by Ron Goulart
“Let me know when it reaches five.”
In front of Moonbaum’s the aging newsboy was holding up an Extra edition of the LA Times. “Brutal Hollywood slaying!” he was hollering. “Ty-Gor murdered in movie jungle!”
Groucho said, “We’ll ignore this.”
I said, “We won’t even buy a paper.”
“Ty-Gor slaughtered on movie set!” added the newsboy. “Blonde girlfriend sought by police!”
We both halted.
“Loan me the price of a paper,” Groucho requested.
“My treat.” I bought a copy of the newspaper.
Nodding at Groucho, the paper vendor said, “In my humble opinion, Groucho, the last Marx Brothers movie wasn’t very funny.”
Groucho narrowed one eye. “My dear chap. At the Circus wasn’t intended to be funny at all,” he explained. “After Zeppo deserted us, Chico, Harpo, and I decided that we’re really tragedians and not silly buffoons. You shouldn’t have laughed at all.”
“I didn’t laugh much.”
“I accept your apology.” Groucho made his way into the restaurant, moving toward his regular booth at the rear.
I followed, trying to read the front-page story about Spellman’s murder while walking.
When I slid in across the green booth from Groucho, he asked, “And who is the golden-haired lass the law is seeking?”
Spreading the folded paper out on the green-topped table in front of me, I said, “Before we go into that, Groucho, allow me to point out that the Times quotes the noted movie mogul Joel Farber as saying that while he has full confidence in the Studio City police, Warlock has also retained the services of the distinguished investigative team of Groucho Marx and Frank Denby.”
“Distinguished, am I? By golly, nobody’s called me that since … well, actually nobody’s ever called me that,” he admitted. “Must be my hanging around with the likes of you, Franklin, that’s improved my reputation. Now if I can just find something to improve my complexion and give it that schoolgirl—”
“Be that as it may, I just hope Jane doesn’t see this before I can talk to her,” I cut in. “After I promised her I wouldn’t—”
“My boy, she happens to be married to an erstwhile Los Angeles Times reporter and is therefore well aware that they are all a passel of lying louts.” Groucho made a dismissive gesture. “Now tell me about the platinum-tressed tootsie in the case.”
“So you fellows are playing detective again, huh?” Millman the waiter placed two glasses of water down on our table.
“We are not,” countered Groucho. “What we’ve been playing is Puss in the Corner.”
“Ask me, the dame did it,” observed the gaunt waiter. “This is a crime of passion if there ever was one.”
“Can you take your mind off this sordid matter long enough to take my order for a pastrami sandwich, my good man?”
“I already put in your order, Groucho, minute I saw you come sauntering in,” answered Millman. “And blueberry blintzes for your Watson here.”
“Very well, you have my permission to begone.”
“Who do you think bumped the poor galoot off?”
“My esteemed partner here—not to mention the esteemed clams in your kitchen—my esteemed partner and I no longer handle murder cases. We limit our practice to finding stray dogs. And small, docile dogs at that.”
Millman sighed. “I was hoping it wasn’t true.”
“What, that we’ve given up—”
“No, that you’d lost your sense of humor entirely. But it’s obvious that—”
“Absent yourself.”
Our waiter went shuffling away.
Groucho rested his elbows on the table. “So who was that lady?”
“This doesn’t make any sense, Groucho.” I frowned, shaking my head. “The police want to talk to Dorothy Woodrow.”
“She’s a stuntwoman, is she not?”
“Yeah, she worked on the last Ty-Gor movie and was stunting on this one, too,” I answered. “Nice girl, in her late twenties, pretty.”
“I believe I’ve encountered Miss Woodrow in the past, but I strive not to become too interested in women who’re stronger than I am.” He was leaning forward, reading the paper upside down. “Says here she was having a steamy love affair with the late Randy Spellman.”
“Naw, that was over months ago.”
Reaching across the tabletop, Groucho picked up the Times. “Seems she signed in at the studio gate yesterday morning, but never signed out,” he said. “Nary a soul has seen her since, and she’s not at her place of residence in Manhattan Beach.”
