Groucho Marx, Secret Agent

by Ron Goulart

“What sort of mask?”

  “A hood, like an executioner or a serial villain. Black hood with little eyehole slits.”

  “The hood was on the floor near where I found you,” said Enery.

  “Nobody saw the guy, coming or going?”

  “Irene swears nobody passed by her cubbyhole while you were back there.”

  Dr. Cohen crossed to a small glass-doored cabinet. “I’ll have to fill out a report and give a copy to our security staff,” he said, opening the cabinet to take out a large greenish bottle of bean-sized pills. “There may also be some forms for you to sign, Mr. Denby. If you’ll leave me your address, I’ll see that you get—”

  “The string,” I said, remembering.

  “How’s that?” The doctor eyed me as though he was reconsidering his diagnosis.

  I glanced over at Enery. “Piece of leather cord it was, dark colored, about five or six inches long. I was holding it in my hand.”

  “Didn’t see anything like that,” said my friend. “Important?”

  “I don’t know, but if the guy who hit me took it, then I figure it must’ve been.”

  “We can take a look on the way out.”

  “Yeah, let’s.”

  I gave the doctor our Bayside address, accepting the little bottle of pills he’d decanted from the big bottle. Then Enery and I went back to the costume storeroom.

  Irene gave me a maternal, and cautious, hug and told me how sorry she was that I’d come to grief during her shift.

  Enery and I couldn’t find the piece of leather cord, and the black hood he’d seen was gone as well.

  As Groucho headed gracefully downstairs from his office, he encountered a large, wide man coming upstairs. “We’re closed for the day,” he said. “No more pony rides until tomorrow, sonny.”

  “He wants to talk to you,” announced the heavyset man.

  “He being who?” The intruder was blocking Groucho’s further descent.

  “Warren Lockwood.”

  “Tell him I’ll drop in on him the first thing in the—”

  “He’s waiting downstairs right now, Groucho.”

  “Well, I promised to go ice-skating with Sonja Henie right after work today,” he said. “But I suppose I can postpone it for a bit. Of course, there’s always the risk that the rink will melt before I—”

  “This won’t take long, Groucho.” The big man in the double-breasted gray suit turned, commenced walking down toward the street.

  There was a long black limousine parked at the curb. The large, wide man opened the rear door. “He’d like you to join him inside the car.”

  “Every time I get taken for a ride by thugs, it starts just like this.” Groucho slid into the car. “Well, Warren, so nice of you to drop by.”

  “I think we’d better have a talk, Groucho,” said Lockwood, who was sitting on the opposite of the wide rear seat.

  The interior of the car had a hospital corridor smell to it.

  “You sure you wouldn’t just as well like to come upstairs to my office?” asked Groucho.

  The big man had shut the rear door, then gotten into the driver’s seat of the limo.

  Lockwood said, “This will do nicely, if you don’t mind. Val, drive us out toward the beach.”

  Val Sharkey started the car, pulled away from the curb, and started driving out Sunset in the direction of Santa Monica.

  “I didn’t bring any swimming togs,” mentioned Groucho, “so that—”

  “I’d like very much to have Groucho Marx, Secret Agent on my radio network,” said the tycoon.

  Groucho thrust a hand into a pocket of his sport coat. “Do I sense a threat in that sentence, Warren?”

  Lockwood smiled, for a few seconds. “I’m simply explaining to you that I feel much better working with talent that’s cooperative.”

  “That doesn’t apply here. I lost all my talent in the Crash of nineteen-twenty-nine, so—”

  “There have been far too many mentions in the newspapers the past few days that you and Frank Denby intend to intrude on Dinah Flanders’s privacy.”

  “We have intruded,” corrected Groucho, unwrapping the cigar he pulled out of the pocket. “At Dinah’s invitation. She doesn’t believe her husband was a suicide, and neither do we. Therefore, I—”

  “Don’t light that damn thing,” said Lockwood, plucking the stogie out of Groucho’s hand and tossing it on the seat between them. “Of course Eric didn’t kill himself. He was shot, probably by some of his Nazi cronies.”

