Groucho Marx, King of the Jungle

by Ron Goulart

  “Hey, you stay here and work on the darn script. I’ll take care of breakfast.”

  As she was crossing the living room, the telephone rang.

  Jane answered. “Hello. Yes, Enery. No, we’re both awake,” she said. “What’s that? Okay, I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll get over there as soon as he can. Take it easy, and try not to worry.” Hanging up, she came back into my office.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  “That was Enery, and it sounds like Dorothy has disappeared again,” she told me.

  Being near the telephone reminded me that I ought to call May Sankowitz, since she hadn’t yet sent me the promised list of other possible Randy Spellman blackmail targets. I gave the operator the number of May’s Hollywood Screen magazine office.

  “May Sankowitz,” she answered,

  “Frank Denby. Where’s the—”

  “Have you and Groucho caught the killer?”

  “Not as yet, but what I—”

  “Are you about to rush Jane to the maternity ward?”

  “Wrong again, May. Now here’s a question for you,” I said into the phone. “Where the hell’s that list you were supposed to send me?”

  “Shit, I forgot, Frank,” she said. “Hold on, I’ve got it on my desk someplace. Here’s a fawning note from Cecil B. DeMille, some glossy shots of Nova Sartain almost wearing a bathing suit, a carrot, and … ah, here’s the list.”

  May read five names to me. Three of them we already had, though I didn’t mention that to her. “Thanks, May. But isn’t the fifth victim dead? Sir Nigel Reesner, noted British import, expired last summer.”

  “So he is, died after he finished costarring in The Return of the Bengal Lancers. Excuse it,” she said. “Don’t you have even one item of news for me, dear?”

  “Well, I keep hearing rumors that I’ll be awarded the Nobel Prize for Hack Writing this year. But don’t quote me.”

  “You’re a wiseass, but I love you still. Good-bye.”

  Cradling the receiver, I took out my notebook and added the name of Arturo Paiva, the middleweight boxer, to our list of possible Spellman blackmail victims.

  Looking at what I was jotting down, Jane said, “Paiva can’t be a suspect. He’s been in New York for nearly two weeks training for a fight coming up at Madison Square Garden.”

  I drew a line through the prizefighter’s name. “Okay, I’m off to call on Enery.”

  “Tell him to cheer up.”

  “Why should he cheer up?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “There’s no earthly reason, is there?”

  There were more than twenty pickets gathered in front of the Warlock studios entrance as Groucho drove up. Five of them were in the uniform of the pro-German Silver Shirts, although Groucho didn’t spot Jack O’Banyon, the actor who’d organized the group, amongst them. The rest, mostly men, were in civilian garb. The large signs they were wielding had been professionally lettered.

  Among the sentiments expressed were IT’S UN-AMERICAN TO BE ANTI-GERMAN!, STOP FILMING “HITLER’S SPY”!, WARLOCK IS A JEWLOVER!, and HITLER IS OUR FRIEND!

  “Looks like the loony bin class picnic,” Groucho said as he stopped at the entry.

  One of the picketers, a husky blonde fellow in a Silver Shirt uniform, noticed Groucho. Pointing to the Cadillac, he yelled, “There’s Groucho Marx! Another lousy anti-Nazi!”

  Groucho was about to roll his window down to make a reasoned reply when an abundantly ripe tomato came squashing against the glass.

  “If this was Germany, they’d put you away!” a fat matron cried, preparing to use her picket sign as an axe on his windshield.

  One of the studio guards came running toward the car, his hand pressed against his holster. “None of that. All of you move back and let Mr. Marx pass, or I’ll get the cops after you!”

  Groucho drove on into the studio grounds.

  He sat in the visitors’ parking lot for several minutes, breathing slowly in and out through his open mouth. “If this were Germany, I’d be in a boxcar about now.”

  He sighed, took a cigar out of his coat pocket. Sighing again, he dropped the cigar back and stepped out of his car. He could still hear the protestors shouting out on the sidewalk.

  He looked ruefully at the remnants of tomato that were slowly oozing down the driver’s-side window. “Look on the bright side,” he advised himself. “It could’ve been a brickbat.”