I shook my head again. “Dorothy’s too smart to do anything like murdering Spellman.”
“If she’s really smart, why’d she ever tie up with a lunkhead like Spellman?”
“Love is strange.”
“Come to think of it, Evangeline, I’ve noticed that myself.”
Millman arrived with our orders, delivering them silently and departing.
I took the Times back, turning to the continuation of the murder story on page 3. “This makes even less sense,” I said after scanning the column. “The police say they found a note from Dorothy in Spellman’s dressing room trailer.”
“Saying what?”
“Saying, and I quote, ‘Randy—I warned you that you can’t get away with this! You’d better meet me tonight in your trailer at 7:30—or you’ll be very sorry! (Signed) Dot.’”
“Very forceful prose style,” observed Groucho. “Was this typed, handwritten, or illuminated?”
Folding up the newspaper, I deposited it beside me on the bench. “The police didn’t say.”
“We’ll have to find out then and … oops, forgive me, Rollo. For a moment I thought we were back in the gumshoe trade.”
“But since we’re not, we don’t have to worry about the note,” I said as I picked up my fork. “And you won’t have to cudgel your brain about clues.”
“Pity in a way, since I just purchased a set of matched cudgels.” His face, briefly, assumed a forlorn expression.
“But it is too bad the cops think that Dorothy is a woman scorned. That she shot the guy and slipped off the lot somehow.”
“In spite of her love note, I don’t doubt that there are many other women, as well as men, children, and a few selected chimpanzees, who had good reasons for wanting to send Spellman off to glory,” said Groucho. “However, young sir, since I am dedicated, as I fortunately just recalled in the nick of time, to keeping you crime-free for the next few weeks, I must now call this gruesome discussion to a close.” He picked up his kosher dill, took a bite. “I am officially changing the subject. Now then, are you and the missus still stubbornly refusing to name your forthcoming son Groucho in my honor?”
“Jane’s absolutely certain the baby is going to be a girl.”
“Then how about Grouchoella?”
“Nope.”
“Grouchorita? Little Bo Groucho?”
“Not likely.”
Undaunted, he went on to contribute several more suggestions.
Three
When I crossed the threshold of our beach house in Bayside, a growling commenced in Jane’s studio.
“Shut up, dopey,” she said.
“I haven’t said a word,” I called out.
“That remark was addressed to Dorgan,” said my wife. “It’s the master of the menage, Dorgan, so you don’t have to defend me.”
I, somewhat gingerly, crossed the living room. Our retired bloodhound peered out of the studio at me. Apparently I passed inspection, and Dorgan started wagging his tail.
“He’s gotten increasingly protective.” I halted in the doorway. “And, hey, aren’t you supposed to rest about this time?”
Jane was seated at her drawing board, a number-one brush in her hand. “Speaking of being overly protective,” she said, smiling.
“And where’s your assistant?”
“She had a dentist appointment,” Jane answered. “I’m onl
y inking in the main characters on a Hollywood Molly Sunday page. Nothing strenuous, Frank.”
Dorgan flopped down in front of me, rolled over on his back. Crouching, I rubbed his stomach. “You can work later, Jane. I really think you ought to rest, take a nap.”
“Can’t nap,” she said. “We’re expecting company shortly.”
“Who?”
“Enery.”
I straightened up. “I’ll have to tell him the Ty-Gor movie’s going to be delayed,” I said, frowning. “See, Spellman was murdered this morning, but don’t worry, because even though Groucho and I walked in on the—”
“I know about Spellman’s death. Enery told me over the phone.”
“That why he’s coming over?”
Jane held out her hand to me, and I helped her dismount from her chair. As I kissed her on the cheek, she said, “He’s got a problem he wants to talk over.”
“Enery mention what sort of problem?”
“Well,” said Jane, smoothing out her polka-dot maternity smock, “it’s going to involve your breaking a promise to me.”
