Groucho Marx, Secret Agent

by Ron Goulart

  “And he’s afraid the killer will bump him off to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Or the lad might be contemplating blackmailing the killer and prefers to do that from the privacy of a hideout.”

  “I did some further checking on Len Hickman after O’Hearn gave me his real name,” I told Groucho. “He is not noted for his strong moral sense, meaning he wouldn’t be above a bit of blackmail.”

  Groucho said, “I do hope we encounter this chap. There are several burning questions I’m eager to—”

  “Groucho Marx!”

  Groucho turned away from the railing and his view of the Pacific. A plump woman in a navy blue cloth coat had stopped a few feet away. “And the same to you, madam,” he said.

  “You know, you’re the first famous movie star I’ve seen in person since I ran into Ann Sheridan,” she informed him. “She’s the one they call the Oomph Girl.”

  “That whole notion was swiped from me. Yes, I was trying to persuade MGM to bill me as the Oomph Boy.”

  The woman eyed him. “Well, you’re not exactly a boy any longer, Mr. Marx.”

  “That’s precisely what Louis B. Mayer decided, dear lady,” said Groucho. “When he offered, however, to publicize me as Groucho Marx, the Oomph Old Coot, I demurred. In fact, we brought Cecil B. Demur himself in to—”

  “Why are you on this boat?”

  “My associate and I are hoping to find a new trade route to India,” he answered. “Not that there’s anything especially wrong with the old trade route to India, mind you. Still, schlepping over that same old trade route to India week after week can get so—”

  “May I ask you a question, Mr. Marx, sir?” A young man in a USC sweater had joined the small group that was gathering in Groucho’s vicinity.

  “You can ask up to twenty questions, but if you can’t guess whether I’m animal, vegetable, or mineral by that time, you’ll be flogged and tossed in the brig. Or maybe it’s brigged and tossed in the flog. I’m not up on these fancy new nautical terms or—”

  “No, I just wanted to know how come—”

  “On the other hand, we might have you walk the plank. If we can find our plank,” Groucho said. “The last time I saw it for certain was the day I loaned it to Bob Hope, who was planning to write a song entitled ‘Planks for the Memories,’ but … you had a question?”

  “A few years ago there were four Marx Brothers. Now there are only three,” said the patient college boy. “Why is that?”

  “Ah, very perceptive of you to have noticed.” Groucho extracted a cigar from a pocket of his blazer. “It all has to do with economy. In our next film there’ll be only two Marx Brothers, and by nineteen-forty-two the Marx Brothers film of that year will contain no Marx Brothers at all. MGM figures to save a small fortune this way.” He unwrapped his cigar and lit it, the sea wind causing the match flame to flicker and flutter. “The small fortune they’re intending to save is about three-footseven and often stands in for Mickey Rooney.”

  “I wonder if you could refrain from smoking, Mr. Marx?” asked a slim young woman. “My mother is seasick on the bench yonder.”

  He cupped his ear with his free hand. “Eh? How’s that again?”

  “My mother is seasick on the bench yonder.”

  “Ah, yes, ‘My Mother Is Seasick on the Bench Yonder’ is one of my favorite sentimental old ballads,” he told the young woman. “I have the Vernon Dahlhart recording on Okeh. Many’s the evening I play the record, and it brings tears to my eyes, and if I’m lucky, it also brings me my pipe and slippers.”

  “There’s Avalon,” said someone.

  The ferry was nearing Santa Catalina, and the small band of Groucho admirers scattered.

  As the boat sailed into the harbor at Avalon, loudspeakers at the docking area commenced blaring forth with Benny Goodman’s recording of “Avalon.”

  On our right rose the Casino, a vast circular white building. Two stories high, it was in the popular Southern California Moorish style. Despite its name, you couldn’t gamble at the place. There were a movie theater and a cocktail lounge. The entire second floor was given over to a ballroom, where you could dance to bands like Goodman’s.