  He started for the Warlock Administration Building.

  Groucho had covered about a hundred yards when he encountered a group of people coming his way. Four men and a woman were following a suntanned young man in a checkered sports coat.

  “Wow, folks, here’s a surprise treat for you!” he said, grinning.

  Groucho halted. “I give up, what is it?”

  “Folks,” announced the amiable young man in the checkered coat, “this is Groucho Marx himself.”

  “I used to be Groucho Marx herself, but all the fellows at the club kept razzing me about it,” he said.

  “I’m Mark Glidden,” said the young man, holding out his hand. “I’m escorting these newspaper movie reporters on a tour of the studio. Right now we’re on our way to Soundstage 5 to watch them filming a scene from Hitler’s Spy, starring Francis Lederer, Ida Lupino, and newcomer Laird Cregar. It’s a suspenseful thriller that deals in an up-to-the-minute way with the activities of the Nazi spies in our very midst.”

  “Don’t let me detain you,” said Groucho, not bothering to shake Glidden’s hand.

  One of the reporters, a plump fellow with a name tag that identified him as JIM IVEY, ORLANDO SENTINEL, asked, “Is it true you’re playing bit parts now, Groucho?”

  “Actually, two-bit parts” he replied. “And it turns out they can’t even afford me at that price.”

  “But were you really—a comic actor of your ability—seriously considering doing a shabby walk-on in one of Warlock’s cheesy jungle fiascoes?”

  Groucho looked from the questioning reporter to the young publicity man. “You actually paid to have this fellow shipped out here from Florida?”

  The only woman reporter, labeled MADDY HAMBRICK, ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH, asked Groucho, “Is it true you’ve stopped making Marx Brothers movies?”

  “You’ve probably heard, dear lady,” he replied, “even in faroff St. Louis, of the Flying Dutchman. As it happens, Chico, Harpo, and I are sailing under a similar curse and must make Marx Brothers movies for the rest of our natural lives. Or in Chico’s case, for the rest of his unnatural life. Only the kiss of a good woman can, in my case, break the spell. And just try to find a good woman in Hollywood. And as for a St. Louis woman with her diamond rings, wellsir—”

  “Been great chatting with you, Grouch,” said Mark Glidden. “No we’ve really got to hustle over to the Hitler’s Spy set.”

  “Then this is farewell.” Groucho stepped aside, after a slight bow, to let the reporters hurry on.

  “Nice to have met you, Mr. Marx,” called Maddy Hambrick.

  “With all the nitwits already in Hollywood,” Groucho said to himself, “it doesn’t make sense to import more of them from out of town.”

  Twenty

  Pushing open the door designated SECURITY DEPARTMENT, Groucho found himself in a small reception room. The walls were oak paneled, and at the metal desk sat a plump brunette young woman who was scowling at her typewriter.

  Groucho went loping across the thick gray carpeting to snatch up the receptionist’s left hand. Bending low, he delivered a smacking kiss and declared, “Gertie, it’s so delightful to be in your presence once again.”

  “My name is Judy McRae, Mr. Marx,” she informed him as she reclaimed her hand.

  “Ah, forgive me, dear lady,” he apologized, straightening up. “I mistook you for Gertrude Ederle, the noted Channel swimmer. That’s probably due to the fact that you’re wearing water wings, albeit in front. Still, the resemblance is quite—”

  “You’re a very silly man,” she
told him, giggling.

  “Why, thank you,” he said. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to me since … well, come to think of it, it’s the first kind thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  Lowering her voice, the receptionist confided, “Mr. Stone is expecting you. Be careful, he’s in a sour mood.”

  “What prompted that?”

  “Nothing, he’s always in a sour mood.” She picked up her desk phone. “Mr. Marx is here to see you, Mr. Stone.”

  Sour noise came out of the receiver.

  Smiling, she pointed a thumb at the door behind her desk. “Good luck.”

  On the frosted-glass top portion of the door was inscribed in gold HURFORD E. STONE, PRIVATE.

  Without knocking, Groucho entered. “Sorry to hear you’re still a private, Stone old fellow,” he said. “One would’ve thought you’d be at least a corporal by now.”

