by Ron Goulart
“Man or woman?”
“Probably a guy, but it could be a very forceful woman. He used a Speedball ‘C’ pen and Higgins India Ink.”
“Awful fancy and formal for a spy message.”
She shrugged. “That seems to be his style.”
“Think it’s someone who does lettering for a living?”
“Not sure—could simply be a fellow who’s got calligraphy as a hobby.” Leaning forward, Jane set the message on the coffee table. “This case of yours is starting to sound like it’s about a lot more than a faked suicide.”
“We can handle it.”
“You always say that,” she reminded. “Then you end up getting bopped on the head, shot at, kidnapped, and bopped on the head again.”
“True, but I’ve managed to survive.”
“So far.”
Taking her hand, I said, “Listen, if this is going to upset you too much, I can quit. I can tell Groucho to handle this one solo.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not suggesting that you quit. Not just yet anyway,” Jane said. “I’m only telling you, Frank, to be damned careful from here on out.”
“I was planning to do that before you even brought it up,” I assured her.
Fourteen
I was in my office at home trying to revise a scene in our Groucho Marx, Secret Agent script when the pair of Federal Bureau of Investigation agents dropped by for a visit.
It was a few minutes past eight in the morning, and Jane was still in bed. Dorgan was slumbering, with considerable snoring effects, on his red, white, and blue oval throw rug over near one of my filing cabinets.
We weren’t happy with one of the scenes between Groucho and Margaret Dumont. In this instance “we” consisted of Groucho, our director, and, grudgingly, me.
I had the allegedly unsatisfactory pages of my script spread out atop my desk. As I read them over for the second time that morning, I scribbled more notes in the margins.
In this particular scene Dumont, as Mata Herring, the aging femme fatale, was trying to wheedle government secrets out of Groucho, who was portraying J. Edgar Bedspread, Undercover Man. We’d already established in a prior scene that Groucho’s job was so secret that even he didn’t know what it was.
MUSIC: Romantic string quartet waltz up, under, and out.
SOUND: Door opening, Mata and J. Edgar entering living room.
BEDSPREAD: Ah, Mata my sweet, here we are alone at last in my penthouse. What do you think of the place?
MATA: If it’s a penthouse, Mr. Bedspread, why is it in the basement?
BEDSPREAD: I have a fear of heights. But let’s not dwell on architectural details, my pet.
SOUND: Mata’s hand being kissed.
BEDSPREAD: I must tell you that you’re a fine figure of a woman. In fact, there’s so much of you that you’re a fine figure of two women.
MATA: You know, Mr. Bedspread, I should be miffed with you. You promised to write to me after we met in Panama last month.
BEDSPREAD: I did write, but I used invisible ink.
MATA: I never saw a letter from you.
BEDSPREAD: Well, to be on the safe side, I also used invisible paper.
MATA: Next time, send me a message by carrier pigeon.
BEDSPREAD: We’re all out of pigeons down at the office. But I can probably dig up a parrot or a cockatoo.
MATA: Very well, a cockatoo’ll do.
BEDSPREAD: How’s that again?
MATA: I said a cockatoo’ll do, a cockatoo’ll do.
BEDSPREAD: Quit crowing and let’s get down to business.
MATA: Now that we’re together again, tell me about the plans.
BEDSPREAD: Actually, I don’t have any plans for tonight. So if you’d care to take in a movie later on or maybe go bowling, why—
MATA: No, no, I mean the secret plans.
BEDSPREAD: Oh, the secret plans. If you want to worm those out of me, Mata, you’re going to have to put your arms around me … .
MATA: Yes?
BEDSPREAD: Then you’re going to have to smother me with kisses … .
MATA: Yes?
BEDSPREAD: And it wouldn’t hurt if you slipped me at least ten bucks.
Leaning back in my chair, I said aloud, “Is any of this funny at all? Maybe I ought to start all over with—”
Dorgan, wide-awake, started growling. He got up, went trotting into the living room.
