by Ron Goulart
“In the canister marked ‘Walnuts,’” she said, sitting at the kitchen table. “Seems to me there’s a strong possibility that both you and Groucho could get hurt.”
“A possibility, sure, but I’m not sure how strong,” I said. “Oh, we have a couple of simple forgery jobs for you to do. If you can fit them in sometime tomorrow morning.”
“A fake Olmstead confession, perhaps?”
“That’s one of them, yeah. The other—”
Dorgan barked. The doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Mulvane.” I abandoned slicing the banana.
Thirty-one
The memorial service for Eric Olmstead was held in Soundstage 3 on the Warlock lot. About three hundred folding chairs had been set up in one section of the huge hangarlike building. In front of the rows of brown wooden chairs, a simple, nondenominational, and roofless little chapel had been set up. There was a pulpit, complete with microphone, and the flats had very believable stained-glass windows painted on them. On each side of this chapel set were floral arrangements made up of convincing paper flowers. Off to the right was a harmonium, where a plump curly-haired blond man in a double-breasted blue suit was playing mournful hymns.
At about fifteen minutes before seven that Tuesday night, I arrived at the soundstage. I had one of the two documents that Jane had prepared that morning in the weathered old briefcase I was carrying. The other forgery we’d already put to another use.
Since the service wasn’t due to begin until seven-thirty, there were very few people occupying the folding chairs. I was pleased, though, to see that Les Michaelson, the cowboy stuntman and double, was already there and glancing somewhat anxiously around.
Before I even reached the rear of the chapel set, where I was supposed to meet Groucho, I heard Dinah Flanders’s voice.
“Take a hike for yourself, Ted,” she was saying.
“I’m simply telling you, hon, that it’s not in very good taste to allow a low buffoon like Groucho Marx to take part in a serious—”
“Hit the trail,” the actress advised Ted Timberlake.
As I eased behind the flats, I saw the cowboy actor, guitar in hand, scowling at Dinah.
“Be much better if you let me sing a couple of cowboy laments, such as ‘The Dying Cowboy’ and—”
“Scram,” she explained. “You’ve been scratched from the lineup, kiddo. Ride off into the sunset or, better yet, take a flying—”
“Trouble?” I inquired.
“Wellsir, here comes Groucho’s stooge,” said Timberlake, coming close to sneering at me.
“At least his guitar’s in tune,” I said. “Evening, Dinah.”
“Hi, Frank. Did Groucho come with you?
“Nope, he’s going to meet me here.”
The actress, putting her hands on her hips, told me, “I’m already getting all kinds of crap because I’m letting Groucho run the doings here tonight, Frank.”
The singing cowboy said, “It’s in bad taste to have a clown handle—”
“Why don’t you,” I suggested, “go out and join the mourners?”
“Look, pardner, I don’t take orders from any—”
“Ted, please, go away,” cut in Dinah. “We really don’t need you tonight.”
“Big mistake.” Timberlake took his leave.
“What a jerk,” observed Dinah. “You sure Groucho’ll be here?”
“Sure, but he’s not noted for promptness.”
Sighing, she placed a hand on my arm. “You think this little show Groucho has planned will work?” she asked. “I’m going to feel pretty sappy if it flops, you know. Louella Parsons is supposed to show tonight, and Hedda Hopper’s legman and some dame named May Something and a lot of other press people who—”
“May Sankowitz. She’s a friend of mine,” I said. “And don’t worry, Groucho usually brings these off.”
She said, “You fellows know who killed my husband.”
Nodding, I answered, “We’re pretty sure, yeah.”
“So tell me already.”
“Groucho would prefer to wait until the—”
“Jesus, Frank, he’s not here right now. It’s just you and me, and what the hell will it hurt if you—”
“Would you like me to tie you to the mast, Rollo, so you won’t give in to temptation?” Groucho, wearing a dark suit, had arrived. He was carrying a fat briefcase, and behind him was his secretary Nan, lugging a heavy slide projector and a rolled-up movie screen.
“Where shall I set these up, bwana?” Nan asked. “Howdy, Frank.”
