucho got into the coat, which came down over his ankles. “Harpo would have fun filling this with silverware, but for myself—”

  “You can climb into the launch now,” instructed the one who resembled Gable.

  “You know, fellows, my horoscope just this morning warned against a sea voyage of any sort,” Groucho told them, not budging. “So if it’s all the same with you, I’ll sit this one—”

  “Move it.” The one who’d loaned him his overcoat gave Groucho a helpful flat-handed shove in the back to propel him on his way.

  Stumbling ahead, Groucho stepped down into the motor launch that was moored below.

  Out across the dark ocean the lights of the Encantada gambling ship sparkled, intensely yellow, in the clear, crisp night. At the next wharf over, several water taxis were bobbing in the dark water. It was too early yet for any of the ship’s customers to be heading out for an evening of roulette, faro and craps.

  The two heavies bookended Groucho on the passenger seat. A silent Negro cast off and piloted the launch away from the Santa Monica wharf. It inscribed a foamy half arc on the night water and then headed toward the lights of the ship.

  * * *

  The trip out to the Encantada took nearly a half hour. When they arrived alongside the huge ship, the thickset man went up the dangling gangway first. Then Groucho climbed it, followed by the roadshow Gable.

  On the deck, just inside the rail, a fat man in an oil-stained sweatshirt reached for Groucho. “Got to frisk you, sweetheart,” he explained.

  “He’s clean,” said the thickset man.

  “C’mon, Maury, it’s my ass if I don’t pat everybody down.” He made a chesty chuckling noise while he ran his big hands over Groucho.

  “You can guess my weight if you’d like,” Groucho invited.

  The fat man asked, “What is this guy—a comedian?”

  “He sure thinks so.” Maury held out his left hand as soon as the fat man finished his work. “The coat.”

  Slipping free of it, Groucho handed it over. “Have it shortened some and it could use—maybe, mind you—a little less padding in the shoulders. If you had the same thing in a flowered print, why I’d—”

  “Go along to your right now,” the other gunman told him.

  As Groucho made his way along the deck, a metal door swung open and blocked his path.

  “In there.”

  Groucho went in.

  * * *

  I awakened in darkness, a thick surrounding darkness that smelled thickly of oil, salt water and sea food that was long past its prime.

  The back of my head, from about the top of my skull to the low point of my neck, hurt and throbbed. The gentle rocking I now became aware of didn’t help much. I felt extremely unsettled inside, experiencing something that reminded me of a bad blend of a hangover and a bout of influenza.

  “Jesus,” I remarked and noticed that my voice was a dry croak.

  A door opened with a metallic creak and showed a rectangle of night and a lean man wearing a peacoat and a knit cap. “Time to rise and shine, mate,” he suggested in an unconvincing British accent.

  He crossed into the cabin and flicked on the overhead lights. I had the brief and painful impression that someone was trying to force both my eyeballs back into my skull.

  “Up and at ’em, sonny boy.” The sailor came over to the bunk I was sprawled on, took hold of my nearest elbow and tugged me up into a sitting position. “Quite a goose egg you’ve collected on your sconce, mate.”

  “Didn’t you used to play bit parts over at Mascot?”

  “Matter of fact, I did.”

  “I thought I recognized that imitation limey accent of yours.” I sat there for a moment, legs hanging down and both hands gripping the edge of the metal bed frame.

  “This job pays much better, if you want the truth.”

  “I figured as much, having seen you try to act,” I said, my voice getting some of its old qualities back. “Where am I supposed to be going?”

  “Somebody wants to see you chop chop.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths in through my open mouth. “How far out at sea are we?”

  “Just far enough to gamble legally, mate.”

  “So this is the Encantada?”

  “That she is.”

  After another breath, I stood up. My left leg gave out entirely and I started to fall.

  The sailor caught my arm and kept me from dropping to the cabin floor. “Getting sapped’ll do this to you sometimes,” he told me. “You’ll be shipshape again soon enough, never fear.”

  “Actually, I’m not all that sure I want to be shipshape.”

  He guided me toward the open doorway. “Well, let’s get underway,” he said. “Can’t keep ’em waiting, can we?”

  Eighteen

  Vince Salermo was a small, compact man, not more than five foot four. He was deeply tanned, nearly bald and in his early
fifties. His double-breasted suit was a midnight black. Salermo’s office aboard the Encantada was large and without a desk.

  The gambler, smiling, sat in a leather armchair at the left of the room. A lean blond man, considerably younger than Salermo, leaned against the wall near a porthole. A third man, large and wide, stood just to the rear of the leather chair with both hands in his trouser pockets.

  Groucho, in his shirt sleeves, was sitting in a folding metal chair facing Salermo. When I was shoved into the office, he stood up and scrutinized me. “Are you that strange green shade because you’re seasick?” he asked me.

  “I think it’s mostly from being bopped on the head with a blackjack.”

  Turning toward the gangster, Groucho said, “I’ve been behaving in my usual amiable fashion thus far, Salermo. And you’ve been telling me this is just supposed to be a friendly get-together.”

  “It is, Groucho. Relax.” He spread his small hands wide, smiling more broadly.

  “It’s bad enough you kidnapped me,” continued Groucho, angry. “But you also kidnap my friend and associate here—and then rough him up.”

  “Please, Groucho,” said Salermo. “I’ve been trying to explain that you and Denby weren’t supposed to be harmed. I told my people simply to invite you over for a friendly chat.”

  Ignoring him, Groucho came over to where I was standing. “Are you okay?”

  “More or less,” I answered, feeling gingerly at the bump on my head. “Two of them were waiting for me when I got home from Bel Air. When I refused to go anyplace with them, the larger one bopped me with—”

  “You came near to busting Eddie’s nose when you swung on him,” Salermo said, still smiling, though not as broadly. “I’m not saying, Groucho, that Eddie didn’t exceed his authority in the matter. But surely you can see how he got temporarily angry and lost control of—”

  “What I see is that you fellows could end up in Alcatraz for kidnapping.”

  Salermo glanced over at the younger man. “Did you hear that, Bud?” They both laughed. “You’ll never prove anything like that,” he said. “Not in California.”