by Ron Goulart
“This is a ridiculous travesty,” said Erika, angry. “You’re completely fabricating a—”
“What identity did this Nazi dame assume?” Bockman asked.
Pointing at Professor Hoffman, Groucho asked, “Did you round up a copy of The Superiority of the Aryan Race, Ernie?”
“Yes, right here.” The professor opened a briefcase and extracted a copy of the book I’d seen, briefly, at the San Amaro love nest. He passed it to Groucho.
“This was a popular book with the beer hall crowd.” Groucho opened the hardcover book to the photograph of Helga Krieger. “This is what the good doctor looked like before a very extensive face-lift and a drastic diet.”
Bockman stood up, squinted at the picture. “Doesn’t look like anybody I know.”
Groucho closed the book and returned to the desk. From out of the well-worn attaché case he lifted several pages of Photostats. “Felix Denker started keeping a journal back in the 1920s in his native Germany,” he said. “When he came to America he brought the volumes of his journal with him, as well as some copies of Dr. Krieger’s anti-Semitic works. He kept all this material carefully hidden, figuring he might have use for it someday.”
“I know of no such journals,” said Erika.
“But you do, dear lady,” said Groucho. “You had your goons hunt for them at Denker’s mansion and at the hideaway he sometimes shared with Marsha and at the house she lived in with Victoria St. John.”
Lenzer frowned at him. “What exactly are you hinting about the widow, Groucho?”
“Not hinting, my boy, stating flat out that Erika Klein and Helga Krieger are one, and the same and that Felix Denker was paid a tidy sum to marry her and help her slip into the country.”
“Enough!” Erika rose up. “I shall not remain here and listen to this jackanapes spew lies and—”
“Actually, ma’am, you’d better stick around,” advised Norment. “Boys, see that Mrs. Denker doesn’t exit just yet. Go on, Groucho.”
“We haven’t found the journals either,” Groucho admitted, holding up the stats.
Jane whispered, “They look pretty authentic, don’t they?”
I patted her hand. “From here at least. You did a good job.”
“But, thanks to Victoria, we did locate the copies that Marsha Tederow made of certain significant entries.” He shuffled through the pages, selected one, and dropped the others back into the case. “We’ve had these studied by a handwriting expert and they are positively in the handwriting of Felix Denker. With the help of Professor Hoffman, I’ve been able to prepare an English translation.” He lifted a sheet of typing paper out of the attaché case. “Keep in mind that this is a very rough and quickly prepared translation. There was no date on this particular page.” He cleared his throat again. “Here’s what Denker had to say. ‘It’s a terrible thing I am doing, violating my beliefs and what I thought I stood for. Yet, I fear, I have no choice. The gamblers will surely kill me unless I can find some way to pay them very soon and the Nazis are offering me enough cash to settle all my debts and get out from under this terrible burden.’ And then at the bottom of the page he says, ‘Helga Krieger is someone I have always despised, and even now that she has become Erika Klein, it is going to be extremely difficult to carry out this—’”
“Those are lies!” cried Erika. “My husband never wrote any such words about—”
“Suppose, Marx, you get to what you think happened here on Monday night,” said Norment. “And explain how all this stuff relates to that.”
Groucho nodded in my direction. “Why don’t you handle that, Frank?” He returned to sit again atop the big black trunk.
Standing, I went up and took a position in front of the desk. “Okay, Denker had confided in Marsha Tederow about the true nature of his marriage and about who Erika really was.” I outlined our theory, which I presented as absolute proven truth, that Marsha had decided to blackmail Erika.
“She did no such thing,” said the widow.
“Randell McGowan overheard her making one such attempt,” I said.
“By Jove, I did at that,” exclaimed the actor. “Yes, but of course, that’s exactly what it was I stumbled on to.”
“Thing was, Erika had no intention of paying money to her husband’s mistress,” I went on. “So she had Marsha lured to a bar in Sherman Oaks called the Cutting Room. Driving home from that meeting, Marsha had her fatal car accident.”
“You guys are claiming that wasn’t an accident?” asked Norment.
“We are, indeed.” Groucho was on his feet again. “That initial murder, the killing of Marsha Tederow, is what precipitated Denker’s death.”
“How?” asked Lumbard.
“Denker realized as soon as he heard about Marsha’s accident,” said Groucho, “that it had been arranged, and he knew who’d done it. He brooded about it for a few days, thought about confiding in his friend Professor Hoffman and then decided not to. What he finally decided to do was confront Erika. Since they no longer lived together, he set up a meeting here at the studio after hours.” Groucho took a cigar out of his jacket pocket and absently unwrapped it. “I’m not certain, but I think that Denker gave Erika some kid of ultimatum. Clear out or he was going to tell everything he knew and suspected to the police and the FBI. Well, Erika couldn’t have that. So she shot him.”
“He was shot by someone he knew,” I added. “And apparently he wasn’t expecting it.”
Erika’s laugh was harsh. “A pair of unsuccessful screenwriters have been spinning a shabby tale for you all,” she said scornfully. “A tale full of lies and inconsistencies. Everyone knows—and Sergeant Norment has confirmed this—that I left the studio hours before poor Felix was killed.”
