Groucho Marx, King of the Jungle

by Ron Goulart

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Also by Ron Goulart

  Copyright Page

  To the Saturday lunch group. Or most of them anyway.

  Thanks again to Robert Finkelstein

  for his continued cooperation.

  One

  I’d promised my wife that until our baby was born, I absolutely would not let Groucho Marx lure me into helping him out on any more murder cases. Not a single one.

  But then, just three weeks before the estimated arrival date, she herself insisted that Groucho and I get to work on the jungle man mystery.

  That was early in April of 1940. By that time, we’d earned a reputation as pretty successful amateur detectives. “By that time,” according to Groucho, “our success had put not only the FBI to shame, but the local police, Scotland Yard, Gang Busters, and the Junior G-Men as well. In addition, when the Thin Man compared his moustache to mine, he sulked for well over a week and refused to eat a bite. That made him even thinner.”

  I’m Frank Denby, and before I changed into a scriptwriter, I was a crime reporter for the Los Angeles Times. I met Groucho back in 1937, while I was writing a radio show called Groucho Marx, Master Detective for him. Soon after that, we teamed up to prove that a young actress’s “suicide” was actually a murder.

  My wife is Jane Danner, the best-looking cartoonist in America. Her newspaper comic strip, Hollywood Molly, was continuing to pick up papers, and if I’d had an inclination to be a kept man, her income could’ve kept me very well.

  Civilization in general wasn’t in very good shape. World War II continued, and Hitler’s armies had added Norway, Denmark, Belgium, and Holland to their list of conquered countries. The United States wasn’t yet directly involved, but it looked like Congress would pass a Selective Service Act before 1940 was over. That would mean that a lot of guys would be drafted and that there’d be a greatly expanded Army when we finally did get into the war. Among the things that happened in Hollywood were Mickey Rooney once again getting voted the number-one box office attraction by the country’s movie exhibitors, Lana Turner marrying Artie Shaw, and Bob Hope and Bing Crosby making their first Road picture.

  Back in early February, I’d completed the second revision of my script for a jungle epic entitled Ty-Gor and the Lost City. They’d started shooting the picture out at Warlock Studios midway into March. Two weeks later yet another producer was brought in, and he decided, unlike his predecessor, that the movie needed more, not less, humor.

  So he halted production for a few days, called me in, and had me add some new and funny scenes. In a rash moment I suggested that he might invite Groucho to do a walk-on. The producer loved the notion, so I came up with two short scenes for an African explorer named J. Darwin Underbrush.

  That’s why Groucho and I were walking along a wide, sunlit street on the Warlock grounds on the morning that the corpse was discovered on Soundstage 3.

  A warm breeze was rattling the fronds of the rows of tall palm trees that lined the studio street. The side door of Soundstage 2 slid open, and about a dozen pretty platinum blondes in considerably condensed sailor suits started trooping out.

  As they came straggling toward us, one of them, on spotting Groucho, did a take and then left the group to come hurrying up to us. “Would you be Groucho Marx?” she asked him, somewhat breathlessly.

  Groucho considered the question, thoughtfully stroking his chin. “Actually I’d rather be somebody else,” he told the blonde. “Give me some other suggestions.”

  Taking off her sailor hat, she held it, timidly, out toward him. “Will you, please, sign this, Mr. Marx?”

  He accepted the proffered hat. “I usually have my attorneys peruse anything I’m asked to sign,” he said, taking a blue fountain pen from the breast pocket of his multicolored sports coat. “But I can tell that you’re an honest and upright young lady. Which, alas, rules you out for my purposes.” He inscribed his name on the edge of the white hat.

  “We’re all in the chorus of a new musical,” the girl explained. “It’s called Hot Tamales Join the Navy.”

  “Indeed?” He returned her hat. “I’d assumed that Balanchine was here filming a new version of Swan Lake.”

  She smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Mr. Marx.”

  “Which?”

  “Your ready wit.”

  “Actually, my wit won’t be ready until late next week,” he informed her. “In the meantime, you’ll have to put up with a few feeble jests I’ve pilfered from Joe Penner.”

  By this time, most of the other ladies of the chorus had realized who Groucho was, and he devoted the next ten minutes or so to autographing hats and, in one case, a dancer’s brassiere.

  “Being beloved,” remarked Groucho as we continued on our way, “can be a great burden, Rollo.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Now then, clarify this situation once again,” he requested, putting his fountain pen away and producing a fresh cigar. “I am not wanted as the star of this jungle epic?”

  “If you were the star, you’d be playing Ty-Gor and not Professor J. Darwin Underbrush.”

  “Then basically your producer chum is intending to talk to me about undertaking a bit part?” He unwrapped the cigar.

  “Basically.”

  “Although MGM has seen fit to delete the fact from my official studio bio, I was asked to try out for the role of that other jungle lord, Tarzan.”

  “With what result?”

  “When I first appeared in my leopard-skin costume, there was considerable swooning,” he replied. “Even some of the female observers fainted away. I might still have snagged the role if those darned elephants hadn’t stampeded after getting a look at me.”

