by Ron Goulart
“True,” admitted Groucho. “Yet this business of being at the scene of the crime well before the minions of the law sounds like more than just overzealous paternalism.”
“The valet telephoned Lockwood and never got in touch with Dinah,” I said.
“According to her, Pearson alerted Lockwood moments after he discovered his boss was dead and done for.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Because I don’t imagine it’s that easy to contact somebody like Lockwood directly. Or even his ace troubleshooter, Sharkey.”
“Meaning that somebody fairly high up in one of the Lockwood organizations gave Pearson a number to call in an emergency.”
“Maybe you guys better find out some more about this Pearson,” said my wife. “Did Lockwood plant him in the household and, if so, why?”
“Could be Lockwood simply wanted to have somebody to watch over his most valuable actress,” I said. “But it might be more than that.”
Halting in his pacing and pointing at me with his dead cigar, Groucho said, “We also have to get a look at the police report. Frank?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I have a contact at the Beverly Hills Police Department,” I said. “I’ll check with him tomorrow, see what I can dig up.”
“Can you also run down this Pearson lad’s background? Find out if he’s truly a valet or merely a Lockwood spy.”
“I’ll do that, too, yeah.”
“Meantime, I’ll do some exploring into Eric Olmstead’s British background.” He returned to the vicinity of the fireplace. “My dear sibling, Zeppo, has quite a few contacts in Merry Old England, and I can call on him for assistance. That’s one of the advantages of having brothers. Now that I think of it, that’s just about the only advantage.”
Jane asked, “How about the Grim Reaper?”
“Right you are, toots,” said Groucho. “We must determine who he was and what in the heck he said to Olmstead to make him keel over.”
“The costume,” I said. “We ought to be able to find out where it was rented and who rented it.”
Groucho said, “It might have been borrowed from a studio wardrobe department.”
“I can call a friend of mine, Marlene, at Starlite Costumes in Hollywood,” offered Jane. “A place to start, anyway.”
“Ah, Lady Jane, are you volunteering to join us on this caper? I must warn you that it may be fraught with danger and—”
“Phooey. I can make a few phone calls.”
“She can telephone and draw at the same time,” I mentioned. “It has something to do with being double-jointed.”
“I once knew a snake charmer in Iola, Wisconsin, who could … but that’s neither here nor there. Although, it’s probably closer to there.”
“You mentioned that at least two people at the party last night may’ve heard some of what Death said to Olmstead,” I reminded him.
“Betty Boop and Zorro,” he said. “And what a team they’d make. I’ll see if I can track them down, with some help from the redoubtable Zeppo. I have a feeling I’ve seen that Boop lass before, and she’s quite probably a struggling actress. Back in my single days most of the actresses I encountered would wind up struggling before the night was … where was I?”
“Can you get into the Beverly Hills mansion to look around?” I asked.
“I could use my uncanny abilities as a cracksman to break into the joint and snoop,” Groucho said, tapping imaginary ashes off his dead cigar. “However, since our client tells me she’ll be moving back in tomorrow, I’ll save time and walk in through the front door.”
Jane asked, “Are you sure Dinah isn’t involved in her husband’s death? For instance, was she really in Malibu all last night?”
“We’ll have to find out,” he answered. “Though I always have hated mystery stories where the client turns out to be guilty.”
“This is real life,” reminded Jane. “So maybe you’d better take—”
“This is real life?” His eyebrows climbed. “Darn, I was hoping that this was only a dream and that I’d soon awaken to find I was the heir to the throne of England.”
I said, “Tomorrow we—”
“Then again, what would I do with the throne of England? It probably won’t match any of our other furniture, and it’ll be a pain to dust all the time.”
“Tomorrow we—”
“A barber chair would be much better to fall heir to. I always fall asleep in barber chairs, and if I had one around the house, it might help me cure my insomnia.”
“Tomorrow we—”
“And between movies and singing engagements and detective cases, I could do a little freelance barbering. A haircut here, a permanent there, a marcel in between—it adds up.”