“Keep them hidden for the nonce, Nanette,” said Groucho. “You might also keep them hidden for the nuns, since they shock easily and—”
“You sure this is going to work, Groucho?” asked the nervous Dinah.
“It’s never failed,” he assured her. “Of course, the major reason why it’s never failed is that we’ve never done this particular one before.” He turned to me. “You brought the document?”
“Right here.” I took an envelope out of my briefcase, passed it to Groucho.
Dinah said, “Hey, that looks like Eric’s handwriting on the front of that.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Groucho.
Dinah Flanders didn’t make it all the way through her announcement. At a few minutes past seven-thirty, she’d stationed herself at the prop pulpit, the plump blond guy at the harmonium had segued into silence, and, except for a few stray coughs, the two hundred and some mourners had grown quiet.
I was sitting on the aisle in the third row, my briefcase resting in my lap. Larry Shell, armed with a camera, was in the next seat.
“First off,” began Dinah, “I want to thank you all for showing up tonight for this service to honor my husband’s memory.” She paused for a few seconds, leaning closer to the microphone. “And then I want to apologize for departing from the program that the people here at Warlock have arranged. I especially want to apologize to Miss Jeanette MacDonald, who was borrowed from MGM to sing ‘Goin’ Home’ later in the evening.”
There was some murmuring from the gathered group, some shifting on the wooden folding chairs.
“But what I want to deal with tonight is how Eric really died and why,” Dinah continued. “So before we get to the phony eulogies and the crocodile tears, I’ve asked Groucho Marx, just about my best friend right now, to come out here and—”
“Just a moment, dear.” Warren Lockwood, who was seated in the second row, stood up. “We’re gathered here tonight to pay our respects to the memory of one of our own. This is hardly the time or place to drag out vague rumors about—”
“Eric was my husband, Warren. And I can do whatever I damn please at his wake.”
Val Sharkey, who was in the chair next to his boss, popped to his feet. “Dinah, we know you’ve been under an awful lot of pressure,” he said. “But, please, don’t spoil this evening by dragging out a cheap clown and letting him go into his antics.”
“Oh, Groucho’s not going to crack jokes or sing any songs from Gilbert and Sullivan,” the actress assured him. “He’s going to explain what really happened to Eric and why. My husband didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”
Just about everybody there reacted audibly to that announcement, with gasps, murmurs, exclamations of surprise.
“Dinah, darling, I realize that you’re distraught,” said Lockwood, “yet this really isn’t the place to—”
“It’s the perfect place, since just about everybody involved in my husband’s death is sitting out there. We saw to that.”
Sharkey was making his way along the row of seats, aiming for the aisle.
Lockwood said, “I’m afraid, Dinah, we’re going to have to remove you forcibly from the—”
“Leave the kid alone,” called out Dan Bockman of the L.A. Times. “A lot of us would like to hear what Groucho has to say.” He was in the front row, surrounded by several fellow reporters and some news photographers.
By this time Sharkey was approaching the pulpit, int
ent on reaching Dinah.
Two of Win Mulvane’s plainclothes colleagues interrupted the husky troubleshooter. They persuaded him, chiefly by taking hold of his arms and escorting him back to his seat, to leave Dinah alone.
“Go on, Dinah,” urged Gil Lumbard of the Hollywood Citizen-News.
Dinah was frowning in Lockwood’s direction. “Suppose you park it, Warren.”
The tycoon’s exasperated sigh was quite loud. But he sat.
“Ladies and gentleman,” said Dinah, “here’s my friend Groucho Marx.”
Groucho stepped out from behind the chapel flats, his bulging briefcase tucked under his arm.
For some reason this inspired the plump guy to play a chorus of “Hooray for Captain Spaulding.”
Thirty-two
Groucho, one elbow leaning on the pulpit, gestured at the projection screen that Nan had set up in front of one of the stained-glass windows. “Soon, dear friends, we’ll be showing you some interesting pictorial exhibits pertaining to this case,” he promised. “But first I’ll tell you about the events leading up to the murders of Eric Olmstead and the man who was calling himself James Pearson. It seems that—”
“This is extremely unwise, Groucho,” interrupted Lockwood.
