Elementary, My Dear Groucho

by Ron Goulart

  “I’m hoping you didn’t open the damned door.”

  “I didn’t, but I looked out through the venetian blinds,” she said. “No sign of anybody or a car.”

  “Well, thus far nobody’s tried to kill me.” I noticed a sheet of paper lying on the coffee table. “That the note?” I let go of her to walk over to the table.

  Jane nodded, took a couple of slow openmouthed breaths in and out. “Go ahead and read it,” she said.

  It was hand-lettered and said: “Frank Denby, you’ll die if you don’t mind your own business. So will your Jew friend.”

  “Groucho would say this is a good sign. Shows we’ve got them scared.”

  “And they’ve got me scared,” she said.

  I put the letter back on the table, weighted it down with one of the little crystal cats Jane’s aunt in Fresno persisted in sending us. “Sit down on the sofa, take a few more deep breaths,” I advised my wife. “I want to get something from the car to show you.”

  “You think I got hysterical, huh?”

  “I’m flattered that there’s at least one person in the world who’s that concerned about me.”

  “I was the same way when you had the flu last August.”

  “At least influenza doesn’t slide nasty warnings under your door. Although that might be helpful in getting ready for it.” I ran out to where I’d abandoned my Ford and retrieved the folder I’d borrowed from Groucho.

  “What’s that stuff?” she asked.

  “These are threatening notes allegedly sent to Felix Denker and to Erika Klein.” I spread them out next to my threat. “Same lettering, isn’t it?”

  Hugging herself, Jane bent forward to compare the three letters. “Yeah, I’d say so, Frank. Who sent these others?”

  “Erika Klein claims it was the murderous gaffer Franz Henkel.”

  “No, nope, not at all,” she said, shaking her head. “A woman wrote these.”

  “You can tell with lettering whether a woman did it?”

  “Hey, lettering is part of my profession,” she reminded me. “I’ve studied it since I was a little kid. This was done by a lady who was trying to look tough.”

  “That would tie in with our theory,” I said, sitting down close beside her. “You smell like wildflowers.”

  “Darn, you’re the ninth man who’s mentioned that so far today.”

  I grinned. “I notice your wiseass side is emerging. Meaning you’re calming down.”

  “Gallows humor,” she suggested. “Explain your theory to me, huh?”

  I gave her a fairly detailed account of what Groucho and I had come up with. Concluding by saying, “We were going to go to a German hangout over in Hollywood to try to contact a lout who’s supposed to know where Franz Henkel is hiding out. But if there are people lurking around here, I don’t want to leave you alone or—”

  “Here’s a simple solution, then: I’ll tag along with you.”

  “You wouldn’t want to come to Siegfried’s Rathskeller.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said. “They might have an oompah band and we could dance. You hardly ever take me out dancing now that we’re married.”

  “I’m a little rusty on the steps of the Rhinelander,” I told her, sighing in a way that signaled defeat. “But, okay, you can come along. But two things you have to do.”

  Jane smiled. “You need but speak. I’m in an extremely compliant mood,” she assured me.

  “You’re going to have to be extremely careful,” I said. “And you’re going to have to put on some clothes.”

  Twenty-two

  “This is a good sign,” said Groucho. “It shows that we’ve got them scared.”

  Jane winked at me and made that sound you make when you’re trying to swallow a laugh.

  Groucho was standing, wide-legged, in the middle of our living room with the threatening letter in his hand. He was wearing a somewhat tweedy suit and a hat he claimed was in the Tyrolean style. “Sounds as though you’re suffering from a respiratory ailment, my child,” he observed as he returned the sheet of paper to me.

  “I think I must be allergic to feathers,” she said while I helped her get into her coat. “Especially silly feathers like the one you’ve got sticking in your hat band.”

  He linked his fingers, pressed both hands over his heart, and rose up on his toes. “Glorioski, this is scrumptious,” he exclaimed. “I truly feel that I’ve finally become part of your family, Rollo. Your lovely wife insults me in the same heartwarming manner as is utilized by my four hulking brothers as well as my present wife and children.”