  The waters of the bay were calm and clear. The town of Avalon consisted mostly of the familiar stucco and red-tile buildings. There were also lots of palm trees. Rising up beyond Avalon, circling and nearly enclosing it, were high wooded hills thick with oaks, firs, and pines and especially with growths of the low, evergreen oaks they call chaparral.

  Dozens of bright white seagulls circled high in the clear, warm late-morning sky. Inland, over the mountains, I spotted what looked like a soaring eagle.

  “If they gambled at yon casino,” observed Groucho as we disembarked, “I’m sure Chico would become a channel swimmer.”

  When we were walking along Crescent Avenue, the main street of the town, a plump middle-aged couple came rushing out of a souvenir shop.

  “It’s Groucho Marx!” exclaimed the plump man, who was clutching a Kodak box camera.

  “It is?” said Groucho. “I thought it was Columbus Day. But then my calendar has been running a couple weeks slow lately.”

  “May I take a picture of you with my wife?” asked the man with the camera.

  The plump woman, in flowered dress and cloth coat, was carrying a large straw shopping bag. “You’re the most famous movie star we’ve seen so far on our vacation.”

  “If that’s the case, ma’am, you’d better ask your travel agent for a refund.” Groucho took a cigar from a pocket of his blazer. “As for you, sir, I’d be delighted to be photographed with your wife.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Marx. You’re our—”

  “However, it’s blatantly clear that this fetching lady is certainly not your wife, but rather the notorious Little Egypt, renowned hoochiecoochie dancer.”

  “Oh, Helen’s not Little Egypt,” her husband assured him.

  Groucho squinted, taking a closer look at the woman. “No, she couldn’t be Little Egypt,” he conceded. “Although she might well be Middle-Sized Egypt or perhaps—”

  “Just stand next to him, Helen, and I’ll snap the picture.”

  When she came within range of Groucho, he put both arms around her, kissed her on the cheek, and then turned to her husband. “You may fire when ready.”

  You can’t drive a private car on Catalina Island or rent one. But there was a sort of jitney service.

  Ten minutes and three autograph requests later, we hired a car to drive us over to Doubloon Bay.

  Twenty-four

  The shooting didn’t start until after we got to the little village on Doubloon Bay.

  We drove there on a narrow curving road that ran close to the sea. On our left rose high sloping hills, thick with trees and brush. There were several eagles circling above the hilltops.

  After we’d traveled roughly half the distance from Avalon, about five miles, our driver had said, “You don’t seem very interested in my descriptions of the sights of Santa Catalina, señores.”

  “You can dispense with the running travelogue, Roger,” suggested Groucho. “And, while you’re at it, get rid of that awful Cisco Kid accent.”

  The driver, a lean dark man in his middle thirties, slowed the car and looked at us in the rearview mirror. “Hey, excuse me, Groucho,” he said, abandoning the thick Spanish accent he’d been using. “I didn’t recognize you without the moustache and wearing those dark cheaters.”

  Groucho and I were sitting in the backseat of the Chevy roadster. “I never forget the back of a head,” he said. “You’re Roger Torres, and you used to be a pretty good bit player.”

  “Fair was the best I ever got, Groucho,” Torres said, picking up speed again. “I was in A Night at the Opera with you guys at MGM. In some of the opera house scenes, I played an usher.”

  “That’s much easier to play than a violin,” said Groucho. “Myself, I’m partial to playing the buffoon, but only when they’ve run out of tambourines. Once, wh
en I was touring Florida, they ran out of tangerines and … but, tell me, my boy—why are you driving a jitney?”

  “I wasn’t getting anywhere in the movies, so I decided to drop my career,” he answered. “Or rather, my career dropped me—and so did my agent.”

  “How long have you been working on Catalina?” I asked.

  “Close to six months. I look on this as a sort of outdoor acting job, as if I’m playing the part of a charming Latin type from a respected old California family. Tourists seem to go for it.”

  Groucho asked, “Do you get to Doubloon Bay often?”

  Torres answered, “I drive through the village pretty often when I’m giving visitors an island tour. Usually we don’t stop there long, if at all.”

