by Ron Goulart
“Groucho and I think she was murdered,” I began.
He made an impatient gesture with his right hand. “You already told Vince that when you guys visited the Encantada. Don’t you have anything more than—”
“Did you have some of your boys keeping an eye on her?”
Leverson leaned back, causing his swivel chair to squeak. “Not day and night, but occasionally, yeah,” he said. “I was still carrying the torch for her, you know, and I sort of wanted to keep up on who she was seeing.”
I mentioned the dates we figured Peg McMorrow had been at the Shadow Lodge. “Did you happen to be keeping tabs on her that weekend?”
“Matter of fact, yeah,” he said, eying me, frowning. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Could be nothing, Shel,” I answered. “But there’s a possibility Peg found out something while she was up there, something that was dangerous for her to know.”
“What?” He stood up, planting his fists on the desk and tilting toward me.
“When we find that out, we’ll probably know who killed her,” I said. “Do you know who she went up there with?”
The gambler scowled. “Yeah, that guy in the tights.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, trying to come up with the name. “Actor with the little thin moustache. Kerry. Tom Kerry.”
“She was dating Kerry?” I asked.
“Peg was a swell kid,” he said for an answer. “But, let’s face it, Denby, she was very interested in forwarding her damn career. Hell, I told her we could lean on certain people and get her some star parts, but she wouldn’t go along.”
“You think she was seeing Kerry so he’d help her get bigger parts and maybe a contract at Monarch?”
The gambler nodded. “I could’ve done a lot more for her,” he said forlornly. “And she’d probably be alive if she’d stuck with me.”
“She’d dated Kerry before?”
“Few times. Nothing serious, far as the boys could determine.”
“Did your guys notice anything unusual up there?”
“Such as what?”
“Some incident that might’ve gotten Peg into trouble.”
“I’ll tell you what happened. I had Cherry, you met him just now, and another guy on that particular tail job,” Leverson explained. “They followed her up there, found out she was going to be spending her time shacked up with Tom Kerry. I didn’t want a minute-by-minute report of her activities, so they decided to drift over to Reno and hang around there for a couple days. Lot of very nice whorehouses in Reno.”
“Too bad they weren’t watching more closely.”
“If it turns out what went on at the Shadow Lodge had something to do with Peg’s getting killed, yeah, it was a mistake not to keep closer tabs on her,” he agreed. “But nobody was anticipating that she was going to get killed soon after that.”
“Have you talked to Tom Kerry about Peg since her death?”
“I’ve never talked to that bastard,” he said. “I did send one of my associates over to that mansion of his in Beverly Hills. To invite him to drop in, but there wasn’t anybody around. Place is shut tight.” He nodded twice. “But, sooner or later, we’ll track him down. Maybe at that premiere for his new movie that’s coming up.”
“Do you have any ideas about why she was killed?”
“Somebody wanted to shut her up,” he replied. “But I don’t know why yet. I’ll find out, though. You got anything else to tell me?”
“Not at the moment, no.” I got up from my chair. “Thanks for the time, Shel.”
“We’re on the same team,” he reminded, holding out his hand.
I hesitated for a couple of seconds before I shook hands with him. “I guess we are,” I said.
* * *
The Monarch studios stretch across several acres in Hollywood, just a couple of blocks to the south of Columbia Pictures. A high stuccoed wall, painted a pale peach color, surrounds the Monarch lot and several billboard-size posters decorate the inward-slanting wall. Nearest the gates was a poster, strong with red and yellow, touting the new Tom Kerry epic, The Pirate Prince.
I’d parked my coupe in a lot across Gower and approached the studio on foot. Since I’d used my old L.A. Times connections to make an appointment, the guard let me in with no trouble and even smiled at me.
The buildings were stucco and red tile, suggesting a sort of inflated version of the Garden of Allah, with five huge sound stages hulking beyond the offices and administration facilities. Far to the right you could see bits and pieces of the standing sets rising up above the rows of palm trees.