  Jane moved closer and hugged him. “I only insult people I’m fond of,” she assured him. “And, really now, that is a dippy-looking hat.”

  “It’s part of my disguise,” he explained, easing free of her embrace and seeming somewhat uneasy. “I intend to stroll boldly into this Germanic stronghold this evening looking for all the world like an Austrian brewer on vacation.”

  “I suppose there must be a few Austrian brewers who wear silly hats,” she conceded.

  He squared his shoulders and clicked his heels together. “Permission to change the subject, mum,” he said. “Frank tells me you’ve had some insights into who penned our growing collection of threatening missives.”

  “Well, I’m certain that Franz Henkel didn’t produce them,” she said.

  I went over to the mirror above our fireplace to check my tie.

  “You’re sure of that?” he asked her.

  “The two letters you gave Frank plus the one that was shoved under our door tonight,” Jane said, “were all written by a woman. The same woman.”

  “You can tell the sex of the writer even with block printing?”

  “Sure.”

  He gave a pleased nod. “That means Erika definitely could’ve done the job.”

  “It’s quite possible, yes.”

  “It follows, therefore, that Franz Henkel is definitely a red herring or a scapegoat or some other mythical beast,” said Groucho. “All the more reason to locate the lout and find out exactly what, if anything, he actually does have to do with this mess.”

  “This is funny,” I said, staring at my image. “I just realized that I, too, look a hell of a lot like an Austrian brewer. We should be able to breeze right into Siegfried’s Rathskeller unnoticed.”

  “Especially since Jane looks like Miss Rheingold.” Groucho slouched over and opened the door. “Come along, kiddies, time to be out upon our appointed rounds.”

  Siegfried’s Rathskeller was a large, loud, bright-lit barn of a place, with over fifty tables and at least two hundred patrons crowded inside. On the right side of the high, wide entryway hung a nearly life-size oil painting of Adolf Hitler in one of his majestic führer poses and on the left an equally large portrait of Bismarck. Atop a bandstand at the far end of the restaurant a brass band was playing exuberantly. There were two tubas, two cornets, a bass drum, a huge set of cymbals, and a piccolo. The members of the band, husky fellows all, were red in the face and perspiring from their musical efforts. They wore lederhosen, shorts, embroidered vests, and red hats. The waiters were similarly built and costumed, except that they were hatless, and the barmaids had braided blond hair, low-cut blouses, and bright rustic skirts. The big room was hot and smoky and the predominant smell was that of fried sausage.

  At three of the tables against the right wall an assortment of crew-cut men in the tan uniform of the German American Bund were gathered. Most of them were laughing and now and then clanking their beer steins together.

  There were also family groups and couples at many of the tables, eating vast meals and drinking beer of varying hues.

  “I’m glad I decided not to wear my Star of David in my lapel tonight,” said Groucho close by my ear as our waiter escorted us to a vacant table near the crowded oval dance floor.

  After we were seated and alone, Jane said quietly, “This may not be too good an idea, Groucho.”

  “Nonsense, my child.” He pic
ked up his menu and tapped it. “Says right here they only have pogroms on Friday and Saturday nights.”

  As casually as I could I glanced around at the nearby tables. Nobody seemed to be paying any particular attention to us.

  “I suppose it would be a mistake to order gefilte fish,” said Groucho.

  “Hush,” advised my wife, putting her hand, briefly, over his.

  “Actually, children, I made a list of things I won’t say while we’re within these sacred halls,” he told us. “No remarks utilizing the word wurst in droll ways. Such as ‘The wurst is yet to come,’ ‘Do your wurst,’ ‘This conversation is going from bad to wurst,’ et cetera.”

  The waiter, who had a fairly thick accent, returned and asked, “May I take your order, gentlemen and lady?”

  “Didn’t you use to work as Sig Ruman’s stand-in?” inquired Groucho.

  “Three beers,” I said quickly.

  “Coming right up.” The waiter went away.

  Jane inched her chair closer to mine. “I’m feeling a mite scared,” she admitted. “That picture of Hitler and those lunkheads with the swastika armbands—and, I don’t know, it just feels spooky in here.”

