by Ron Goulart
Hands behind his back, slightly crouched, Groucho circled the harp. “Let’s see now,” he muttered, “how exactly do you play one of these damn things?”
“And just who might you be?”
“I might be Dame May Whitty if only the job paid a little better than it does.”
A hefty middle-aged man in white tie and tails was glowering at Groucho, hands on hips. “You’re not Harpo Marx,” the man accused.
Groucho noticed the baton clutched in the man’s right hand. “Ah, you’re Maestro Busino,” he realized. “Allow me to introduce myself.”
“You’re not Harpo Marx.”
“Yes, my mother was always complaining about that, too,” admitted Groucho, adjusting his red wig. “But my response was ‘How many Harpos do you want in one family?’”
“We have hundreds upon hundreds of people due to arrive here within less than two hours,” the orchestra leader informed him angrily. “And instead of Harpo Marx, we have a shabby imposter.”
“Have a care, sir,” said Groucho, standing up straight. “I may be an imposter, but I’m far from shabby. In fact, the last time I looked at a map I was seventeen miles from shabby and just over the hill from the poorhouse.” He held out his hand. “I’m Groucho Marx and I can explain everything.”
Busino leaned forward, eyed him. “Yes, you are Groucho,” he said, smiling some and shaking hands. “But we’re scheduled to do a concert with your brother, Harpo.”
“Perhaps we should have alerted you, Maestro,” admitted Groucho. “But, well, we’re a wild, scatterbrained clan, we Marxes. As anyone in the highlands of Scotland will readily attest.”
“Where’s Harpo?”
“He injured his hand in a brawl in a cantina down in Tijuana, although he’s claiming he did it playing croquet,” said Groucho. “Our plan for the evening is this—and Harpo wanted it to be a surprise and I went along with him, Maestro—you introduce me as Harpo and I play a few of his standard pieces.”
“You can play the harp?”
“Like a native,” he assured the uneasy musician. “All right, I do a few numbers, the audience is enthralled, maidens swoon. About that time, the real Harpo comes out on stage and yanks off my wig while handing me a guitar. He exhibits his bandaged hand and I explain, in tones that will bring tears to the eyes of the easily swayed, that my dear sibling is injured—unfortunately not fatally—and that I filled in for him. He’ll don the costume, I’ll play the guitar and he’ll do a few stunts that don’t involve playing a harp. Now, for the grand finale—if Harpo succeeds in prying him loose from a bridge game over at L. B. Mayer’s shanty—Chico will appear and do his same old annoying tricks on your piano.” He paused, spread his arms wide and curtsied. “We thought it might be entertaining.”
Busino chuckled, nodding approvingly. “Yes, it definitely will be,” he agreed. “But you should have told me.”
“That tends to spoil the surprise, we’ve found.”
Nodding, the leader said, “I won’t tell the members of my orchestra. And I’ll introduce you as Harpo Marx.”
“Splendid and now—”
A bullet came whizzing down out of the dusk and they heard the crack of a rifle shot.
Not hit, Groucho threw himself flat out on the stage. The horn at his waist gave a gasping honk and another bullet rushed close by him.
Thirty-seven
Just shy of midnight, I awakened Dorgan and hooked him up to his leash. Then I encouraged him to sniff the Babs McLaughlin handkerchief that Groucho had purloined.
The bloodhound, after doing an enthusiastic job of sniffing, lunged for the door of our rustic Shadow Lodge cabin.
Jane turned off our lights while I held Dorgan back, then opened the door a few inches.
There were no outdoor lights down at this end of the property and only misty darkness showed outside.
Carrying the small flashlight and short-handled spade we’d brought along in the rumbleseat with the borrowed dog, Jane stepped, very carefully and cautiously, out into the foggy night.
Dorgan and I followed.
Two cabins away someone was playing Bing Crosby’s record of “I Surrender, Dear” on what sounded like a very old wind-up Victrola.
“Do you really think,” asked Jane in a whisper, “that the McLaughlin woman is buried hereabouts?”
“It’s a possibility we have to look—”
The hound had been vigorously sniffing at the air. Suddenly he went padding off to the left, head down, nose snuffling at the ground. Since I was attached to him by a short length of leather leash, I went along.
