Groucho Marx, Master Detective

by Ron Goulart

  * * *

  “I think I can make it,” said Jane, who’d managed to maneuver her chair close to one of the log walls of the cabin’s living room.

  My attempt to do something similar had been thwarted by a bearskin rug. At the moment I was becalmed at the edge of the damned thing, unable to wrestle my chair any farther. “Try,” I urged. “I’ll have to go around the bear.”

  “What the hell are you two morons doing?” asked Babs. “We’re about to be cremated and you’re staging a chair race.”

  Out in the kitchen the bloodhound was howling continuously and blackish smoke was already seeping in under the door from the front part of the wooden cabin we were trapped in.

  “There’s a chance,” I said as I struggled to get the wood chair to hop sideways, “that we can tip over one of these chairs and get it to break. Then we can wiggle free of the ropes.”

  “You’ll break your neck.”

  “Actually we’re in a classic six-of-one-half-dozen-of-the-other situation, ma’am,” I told her, making some small progress at circumventing the hairy rug. “A broken neck versus burning up in this cabin. Worth the risk.”

  “Bullshit,” she observed.

  “You might see if you can topple your chair,” suggested Jane. She was close to the wall now and, straining, she got her feet to raise a few inches.

  “Good,” I said, watching her. “See if you can push against the wall.”

  She couldn’t. But by rocking and twisting, she made the wooden chair bounce nearer to the wall. Then she was able to press her toes against one of the logs.

  Jane bit her lip and pushed into the wall with her feet. Initially nothing happened.

  Then the chair started to teeter.

  “You got it, Jane.”

  “Wow,” she said as the chair went falling over backward to smack hard on the floor.

  The chair made some creaking noises when it smacked down. But it remained whole and Jane’s bonds didn’t loosen at all. “Damn it,” she said.

  “Let me see if I can do anything,” I said.

  “You’ll never make it, schmuck,” said Babs.

  The smoke was getting thicker in the room and you could hear the fire burning its way through the room next to ours.

  I speeded up my efforts and, all at once, a leg of the chair caught in a knothole in the wood floor.

  There was a cracking and the chair and I tumbled over sideways. The stuck leg broke off completely as we went down and when the chair hit, the entire back of it collapsed.

  For several seconds I remained sprawled on the floor, tangled up in ropes and broken wood. The sudden slamming hadn’t done my headache much good and I felt dizzy.

  “Frank, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, fine.” I disentangled myself and, very wobbly, stood up.

  From my pants pocket I fished out a jackknife. Running to where Jane lay, I knelt and went to work on her ropes.

  “You better hurry,” advised Babs.

  The wall behind her had just taken fire and the room was thick with smoke and crackling heat.

  I got Jane cut loose, yanked away the strands of greasy rope and pulled her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

  “Good enough to get the heck out of here.”

  I nodded at the kitchen door. “Gather up Dorgan and check the back door,” I said. “Be careful, because some of those bastards may still be out there.”

  She gave me a very quick kiss on the cheek and hurried to the door that led to the kitchen.

  “Am I just going to sit here and fry?” asked Babs.

  I skirted the bearskin rug and got to her chair. “Sit still,” I suggested and started slicing at the ropes that held her.

  “Ouch,” she said. “I’d like to come out of this with both arms, if you don’t mind.”

  “Next time we’ll have one of your servants come up with us and take care of saving your ungrateful ass,” I said.

  “That’s no way to talk to me.”

  “Under the circumstances,” I told her, getting the last of the ropes clear of her, “it seems very appropriate.” I got a grip on her arm and tugged her up and free of the chair. “Let’s go.”

  “Are they out there waiting to shoot us if we come barging out?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  Jane was at the back door. She had it a few inches open and was looking out into the foggy dark. “No sign of anybody, Frank.”

  The bloodhound was pulling at the leash she held, scratching at the door.

  The windows of the room we’d just been in exploded at that moment and a great gust of gray smoke came whooshing into the kitchen after us.