  “Then why the devil—”

  “America is going to get into this war, Groucho,” he told him. “Maybe this year, maybe next year, but eventually.”

  The day was ending, and lights were coming on all along Sunset Boulevard.

  “Probably so,” agreed Groucho. “What does that have to do with covering up the fact that Dinah’s husband was murdered?” He retrieved the cigar, slipped it back in his coat pocket.

  “There are several large aircraft companies in Southern California, including Hughes Aircraft and my Lockwood Aero,” said the tycoon. “So far we’re out in front of the others in devoting ourselves to defense contracts for the government.”

  “For a handsome fee.”

  “I’m not doing this simply out of patriotism, no,” he admitted. “But the point I want to get across to you and Frank Denby is that if you two continue poking into this, it’s possible that a lot of sensitive and secret information will become public.”

  “Such as?”

  “Some very important research data have been stolen from Lockwood Aero. We don’t know yet exactly who—”

  “Olmstead was involved?”

  “We suspect that certain top-secret material was passed to him while he and Dinah were at the plant. He may well have been the one who smuggled it out, yes.”

  “Meaning the guy was a German spy?”

  “We haven’t established that yet, but it’s very likely that if Eric Olmstead wasn’t a Nazi agent, he was working for people who were.”

  “You don’t know who they are?”

  Shaking his head, Lockwood said, “The FBI is working with us on finding out.”

  “And if they do find out, I don’t suppose I’ll be reading about it in the L.A. Times.”

  “No, the public will go on thinking that Eric killed himself,” answered the tycoon. “Unfortunate for Dinah, but necessary. We want to keep the lid clamped down tight on all this, for security reasons.”

  At the stoplight two platinum blond starlets in very tight slacks crossed the street, momentarily distracting Groucho.

  As the limousine started up again, he asked, “Who was Pearson?” “A fellow I hired to keep an eye on Eric, once I realized I couldn’t prevent Dinah from marrying the guy.”

  “Did you suspect he was a German agent way back then?”

  “No. I only knew that Eric didn’t seem right to me, and I wanted to make sure no harm came to Dinah,” explained Lockwood. “She represents a considerable investment in time and money.”

  “When did you suspect he might be a spy?”

  “Later.”

  “So where is Pearson now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t send the chap into hiding?”

  “I didn’t, no. I’d like very much to find out where he is.” He shifted on the seat, turning toward Groucho. “Now then, do we have an understanding about the—”

  “Who wrote the suicide note? Your people or the murderer?”

  “Sharkey typed it, and I dictated it.”

  “The gun?”

  “Wasn’t there.”

  Nodding, Groucho said, “Did you search the place, open the safe?” “We did a very subtle search. We weren’t able to open the safe.”

  “At your party the lad in the Grim Reaper outfit scared Olmstead into a fainting spell,” said Groucho. “Know who he was?”

  “No, we don’t,” said Lockwood. “Let me mention, Groucho, that I’ll deny all I’ve told you on our l
ittle ride. It wouldn’t be wise for you to—”

  “If we don’t quit our investigation, my new radio show isn’t going to have much of a chance with you, I take it.”

  “None at all, actually,” Lockwood assured him. “So what do you say, Groucho?”

  “Well, there’s always NBC.”

  “Stop the car someplace where Mr. Marx can get a cab, Val,” instructed Lockwood.

  Twenty-one

  “But this is what people do for hangovers,” I complained as Jane adjusted the ice bag against the injured side of my head. “It’s a staple of funny-paper humor and two-reel comedies. Only people such as Jiggs and Charley Chase are ever seen wearing ice bags.”

  “Hush,” suggested my wife.

  I was lying on my side atop our double bed, wearing the embroidered bathrobe Jane’s aunt in Fresno had sent me for my last birthday. “Furthermore, if I expire, you’ve got to promise not to bury me in this particular robe. It would be embarrassing to lie in state with bunny rabbits decorating my—”

  “’T’ain’t funny,” she told me. “You could really have been killed there at Warlock.”