“Tomorrow we—”
“The last time Marcel dropped in, however, he was no fun at all and just wanted to talk about things past for hours on end. You were saying, Rollo?”
“I forget.”
“He was going to suggest that you two get together tomorrow and compare notes on what you find out,” provided Jane.
“That’s it,” I said.
“An excellent suggestion. We’ll rendezvous at Moonbaum’s Delicatessen at five.” He started for the door. “Oh, I almost forgot. Where’s my free orange?”
Seven
At midmorning the next day Groucho was, as he later told me, striding along Sunset toward his office. There was a look of grim determination on his face, a merry twinkle in his eye, and the remnant of a cheese blintz on his manly chin.
As he neared his office building, a plump middle-aged woman stepped into his path. “You’re Groucho Marx!”
“Well, then that explains the dirty looks I’ve been getting all morning.”
From her imitation-leather purse she extracted a sheet of notepaper and a fountain pen. “Would you please sign this for me?”
Accepting the pen and paper, he replied, “I’ll have to read it first.”
“But it’s blank, Mr. Marx.”
“Ah, that’s why there’s so much white space between the lines.” After scrawling his autograph and returning the pen, he resumed walking.
Nan was behind her desk, typing. “Morning, chief,” she greeted, looking up.
“And the same to you, Nanette my pet.” He seated himself on the edge of her desk. “Any messages for me?’
“Mr. MacQuarrie telephoned again about the wristwatch,” she answered, consulting her notebook. “And the Widow Olmstead called to confirm the fact that you’re scheduled to drop in on her this afternoon at two-thirty.”
“I sense a lack of sympathy for the bereaved Dinah.”
“She’s a tough cookie,” said his secretary. “I wouldn’t be that surprised if it turned out she bumped off Olmstead herself. I don’t much like her movies either.”
He tapped the notebook. “Any other communications from the outside world?”
“That dame from Photoplay is anxious about your doing that photo spread. She says the publicity people at MGM promised her that you’d—”
“I wish MGM would quit trying to promote me as the next Clark Gable,” he said, pulling a fresh cigar from the pocket of his lime green sport coat. “It’s quite annoying for someone as innately modest as I, and, needless to say, it’s making the original Clark Gable uneasy and irritable.”
“Oh, and your brother Zeppo returned your call. He says he doesn’t mind talking to you in a cordial familial way. But if, as he suspects, you’re after him to do you another grueling, backbreaking favor, then you can …” She picked up the notebook, brought it closer to her eyes. “It was about doing something off a bridge, I think.”
Nodding, Groucho dropped from her desk to head toward the door of his private office. “I do look quite a lot like Gable, you have to admit.”
“Especially around the ears.”
Leaning in the doorway and lighting his cigar, Groucho said, “After I finish up on the phone, I may want to dictate a novel. I’m thinking of doing a surefire bestseller to b
e entitled How Green Was My Rudy Vallee.”
“Bob Hope,” Nan said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Used that gag on his radio show last Tuesday night.”
“Hope’s brilliant, but not that brilliant. You must be mistaken, my dear.”
“You’re right. Now that I think about it, Fibber McGee is the one who used the line.”
“I’ll be sulking in my tent,” he announced, stepping into his office and shutting the door.