Two pretty girls in bright sarongs came riding by on bicycles along the main street. A guy in a gorilla suit, holding the gorilla head mask under one shaggy arm, was sitting on a metal bench smoking a pipe. Three World War aviators, complete with goggled helmets, were playing catch on a stretch of green lawn. A husky black man in overalls was pushing a rack of ballet costumes along the opposite sidewalk. A half-dozen middle-aged ladies were being given a tour of the studio by a baldheaded man who was using his dead cigar as a pointer.
When I passed the two-story Writers’ Building, I noted that an improvised flagpole, flying the Spanish flag, was sticking out of an upper window. From another window dangled a pink, frilly brassiere.
An increasing roar began to fill the air and I looked up to see two biplanes come roaring down through the clear afternoon sky and buzz low over the French Village standing set.
Just as I reached the Publicity Pavilion, the front door flapped open and a pretty blond girl came hurrying out carrying a silver-covered serving dish. She nodded at me, saying, “I know damned well that squinty-eyed little pipsqueak ordered both lettuce and tomato.”
“Are you alluding to Ira Gruber?” I guessed.
“You must be his one-thirty appointment, huh?” Stopping close to me, she yanked the silver lid off the silver dish. “I’m his damn secretary, which means I have to fetch his lunch from the commissary whenever the mood hits him to dine in. Then, which is worse, I have to schlep it back when his addled little peanut of a brain deludes itself into thinking he didn’t order what everybody on the face of God’s green earth knows he damn well did order. What would you say are the essential ingredients of a BLT?”
“This is just a wild guess, mind you,” I answered. “But probably bacon, lettuce and tomato.”
“Well, of course, for Chrissake.” She poked a finger at the BLT sandwich resting on the silver plate she was carrying. One bite had been taken out of one of the halves. “But little Mussolini in there now claims he gave me specific instructions to tell those schmucks in the kitchen to hold the damn tomatoes.”
“That’d be a BL and not a BLT,” I commented. “Shall I go on into Ira’s office?”
“Sure, just knock and breeze on in.” The lid made a loud clang when she slammed it back atop the sandwich. “He’ll be nice to you, since you’re from a newspaper. He’ll, in fact, kiss your fanny, if you’ll excuse the disgusting metaphor.” She sighed, went hurrying off in the direction of the studio commissary.
I climbed the red tile steps, pushed into the mosaic-tiled corridor. The first door on my right had IRA GRUBER, CHIEF OF PUBLICITY lettered in three-inch high gilt on the pebbled glass panel. I went in, crossed the empty reception room, knocked on the door to his private office and breezed in.
“That was quick, you dimwitted bimbo. I bet you just plucked the frigging tomatoes off the sandwich with those ungainly meathooks of yours and tossed them in the nearest bush. But that won’t work, sweetheart, because I took a hefty chomp out of that sandwich and I’ll recognize it if you try to palm it off on me for a second go-round.”
I heard Gruber’s nasal voice, but didn’t immediately spot him anywhere in the huge Swedish Modern office.
“Afternoon, Ira,” I said, glancing around. “It’s Frank Denby.”
His crewcut head popped up from behind his desk. “Frank, old buddy, hey, this is swell.” Gruber rose to
his full height, which didn’t take him that long. He was about five foot four, decked out in a flamboyantly bright Hawaiian shirt and slacks that were pale gold. “So you’re back with the old L.A. Times, huh? Couldn’t cut the mustard as a scripter on the kilowatt circuit, I presume.”
“Why were you hiding down behind your desk, Ira?”
“I dropped my pills,” he explained as he walked over to one of the high, wide windows and began running a finger up and down over the white metal slats of the venetian blind. “The quack I overpay prescribed something for my nerves.”
“I’m still working as a radio writer, Ira,” I said and repeated the lie I’d used to get in here. “But I do an occasional Sunday magazine piece for the Times.”
“Yeah? I haven’t spotted your byline for ages.”
“Mostly I work anonymously, so as not to interfere with my new career.”
“I hear that hunk of crap you’re doing with Groucho Marx is a real turkey.”
“On the contrary, Ira,” I said. “It’s going to be socko, boffo and terrific. To put it mildly.”