  Stone was a small man with thinning gray hair, in his middle fifties. Removing his pince-nez glasses, he glowered at Groucho. “I have never been an admirer of the Marx Brothers,” he announced by way of greeting.

  “I don’t much care for them myself, but I’ve had a devil of a time trying to ditch them,” Groucho said. “At least now I only have to work with two of them.”

  “Joel Farber informed me, in no uncertain terms, that I had to cooperate with you.” Replacing his spectacles on his sharp, narrow nose, he, carefully, picked up the two sheets of yellow paper that were lying atop his gray desk blotter. “Allow me to say, Groucho, that I believe it’s foolhardy not to rely solely on the police investigation of the unfortunate death of the late Randolph Spellman.”

  “And me, I’d replace you with an inexpensive calculating machine,” said Groucho cordially. “But, alas, we have to take the world as we find it. And come winter, we have to take a large dose of sulfur and molasses.”

  Stone coughed into his small, well-manicured hand. “I was given a list of names by Mr. Farber,” he said, “and ordered to determine if any of them had visited the Warlock grounds on the day of Randolph Spellman’s demise.”

  “And did any of them? And if so, when did they arrive and depart?”

  “Only two,” answered Stone. “The actress Rochelle Shaye arrived at 10:44 A.M. on the day in question, coming by taxi. She had a scheduled appointment with Peter Maresca, one of our Warlock directors, and after visiting him on the set of The Girl from Pawtucket and dining in the directors’ wing of the Warlock Commissary, she left the studio at 4:10 with Maresca in his Rolls Royce.” He handed one of the yellow sheets to Groucho. “You may keep this for your files.”

  Groucho accepted it. “And the other visitor?”

  “A Mr. Val Gallardo was admitted at 12:50 P.M.,” continued Stone. “He was visiting the actor George Raft, who’s here on loan from Warner Bros. to star in 1001 Nights in Sing Sing. Gallardo left in his Pontiac at 6:14.” He passed this yellow sheet across. “That’s the lot, Groucho. Now I really must return to more-serious work.”

  “I appreciate your able assistance.” Folding away the information, Groucho headed for the door.

  Stone asked, “Is it true that the Marx Brothers are leaving the movies?”

  “Would that we could,” Groucho said, hand on the door handle. “But, alas, we were trapped into having to make two more alleged comedies for MGM. Look on the bright side, though, Stone. You may not live long enough to see that happen.”

  He left the office, paused to kiss Judy McRae’s plump hand once more and observe, “He’s sour indeed,” and then went striding manfully out into the sunlight.

  The dilapidated dummy in the tattered tux looked even more forlorn, sprawled limply in his wicker armchair on the porch of the Westwood cottage where Dorothy Woodrow had been hiding out.

  Enery opened the door before I reached it. “She’s not here.”

  “No idea where she went?” I crossed the threshold.

  He shook his head, answering, “There’s no note and no sign of trouble.”

  “Could the police have found her?” We went into the parlor.

  “If the cops busted in here, they sure as hell were neat about it.”

  “I can check with my Studio City police contact.” I sat on the arm of one of the chairs. “Any idea how long she’s been gone?”

  Enery sank down onto the sofa. “We had dinner here together last night,” he said. “I had a rehearsal for a play I’m doing over in Pasadena. When I got back here a little after midnight … shit, Dorothy wasn’t here.”

  “Has that happened before?”

  “For an hour or so maybe. If she thought it was safe, at night always, she’d take a careful walk around Westwood,” my actor friend answered. “She’s, you know, an athlete, and she gets restless cooped up.”

  “That’s obviously not what she did last night.”

  “If it is, then something happened to her while she was out,” Enery said, clenching his fist. “After waiting around for an hour, I went out myself. Took the route Dorothy usually takes. Nothing, no sign of her. I called the couple of her friends I can trust, and they hadn’t heard from her. So then, Frank, I just sat around here and hoped she’d call. Toward dawn I dozed off for a few hours.”

  “It’s possible she turned herself in.”

  “She’d have told me if she was planning anything like that.”

  “Was she thinking she ought to move someplace else to hide?”

  “She never said anything about it.”