  “Nope. They only wanted to scare me and, possibly, swipe that length of cord.”

  “Well, they’ve succeeded in scaring me.” Jane gently poked at the ice bag.

  “You know, I’ll quit this case if it’s going to cause you to—”

  “Don’t quit, just be more careful.” She sat on the edge of my bed and took hold of my hand. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Well, there’s a starlet named Peggy Moran who’s kind of cute. Could you have her come over and—”

  “There’s a time to be a wiseass and a time to be serious.”

  “I know, I read about that in the Bible.”

  Jane stood up. “And to think that I once had a chance to marry a completely serious man.”

  “Seriously?”

  She said, “Oh, and Groucho telephoned about an hour before Enery delivered you home.”

  “New developments?”

  “He told me he’ll be dropping by later,” my wife answered. “He wants to talk about Larry Shell and photographs.”

  Dorgan, who’d been sitting at the bedside watching me with a forlorn look, attempted now to climb up on the bedspread with me.

  “Shoo,” suggested Jane.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Let him hop aboard.”

  “I don’t want him to make a habit of sitting on the bed.”

  “Only when I’ve been conked on the coco.”

  “That may be too often.” She helped our bloodhound settle in beside me.

  “Photographs, huh?” I said thoughtfully, tapping my fingers on the ice bag. “Hey, sure, why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Think of what?”

  “Larry probably shot dozens of pictures of the Halloween party Monday night,” I explained. “It’s possible that in some of them—at least in the background—he photographed the Grim Reaper.”

  “So you might see him talking to somebody besides Eric Olmstead.”

  “Sure. Then we can track down those folks, find out if any of them know who the guy was.” I started to roll over, prior to sitting up. “I’ll call Larry and ask him what—”

  “You stay put, Franklin. I’ll telephone him.”

  Feeling a mite woozy, I settled back. “Okay. Ask him if we can drop over to his place tomorrow to take a look at the contact proofs,” I said. “I don’t imagine he turned everything over to the Times.”

  “You sure you’ll be up to traveling by tomorrow?”

  “I’ve been hit on the head several times since I embarked on my investigating career with Groucho,” I reminded her. “My head has now been toughened and conditioned by frequent blows. So I snap back even more readily. Next time I get conked, I probably won’t even notice it.”

  She gave me a somewhat exasperated look. “I’ll go telephone him.”

  While she was in the living room using the phone, I patted Dorgan on the head and told him, “We’ll try to find a way to use your bloodhound abilities on this case, old pal.”

  The dog licked my nose.

  Jane returned in about five minutes. “Certain problems have arisen,” she told me.

  “Such as?”

  “Larry, according to his wife, is down in Ensenada on an assignment for the L.A. Times. He’s photographing that big movie-star wedding—Hazel Dearing and Ralph McNear.”

  “When’s the guy due home?”

  “Late tomorrow.”

  “We can contact him then, and—”

  “Two FBI agents called at Larry’s studio this morning and confiscated his negatives, his contact sheets, and everything else pertaining to what he photographed at the Lockwood shindig.”

  “So they thought of this before Groucho.”

  “Apparently they did, yes.”

  “There were a lot of other photographers there, so we can probably—”

  “The FBI will have already thought of that, too, Frank.”

  I made a sour face. “Darn, getting conked on the skull has dulled my wits,” I admitted. “Sure, you’re right, Jane, they must have.”

  Dorgan sat up, hopped off the bed, and, tail wagging, went trotting into the living room.

  Someone began pounding on our front door.

  Then a voice shouted, “Hey, open up! Are you the folks who ordered the truckload of chocolate matzos?”

  “Groucho,” said Jane.

  “Groucho,” I agreed.

  When I’d finished recounting to Groucho what had befallen me while I was poking around the Wardrobe Department out at Warlock, he said, “The fact that you got whapped on the noggin and warned indicates that we’ve got them worried.”

  “All we have to do now is find out who them are.” I was sitting atop the bed, several pillows propping me up. The icebag I was holding in place with my hand.