“If I had to pick, I’d go with Chico Marx to star in a radio show.” He came back to his desk, perched on the edge of it. “That wop voice he does is very funny.”
“About this latest piece the Times wants me to do,” I put in. “They’re very interested in The Pirate Prince, want to give it a big write-up the weekend the picture opens in town.”
“So does every other paper and mag in the country.”
“What I want you to set up for me, Ira, is an interview with Tom Kerry.” I’d decided I wanted to talk directly to the actor and see if I could, as subtly as possible, find out what had happened up at the Shadow Lodge that weekend.
Nodding, the publicity man twisted around and tugged a large pile of manila folders over closer to him. He selected one midway down the stack and slipped it free. Opening it, he scanned the sheets of yellow paper within. “You did me some favors when you were on the paper full-time, Frank,” he said. “So I’d like to help you.” He shook his head and shut the folder. “Tommy is completely booked up on interviews, from now to the night of the premiere at Klein’s Babylonian Movie Palace.”
“C’mon, Ira, we’re talking about the Los Angeles Times here. You don’t want to make the Chandlers mad at Monarch, do you?”
He took a quick look toward the window. “Okay, I’ll be totally honest with you, Frank,” he said. “But this you have to keep strictly under your chapeau.”
I nodded agreement, waiting.
“Well, old buddy, it’s like this,” the publicity man went on. “Tommy really wore himself down to a nubbin filming The Pirate Prince. I know you newspaper guys think this is all bullshit, but Tom Kerry really does do the majority of his own stunts in these swords-and-tits epics. Old man Kurtzman sent him to his own private doctor right after we wrapped The Pirate Prince. The sawbones took one look and prescribed rest and quiet for a couple weeks.” He spread his hands wide. “And that, so help me, is gospel.”
“Where is Kerry?”
“At a little out-of-the-way place where nobody can find him and pester him for interviews.”
“And that part of the gospel you’re not passing on?”
“Wish I could, kiddo.” He twisted again and tugged out another folder. “Hey, how’s this sound? I can let you interview Francesca Sheridan.”
“Who is?”
“Don’t you keep up with what’s going on in this town? She’s that gorgeous broad Kurtzman imported from France. Terrific actress and what a pair of knockers she’s got on her,” said Gruber. “She’s making her American film debut in The Pirate Prince. She gets her first American screen kiss from Tommy in this one. You’ll get more than enough for a swell story if you chew the fat with Francesca.”
“Does she speak English?”
“Well, sure, schmuck. Do you think we had Betty Boop in dubbing her dialogue?” Gruber scribbled something on a memo pad with a gold mechanical pencil, tore the page off and handed it toward me. “She’ll be at the Coconut Grove tonight and you can interview her to your heart’s content—from ten-fifteen until ten thirty-five. After that Johnny Whistler’s got her and then Erskine Johnson is coming in to—”
“Okay,” I said, “add me to the list.” It was a long shot, but maybe Tom Kerry’s costar knew something about his activities outside the studio.
There was a knock on the door and the blonde entered with a covered serving dish.
“This is where I came in,” I said and left.
Thirty-one
At about two-thirty that afternoon, it occurred to Groucho that he hadn’t, to the best of his recollection, had lunch yet. Noticing that he was in the vicinity of the Vine Street Brown Derby, he told me later, he decided to stop in there. Unlike the original Derby down on Wilshire, this one wasn’t shaped like a huge hat. It was, like many another Hollywood structure, mostly cream-colored stucco and red tile roofs. There was a large derby-shaped sign mounted on the roof and the words THE BROWN DERBY were inscribed on three sides of the brown awning.
There were, as usual, a few dozen tourists and fans flanking the pathway to the main entrance. As Groucho headed for the wood-framed glass doors, a married couple spotted him.
“It’s him,” insisted the wife, a plump middle-aged woman in a flowered print dress, pointing at Groucho.
“No, it’s not. The real one’s got a moustache,” disagreed the husband, a small, thin man in a tan suit and Panama hat.
Groucho stopped in his tracks, went slouching over to the woman and took hold of her hand. “You’re absolutely right, dear lady,” he said in a falsetto voice. “It is me.”
