by Ron Goulart
Seating himself at the table, Norment studied the slumped author. “We have to find out how long she’s been here,” he said to the plainclothesman. “And what she may’ve seen and heard.”
“And,” added the cop, “if she’s the one who shot that director.”
I said quietly, “She’s the sort of woman who only hurts herself.”
Pushing back from the table, Sergeant Norment stood up. “Frank, thanks for helping me determine who this is,” he said. “Once again I’d like to invite you and Groucho to scram.”
“You’re certain,” asked Groucho, who’d wandered over to stare at the dartboard on the pub wall, “we can’t help you tune your zither or give you some tips on crop rotation?”
Norment pointed out at the surrounding darkness. “Good-bye for now, gentlemen.”
We said good-bye.
Four
Our meeting with Lew Marker had been postponed until 1:30 and shifted to the producer’s vast offices in the Main Administration Building. When we entered the huge reception room, his pretty red-haired secretary exclaimed, “This is exciting!”
Groucho, dead cigar clenched in his teeth, went loping across the pale gray carpeting to her large, wide desk. “Yes, isn’t it? I don’t know about you, my dear, but my blood pressure just went up ten points. If it goes up another ten, I’ve half a mind to sell.” Resting an elbow on her desk, he leaned in close. “What exactly are we excited about?”
“I meant I was excited. What with two big events here at the studio in the same day,” she explained, reaching down to slide open a desk drawer. “That terrible murder, of course, and then my getting to meet you. I was elated when Mr. Marker told me to write your name in his appointment book … .” She paused, looking past him and in my direction. “And yours, too, Mr. Mumby.”
“Denby,” I corrected as I walked closer to the desk.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Anyhow, Mr. Marx, I’ve been a fan of yours since I was so high and—”
“I’ve been high myself on a few occasions, but it never prompted me to like Groucho Marx,” he confided.
She produced an autograph album from out of the open drawer. “I know this is gauche and adolescent, but … could you write something for me?”
With a bound, Groucho seated himself on the edge of her desk and crossed his legs. “I accept the challenge, my sweet. How’s this strike you? ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: rough winds do—’”
“No, no,” she interrupted, shoving the book toward him. “I meant write your name in my autograph book.”
He accepted the book and dropped clear of the desk. “I offer this wench a sonnet, Rollo, and she says she’ll settle for a cheesy autograph.”
She looked perplexed for a few seconds, then smiled. “Oh, I see, you’re being silly, Mr. Marx.”
He slapped the book on the desktop and found a blank page. “I am, yes, I must confess,” he admitted. “I have, alas, been suffering from silly spells ever since that fateful trip up the Orinoco. Naïve innocent that I was when I enlisted, I thought Orinoco was a vegetable and you can imagine my surprise and chagrin when I found myself coxswain on a leaky rowboat traversing the fish-infested waters of—”
The intercom atop the desk made a sudden squawking, throat-clearing sound and then a nasal voice inquired, “Has Groucho showed up yet, hon?”
“Yes, Mr. Marker. He just this minute walked in—with Mr. Wimpy.”
“Denby.”
“Time’s a-wastin’, kid. Show them in pronto.”
“Right now, sir.”
Groucho had finished scribbling in the book and he returned it to her, bowing. “I’ll carry the memory of this chance meeting to my grave,” he assured her. “But on the way back, somebody else is going to have to do the carrying. Farewell.” He went slouching over to the door of the producer’s office.
She was reading what he’d inscribed. “You put ‘To Mitzi with the undying devotion of Groucho Marx,’” she called.
“Not as good, admittedly, as the summer’s day stuff, but pithy and to the point, by Jove.”
“The thing is, Mr. Marx, my name isn’t Mitzi.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “There’s little or nothing I can do about that at this late date, I fear,” he told her. “You might take the matter up with your parents. If they’re out of town, we’ve had excellent results with the village blacksmith. You’ll find him under the spreading chestnut tree most afternoons from one to five.” He bowed again, opened the door, and backed into Marker’s office.
She nodded at me. “I suppose he’s like that most of the time, Mr. Dumphy?”