  “That would be helpful,” conceded Groucho. He’d pulled the straight-back chair that went with the vanity over near my bedside. “The fact that this latest conking incident occurred at the Warlock studios means that people associated with the movie end of Warren Lockwood’s business activities are tied in with what’s been going on.”

  “At least one person,” I said. “I still wish I could figure out why anybody would’ve taken that piece of leather cord.”

  “Some people collect string,” Groucho observed.

  Jane was sitting on the edge of our bed on the other side of me. “I don’t like the idea of your getting slugged,” she said, “but up to that point things went pretty well out at Warlock. You haven’t told Groucho about the Ty-Gor deal.”

  “This guy Novsam, the new Ty-Gor producer, offered me the job of rewriting the jungle-man script,” I told Groucho. “It’s not exactly Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but—”

  “Alas, Rollo,” put in Groucho, a forlorn expression touching his face, “you’d best harken now to my account of my recent encounter with the aforementioned Warren Lockwood.”

  “What’s it got to do with the Ty-Gor script?” I frowned, readjusting my icebag.

  Groucho said, “There’s a distinct possibility, my boy, that you and I are on the brink of being blacklisted.”

  “How can that be?” asked Jane.

  “Listen, my children, and you shall hear,” he promised. Groucho then told us about his ride with Warren Lockwood and his henchman Val Sharkey. He wound up with, “Lockwood, short of donning his old ROTC uniform and whistling a medley of stirring John Philip Sousa marches, made it pretty clear that he considers it our patriotic duty not to meddle further in the Olmstead affair.”

  “And if you keep on,” said Jane, angry, “he’s going to reject Groucho Marx, Secret Agent and also see to it that Frank doesn’t work for Warlock?”

  “You have grasped, Lady Jane, the central point of his discourse,” Groucho said.

  There was a loud thunk from out in the living room. Dorgan had abandoned his perch on the sofa to come trotting into the be
droom. He settled down near Groucho’s chair, looking up at me.

  “Do you guys really believe,” said Jane to the two of us, “that your solving the murder is going to endanger the security of the United States?”

  “The FBI tends to exaggerate stuff like this,” I said. “Finding out who murdered Olmstead doesn’t have to involve the leaking of any defense secrets.”

  Thoughtfully, Groucho withdrew a cigar from a pocket of his sport coat. “There’s no doubt that we’re dealing with spies here,” he said. “But they may not be responsible for Olmstead’s death.”

  “Meaning?” I said.

  Leaning, Groucho used his free hand to pat our bloodhound on the head. “The stolen airplane secrets may only be part of what’s going on.”

  “Then we stick with the case?”

  “We do.” He nodded in Jane’s direction. “Unless the lady of the house would prefer that I continue alone, thereby cutting down on the chances of your being coldcocked yet again.”

  “I get very annoyed with people who hurt my husband,” Jane told him. “So I’d like to see whoever slugged him get his comeuppance.”

  “I was going to quote the immortal Mae West and say, ‘Comeuppance see me sometime,’” admitted Groucho. “But perhaps this isn’t the appropriate time for such a jape.”

  “Or for such corn,” added Jane.

  “I shall save the line for use in the next volume of my memoirs of the Boer War, to be entitled How Green Was My Corn,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Now then, back to business. I’d like very much for us to locate this missing valet chap, the elusive Pearson.”

  “There’s a possibility he’s gone to ground someplace on Catalina,” I reminded. “Or so May Sankowitz thinks.”

  “Can you get us a probable address?”

  “Sure, I’ll check with one of my old L.A. Times informants, Tim O’Hearn, tomorrow.”

  Jane said, “You ought to rest up tomorrow.”

  “By midday tomorrow I should be okay enough to venture into the heart of Los Angeles and drop in on O’Hearn,” I assured her.

  She gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, Frank, but be extra careful.”

  “Pearson was actually there on the spot when Olmstead was killed,” said Groucho. “He may well know a bit more than he’s told. Therefore, I—”