She gave him a perplexed look. “Yes, I thought so.”
Groucho turned to the husband. “Yes, I am John Gilbert,” he told him, still using the piping voice. “The little woman here is absolutely right. You may’ve heard that my voice ruined me in the talkies, but, as you can see, it has a rich timbre and is extremely masculine. In fact, if I had a few acres of rich timber I could quit this whole lousy movie racket and get back to my first love. Although she may not want to quit the bordello.”
“You can’t be John Gilbert,” said the husband. “He’s dead.”
“I was dead,” admitted Groucho. “But my agent brought me back to life because he was sure he could get me a fat part over at Twentieth-Century Fox. Well, alas, that didn’t pan out and now I’m doomed to wander Hollywood for all eternity. It was either Hollywood or purgatory and I figured, if you’re going to spend all eternity someplace, heck, you may as well have nice weather.” He kissed the plump woman’s hand and in his own voice announced, “I must be going.”
He loped away.
“That was Groucho Marx,” said the wife, vindicated.
Groucho pushed into the restaurant and came up against the maître d’. “Top of the afternoon, Bill,” he said.
The man’s disdainful expression left his face, replaced by a distant smile. “Alone, are we, Mr. Marx?”
“Yes, confound it. Would you believe I couldn’t find one underage high school beauty to have lunch with me today?”
The headwaiter chuckled, very briefly, and said, “Table fifty-four all right, Mr. Marx?”
“It’s more than all right, William. It’s my dream come true.”
While heading for one of the low-walled, leather-padded booths on the right side of the Derby, Groucho stopped at a booth where John Garfield was sitting with a sunburned man in a Hawaiian shirt. “Well, hello, Julie,” he said, shaking hands with the dark-haired actor.
“Hello, Julius,” said Garfield.
“What brings you to this benighted town?”
“Thinking about signing a contract with Warners.”
Groucho shook his head. “Have a spinal operation instead,” he advised. “You’ll enjoy it more.” He nodded at the men and continued on his way to his booth.
The afternoon sun was coming in the curtained windows and the framed caricatures of movie sta
rs were glittering on the walls.
At the next booth a redhead who, Groucho was absolutely certain, was wearing not a speck of lingerie, held a telephone receiver in her hand. She made hushing motions at the handsome man opposite her while she talked on the phone. “Yeah, well, Selznick can kiss my fanny,” she said loudly. “And so can you, Arnie.”
“Hush, quiet,” cautioned the man with her. “Don’t talk that way to Arnie.”
She put her hand over the mouthpiece, saying, “You can take a flying leap for yourself.” Back into the phone she said, “I’m insulted that you’d even mention such a pissant salary to me. My nose job cost more than that.”
Groucho eased into his booth, then knelt on the seat and gawked over into the booth that held the angry redhead. “If Selznick himself comes on the line,” he said, “tell him this for me.” He put his thumbs in his ears and waggled all his fingers.
The irate actress put her hand over the mouthpiece again to tell him, “Go poop in your hat.”
Feigning a shocked expression, Groucho assumed a more conventional position.
A pretty waitress came over to the table, pencil poised over order book. “How are you today, Mr. Marx?”
“I’m in tiptop shape,” he responded with a smile, “considering I just came down with Rocky Mountain spotted fever.”
She laughed. “What’ll you have?”
“That’s a heartless attitude. Especially after I just confided in you that I may only have minutes to live,” he complained. “In fact, I’d better order a la carte and skip the dessert. It’s no use dropping dead in the middle of a piece of lemon meringue pie.”
“The Cobb Salad isn’t too bad today.”
“For dropping dead in?”
“For eating.”
“I don’t suppose anybody here has ever heard of a pastrami sandwich.”
“They’ve heard of one, but they sure cannot make one,” she said. “How about cold cuts?”
“A bowl of soup,” he told her, sighing. “And don’t tell me what the soup of the day is, just surprise me. Well, in fact, it won’t be much of a surprise anyway, because I saw a big splotch of it on the tie of the cute lad in the next booth. Looked marvelous—robust and hearty. And weren’t they a wonderful team, my lands.”