“Yep, he’s even like that when I’m traveling under the name of Denby.” Grinning at her, I followed in Groucho’s wake.
“I never liked that kraut,” admitted Lew Marker. “All that artsy crap in his films, German Expressionist hooey. And he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
“Where’d he keep them?” Groucho was sitting deep down in a black leather armchair that faced the producer’s desk.
Marker was a deeply tanned man, short, in his late forties. He was wearing pearl gray slacks and a yacht club blazer with an intricate gold crest on the breast pocket. There were nine stovepipe hats scattered across the top of his Swedish Modern desk. “The last one Denker made a pass at fell for it,” he said, scowling. “Poor kid, she’d dead.”
Groucho asked, “Felix was romancing Marsha Tederow?”
“You heard about her getting killed in that auto accident a few days ago, huh?” He shook his head forlornly. “Real shame. She had a really terrific little ass. I could never get to first base with Marsha, but she sure went for that kraut.”
“His wife knew about it?”
“The Valkyrie?” Marker started searching for something amid the array of upright black hats. “There isn’t much that Erika doesn’t know about what’s going on here at Mammoth, Grouch. But I don’t think she gave a good goddamn about his fooling around. Theirs wasn’t exactly a love match and I don’t even think they were living together anymore.”
“So Erika wouldn’t knock her husband off because she suffered a sudden fit of jealousy?”
The producer located a carved-ivory cigarette holder. He glanced up at Groucho, tapping the holder against his perfect front teeth. “You guys planning on playing detective again?”
“Not at all, Lew,” he said, shaking his head. “Just curious, since we helped discover the body. Let’s forget about murder altogether and chat about our brilliant Cinderella on Wheels scenario. I’ve been led to believe you’re enamored of it.”
“In a minute.” He inserted a cigarette into the holder, picked up a lighter that was shaped like a miniature Oscar. After the cigarette was burning, Marker gestured at the spread of stovepipes with his free hand. “You two are experts on comedy.”
“Frank is the expert on comedy,” Groucho informed him. “My specialty is diseases of the knee.”
“Seriously, Grouch, which of these hats strikes you as the funniest?”
Groucho sprang from his chair to scrutinize the collection. “None of them, Lew,” he concluded. “Oh, maybe that scruffy one there next to the framed photo of those sideshow freaks is moderately amusing, but otherwise—”
“That’s a picture of my wife and two kids.”
“Ah, sorry. The bearded lady fooled me,” said Groucho. “Based on nearly a century of experience on the legitimate stage, Lew, plus six months riding shotgun on the Deadwood Stage, I have to conclude that no hat is any funnier than the comedian who’s wearing it.”
“Look, they brought these over from a costume warehouse this morning,” explained the producer. “Each one’s a little different. What I want to know is, which type would look best on Robert Taylor?”
“Robert Taylor the revered clown, you mean?”
“Robert Taylor the matinee idol. It looks like I can borrow him from MGM for Oh, Mr. Lincoln!”
Eyebrows climbin
g, Groucho took two steps back. “You’re contemplating producing a serious drama?”
“C’mon, Grouch, Oh, Mr. Lincoln! was a hit farce on Broadway for two years,” said Marker, somewhat annoyed by this point. “F. Scott Fitzgerald turned in a swell script. And Ben Hecht is doing a terrific rewrite.”
“Hecht would look amusing in that stovepipe next to your coffee mug.”
“It’s goddamned Robert Taylor who has to look funny as Abe Lincoln,” he said. “I think the kid is on the brink of being a marvelous comic actor.”
“All I know is that every time he bats those eyelashes of his, I snicker,” conceded Groucho. “Now that we’ve made it through the headgear problem, can we chat about our sensational movie idea?”
The sun-brown producer took a deep drag on his cigarette holder, inhaling smoke and then slowly letting it out. He glanced over at me, saying, “That was a great radio show you guys had going, Denby.Groucho Marx, Private Eye. Funny as hell.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We think Cinderella on Wheels is even funnier and—”
“We’re going to need a new title, fellows.”