Groucho blew smoke toward the ceiling and said into the telephone, “Well, of course, Zeppo, you’ve always been my favorite brother and … Chico told you what? Okay, you’ve always been my favorite brother after Chico and … Harpo told you he was? No, I’d say it was more a tie between you and Harpo. So that makes you two-A on my list of favorite brothers, and Harpo comes in at two-B. So you’re still pretty high on the … eh? Well, true, that only leaves Gummo below you fellows, but still … now then, let’s get down to … what do you mean ulterior motive? No, of course I enjoy having endless meaningless conversations with you, Zep old man. The thing is that right now Frank and I are involved in … certainly I’m aware that Frank isn’t my brother. If he was, everybody’d be calling him Franko, and they’d mistake him for the dictator of Spain and that’d cause him no end of … who’s being evasive? I was simply asking you to do me a tiny little favor, and you went and dragged in the Spanish Civil War and … no, nope, not a huge favor, brother mine. Just a small little … no, it won’t involve your busting your ass in any way. You won’t even have to get up off your secretary’s lap or … no, I’m not insinuating that you’re tomcatting around your office. I know you’re discreet enough to tomcat only in out-of-the-way locations and … well, sure, I’ll get to the point as soon as you cease boasting about your romantic … okay, Zep, here’s how you can help the cause of justice. Hum? Well yes, we are investigating a case and … no, I don’t think I’m Sherlock Holmes, although, if you remember my recent encounter with one of the Sherlock Holmeses of the silver screen, you’ll … all right, here’s what I want to know. You have a lot of connections in England and … yes, I’m aware that’ll involve long-distance charges, unless you’re a lot better at telepathy than you’ve been thus far in your life. What I want you to find out for me, Zeppo, is everything you can about the late Eric Olmstead. What he did, besides directing motion pictures, while dwelling in England, whom he hung out with, any scandals he was tangled up with and … well, yes, I am helping Dinah Flanders on this. Chiefly because the lass doesn’t believe Olmstead really bumped himself off … . Yeah, I realize I may annoy the police. But why should they be an exception to the rule? So, use your London show-business associates to dig up whatever you … no, as a matter of fact, that’s not all. If you can cease producing those sputtering noises, I’ll continue my discourse.”
Groucho paused to take a puff of his cigar.
“Were you at Warren Lockwood’s Halloween to-do two nights since? Good, because … yes, I did try to find you, Zep, but I approached several Napoleons, and none of them was … well, you should have told me you changed costumes in midstream and … Tarzan, eh? I bet you looked fetching, and I’m truly sorry I missed … no, the word fetching doesn’t mean I’m implying you must’ve looked like a pansy. I’ve heard you described as being awfully cute and sort of sweet, but never as being … okay, yes, here’s what else I want to know. There was a young lady at the shindig in a Betty Boop costume and … yes, the kid who was nearby when Olmstead took his nosedive. I have the notion she’s a blond starlet who maybe had a bit part in At the Races … . right, that’s her. What’s her name?”
He grabbed up a stub of a pencil and wrote on his desk calendar. “Kathy Mirabell? Any idea who her agent might be? Which goniff? Oh, Leo Fernstad … . No, I’m not planning to woo the lass. She may’ve seen or heard something that’ll help us locate the chap in the Grim Reaper suit. You wouldn’t happen to know who he was? I didn’t think so. Well, then, Zeppo, I’ll be … yes, certainly, I’m concerned with how you are. How are you? Fine, I’ll talk to you soon again, I trust.”
Hanging up, he took another puff of his cigar.
Eight
It was one of those gray, drizzly afternoons that occasionally befalls the usually sun-drenched Southern California. I parked my Ford between a Mercedes and a Rolls Royce on the lot next to the Pup Tent. A currently fashionable hot-dog bistro in Santa Monica, the place was crowded even at one in the afternoon.
As I entered the foyer, Virginia Bruce and Marian Marsh were leaving. I nodded at the two blond actresses. “Good afternoon, ladies,” I said.
I’d interviewed Virginia Bruce once when I was with the L.A. Times. “I’ve been meaning to congratulate you, Frank,” she said, smiling.
“For what exactly?”
“Being married to Jane Danner. She’s a terrific girl, and I love Hollywood Molly.”
“What a coincidence—she was telling me just this morning that I was a terrific guy.”
“Means you’re ideally matched.” Smiling again, she moved on.
A man in a dark double-breasted suit and wearing a high, white chef’s hat was standing beside the velvet rope that blocked my progress into the small dining area. “Full up for at least another hour, sir. I can put your name on the—”
“I’m meeting someone,” I said as I scanned the booths. “Yep, there he is in Booth Three.”