“Hum?”
Walking around the sprawled Dorgan, she said, “The one about you and Groucho not being detectives for a while.”
“C’mon, Jane, you’re less than three weeks from having our baby.”
She settled herself on our living room sofa. “Even so, I think it’d be a swell idea if you fellows took an interest in this Randolph Spellman murder case.”
“Nope, no. Whenever I’ve been involved with a murder case over the past few years, you’ve worried,” I pointed out. “So at a time like this I sure as hell don’t intend to get into any dangerous situation that can—”
“You and Groucho can more than likely solve the whole mess in a week or less,” she said confidently, taking hold of my hand and pulling me down to sit beside her. “That’ll leave you with plenty of time to fret, pace the floor, and do all the other things expectant fathers are required to do. Really, Frank, you don’t have to worry about me.”
I attempted a scowl. “Why exactly are you so eager to have us take up this particular case, Jane?”
“I told you. Because of Enery McBride.”
I gave up on the scowl. “How does he tie in, outside of playing the cannibal chief in the damn movie?”
“Well, it has to do with the stuntwoman.”
“With Dorothy Woodrow?”
Jane nodded. “Yes.”
“You know the cops are looking for Dorothy? She used to be Spellman’s girlfriend, and she seems to have written him a threatening note. They suspect she shot the guy.”
“Enery is certain she didn’t shoot Spellman.”
“How come?”
“Because for the past three months or so she’s been his girlfriend,” Jane replied.
After glancing again at his wristwatch, Enery McBride asked, “You sure you want to get involved in this, Frank?”
Before I could answer, Jane said, “We’re both sure, Enery.”
He nodded in my direction. “Frank?”
“Tell us about Dorothy,” I suggested.
Our actor friend was sitting on the edge of an armchair, facing us, hunched slightly forward. “What worries me most,” he admitted, “is that I haven’t heard from Dorothy. According to the newspapers, the police seem to believe she’s hiding out someplace.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sure about that.”
“Why not?”
“She’d have telephoned,” he answered, “or gotten in touch with me some way. I’m afraid that whoever killed that bastard Spellman may’ve hurt Dorothy, too.”
I told him, “If she was shot when Randy was, they’d have left her there.”
“Maybe she was taken along as a hostage or—”
“You wouldn’t need a hostage to sneak out of the Warlock studios in the middle of the night.”
“Whatever happened, Frank, she’s disappeared.” He made a forlorn sound. “When I talked to Jane, she said you and Groucho might be able to help find her. Trouble is, there’s not much more I can do openly.”
“What about talking to the police?” I asked him.
He smiled ruefully. “We’ve all been avoiding something,” Enery said. “If I walk into the Studio City police station to ask about Dorothy—all they’re going to say is, ‘How come this colored boy is interested in a white girl?’”
“You’re right, yeah,” I admitted. “What about her friends—have you talked to them?”
Getting up, slowly, he walked over to a window to look out toward the ocean downhill. “I suppose I should’ve told you about Dorothy and me earlier,” he said. “But we—well, Dorothy especially—decided to keep our relationship quiet. Sometimes the studios can be …” He shrugged, still staring out at the late-afternoon Pacific. “Especially in her case. I got to know her when we were both working on the last Ty-Gor movie, while it was shooting out at the private jungle that the writer has in the Valley.”
“Rancho Tygoro,” said Jane. “Arthur Wright Benson, who writes the Ty-Gor books, has a ten-acre jungle on his estate. The guy collects tropical plants and foliage.”
“And obviously he makes more money off jungle men than I do,” I said. “About Dorothy’s friends, Enery?”
“The point is—well, we liked each other,” he said. “We started, you know, seeing each other. But mostly at her place in Manhattan Beach and my cottage in San Amaro. Nobody was going to spot us at the Coconut Grove.” He turned his back to the window. “Anyway, only a couple of Dorothy’s friends even know about us. I’ve only been able to get in touch with one of them so far, and she doesn’t know any more than I do.” He returned to the armchair, checking his watch again. “Jesus, Dorothy’s been missing since last night.”