“Oh, so?” Groucho returned to his chair and slumped into it. “Why is that, Lew?”
“How does Prince Charming on Wheels strike you?”
“Why?”
“I really like the idea of inheriting a rinky-dink bus line,” he told us. “Although I’ve been wondering if a railroad might be even funnier.”
“It would not be, no. Why Prince Charming?” Groucho was sitting up straight, eyeing the producer.
“I’ve got a deal in the works with George Raft’s people,” he said. “He hasn’t done much comedy so far, but I’ve got a feeling he—”
“The only things George Raft can play,” said Groucho, “are gangsters, hoodlums, thugs, and, if he really tries, maybe a cigar store Indian. He’s so stiff he makes John Brown’s body look lively.”
“I’m sorry you boys feel that way, Grouch.” His tan face took on an expression of deep sorrow. “Because George is really anxious and eager to work with you. Turns out he was an enormous fan of your radio show and tuned in every single week until it was dumped off the air.” He exhaled more smoke. “Why did Croucho Marx, Private Eye do a flopperoo? Lousy ratings, I heard.”
“Actually,” Groucho told him, “it was the FBI that shut us down. They discovered that we were sending coded messages to enemy zeppelins by way of the Mullens pudding commercials. The code involved the sequence in which we listed the five flavorful flavors of pudding. If we started off with strawberry, that meant—”
“So it was lousy ratings, huh?”
“Most nights, according to our researchers, only George Raft was tuned in,” said Groucho. “And, on rare occasions, my son Arthur, but only on the evenings when he wasn’t off playing tennis with the likes of Don Budge and Alice Marble. Or her brother Elgin.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “We think Cinderella on Wheels plays best with a girl as the focal character,” I said, as politely as I could. “The idea of a woman competing in a man’s world is—”
“What do you guys think about riverboats?”
“As a means of transportation?” I asked.
“We have a terrific riverboat on the back lot. See, George could inherit that instead of the railroad. Then in order not to lose the business he has to run a race down the Mississippi or—”
“And we could call it Prince Charming Up the Creek,” said Groucho, standing up. “Do you actually have Raft signed up?”
“Not yet,” answered Marker.
“Are you prepared to make us an offer on our scenario?”
“Not yet, Groucho.”
“What say we get together again when you actually have your star set? We can talk about butchering our brilliant concept at that juncture, Lew.”
“I’m also thinking airmail planes.” The producer rose up from behind his desk, making a diving airplane motion with his left hand. “George Raft inherits a rinky-dink airmail service in the Andes. Could be funny as hell.”
“Prince Charming Meets Amos and Andes we can call it.”
“Groucho, you’re not going to get very far as a screenwriter unless you’re willing to make a few little concessions.”
“When you have George Raft in hand, let us know and we’ll talk changes.”
“Fine, Grouch. That’s the attitude I like to see.”
Groucho picked up the stovepipe hat nearest the edge of the desk, leaned, and plopped it atop Marker’s bald head. “And that’s the funniest hat of the bunch by far,” he announced. “Or maybe it’s simply the delightful way you model it.”
Then we left.
Five
Groucho heard about the challenge late that same afternoon.
Back in August he’d started renting a new office on the Sunset Strip. He occupied part of the second floor of a white colonial building that looked like something David O. Selznick might be intending to use in Gone With the Wind. It was around the corner from a funeral parlor, next door to a cigar store, and across the street from a delicatessen.
“Talk about convenient locations, Rollo,” Groucho had remarked right after signing the lease. “If only there was an ironmonger downstairs, this would be a veritable paradise. Actually I’d settle for a tinmonger or, in a pinch, even a plasticmonger. Anything we can plant out on the front lawn to scare away crows. I’ve noticed of late that flocks of cockatoos are also attacking the crops, but we don’t want to frighten off those cute little decorative rascals, do we?”