Jane caught up with us just as Dorgan pulled me into the woods beyond the farthest cabin. “I’m feeling extremely uneasy,” she confessed, walking beside me on the mossy trail.
“The anticipation of unearthing a corpse late at night makes most everyone feel uneasy,” I told her, taking hold of her arm with my free hand.
“Maybe so, but I’m experiencing the sort of goosebumps you get when somebody’s watching you.”
“We followed a pretty roundabout route our first hour driving up here out of L.A.,” I reminded. “And neither one of us spotted anybody following our car, nary a soul.”
“Suppose somebody was already up here, waiting for intruders?”
“Oh,” I said quietly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking about.”
“Dickerson the overage bellboy would’ve told me if—”
“This is the same overage bellhop who sold you a guest’s registration card for twenty bucks, isn’t it?”
“You’re right, Dickerson may not be exactly one hundred percent trustworthy.”
The bloodhound had been progressing more slowly into the woodlands for the past minute or so. He halted completely now, looking around at the dark oaks and pines we were in the midst of. Then he lurched to the right, leaving the trail completely to go barging into the brush.
Nearly ten scratchy minutes later, after dragging me through nettles, brambles, over fallen trees and by something that couldn’t have been but certainly felt like cactus, he came to a stop in a small clearing in the night woods.
“I haven’t been on a hike like this since I quit the Girl Scouts,” said Jane when she caught up with us.
Dorgan was very fretful. He started circling a patch of ground at the far side of the clearing, ground that was covered over with dead leaves and dry twigs.
Then, as Jane turned the beam of the flash on that spot, the dog began scratching at the ground. He got the cover of leaves and dry brush cleared away and went to work with his paws on the moist ground below.
Moving closer, I said, “Looks like part of the ground under here has been disturbed lately.” Working in a sort of partnership with Dorgan, I uncovered a large section of recently turned earth.
“Disturbed by the digging of a grave, you mean?”
I stood up and back. “Well, it’s about the right dimensions. Six feet by three feet.” I pulled back on Dorgan’s leash to keep him from digging deeper. “Whoa, boy. I’ll take over.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Whoa’ to horses, not bloodhounds.”
“Since you’re an expert on animal husbandry, you hold him while I start digging.”
She exchanged the spade for the leash. “Sit, Dorgan, sit.”
Very reluctantly, the dog backed away and sat on the ground, making sad, whimpering noises.
I scrutinized the possible grave site and decided to start shoveling at the right-hand end.
In roughly fifteen minutes I was looking down on the dirt-covered outline of the head and shoulders of a corpse. “Now comes the even more gruesome part.” I set the spade aside, tugged out my pocket handkerchief and knelt beside the body. I took a deep breath of foggy night air, exhaled it slowly and gingerly started brushing the last of the earth off the dead face.
Jane had moved nearer and was shining the flashlight directly into the shallow grave.
“
Frank!” she said when the features were showing.
There’d been quite a bit of deterioration, but you could still recognize the corpse. It wasn’t Babs McLaughlin.
“That’s Tom Kerry,” said Jane softly.
* * *
Earlier, at the Hollywood Bowl, Groucho had stretched out on the stage and attempted to make himself as flat as possible. Three more rifle shots had come flying at him.
All missed, though one went clean through the hat that had fallen off his head when he’d dived for the floor.
The uniformed guard had yanked out a pistol after the first shot and come running to the edge of the stage. “There he is,” he shouted, firing his .38 into the far darkness. “Way the hell up there.”
Two more guards had materialized out among the seats and were running uphill in pursuit of the gunman.
Groucho, still sprawled, narrowed his left eye and looked out at the rows of empty seats. “Worst audience response I’ve had since we played New Castle, Pennsylvania, in the autumn of 1916,” he said.
“Up that way, cut the bastard off!” another of the guards was calling out.
The guard from the stage had dropped off into the aisle below and was running up it.
The orchestra leader, who’d also thrown himself to the stage at the sound of the first rifle shot, sat up. “Are you all right, Groucho?”
“No bullet holes,” he replied. “Although my morale is at a low ebb just at the moment. Yourself?”