I followed the dog. “What’s up, Dorgan?”
He was at the front door, making anxious snuffling noises.
“Another lurker, maybe?”
Someone knocked.
Checking the spy hole, I observed two men in gray hats and gray suits standing out there on our porch.
“Sit, Dorgan,” I suggested.
Reluctantly, with considerable grumbling in his chest, he sat.
I opened the door. “Yes?”
“Mr. Franklin Denby?” inquired the one on the left.
“I am. And you fellows are … ?”
“I’m Agent Jim Goodrich, and this is Agent Lewis. We’re with the Federal Bureau of—”
“How come he doesn’t get a first name?”
Lewis, a lean, blond-haired man in his early thirties, didn’t say anything.
Goodrich, also a lean, blond-haired man in his early thirties, said, “As I was saying, Mr. Denby, we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, out of the Los Angeles office.” Both of them produced convincing-looking identifications.
“What exactly do you guys—”
“We’d like very much, if you don’t mind, to talk with you for a few minutes,” explained Agent Goodrich.
“Okay, fine. Come on in. You, too, Lewis.”
Dorgan made rumbling, unhappy sounds as the two FBI men crossed the threshold.
“Would you like to share the sofa?” I asked them.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Denby, we’ll occupy separate armchairs,” said Agent Goodrich, sitting in one.
Lewis occupied another one.
“Is this about the radio show, fellows?” I sat on the sofa.
Dorgan, eyeing our visitors, crossed the room, hopped up on the sofa, and stretched out with his head resting on my lap.
“In part,” answered Goodrich.
“And the other part?”
“First off, let me remind you that the director of the bureau is the idol of millions of Americans,” said Goodrich. “Also the ideal of countless thousands of boys and young men who hope someday to—”
“I thought their ideal was Melvin Purvis.”
“Purvis is no longer with the bureau,” said Agent Goodrich. “Now then, Mr. Denby, I want you to know that the bureau, while not specifically ordering you to, will be very pleased if you don’t name the fictitious FBI director on your upcoming radio program J. Edgar Bedspread.”
“Look, Groucho doesn’t play a character who’s in any way associated with the FBI,” I assured them. “He’s a sort of freelance spy who—”
“It’s the ‘J. Edgar’ part that’s causing concern,” cut in the G-man. “There is, after all, only one J. Edgar in America, and if you ridicule him, it reflects on—”
“I imagine there are quite a few J. Edgars by now,” I said. “The thing is, Agent Goodrich, that we happen to think that J. Edgar Bedspread is a funny name. As I understand free speech, it’s the inalienable right of every citizen to name a radio character J. Edgar Bedspread if he so chooses. We fought through that cold winter at Valley Forge for the right to call characters J. Edgar Bedspread.”
“We won’t pursue the matter further at this time, Mr. Denby,” said Goodrich. “We merely paid this visit to leave a word to the wise.”
“Then you’re through here?”
“There is one other matter we …” He stopped, popping to his feet and removing his hat.
Agent Lewis did likewise.
Jane, dressed in slacks and a candy-stripe blouse, had come into the room. “Are we in trouble, Frank?”
“
No, just a couple of G-men dropped over to talk about Groucho Marx, Secret Agent,” I answered, standing. “Allow me to present Agent Goodrich and Agent Lewis.”
“Good morning, gentlemen. You guys go to work early, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.” Goodrich sat down again, resting his hat on his right knee.
Agent Lewis sat down again, resting his hat on his knee.
“Either of you gents like a cup of coffee?” Jane asked them.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Goodrich.
“How about your partner?”
“He doesn’t either, ma’am.”
“How about you, Franklin?”
“I think I’ll pass,” I told my wife. “You feeling okay?”
“About as chipper as I can with my living room full of federal agents.”
Goodrich said, “This is a purely informal visit, Mrs. Denby.”
“I think I’ll make a pot of coffee anyway, Frank.” Jane smiled in my direction, then retreated into the kitchen.