As twilight started spilling down across the Hollywood hills and drifting onto the Strip that evening, Groucho, as he later told me, was scurrying across the boulevard clutching a white paper bag that contained a pastrami sandwich, two kosher dill pickles, a wedge of marbled halvah, and the revised third act of Mellman the waiter’s tragic comedy, The Rape of the Lox In an unguarded moment, Groucho had actually agreed to give his favorite waiter at Moonbaum’s Delicatessen an honest opinion of his opus.
“I must alert you in advance, Ira, my beloved landsman, to the fact that I haven’t had an honest opinion of anything since the day I arrived in Hollywood,” he’d warned the gaunt Mellman before he departed. “And that was way back when I came out here to help Father Serra install the slot machines in his missions.”
Groucho made it safely through the herds of speeding Rolls-Royces, Jaguars, and pastel convertibles that were roaring along the Strip. He was stepping with relief up onto the opposite curb when a very plump middle-aged woman in a flowered rayon dress, cloth coat, and fox fur piece stopped in her tracks to stare at him.
“It’s you,” she exclaimed, poking a fat finger in his direction.
“No matter what your daughter says, ma’am, I never touched a hair on her head,” Groucho assured her, readjusting his grip on his deli bag. “Of course, I can’t be as positive about certain other sections of the dear girl.”
“I mean, you’re Groucho Marx, aren’t you?” She was reaching into her imitation leather handbag.
Frowning, Groucho looked down at his chest. “I hadn’t given it all that much thought,” he confided. “But now that you mention it, Olivia, I suppose I must be.”
“My name isn’t Olivia, Groucho. I’m Mrs. Peter Goodman.” Locating her autograph album, she held it out to him.
“I’ll call you Pete for short.” Groucho, as though he were being offered a dead cat, accepted the book.
Mrs. Goodman laughed. “I’m a big fan of yours.”
Groucho looked up from the page he was autographing. Then he took a step back, scrutinizing the plump woman from head to toe. “You are indeed,” he agreed. “Meet me at UCLA tomorrow at dawn and we’ll run two or three brisk laps around the track. We should be able to get you down to fighting trim in time for your next heavyweight bout.”
The plump woman laughed again. “You know what I truly like about your sense of humor, Mr. Marx? It’s so gentle and kindhearted,” she informed him. “My husband says you strik
e him as a mean-minded so-and-so, but he’s absolutely cockeyed. You’re as gentle as a lamb and a real softy at heart.”
“I’d tend to side with your hubby, ma’am.” He returned her book and her fountain pen. Taking hold of her fox, he bent and gave it a smacking kiss on its plastic nose.
When the woman read what he’d written in her autograph album, she made a stunned gasping noise. But by that time Groucho was jogging up the wide wooden steps to his second floor office.
His secretary stopped typing on her Underwood when he came slouching into the office. “We have a problem, Groucho,” she announced.
Nan Sommerville was a feisty, muscular lady in her late thirties. She’d been a circus acrobat and then a stuntwoman over at MGM. Groucho maintained that she’d often doubled for Wallace Beery, but Nan denied that. She was a terrific typist and a wiz at filing. Just about her only flaw was an unfortunate tendency to fall hopelessly in love with magicians. In the months she’d been in Groucho’s employ, Nan had gone through unhappy romances with the Great Marvelo and the Amazing Zambini. Because of the nature of her troubled love life, I had to keep urging Groucho not to greet her continually with, “How’s tricks?”
As twilight pressed against the windows, Groucho slumped to a stop in front of her desk in the small reception room. “How come you haven’t turned on the lights, Nanette my flower?”
“Because I work for a parsimonious skinflint who is always kvetching about the high electricity bills,” she replied, reaching over to click on her desk lamp.
“You must be referring to Mr. Hyde, my alter ego, child,” he said as he perched on her desk edge. “I myself am the soul of generosity and was just now flinging bags of ducats to every pauper I could find. This being on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, there were very few paupers to be had, however. I almost persuaded a director from Monogram, who only earned twenty-seven thousand dollars so far this year, to take a handout, but he decided it would ruin his status in town. I hope you’ve noticed, my dear, that I refrained from saying anything about buying the evening paupers or calling attention to the fact that the word ducats sounds quite a lot like the word ducks.”