“We’ll find her,” I assured him, hoping I sounded confident.
Jane asked, “Why’d you refer to Spellman as a bastard?”
“I could just as easily have said son of a bitch.” Enery sat down again. “Dorothy was involved with him for a couple of months last year. It took her that long to find out what sort of louse he was. Then she quit seeing him.”
“The police have the notion she was still in love with the guy,” I reminded. “That note Dorothy allegedly wrote him establishes that point—far as the cops are concerned.”
“Bullshit,” Enery said. “She never wrote the letter. Dorothy hadn’t communicated with Spellman in any way for months. And she never called herself Dot.”
My wife asked, “Did any of the papers print a photo of the actual letter?”
“No, only quoted from it,” I answered. “And nobody’s said anything about comparing the handwriting—if the thing is handwritten—to a sample of her writing.”
“Can we get a look at it?”
“Probably,” I replied. “I know a couple of guys on the Studio City force who can maybe get me a copy.”
Enery was looking yet again at his watch. Rubbing his fingertips across the crystal, he said, “There’s another reason the police have linked her with Spellman. The guy hated to admit any girl had walked out on him. I know for a fact that he’s been telling people Dorothy was still carrying the torch.”
“Do you know,” asked Jane, “if she was anywhere near him last night?”
“Not sure, damn it,” he replied.
“Wouldn’t she have told you?”
“I only talked to her for a few minutes yesterday, while she was getting ready to double for Marlene Tubridy,” Enery said. “Dorothy was supposed to drop over to my place last night, but she said something had come up. Something important.”
“You don’t know what it was?” I asked.
“Nope. She seemed—upset, uneasy. She only told me it was nothing for me to worry about,” Enery explained. “We never have long conversations on the set, so I didn’t have time to find out any more.”
“It could’ve had something to do with Spellman,” I said.
“I just really don’t know, Frank.”
Jane rem
embered her coffee cup, picked it up, took a very brief sip. “Did Spellman know about you and Dorothy?”
“He might have.”
“And he might have been riding her.”
“If Spellman knew, he’d have been nasty, sure.”
“Which could be why she went to see him.”
“Yeah, but that’s not a good-enough reason for Dorothy to kill the guy.”
I asked, “Who are her two friends that you can trust?”
“One’s a bit player who lives in Hollywood, name’s Margery Corke.” Enery gave me her address and phone number. “She’s out near Palm Springs on location for a few days. But I was able to get hold of her on the telephone. Margery claims she doesn’t know a darn thing. Other’s guy, stuntman named Randy Cox. Does a lot of B Westerns and is a very enthusiastic Communist. Dorothy and I have been to a few parties of his down in Venice. Randy I haven’t been able to get in touch with yet. I’m planning to check some of the bars he hangs out at.”
“How about any of Dorothy’s friends who don’t know about you, Enery?” asked Jane. “We can try them, explaining that Frank’s working for the Warlock studios. Possibly one of them knows something about where she is.”
“Not a bad idea.” Enery took the notepad Jane handed him, thought for a moment, and then started writing. “I know of three others.”
“So what we have to do is find Dorothy,” I said, “and figure out who really killed Spellman.” I tried to imply that this would be a snap to bring off, but I didn’t quite succeed.
“Judging by your track record,” said Enery, “I think you can do it.” He handed Jane the notebook.
I got to my feet. “And you don’t mind if Groucho helps out, too?”
Enery grinned faintly. “You’re a team, aren’t you? Sure, I want the whole set of detectives.” He left the chair, moving toward the door. “I’m going to try to track down Randy Cox, see if he’s got any idea where Dorothy is.”
I went along with him, opened the door. A thin mist had been drifting in from the late-afternoon Pacific.
Enery held out his hand, and we shook. “You can leave a message with my answering service, soon as you find out anything.” He turned and went hurrying away into the blurred afternoon.