  I nodded. “Well, as I already explained, this is a walk-on. Thing is,” I reminded him, “they’re offering you a handsome fee.”

  Lighting his cigar, he said, “Splendid, Rollo, since I’m so dreadfully tired of the ugly fees I’ve been handed of late.”

  “So this morning all we have to do is talk to Joel Farber.”

  “And he’s the producer of this epic?”

  “At the moment, yeah. And … Huh, that’s odd.”

  “Are you alluding to that curly-haired young chap who’s running heck-for-leather toward yon soundstage?”

  “Yeah, that’s Joel Farber himself.”

  “My, what a delightful coincidence.”

  Just inside the metal soundstage door, a uniformed studio guard stepped out of the shadows and into our path, swinging up his left hand in a stop-right-there gesture. His right hand was hovering over his holstered .38 revolver. “Sorry, fellas, no one is allowed in here just … Oh, hi, Frank.”

  “Howdy, Hal. What’s going on?”

  About two hundred yards away, near the indoor jungle set, several more guards and a few executives were huddled. The overhead lig
hts in that area were on, and Joel Farber was heading in that direction.

  “Bad accident,” answered Hal.

  “What happened?”

  The guard shook his head. “Nobody’s filled me in yet,” he replied. “But it looks like Randy Spellman’s been injured.”

  “Jesus,” I observed. Spellman was the star of the damned movie.

  “Since you’re working on this Ty-Gor flicker, Frank, I guess you can go in. But about your pal here, I’m dubious.”

  “If I were either Smith or Dale,” said Groucho, “I’d now say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dubious.’ Since I’m not, I won’t.”

  The lean guard chuckled. “Oh, you’re Groucho Marx. I didn’t recognize you without your moustache.”

  Slapping his palm against his upper lip, Groucho said, “I declare, that’s the third time this week it’s wandered off. And last year it flew south for the winter without so much as a—”

  “Let us go chat with Joel and find out what’s up.” Taking hold of Groucho by the sleeve of his polychromous sports coat, I led him off to the brightly illuminated jungle.

  Parked near the stretch of imitation and transplanted jungle foliage was a large mobile dressing room. As we drew closer, we saw that the aluminum door hung wide open and that light was spilling out from inside.

  At the bottom of the short portable stairway, a body was sprawled, that of a big man wearing a leopard-skin loincloth and an open pale yellow robe. There were two blood-rimmed bullet holes in his broad, shaved chest.

  “We seem, Franklin,” said Groucho as we halted a few feet from the scatter of observers, “to have once again walked in on the ground floor of a murder.”

  “Yeah, and that’s definitely Randy Spellman, the guy who’s playing Ty-Gor.”

  “I deduced as much from the chap’s fur-lined skivvies,” he said. “Keep in mind, my boy, that we’ve both promised the fair Jane that there’ll be absolutely no more amateur sleuthing for the nonce. Or for the nuns either.”

  “I know,” I said, still frowning at Spellman’s body. “We’ll just wait until we can talk to Joel, then take our leave.”

  Groucho glanced toward the mobile dressing room. “Apparently somebody shot our jungle man while he was standing in the doorway, facing inward,” he observed. “He then toppled down the steps to land flat on his tuchus, where he now lies.”

  “No amateur sleuthing,” I reminded.

  “Forgive me, Rollo. But I seem to have detecting in my blood,” said Groucho. “Which may explain why I turn that unsightly shade of lavender when exposed to too much sun.”

  “All we’ll do is wait for a chance to let Joel know we’re here. Our meeting will have to be postponed.”

  “I’ll struggle manfully to curb my private-eye impulses,” he promised. “I’ll also try to curb my St. Bernard. I have to admit, however, that I haven’t been too successful at the latter chore and that the Beverly Hills city fathers, so I’m told, have sent away for a rail to ride me out of town on. On top of that, a preacher from the Church of the Latter Day Chores has been—”

  “Frank.” Joel Farber had noticed me and was heading over. “Hey, and you brought Groucho along.” The producer shook Groucho’s hand enthusiastically. “You’re looking terrific, Groucho.”

  “Yes, I’ve been looking that way ever since I started soaking myself in Lux Flakes.”

  Chortling, Joel led us over to the side of the trailer. Lined up beside it were two rows of ten large wooden tubs each in which rested small palm trees planted in dirt and pine shavings. “Talk to my secretary about rescheduling our meeting,” he said. “Obviously our movie’s going to be delayed.”

  “I figured as much. What happened to Randy?”

  Joel gave a moderate shrug. “A guard spotted the poor bastard flat on his ass over there about an hour ago.”

  “Nobody heard anything?” asked Groucho. “Gunshots? A quarrel?”

  The curly-haired producer shook his head. “If anybody did, Groucho, I haven’t heard about it yet.”

  I asked, “Have you notified the police?”

  “Not yet, but we’ll be calling the Studio City cops.”

  “Any idea,” inquired Groucho, “why somebody would want to knock Spellman off? Other than anyone who’s seen him act.”

  Joel said, “Could be somebody wanted to sabotage our movie.”

  “If they wanted to do that, they’d have left Spellman alive.”