  “I’m not feeling all that relaxed myself,” admitted Groucho. “Have you spotted Von Esh yet, Frank?”

  “Keep in mind that I’ve never seen the guy or even a picture of him,” I said. “He’s supposed to be thin with short-cropped blond hair and an X-shaped scar under his eye.”

  “With our luck there’ll be a reunion of Heidelberg dueling enthusiasts here tonight, all with X scars.”

  “Maybe there’s another way to do this,” said Jane. “Frank, you could contact your friend O’Hearn again and—”

  “Hold on,” I said, nodding to my right. “At the small table next to the family that’s attacking that platter of blood sausage. I think that’s him.”

  Very casually, Groucho glanced in that direction. “Thin, short hair, requisite scar, and he’s trying to let on he’s not watching us.”

  “O’Hearn gave him a description of you and me, Groucho.”

  “That may account for his look of perplexity. He may think I’m actually William Powell and he’s wondering why I don’t have a mustache. Eventually he’ll realize that—”

  “Soon as our drinks arrive,” I said, “I’ll walk over there. I’ll sit with him for a few minutes and buy the address we want. You and Jane can stay here.”

  “That’s a nifty idea,” said Groucho. “That way we can get what we want without attracting too much attention by all traipsing over there or having him join us here. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, I’ll—”

  From the right of our table a deep, loud voice said, “Groucho Marx, you son of a bitch. You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming here!”

  Twenty-three

  Jack O’Banyon was a large, wide man. He had a strong jaw and a weather-beaten face, and his broad flat nose had been broken at least twice. He was standing, fists on hips, close to our table and smiling a nasty smile down at Groucho.

  O’Banyon specialized in tough soldier-of-fortune parts and if directors couldn’t get Victor McLaglen, they got him. His most successful pictures were Charge of the Khyber Rifles in 1936 and Fighting Men of the Foreign Legion in 1937. Back in 1933 there was talk that he’d get an Oscar nomination for his performance in Toilers to the Sea, but that didn’t happen. Politically he was what you could call a fascist and a bully and a little over a year ago he’d gathered together some similarly minded actors and movie people to form O’Banyon’s Silver Shirt Brigade. They dressed up in specially made uniforms, practiced military drills, and rode horses in mock cavalry exercises.

  Tonight the husky actor was wearing his uniform. Silver shirt, black jodhpurs and boots, and a crimson armband that displayed a Maltese cross in a white circle. “Didn’t you hear me, Julius?” he asked.

  Glancing up at him, Groucho lit a cigar and blew out smoke. “Has your Boy Scout unit been called up for active duty, Jack?”

  Still smiling, O’Banyon leaned closer to Groucho. Standing crowded just behind him were three other Silver Shirts.

  One of them I recognized as Warren Sawtell, a tough-guy actor who was part of John Ford’s circle. He had his right hand pressed tight against his side and was clutching something that looked an awful lot like a blackjack.

  “This is my sort of hangout, Groucho, and we don’t like to see Hebrews here,” said O’Banyon. “It’s bad enough you people run the movie business, we sure as hell don’t intend to socialize with you.”

  “Screw the polite conversation,” said Sawtell. “Let’s just toss him out on his ass.”

  “Don’t be rude, Warren,” cautioned O’Banyon, resting his hand on the back of Groucho’s chair. “See, this particular Jew is a real believer in democracy and free speech. He gives a lot of his Jew money to the Anti-Nazi League and to the Communists, who oppose a patriot like Franco in Spain. What we have to do, you understand, is try a little free speech on him ourselves, convey to him the idea that he better just leave in a hurry. But, please, no rough stuff. Yet.”

  “The hell with that,” persisted Sawtell, shoving his way closer to our table. “He’s got no right to be here. They should never have let him in.”

  My stomach seemed to be shrinking, I could hear my heart beating in my ears, and my throat had gone sandpaper dry. Swallowing a couple of times, I stood up and turned to Sawtell. “Be a real good idea if you guys just went away and got a table of your own,” I told him. “Or maybe you can go and dance with each other. Anyway, do something besides annoying us.”