The owner of the Pup Tent lifted the rope out of my way. “Ah, yes, Detective Mulvane mentioned he was expecting someone. Somehow I expected …” He let the sentence trail off, giving a disappointed shrug.
I made my way through the cluster of small tables and slid into the booth. “Good thing I’m with you; otherwise, I’m pretty sure, they’d have tossed me out into the gutter.”
Mulvane was a tall, sad-faced man in his middle thirties. He was wearing a gold-colored polo shirt and an Irish tweed sport jacket. “You should exercise more, Frank,” he suggested, after studying me for a few seconds.
“True,” I agreed. “Is that your Mercedes out on the parking lot?”
“Nope, mine’s at the repair shop again with two expatriate Nazis tinkering with it,” he said. “They’re experts with tanks and bombers, but my two-twenty-S seems to mystify them. How’s Janey?”
“Just fine. She floored a former heavyweight boxer who addressed her as Janey at a Thrifty Drug Store only yesterday.”
“I know the lady prefers to be called Jane.” He shook his head. “But to me she’s a Janey.”
“Okay, so what can you give me about the Olmstead—”
“Hello, gents. How’re you guys today?” A very pretty red-haired waitress handed us our menus, which were shaped like dachshunds. “The specialty today is our Pineapple Doggie. Myself, I prefer the Old World Hund because you get a generous side order of sauerkraut along with—”
“How’s your acting career coming along, Nancy?”
“I’m up for a part in the new Ted Timberlake oat opera over at Warlock,” she answered, brightening. “I’ll be playing the Third Dance Hall Girl. Three lines to speak, and I also listen entranced while Timberlake sings to Mary Beth Hughes.”
“Congratulations, you’re moving up.”
“Still got a heck of a long way to go. What’ll you have?”
“The Plain Doggie.” Mulvane shut his menu and handed it back to her.
“And you, sir?”
“Just coffee, thanks,” I told her.
When she’d moved away from our vicinity, Mulvane asked, “You and Groucho Marx are intending to nose around into the Olmstead suicide, huh?”
“The Olmstead death,” I corrected. “We aren’t as yet convinced that it was really a suicide.”
Mulvane advised. “Forget this one, Frank.”
“Tell me why.”
“You’re a pretty good scriptwriter these days,” he said, leaning back in the booth. “You’re no longer a crusading reporter, and you sure as hell aren’t a detective. You don’t need any new t
rouble in your life.”
I watched him for a few seconds. “When I telephoned you this morning, Win, and asked if you could give me a rundown of the paperwork on this case, you agreed to meet me here this afternoon,” I reminded him. “I was expecting something more than a warning.”
“That was this morning,” he said. “I wasn’t, you know, in on the investigation, and I sure wasn’t familiar with the situation. All I can really tell you, old buddy, is to forget all about this and—”
“Okay, Win, so who’s clamping down on this one?”
Resting both elbows on the green tabletop, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’ve got more than the Beverly Hills police involved in this business, Frank.”
“Who else? Los Angeles? State police?”
He lowered his voice further. “Washington is interested.”
“Who are we talking about? Eleanor Roosevelt, the FBI, the—”
“A government agency, let’s say. And they are telling us what to do. So the smartest thing for you to do, Frank, is to stick with your writing and—”
“Do you think Olmstead killed himself?”
“My opinion doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it,” he told me.
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?”
“There’s no need for you to—”
“C’mon, Win. What the hell sort of cover-up is going on? You can’t even tell me who—”
“Okay, it’s Jake Fuller,” he said, very quietly.
“That son of a bitch,” I said, frowning. “He and I never got along when I was with the Times.”
“Actually, nobody gets along with Fuller,” said my friend. “One more reason for you two Hardy Boys to steer clear of this mess.”
I said, “Can you at least pass along some details of the alleged suicide? The papers didn’t say anything about the gun. What—”
“There was a thirty-two-caliber slug in his head.”
“What about the gun? Was it his?”