  “Let’s risk it,” I said, edging around Jane.

  I opened the door wider, scanned the silent night woods around the back of the burning cabin. I took a deep breath, feeling the way you do just before you head off the high board. Then I launched myself out and down the five wooden back steps.

  Nothing happened.

  I turned toward the door. “C’mon, it’s okay.”

  Dorgan came galloping out, with Jane holding tight to his leash.

  “You’re sure it’s not a trap?” asked Babs, framed in the doorway.

  “If it is, ma’am, you make a terrific target, framed there like that.”

  “Asshole,” she said and ran down to join us on the wet grass.

  Jane had moved a few yards away from the cabin, which was burning fiercely now and sending flames and smoke up into the surrounding fog.

  “Look over there by the little dirt road, Frank.” She pointed.

  I sprinted to her side. Parked at the side of the road was my yellow Plymouth coupe. “They must’ve moved it over here,” I said. “To make it seem like I’d come here to this cabin of my own free will.”

  “Well, now we’ve got a way to get out of here before the woods takes fire.”

  “You mean all three of us are going to crowd into that dinky wreck?” asked Babs.

  “Four,” I corrected. “And it won’t be so bad. You and Dorgan will have the rumbleseat all to yourselves.”

  Forty-two

  The premiere of The Pirate Prince at Klein’s Babylonian Movie Palace in the heart of Hollywood two nights later was memorable. They never did get around to showing the film, but that didn’t seem to matter to most of the motion picture stars, newspaper columnists, fan magazine writers, studio executives and hangers-on who filled the ornate temple of the cinema on that particular evening.

  The Babylonian is on Hollywood Boulevard, just down the block from Grauman’s Chinese, and before the sun had even set on the movie capital, there were hundreds of people massed outside the theater awaiting the advent of the invited celebrities. As darkness hit Hollywood, a half-dozen huge spotlights snapped to life and shot bright white beams up into the sky.

  Groucho was an old friend of Ira Klein and he had been able to wangle a few extra invitations. “I knew Klein in the days when he was part of a pantomime horse in vaudeville,” Groucho had told me. “I realized he was destined for great things as soon as I noticed he was playing the front end of the horse.”

  Most of the fans and tourists didn’t recognize them, but Vince Salermo, Shel Leverson and Benton McLaughlin were among those who came walking along the red carpet that led into the huge movie palace that night.

  There was an eleven-piece orchestra, all decked out in tuxedos, sitting in the pit in front of the stage. They played an overture based on the score of The Pirate Prince, a flamboyant, swashbuckling composition. It had been written by Erich Wolfgang Korngold, borrowed by Eli Kurtzman from Warner Brothers at considerable expense.

  At sixteen minutes after eight, which was sixteen minutes later than the scheduled time for commencing, Conrad Nagel stepped out onto the stage. The house lights dimmed and a single spot caught his slim figure, dapper in white tie and tails.

  He bowed toward the box on his left that held Kurtzman, Jack Gardella and their wives. Nagel then smiled at the audience, singl
ing out Claudette Colbert in one of the front rows and also nodding personally at Kay Francis. He approached closer to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Mr. Eli Kurtzman and Monarch Pictures, it is my very great pleasure to welcome you here tonight to this marvelous temple of entertainment, Klein’s Babylonian Movie Palace, for the world premiere of one of the greatest historical epics ever to come out of our wonderful town of Hollywood,” he said. “I can assure you that Mr. Kurtzman has spared no expense to make absolutely certain that The Pirate Prince is authentic in every way and that, while faithful to the bloody history of the buccaneers who roamed the Spanish Main, it provides only wholesome entertainment for all the family.”

  Nagel paused, bowing again toward the Monarch box.

  “I am sorry, on this auspicious occasion, to have to inform you that the brilliant star of The Pirate Prince, the gifted Tom Kerry, will not be able to attend tonight’s event.”

  A disappointed sound came from the audience.