  Deep scowl lines grew on the thickset actor’s forehead. “You calling me a pansy?”

  “Excuse me, I guess those tight pants fooled me. Or maybe it’s the wildflower perfume you’re wearing.”

  “Frank,” said Jane quietly, reaching up and taking hold of my hand. “What say we simply make a discreet exit?”

  Groucho nodded. “She’s got a splendid idea, Rollo,” he said, starting to rise. “We probably aren’t going to be able to conduct our business now anyway.”

  The only snag in that plan was the fact that Sawtell, growling through clenched teeth, came charging straight at me. It was definitely a blackjack the guy was holding.

  “Frank!” said Jane, pushing back in her chair and getting to her feet. The chair teetered, then fell over backwards and smacked the floor.

  Fortunately, five years on the police beat taught me something about taking care of myself. I sidestepped the actor’s charge, side-armed him, and thrust my foot between his legs.

  He went tripping over, slammed into our table.

  The table creaked and one of its legs cracked. Sawtell fell to the hardwood floor, smacking it with the right side of his face.

  The table collapsed and the ashtray dropped and banged against Sawtell’s skull. The tablecloth unfurled and dropped down to shroud him.

  I dived and threw three punches at the place where I calculated his chin ought to be. I connected and the actor gave a sighing moan and went slack.

  Pressing my palm against the floor, I started to push myself upright.

  “Another one!” warned Jane.

  I spun in time to see a wide, uniformed Silver Shirt starting to aim a booted foot at my ribs.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  I stumbled slightly, but I managed to dodge the kick.

  Kicking at nothing but air put him off balance. Before he could straighten up, Jane had grabbed up her fallen chair and shoved it into him, the way a lion tamer works with his big cats.

  The guy yowled, toppled over, and landed hard on his backside next to the unconscious Sawtell.

  O’Banyon was reaching into his pocket for something.

  Catching hold of his arm, Groucho suggested, “I really think we’ve all had enough exercise for one day, Jack. If this continues somebody’s going to summon the riot squad.”

  After a few snarling seconds, O’Banyon or
dered, “That’s enough, men. Leave them alone.”

  Groucho tipped his Tyrolean hat. “Much obliged.”

  When O’Banyon smiled this time his lips climbed up to reveal his clenched teeth. “Just get out of here, Hebe, and don’t come back,” he said, pointing at Groucho.

  I moved around and took hold of Jane’s arm. “Let’s aim for that side exit just over there.”

  On the floor Sawtell was beginning to groan and thrash some under the cloth.

  Jane and I started weaving our way through the tables and the customers of the rathskeller. We were, by this time, attracting considerable attention.

  Groucho followed. Every time one of the patrons called an insult or a slur, he smiled amiably and replied, “I’m terribly sorry but we’re unable to fulfill any requests for autographs at this time.”

  I noticed that the guy who might have been Von Esh was no longer at his table.

  “The band is getting ready to strike up the ‘Horst Wessel Song,’” said Groucho. “And those Bund boys are starting to cast baleful glances in our direction. Let’s make haste, Rollo.”

  Just before we reached the exit our waiter caught up with us. “Sir,” he said, “someone wanted you to have this.” He slipped me a small folded sheet of pale blue paper.

  “Thanks.” I took it, dropped it into a pocket, and gave him two quarters.

  I got to the door first, shouldered it open. “You first, Jane,” I instructed, putting my hand on her back and pushing her out into the foggy night.

  Just before Groucho reached the exit a beer bottle came sailing out of the crowd. It hit his hat and knocked it off his head.

  “Nobody seems especially fond of that hat,” he said, diving through the doorway.

  I took two steps after him and then somebody caught hold of my arm and pulled me back.

  “Swine, you don’t get away that easy.”

  It was one of the German American Bund members, in full uniform. A lanky guy with spiky blond hair. He was perspiring a lot and his eyes were a bit bleary.

  I yanked free of his grip, kneed him in the groin, and ran.