  “Do you know any of the folks who reside in the village?”

  “Nope, though I hear some artists, writers, and guys who’re behind in their alimony payments live there.”

  “This fellow we’re planning to visit at one-thirty-three Galleon Lane,” said Groucho, “is a chunky lad of about forty and has red hair.”

  Torres, his eyes on the seaside road ahead, shook his head. “Nope, I’ve never seen anyone of that description hanging around the village.”

  I asked, “Have you driven anybody else out here in the past few days?”

  “Nope,” he answered. “But I’m not the only jitney driver. Why are you interested in this guy?”

  “We’re starting a Redheaded League,” said Groucho, “and we want to offer him a charter membership.”

  “I get you, Groucho. It’s none of my business,” said Torres. “Now that I think about it, I read in the paper the other day that you were doing some detective work again, looking into that Eric Olmstead mess.”

  “Exactly, yes.”

  “So this fellow with you must be your partner, Fred Hambly.”

  “Frank Denby,” I corrected.

  “Pleased to meet you, Frank.”

  When the car rounded another bend, there was Doubloon Bay, a very small inlet surrounded by about thirty or forty stucco and red-tile buildings of varying sizes. There were also quite a few palm trees and a scatter of olive trees. The main street of this leftover movie village was cobbled and led down to a believable-looking stone wharf. Some of the smaller cottages were on the few narrow winding lanes that connected with the main street. On the land side were more high slanting hills, thick with trees and scrub.

  Torres said, “Galleon is over there on the left, just across from that rundown fountain. It’s too narrow for my car, so I’ll park over here in the square, and you fellows can hoof it.”

  The village did look like a place where pirates would’ve hung out in centuries past. I had a vague memory that I’d seen the movie it was built for, and I experienced the brief feeling that I was walking onto a set.

  Torres remained in the Chevy while Groucho and I headed for Pearson’s probable hideaway.

  The streets were fairly quiet, and we didn’t see anybody moving about. In one of the two-story houses, a dog was barking, and from the window of an imitation-Spanish Main tavern drifted the sound of a scratchy Artie Shaw record being played quietly on a Victrola.

  We were about fifty feet from 133 Galleon Lane when we heard the first shot.

  “Foul play?” said Groucho, slowing.

  “Sounds like a revolver,” I said.

  Two more shots followed.

  Leaving Groucho, I went running for Pearson’s cottage.

  “Careful, Frank,” Groucho called after me.

  “I intend to be,” I assured him.

  Very carefully I approached Pearson’s peach-colored stucco cottage, employing a determined but cautious jog.

  No more shots came from inside, but I heard something fall heavily.

  Slipping into the slender alley between the cottage and the one next to it, I worked my way around to the back of the former valet’s hideaway.

  A small galvanized garbage can had fallen over near the back door, and several empty cans of Del Monte vegetables were scattered on the ground. The door hung open several inches.

  Taking a deep breath and holding it, I moved closer to the door.

  From inside came the sound of drawers being yanked open.

  After pausing to breathe again, I eased up to the doorway.

  There was a small untidy kitchen across the threshold, smelling strongly of unwashed dishes and a lot of smoked cigarettes. Apparently Pearson hadn’t transferred his valet training to his own household.

  I pressed my palm against the door and, very slowly, pushed it a few more inches open.

  Waiting several seconds, I squeezed into the kitchen. Now I could smell the recent gunfire, too.

  The ransacking at the front part of the cottage had stopped.

  Making my way to the doorway to the hall, I chanced a look.

  Spread out some ten feet along the shadowy corridor was a heavyset red-haired man. Lying on his back, he was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and a pair of Levis. He had stopped breathing, and there were two bloody holes in the front of the sweatshirt.

  This had to be the missing Pearson.

  I then noticed, at about the same moment he noticed me, a guy in a dark windbreaker and slacks. He wore—which struck me as possibly a shade too melodramatic—a black hood over his head, and he’d just stepped into the hall from the front room of the cottage.

  He held a cream-colored envelope in his gloved right hand and a .32 revolver in his left.