  “Mr. Kerry, upon advice of his physician, is resting up after the rigors of performing so splendidly in the wonderful motion picture you’re about to see this evening. On behalf of—”

  That was as far as Nagel ever got.

  Behind him the vast sequined curtain that hid the movie screen suddenly began to rise. And from the orchestra pit rose the strains of “Hurray for Captain Spalding.”

  Groucho, accompanied by a separate spotlight of his own, came slouching on stage. He held a fat cigar between his fingers and he had his trademark moustache painted on.

  The master of ceremonies, who hadn’t been expecting this intrusion, took a step back from the microphone. He frowned at the approaching Groucho, then smiled weakly and took two more steps to the rear.

  Groucho’s deep bow toward Kurtzman and Gardella in their box nearly caused him to topple off the stage. He managed to right himself just in time. From the edge of the stage he waved at some of the people he knew. “Claudette, you’re going to have to start wearing lingerie if you persist in showing up in dresses like that.”

  With a lopsided shrug, he bounded over and took hold of the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, and you, too, Conrad,” he said, “I’ve been asked to present a special tribute to the late Tom Kerry. So, before you settle down to view this evening’s masterpiece, The Pirate Prince, I’m going to—”

  “Tom Kerry isn’t dead,” shouted Gardella from above. He was on his feet, clutching the edge of the box. “Get that idiot off the stage.”

  In the third row Vince Salermo stood up. “Let him finish his piece first, Jack,” he suggested. He had his right hand thrust inside the jacket of his double-breasted gray suit.

  The audience was talking, murmuring, whispering. The questions “What’s he talking about?” and “Is Kerry dead?” were the ones most frequently heard all across the darkness of the huge theater.

  “If you’ll hush up now,” requested Groucho, “I’ll continue with my lecture.” He gestured toward the projection booth. “If you would.”

  A slide was projected onto the vast sparkling movie screen. It was one of the publicity shots of Peg McMorrow.

  “This is Peg McMorrow,” said Groucho. “She was murdered a few days ago.”

  “Stop him,” shouted Kurtzman. “He’s ruining the premiere.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Eli,” called Salermo, who’d remained standing.

  “Next,” said Groucho quietly into the microphone.

  What the audience now saw was a blowup of one of Peg’s snapshots of Tom Kerry and Babs McLaughlin arguing in the woods near the Shadow Lodge.

  “Three weekends ago,” continued Groucho, “Peg McMorrow went up to Lake Sombra, a spot many of you are no doubt familiar with, in the company of Tom Kerry. While they were there, Kerry encountered an old girlfriend of his, Mrs. Babs McLaughlin. They—”

  “That’s enough, Groucho. I won’t have you talking about my wife like this.” Benton McLaughlin had left his seat in the middle of the house and was stalking down the aisle toward the stage.

  One of Salermo’s men eased up out of his chair and headed him off.

  “Peg was suspicious and managed to take some snapshots of the two of them,” Groucho said.

  The audience was very quiet now.

  “When she later read that Babs McLaughlin had supposedly disappeared down in Baja California, Peg suspected that something was wrong,” continued Groucho. “She knew that Kerry had spent time with the woman and she thought that maybe he’d done her harm. She was damned certain the woman wasn’t anywhere near Baja most of that particular weekend. Being more interested in furthering her career than in seeing justice done, Peg decided to sell her pictures to somebody. She couldn’t find Kerry, which isn’t too surprising. At that point he was buried under the sod up in the woods near Lake Sombra. His body isn’t there anymore, of course, since that was only a temporary resting place anyway.”

  “He’s crazy,” shouted Gardella. “Stop him.”

  “We’re getting close to the finale, Jack, be patient,” suggested Groucho. “Now Peg was killed, and her death passed off as a suicide, to keep her from making public her pictures and her knowledge. Even though she was wrong about who’d been killed, they didn’t want her going to the papers or the police with her accusations. There are, surprisingly enough, a few honest cops and reporters in Southern California and Peg just might’ve been able to reach one of them.” Groucho looked up at the box. “Tom Kerry was the one who’d been killed. Babs McLaughlin had been a witness to the murder and she was being kept out of sight until they could figure out what to do with her. The man who killed Kerry out of jealousy was our old friend Eli Kurtzman.”