“Unhurt, thank you.” Busino rose to his feet, walked to the edge of the stage to squint out into the gathering night. “I think your assailant got away into the brush beyond the furthermost seats.”
A bit shakily, Groucho became upright again and then bent to scoop up the injured hat. “I suppose a bullet hole adds a touch of mystery to this headpiece.” He tugged it back on top of his bewigged head, frowning.
Two of the guards were walking dejectedly back toward the front of the Bowl. “Lost him,” one of them called through cupped hands.
“Why would someone want to shoot Harpo Marx?” the conductor asked.
“I think this particular marksman wanted to bag me, Maestro.”
Busino looked puzzled. “But nobody knew you were going to be taking your brother’s place here tonight.”
“On the contrary,” said Groucho. “A select handful of people did. What I have to do now is find out in whom they confided.”
“After this outrage, we’ll have to postpone the—”
“Like hell we will,” cut in Groucho. “The show will go on as planned. Nobody else is going to try to take potshots at me tonight, I’m sure.”
“Well, that’s a very brave and courageous attitude, Groucho.”
“Forget courage and bravery,” he said. “Once I take this Harpo outfit off, I don’t intend to put it on ever again. If I don’t do this tonight, I never will.” He reached into his pants pocket for a cigar. “Now show me where I can find a telephone. One I don’t have to drop nickels in, by the way.”
Thirty-eight
Jane looked away from the movie actor’s grave. “I was expecting someone else,” she said slowly.
Turning my back on the actor’s body, I said, “Wonder why the dog led us here. He had a whiff of Babs McLaughlin’s handkerchief, not anything that belonged to Tom Kerry.”
“Well, we know Kerry and Babs McLaughlin spent some time together,” she said. “Probably her perfume or her scent is clinging to him.”
I walked over closer to the grave. “Are they both dead? Is she buried around here, too?” I asked. “Or even in this same spot?”
“Don’t bother digging for her,” advised a voice from the misty woods. “She’s not here.”
Dorgan rocked to his feet and started barking.
Jane moved nearer to me as two men, neatly dressed in business suits, stepped into the foggy clearing from among the blurred trees.
One of them held a .45 automatic, the other a smaller gun that I couldn’t identify but I guessed was probably of European make. The taller of the pair had his pale blond hair cropped very close. His companion was thin and frail-looking with slicked brown hair and a faint moustache. I’d never seen either of them before, on or off the screen.
“I told you I had the feeling somebody was watching us,” said Jane quietly.
“You wouldn’t be working for Vince Salermo?” I asked them hopefully.
“No, sorry.” The taller man was the one who’d spoken before.
The bloodhound kept barking at them, straining at the leash Jane was holding onto.
“Keep the pup silent,” suggested the frail man, gesturing with his gun in Dorgan’s direction.
“Quiet, boy.” Jane tugged on the leash. “Sit.”
Grudgingly, Dorgan complied.
I nodded at the partially buried body. “That some of your work?”
“No, certainly not.” The crewcut man shook his head and smiled. “We’re, let’s say, something in the way of being custodians of the poor chap’s temporary resting place.”
His associate moved his thin shoulders up and down. “Too much conversation going on,” he complained, impatient.
“You’re absolutely right,” the other agreed. “We’ll have to, I’m very much afraid, ask you to accompany us.”
“Listen, that’s not going to work,” I began. “The people at the lodge know we—”
“Too much conversation.” The frail man all at once sprang toward me.
“Frank!” Jane yelled. “Look out!”
Before I could dodge, he used the butt of his gun as a club and hit me hard across the base of my skull.
I managed to form my right hand into a fist, but never got to swing at him. I heard the dog bark, felt the gun sap me twice again, was aware that Jane was crying out. After that I didn’t notice anything except the darkness.
* * *
Very slowly, I became aware of a sad, whimpering sound.
At about that same time, I realized that I was in the grip of a very intense headache and that just about every bone in my body was aching. I could feel my pulse throbbing in all sorts of new and unexpected spots.
The whimpering continued, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t doing it. I seemed to be sitting in a hard wooden chair and I didn’t feel like opening my eyes just yet.
“Frank, are you okay?”
That sounded quite a lot like Jane.
After contemplating the chore for a moment or two, I started opening my eyes.