“As is a great deal of what I do. Therefore—”
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation, in the interest of national security, has requested that no mention of—”
“There’s no need to fret, Warren,” Groucho assured him. “I finally had a heartfelt conversation with Agent Goodrich of the FBI, and I have the permission of none other than J. Edgar Bedspread … that is, J. Edgar Hoover, to proceed, albeit with my usual tact and circumspection, and to allude to the truth. I might add that Agent Goodrich and his loquacious cohort, Agent Lewis, are now harboring the notion that in certain key areas they’ve been hoodwinked. We’ll come to that shortly.”
“Don’t let ’em sidetrack you, Groucho,” urged Bockman of the Times loudly. “Get on with your story.”
Bowing in the reporter’s direction, Groucho continued, “Dinah Flanders, a few days ago, asked me and my associate, the formidable Frank Denby, to look into the circumstances surrounding Eric Olmstead’s death. Tonight, with Dinah’s permission, we’ll present our findings.”
Dinah, who’d taken a seat in the first row, withdrew a lacy handkerchief from her black purse and dabbed at her eyes.
Groucho went on, “Like many folks in Hollywood, Eric Olmstead had changed his name. Like many another Hollywood denizen, he hadn’t been exactly truthful about his background. He was, in fact, really named Ernst Krieger, and he was born not in Merry Old England but in Munich, Germany.”
There were quite a few murmurs and audible inhalations from many of the gathered movie people.
“Eric Olmstead,” continued Groucho, “was a German agent, planted first in England and later transplanted to America and Southern California. After he married Dinah Flanders, Eric was instructed by the local representatives of the Gestapo to spy on Lockwood Aero and help them obtain—”
“This can’t continue,” insisted Lockwood, again on his feet. “You’re damn close to revealing classified information that may be vital to the defense of our country.”
“Initially you convinced the FBI of that, and they in turn convinced the police,” Groucho told him. “Do sit down, Warren. Ever since my vaudeville days I get very uneasy whenever somebody in the audience stands up and glares in my direction.”
Turning and surveying the crowd, Lockwood spotted Agent Goodrich of the FBI. “Jim,” he called out, “I can’t believe you’re allowing this travesty to continue.”
“Mr. Marx and I have already discussed the matter at some length,” said the federal agent from his chair in the fourth row. “I’m satisfied that he’s not in a position to betray any vital secrets, Warren.”
Again Lockwood sat down.
“What actually happened was two different and separate crimes,” Groucho resumed. “We have espionage, involving the local agents of the Nazi government. And then we have two murders that the German spies had nothing to do with. The fact that Eric Olmstead was a Nazi agent did, however, as we’ll see, precipitate the killings.”
Standing for a moment, Larry snapped a photo of Groucho. A couple of other newspaper photographers also began taking pictures of him.
Groucho nodded in the direction of the screen. “Let’s have the first slide, Nan.”
Most of the overhead soundstage lights dimmed. Nan, who’d planted the projector on a stand to the right of the fake chapel, clicked on the machine.
A blowup of one of the shots Larry took at the Halloween party blossomed on the screen. It showed Werner Spearman standing alone, decked out in his Attila the Hun costume and holding a schooner of dark ale in both hands.
Quite a few people in the audience recognized the German consul, and considerable hissing came out of the shadows.
“I note that many of you recognize Herr Spearman,” continued Groucho. “By day the German consul in Los Angeles and by night Attila the Hun and, so it is rumored, a high-ranking agent of the Gestapo.”
More hissing, quite a bit of booing.
“Next one, Nanette.”
The second slide was one showing the code message Groucho’d found at Dinah’s Beverly Hills mansion.
“This is a coded missive warning Eric Olmstead that he’d better quit holding out on the secrets that he’d smuggled out of Lockwood Aero,” explained Groucho. “It urged him to hand over the information at the Halloween party. Next.”
Another code message, looking to be in the same style of lettering, now showed up on the screen.