  That caused an enormous gasp from just about everybody inside the movie palace.

  Kurtzman was on his feet now, glaring down at Groucho. “That’s slander, you son of a bitch,” he cried. “I’ll drag your ass through every court in—”

  “You’re forgetting something, Eli,” cut in Groucho. “There was a witness. You know damn well you don’t have her anymore. In fact, your goons have been trying to find her for the past two days.”

  That was my cue. Jane and I had been in the wings, standing on each side of a very nervous and uneasy Babs McLaughlin. Ever since we’d returned from the lake with her, she’d been kept very quietly at a little hotel I knew about near Angel’s Flight. We’d all met with Groucho as soon as we got back to L.A. He’d come up with this plan for confronting Kurtzman and Gardella. Using a lot of cajoling and promises of lucrative deals when she eventually told her story to the press for a large fee, Groucho persuaded Babs to agree to remain hidden until the premiere.

  Now I escorted her out onto the stage. “Nothing to be afraid of,” I assured her as I led her right up to the microphone.

  “In a pig’s eye,” she said. “But don’t worry. I’ll tell the whole damn story. It’s about the only thing I can do to get myself out of this mess.”

  She only told part of it, voice shaky, body trembling.

  Gardella had gone shoving out the back of the box to come down to the main floor of the theater. He started to climb up on the stage, intending to keep her from saying any more, I guess.

  He never made it, though.

  The husky troubleshooter was on the second plush-covered step when there were two shots. Both took him low in the back. He lurched to the right and, very briefly, rose up on his toes. Then he staggered to the left and dropped over into the orchestra pit.

  The drummer jumped clear in time and the big man slammed into the kettledrum and died.

  While just about everyone was watching that happen, there were two more shots.

  Up in the Monarch box a woman screamed, a thin rattling scream. “Eli,” she cried. “Eli.”

  A spotlight swung over and there was Kurtzman hanging over the edge of the box. There was a large bloody splotch where the slugs had come ripping out through his back.

  By the time the police arrived and got around to looking, there wasn’t
a trace of Shel Leverson in the Babylonian Movie Palace. In fact, he didn’t ever turn up again in Los Angeles. Groucho suggested that the gambler really had loved Peg McMorrow and revenged himself on the two men who’d arranged her death. I agree with that, although Leverson didn’t strike me as the sentimental type.

  While we were waiting for the police to arrive, I sat backstage beside Jane.

  McLaughlin had joined his wife and was promising her something about sticking by her. I didn’t hear everything she said back to him, but the word bullshit occurred more than once.

  Groucho was still out on stage, his legs dangling over the edge and every reporter and columnist who’d been at the premiere was trying to interview him. Flash bulbs were popping a lot, too.

  After they got through with Groucho, some of them came back to talk to me.

  One of my old colleagues from the Times nodded at Jane. “What’s the young lady’s relationship to you, Frank?”

  I grinned. “She’s my fiancée,” I told him.

  She leaned closer to me. “That’s absolutely correct,” she said.

  * * *

  The next evening the initial broadcast of our radio show went out from Studio F in the Nationwide Broadcasting Network building on Hollywood Boulevard.

  The majority of news stories about Groucho’s clearing up of the McMorrow-Kerry murders had mentioned the show. The client, the ad agency and the network were all very pleased.

  At exactly six P.M. Pacific time Groucho, wearing a checked sport coat, tan slacks and a greasepaint moustache, stepped up to the mike.

  The studio audience applauded on cue.

  When the sound of that faded down, he said, “Good evening, this is Groucho Marx, and on behalf of Orem Brothers Coffee…” He paused, looking up at Jane and me in the booth and rolling his eyes. “… I want to welcome you to the very first broadcast of Groucho Marx, Master Detective.”