  I noticed that the golden-haired moppet dummy in the gingham dress was no longer sitting on the sofa. “Did you move the dummy?”

  Enery gave me a puzzled look. “Huh?”

  I pointed. “Blonde dummy’s gone. You put it someplace else?”

  “I didn’t, no. Why?”

  “Has her ventriloquist pal—Arnie Carr, isn’t it? Has he been back?”

  “No, Arnie’s still up in Santa Francesca,” Enery answered. “That Fiesta Week Festival is still going on.”

  “Let’s look around for that dummy.”

  We went over the whole cottage, but found no trace of it.

  In the bedroom Enery spotted something. “One of her suitcases is gone. I didn’t notice that before.”

  “So if Arnie Carr telephoned her and asked her to bring him the dummy to use in his show,” I asked, “would Dorothy have done it?”

  “She would’ve told me, Frank.”

  “Still, she might’ve headed up there.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “Where’s Carr staying?”

  “At the Francesca Mission Inn. He’s playing a week at the restaurant attached to the inn, and they threw in a room.” Slowly, Enery shook his head. “Dorothy wouldn’t have headed up there without leaving a note.”

  I didn’t mention that maybe she was switching boyfriends again. “Santa Francesca’s only about an hour’s drive up the coast,” I said. “I can head up there and look around.”

  “I ought to go along with you,” he said. “Except we’re shooting a couple more cannibal scenes at Warlock this afternoon.”

  “I’ll see if I can find any trace of her,” I told him.

  On my way to the Coast Highway, I stopped at a Rexall drugstore on Sunset. While walking through the place en route to the row of telephone booths at the rear, I passed the newsstand. The new issue of Radio Mirror had a nice color shot of Maggie Thompson, who played Hollywood Molly on our radio show, on the cover.

  A ten-year-old kid wearing a beanie profusely decorated with old union buttons was perusing a copy of Ty-Gor Comics and his beanie-less buddy was arguing, “Tarzan is tougher than Ty-Gor. And Batman is tougher than both of them.”

  I deposited my nickel and asked the operator for my number.

  “Jane Danner Studio,” answered Myra.

  “Didn’t this used to be the Frank Denby Shrine?”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Denby. Want to talk to your wife?”

  “Unless she’s resting.”

  “No, she’s penciling a daily. Hol
d on.”

  Jane said, “Is that honky-tonk music I hear in the background?”

  “No, it’s noise from the crowd fighting to get their hands on copies of Radio Mirror,” I said. “Listen, Jane, I have to run an errand. It’ll take around three hours or so.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Yep, but I have a notion where she went.”

  “Not someplace where you’re going to get conked on the head?”

  “I know I’ve been knocked unconscious during just about all the cases Groucho and I have worked on thus far, darling, but this time—”

  “All the darn cases. And sometimes twice per case.”

  “This trip doesn’t involve any risk of head injuries,” I assured her. “Are you all right?”

  “I am, yes,” she answered. “And I’ll be fine when next we meet.”

  “Keep in mind that I love you. Bye.”

  Next I called the Studio City Police Department and asked for Detective Mitch Tandofsky.

  He happened to be there. “Have you guys found out anything important, Frank?”

  “Not yet,” I admitted. “How about you?”

  “Still working on the Spellman case.”

  I asked, casually, “Any news about Dorothy Woodrow?”

  “We haven’t located the lady,” my detective friend told me. “Do you and Groucho know where she might be?”

  “Nope.” And this time I wasn’t exactly lying.

  “Turns out your actor pal Enery McBride had been keeping company with Dorothy,” Tandofsky said. “He tell you about that?”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t know where she is either.”

  “And she didn’t confide in him that she was planning to bump off Randy Spellman?”

  “You don’t think she did, so why—”

  “Never mind, I’ll be talking to McBride on my next visit to Warlock.”

  “Anything you’d like to pass along?”

  “Nothing, Frank. And you?”

  “Nothing, Mitch.”

  “Well, let’s keep exchanging information like this. Say hello to Jane.” He hung up.

  I left the booth and stopped again at the newsstand. I decided to pick up a copy of Radio Mirror.