  As he pivoted to take a shot at me, I threw myself backwards into the kitchen.

  The masked man shot once in my direction.

  I was huddled on the linoleum by that time. The slug tore into the wall across the room, causing a colander to fall off its hook.

  Next I heard him running toward the front door and yanking it open.

  Roughly ten seconds later I heard what sounded like two people colliding. This was followed by muffled cursing, then the sound of running.

  I waited another half minute or so before I ventured into the hall.

  Although I hadn’t heard any more shots, I was worried that Groucho might have encountered the escaping killer and been injured.

  “Frank, are you in there?” called Groucho, peering in through the open front doorway. “More important, are you still alive?”

  “Right here.” I walked along the hall toward him, skirting the body. “I’m okay, but Pearson’s dead.”

  “So I see.” I noticed he was holding the cream-colored envelope in his hand.

  “Where’d you acquire that?”

  “It simply goes to prove that every cloud has a silver lining, or at least a silver-plated lining,” he said. “As I was stealthily approaching this joint, using stalking pointers I’d learned from my old chum James Fennimore Cooper when we were growing up together in the Catskills, I was run into by a mean-minded masked maniac.”

  “I heard the collision,” I told him. “You hurt?”

  “I believe my toches was fractured in the fall, but outside of that I’m shipshape,” he assured me. “Of course, the ship I’m alluding to is the Titanic, but … at any rate, when I bumped into this fleeing felon, he dropped this envelope and its contents. You’ll notice the inscription on it.”

  He held it out to me. “‘four my wife, Dinah,’” I read. “Then this is the one that Olmstead’s lawyer told you about.”

  “Pearson must’ve swiped it,” said Groucho. “And the goniff with the hood came here to take possession.”

  “Where’d he go, by the way?”

  With his free hand Groucho pointed toward the hillside. “Up into the forest primeval, Rollo,” he said.

  “When he realizes he’s lost that envelope, he’ll probably come back for it.”

  “That’s why we have to depart the vicinity rapidly and hasten to notify the local law.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” I said.

  We started down the lane toward our jitney.

  We got a police escort to the dock.
And as our ferryboat set sail for home, the sun began to sink in the west and both the sky, and the ocean started to darken.

  “When I left Hawaii after my vacation trip there, they gave me a pineapple,” mentioned Groucho, waving farewell to the Catalina sheriff and two of his associates. “All this island provided was a handshake.”

  “Next time you stop by our place, I’ll give you another orange.” I turned my back on Avalon.

  We’d been treated very well by the sheriff. Turned out he was a longtime fan of the Marx Brothers and that he’d seen each of their movies at least twice. “Cruel and unnatural punishment,” Groucho had observed when he heard that.

  The sheriff had also followed the newspaper accounts of the previous murder cases Groucho and I had worked on. While not an enthusiastic admirer of amateur sleuths, he had to admit that we’d been, if nothing else, pretty lucky at solving mysteries.

  He’d returned to Pearson’s cottage with us and with his investigating team, including the local general practitioner, who doubled as the coroner. Pearson had been shot at close range with a .32 revolver. Outside of a few books, a few clothes, and some spare cash, they didn’t find anything in the place. Pearson, alias Hickman, didn’t have a wallet on him or in the hideaway cottage.

  None of the half-dozen people who resided in the little Doubloon Bay community had seen the killer arriving. Although a chubby painter down the lane had seen the hooded man go running for the hills after colliding with Groucho.

  The sheriff was going to check with the small Catalina airport to get a list of passengers who’d been flown to the island from L.A. that day. It was also possible that the killer had come over, like us, on one of the ferryboats. It was equally possible that he lived somewhere on the island or that he’d come over days earlier. Then, too, the guy may’ve had his own motor launch and arrived in it.

  Neither Groucho nor I mentioned the letter that Groucho had accidentally fallen heir to. We did tell the sheriff that we believed Pearson’s real name was Len Hickman, and that he was a private investigator who’d recently been employed by Warren Lockwood.