  “Randy was a putz,” admitted Joel. “Quite a few people, especially husbands of the dames he’s fooled around with, hated the guy.” He shrugged again, then looked thoughtfully from me to Groucho. “Say, wait a minute. You two guys have a pretty good reputation as amateur detectives. Suppose we hire you to look into this business?”

  “We’re temporarily retired from the gumshoe business,” I told my producer.

  Groucho added, “We’ve taken a vow not to return to ratiocination for a spell. I’ve also taken a vow of celibacy, and that one I’m willing to break. But I don’t see how that applies to this situation.”

  Taking hold of my arm, Joel invited, “Well, at least come back over and take a gander at the body.”

  I turned toward Groucho.

  He said, “We can at least do that.”

  So we went and gazed down at the corpse.

  There weren’t any powder burns on Spellman’s chest, meaning that whoever shot him hadn’t been standing very close to him. Making a rough guess, judging from the condition of the body, I figured he’d been killed sometime last night.

  I was mentioning that to Groucho, in a near whisper, when a pudgy, sunburned guy in his late twenties made his way, avoiding assorted cables and wires on the soundstage floor, over to join the group circling the dead man.

  “Damn it, this means another delay,” he said to nobody in particular. “My dad, you know, hasn’t been any too happy with the way this film is dragging—”

  “Take it easy, Jack,” advised Joel, moving over to the young man and putting a hand on the shoulder of his checked sports coat. “Randy’s been killed, and I’m sure your father can’t blame us for that.”

  “Spellman shouldn’t have been in this new Ty-Gor at all. He’s … he was too old and too flabby for the part. Besides, the guy was, in my dad’s opinion, a second-rate … make that a third-rate actor.”

  Groucho leaned nearer to me. “This sun-dried lad is the offspring of whom exactly?” he inquired quietly.

  “That’s Jack Benson,” I explained. “He’s the son of Arthur Wright Benson, the creator of Ty-Gor and author of all the many beloved novels about the king of the jungle.”

  “How come they allow the little tyke on the set? You wrote the script and—”

  “It’s in his dad’s contract with Warlock that a representative of Arthur Wright Benson, Inc., shall be allowed to observe all aspects of the production of any Ty-Gor motion picture. Jack’s basically a nitwit, but relatively harmless. And he seems to like my script.”

  “I knew he must have one redeeming feature.”

  “ … On the previous Ty-Gor film,” Jack Benson was telling our producer, “the then producer had the good sense to do most of the jungle shooting on my dad’s private jungle out at Rancho Tygoro in the Valley.”

  “We’re on a tighter budget on this one, Jack.”

  “Well, Ty-Gor’s Jungle Mystery did terrifically at the box office,” young Benson continued. “That was in spite of the mediocre performance—make that a lousy performance by Spellman.” He pointed down at the deceased actor with a thumb.

  “Whatever happened to the quaint old custom of speaking well of the dead?” inquired Groucho.

  Squinting at him, Jack asked, “Who are you?”

  “Merely an unemployed muscle man who dropped by to audition for the position of Spellman’s stand-in,” Groucho told Arthur Wright Benson’s only son. “And I really think I can handle it, since it seems to require nothing more than lying on my back and looking vacant. I’ve been doing that for years wi
thout realizing a chap could earn—”

  “Oh, you’re one of those Marx Brothers.”

  “Two of those Marx Brothers actually. Plus one of the Brontë Sisters.”

  Making an annoyed sound, Jack turned again to Joel Farber. “Who killed Spellman?”

  “That we don’t know. We only discovered the poor guy’s body about—”

  “Instead of everyone’s standing around shedding crocodile tears,” Jack said, “let’s look around and find out what really happened here.” He started toward the dead man’s trailer. “We’ll probably find something in his dressing room to tell us—”

  “Whoa,” I suggested. “Not a good idea, Jack.”

  He frowned at me. “You’re the scriptwriter, Denby,” he said, “not the head of Warlock studios. So it’s not your—”

  “Frank’s right.” Joel caught up with him, took hold of his arm, and slowed him down. “The police won’t want anybody nosing around in Randy’s dressing room until they’ve gone over it.”

  Sighing, miming exasperation, the sunburned Jack said, “Okay, all right. I can tell you right now that my father’s not going to be pleased by any of this.”

  “We’re not all that pleased ourselves,” Joel assured him.

  Two

  Groucho and I were about a half a block from Moonbaum’s Delicatessen on Sunset, when a plump middle-aged woman in a flowered print dress stepped into our path.

  She gave Groucho a flustered smile, held out a green-covered autograph album toward him. “I just love the Marx Brothers,” she informed him.

  “That’s more than the Marx Brothers do.” He took the book, reached inside my jacket with his free hand to borrow my fountain pen.

  The woman watched him intently as he signed his name on a blank page. “You look,” she said, “older in real life.”

  “This is real life?” His eyebrows climbed. “Thanks for the warning.” He returned her album, put my pen in his coat pocket, and we continued on our way.

  “Three,” I remarked.

  “I’d be inclined to agree with you, my lad, if I knew what in the dickens you were nattering about.”

  “That’s three of my pens you’ve appropriated so far this month.”