“There is one other thing we’d like to discuss briefly with you, Mr. Denby,” resumed Agent Goodrich.
“More names in the show that you folks object to?”
He said, “You and Groucho Marx have let it be known, through the press, that you intend to carry on an amateur investigation into the circumstances of the late Eric Olmstead’s suicide.”
“Actually, what we’re looking into is Olmstead’s murder.”
“For various reasons, Mr. Denby, we’d prefer it if you and Mr. Marx—whom we’ve had a very difficult time in arranging a conversation with, by the way—would suspend your interference in the matter.”
“Or else?”
Agent Goodrich smiled for less than a second. “As I’ve mentioned, Mr. Denby, this is not an official visit,” he said. “The FBI isn’t attempting to coerce you in any way. We would, however, be gratified if you and Groucho Marx would bow out of this entire matter.”
I stood up. “Well, I’ll certainly pass on your feelings, and those of Mr. Hoover, on to Groucho,” I assured them, walking toward the door.
“Thank you for your time and consideration.” Agent Goodrich stood.
Agent Lewis stood.
“So the FBI is investigating Olmstead’s death?” I inquired as I opened the door to usher them out into the clear blue morning.
“We never discuss matters of that nature, Mr. Denby.” Goodrich put his hat back on and stepped out onto the porch.
Agent Lewis put his hat on and followed him out.
I shut the door, sighed.
Making whimpering noises, Dorgan wiggled off the sofa and came waddling over to me. Crouching, I rubbed his head. “Those the same guys you smelled the other day, buddy?”
From the kitchen doorway Jane asked, “What the heck did all that mean?”
I straightened up. “For one thing,” I answered, “it means that Groucho and I are right about this case involving spies and espionage.”
Abandoned by his loved ones, or so he later told me, Groucho was alone in the large yellow-and-white kitchen of his Beverly Hills home that morning. Wearing a venerable flannel robe, he was searching the refrigerator shelves for something edible he could convert into breakfast.
He’d narrowed it down to a half of a pastrami sandwich that rested on a bluish plate that had a portrait of Shirley Temple etched in white on the bottom and a bowl of something he suspected must be leftover oatmeal.
Groucho was sniffing at the possible oatmeal when the wall phone rang.
Returning the bowl to its shelf, he shut the icebox and grabbed up the receiver. “Reservation desk, Black Hole of Calcutta. How may we help you?”
“Is this Julius Marx, the Jew comedian?”
Groucho frowned. This wasn’t one of his comedian pals kidding around. “Look, my friend, if—”
“It would be a good idea if you forgot all about Eric Olmstead. He’s dead, and it would be a shame if you joined him.”
“Who in the hell are—”
The caller, very quietly, hung up.
Putting the phone back on the hook, Groucho sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s not the way to discourage me, folks,” he said quietly. “That just makes me mad.”
The phone rang again.
First taking a deep breath, he walked over to answer it. “Yes?”
It was his brother Zeppo to tell him what he’d found out about Olmstead’s years in England.
Fifteen
I parted my Ford on the quirky side street just off Scenario Lane up in Beverly Glen. The windows of the Studebaker sedan parked in the driveway of Leon Elfson’s place had been scrawled with soap, quite probably by a band of trick-or-treat kids who’d been offered oranges in lieu of chocolate bars. There was a small broken pumpkin lying on the top step of the redbrick porch of the shingled ranch-style house.
When I pressed the doorbell, chimes inside the house played what sounded to me like. “Off we go into the wild blue yonder.”
Nearly a minute passed before the redwood door was opened. “Oh, hi there, Frank,” said a slim platinum blonde in a crimson silk kimono.
I had no idea who she was. “I telephoned last night about dropping in on Leon this morning,” I said hopefully.
She opened the door wider. “Sure, he’s in his den whapping away at his typewriter.” The platinum blonde stepped back and invited me in.