“This screed invites another Nazi agent to be damned sure he attends the festivities here tonight, even though he wasn’t invited,” continued Groucho. “We weren’t absolutely certain, when we faked this one, that it would work. But it did, indicating that the chap who received it is familiar with the code the local Nazis are using. Next, please.”
This photo showed Les Michaelson, in his fringed cowboy outfit, talking to Spearman.
From a back row of seats came the sound of a chair falling over.
“You’ll recognize that stalwart stunt double Les Michaelson being chummy, in an unguarded moment, with our Nazi German Consul. Later in the evening … next one, Nan … we see him being equally cozy with the mysterious Grim Reaper who went on to threaten Eric Olmstead and cause him to pass out.”
Now from the rear of the darkened soundstage came the sound of scuffling.
“Alas, nothing much can be done about Herr Spearman at the moment,” said Groucho. “But that may change after some FBI men finish questioning Les Michaelson.”
Quite a few people in the audience were turning in their chairs, trying to get a look at the team of Goodrich’s fellow agents who were in the act of escorting Michaelson out of the place.
“Folks, pay attention,” urged Groucho, tapping his forefinger against the mike a few times. “We have a lot more ground to—”
“Who was the Grim Reaper?” Bockman wanted to know.
Groucho’s sigh was amplified by the microphone. “Unfortunately, Daniel, we haven’t yet been able to find out,” he admitted. “But we’re pretty certain that, when Olmstead told him he wasn’t going to continue spying and wasn’t going to turn over any Lockwood secrets, our Grim Reaper warned him that it might mean death for both him and Dinah Flanders.”
“Oh, Jesus,” murmured Dinah.
“The costume Death wore was swiped from the Warlock Costume Department, most likely by Les Michaelson, who left some of his fringe behind when he was making off with it,” added Groucho. “Eventually he’ll probably tell us who was behind the skull mask.”
Norm Lenzer of the Herald-Examiner said, “You claim that Olmstead refused to cooperate with his Nazi bosses, Groucho. But just how do you know that for sure?”
“An insightful question, Norman, which is unusual for you. Next slide, my dear.”
This was
a blowup of the authentic first five paragraphs of Olmstead’s confession.
“Olmstead left this in his safe for Dinah,” explained Groucho. “But it was stolen by the man some of you knew as James Pearson, who was posing as the valet. Let me emphasize that, unlike the spurious document many of you may’ve encountered in your local newspapers, this is not a suicide note. In fact, Olmstead never wrote a suicide note, mainly because he didn’t commit suicide but was murdered.”
This produced further murmurings from the crowd.
“You’ll notice in this letter—which, by the way, has been authenticated by two independent handwriting experts—that, after saying that he loves his wife, Olmstead goes on to tell her his real name and explain that he’s actually a Nazi agent planted in America to await an assignment. Notice also that the man acting as his chief Gestapo contact in Los Angeles was the aforementioned Werner Spearman, famous for dressing up as Attila the Hun at the drop of a helmet.”
Pausing, Groucho hefted his bulky briefcase up off the soundstage floor and plumped it down on the pulpit. From inside it, after some poking around and probing with his right hand, he extracted the envelope I’d passed to him earlier. Holding that up, Groucho said, “This is the entire document, which my associate Frank Denby and I unearthed on Santa Catalina Island. It was being used by Pearson for a dual purpose—not only to try to blackmail the Nazis but to squeeze some dough out of the killer. Oh, and Pearson wasn’t actually Pearson.” Groucho explained that Len Hickman, a not especially honest or upright private eye, had been posing as Olmstead’s servant in order to keep an eye on him and his bride.
“Did the Nazis plant the guy with Olmstead?” asked Bockman.
“No, my boy,” answered Groucho. “Let me read to you from Olmstead’s final statement, and the situation will become clear to one and all.”
The document he now slid free of the envelope wasn’t exactly the one we’d fallen heir to on Catalina. It was instead a revised and amended confession that Groucho and I had cooked up. Jane had then written it out in a very convincing imitation of the dead director’s handwriting.