That turned out to be a mistake, because it let in all the harsh yellow light that filled the room. The glare came rushing into my skull, making my headache even worse.
I shut my eyes and gasped in a breath.
“Um,” I managed to say.
“Frank,” said Jane, “I’m over here.”
I made another effort and got my eyes open again. This time the light didn’t bother me as much and I didn’t have to shut them.
We were in the living room of a cabin with log walls. Dirty white window shades kept out the night. Jane, her hair tangled and her face streaked with dirt, was in a straight-back wooden chair in front of the small empty stone fireplace. I finally comprehended that she was tied securely to the damned chair with a coil of thick, greasy rope.
When I tried to get up and go over to her, I discovered that I was tied down, too. “They must’ve gotten a great deal on greasy rope,” I muttered. “Where exactly are we, Jane?”
“Other side of the lake,” she told me. “Isolated cabin in the woods. They brought us across in a motor launch.”
“Who’s that whimpering?”
“Dorgan,” she answered. “They locked him in the kitchen.”
“You goddamn assholes,” said another woman’s voice. “I hope you’re satisfied with the mess you’ve made of everything.”
Frowning, I very slowly turned my damaged head to the left.
There was a dark-haired woman in her early forties tied to a chair over against the wall.
; “We’ve found Babs McLaughlin,” said Jane.
Thirty-nine
Right leg tucked under him, left leg dangling, Groucho was perched on the edge of the large wooden desk that belonged by day to the artistic director of the Hollywood Bowl. His Harpo wig and the bullet-riddled hat sat near his backside and the horn was resting atop the swivel chair.
He was talking into the phone. “Zeppo, strive to keep your fiery temper under control,” said Groucho, striking a match with the thumbnail of his free hand and lighting his cigar. “No, nay, I’m not accusing you of being an assassin … Well, at least not of attempting to assassinate me earlier in the evening. Who you assassinate on your own time is a matter of supreme indifference to me and … No, I’m not saying I’m indifferent to you … No, you are not my least favorite brother. In truth, Zeppo, you happen to be one of my four favorites among the brothers. Yes … now, please, attend to me. You also happen to be, in addition to an esteemed sibling and companion of my youth, one of only three other schmucks who actually knew in advance that I was going to be impersonating Harpo here tonight … What do you mean why didn’t I let one of your clients fill in for him? I am one of your clients. Although you haven’t gotten me a lick of work since I did that split week as a carhop in Pasadena and Altadena two months ago … But let’s cease dodging the issue … Who did you happen to tell about my … No, Zeppo, I’m not accusing you of plotting behind my back. Come to think of it, however, there’s more than enough room back there for picnics and business gatherings and maybe even a rump convention … Concentrate now, to whom did you talk about my night of shame here at the Bowl?… I already talked to Harpo and Chico and they … How’s that again? You openly mentioned the fact of my impersonation to one Marliss Reggal? And who or what is that?… An upcoming young actress. Oh, it sounded like a new brand of beer. Where did she wander and roam after you blurted out this family secret to her?… Ah, I see.” Groucho grinned and exhaled a swirling cloud of cigar smoke. “Little Marliss had a screen test early this afternoon over at the Monarch studios. Monarch, where Eli Kurtzman, Jack Gardella and sundry other goons roam. Where, I’ll bet, they know how to hire a lunkhead who’s an expert with a high-powered rifle. Well, not that much of an expert, since he missed everything but my hat. And, by the way, the next time anybody sends an assassin after me, I’d prefer that he use a low-powered rifle. Much safer and … What tendency to babble? If I were any more silent and self-effacing, Zeppo, I’d be a wallflower. What?… No, I don’t think the fact that some vindictive goniff tried to gun me down would make a nice item for Louella Parsons or Johnny Whistler or … Well, if Louella needs something about me for that collection of tripe she and Willie Hearst call a column, tell her that I’ve just had my hair dyed an absolutely lovely shade of lavender and am set to star in the upcoming Oscar Wilde Rides Again serial over at Republic. I play the one on the bottom … Thanks for your help, brother dear. But next time, to quote the great Oriental philosopher, Key Luke, keep your lip buttoned. Farewell.” He hung up the telephone, dropped free of the executive desk and put the wig and hat back on.