I entered a shadowy living room that was richly scented with the smell of tobacco. Up over the mantel was a large oil painting of a strong-jawed young man in a flying suit and airplane helmet. He was standing on an early-morning airfield with a hangar and its billowing wind sock in the background. He was grinning and giving a lazy mock salute.
It was not a portrait of Leon.
The girl laughed quietly. “You don’t remember me, do you, Frank?”
I admitted, “Nope, but—”
“You’re letting the hair throw you.”
“It wasn’t always the color of expensive silverware, huh?”
“Think mousy brown.”
I shook my head, still stumped. “Maybe you could simply tell—”
“Oh, and I think I had a different nose back then.”
I studied her nose. “Well, this one isn’t especially familiar, but—”
“I’m Helen St. Clair.”
“Pleased to meet you, Helen. Is Leon—”
“Oh, wait a minute. When I knew you, I was Anna Lannin.”
“Oh, so?” I was still uncertain as to where I’d ever met her.
“Want ads,” she prompted.
“At the L.A. Times?”
“Righto, Frank. I worked in the Want Ads Department when you were an ace crime reporter, and all the gals thought you were just swell, and—”
“You were heavier then, a little.”
“I weighed one-sixty-five and hadn’t started on my movie career.”
“And your name was Annie Micklejohn.”
“That’s right, yeah. I forgot I changed it twice.”
“So how’s your career coming along, Annie?”
“Call me Helen. Not so hot.”
“Takes time to establish a—”
“All I get offered is parts in stag films so far. And I sure as heck didn’t get a nose job and lose forty pounds just so some fat guy in black socks can—”
“Frank, hey, you’re looking terrific. How’re you doing, pal?” Leon Elfson, a contributing editor to Aviation Week, came bouncing into the living room. He was a short, energetic man, built along the lines of Mickey Rooney. “I see you’ve met my fiancée. Annie and I are planning—”
“Helen, honey,” she corrected.
“Helen. Sorry.” He hurried over to me, shook hands. “Hey, I haven’t seen you since you got hitched up, Frank. That’s terrific. Your missus is a swell cartoonist, and we both love Hollywood Molly. It’s the favorite comic strip in this household.”
“Actually, Leon, I like King of the Royal Mounted better,” corrected Annie.
“Well, if it comes to that, I prefer Prince Valiant, but it’s not polite to tell a visitor that his wife’s comic strip is only fourth or fifth on your list of favorites, sweetheart. Now is it?” He bounced twice on his heels, grinning at his girlfriend.
The former Annie smiled apologetically at me. “It isn’t that I don’t read Hollywood Molly,” she said. “It’s only that I think that serious stuff like King of the Royal Mounted is more in keeping with the mood of a war-torn world. They had a story in there about spies who tried to invade Canada and—”
“How about a cup of coffee, Frank?”
“No, that’s okay, Leon. If we could just talk about what—”
“Can you fix me some coffee, Helen? I know it’s my turn, but Frank and I are going to be—”
“Okay, all right, I’ll do it this time, sweetheart. But I’m getting dangerously close to getting fed up,” the aspiring movie actress said, moving toward the doorway to the kitchen. “I mean, I’ve now fixed the coffee eleven more times than you have in the last week. Plus which, dear, I’ve prepared lunch five more times than you have. See, when we vowed to share and share alike on household chores, it was my clear understanding that—”
“It’s all the deadlines,” said Leon. Taking hold of my arm, he pointed at the painting of the handsome aviator. “My magazine publishers had me take over the writing of their Barney Barnes, Ace of the Airways pulp magazine over a year ago, Frank. So in addition to all the news stories I have to write for Aviation Week, I’ve got to bat out a sixtythousand-word novel every month about that goggled asshole up there, or—”
“Language,” reminded Annie before withdrawing.
“She keeps trying to reform me.” Leon escorted me into this den.
“A formidable task.”
About half of the built-in bookcases held model airplanes.