“Let me tell you how you got back inside that night,” offered Groucho. “It’s the same way I arrived today. Really, it’s not too difficult, since even I could accomplish it. Running all along the back wall of the Mammoth studios are tall oak trees. They’re, most of them, higher than the wall, and the branches come very close to the wall’s edge. What you do is climb a tree, toss a rope ladder over the wall, and climb down inside. With the help of a Mammoth stuntman my devoted brother Zeppo put me in touch with, I was able to scale the wall with ease.” He took a small, modest bow. “At night, I found out, there’s only one guard who patrols the whole back lot. Easy for somebody who works here to find out his schedule. So Monday, Erika, you returned to Mammoth, kept your prearranged appointment with your husband and, when he threatened to expose you, you knocked him off.”
“That’s why Denker was trying to draw a swastika on the magazine,” I said. “To point to a hidden Nazi who—”
“Nonsense,” said Erika evenly. “I certainly did not climb a high wall, nor did I kill my dear husband. And I most certainly was never in any saloon called the Cutting Room.”
“No, right, you weren’t,” agreed Groucho. “That was Gunther.”
The valet laughed quietly. “More pipe dreams, I fear, Mr. Marx,” he said.
Groucho rose from the trunk. “Now, friends, the Astounding Zanzibar, one of the most gifted magicians in all of Southern California, is going to assist me with the next part of my demonstration,” he announced. “You photographers had best stand by.”
After patting Nan on her knee, Zanzibar made his way up to the steamer trunk. “This is a simple experiment in teleportation, ladies and—”
“This is outrageous,” Erika complained. “To be accused of murdering one’s own husband and then to be subjected to a tawdry carnival act.”
“Nothing tawdry about Zanzibar,” Groucho assured her. “He’s performed before the crowned heads of Europe, the few that were left. Please continue, maestro.”
A silver-tipped wand had appeared in the magician’s right hand. “We are merely going to bring our guests to Burbank from Sherman Oaks, a task of no great difficulty for anyone who has studied astral projection in the mystic regions of far-off Tibet.” He waved the wand over the trunk. “Lando mistif-caru
m omnibus.”
Green smoke began to swirl up all around the trunk.
The lid popped open with a brass gong sound.
The three midget Spiegelman Brothers leaped into view.
Leroy, the short, redheaded one, noticed Gunther first. “There’s the man,” he said, pointing. “He’s the cowboy who met with Marsha Tederow at the Cutting Room that night.”
“Yeah, that’s him,” seconded a brother, jabbing a finger in the bald valet’s direction. “Minus the rug and the drugstore cowboy outfit.”
Gunther’s hand slid inside his jacket and he came to his feet holding a .32 revolver. “Enough of this,” he said. “Erika, you and I will leave now.”
“Idiot,” she told him, not moving. “This was all a bluff. These fools couldn’t have proven a—”
“We’ll go.” Gunther grabbed her arm with his free hand, yanked her to her feet.
Norment said, “Okay, boys.”
All the overhead lights blossomed brightly.
Up above on the catwalk were stationed two uniformed officers with rifles.
“They’ll pop you off before you can get off a shot,” Norment told the bald valet. “Of course, you’re welcome to give it a tray.”
“No, I think not.” Carefully Gunther bent and put the gun on the floor and then moved away from it.
Groucho had time to say, “It worked pretty well, Rollo,” before the reporters surrounded him. The photographers alternated between taking pictures of Erika and Gunther as they were handcuffed and led away and Groucho.
After several requests, Groucho agreed to pose for some pictures wearing the Sherlock Holmes hat.
I worked my way back to Jane’s side and put my arm around her. “Your career as a forger got off to a nice start,” I said.
“It was the Spiegelman Brothers who really—”
“Hi, Janey,” said Leroy, hugging her around the knees. “Wasn’t that a terrific entrance we made? We’re thinking of teaming up with this Zanzibar guy and touring the supper clubs.”
Someone tapped me on the arm.
It was Lew Marker, the producer. “Say, listen,” he said. “If you and Groucho can add a murder to that bus idea of yours, I think we can definitely talk a deal.”
Thirty-four
It was a warm, sunny December Saturday morning. Jane and I were finishing up decorating our Christmas tree.
She was standing on a low three-legged stool, wearing white slacks and a dark blue pullover. When she stretched up to affix the handmade star to the tip of the tree, the sweater hiked up, showing about three inches of her smooth tan back.
“You’re sure this tree isn’t too tall?” she asked, glancing down at me.
I was festooning the lower branches with silvery tinsel. “This is our first Christmas tree as a married couple,” I reminded her. “And a five-foot tree isn’t, technically, a forest giant anyway.”
“Well, that’s the way I felt while I was roaming the tree lot. This is a special occasion and so we need something fairly tall.”
“Also keep in mind,” I added, “that as the first tree of our married life, it automatically becomes part of family lore and legend. We’ll glue snapshots of it in our photo album, we’ll show them to our children in years to come, spinning tales of this historical Yuletide season. They’ll pass those pictures and stories on to their children and by the time a few generations have come and gone everybody even remotely related to us will be completely and thoroughly bored with this damned tree.”
“Stop eating the popcorn,” Jane advised, stepping down from the stool. “It’s for stringing.”
I removed my hand from the big red bowl of freshly popped popcorn. “You keep treating poor waifs like this and you’ll be visited by a trio of ghosts come midnight.”
“I sure hope they’re the ghosts of old sailors. Sailors are always a lot of fun.”
Setting the bowl on our coffee table, I took a few steps back to study the tree. “That’s a splendid star you created,” I observed. “And those cherubs you designed, cut out, and stuck up all over the tree are charming.”
“Your tinsel is droopy,” she said. “But I suppose that isn’t your fault. Not every man can fling tinsel in such a way that—”
“How about a stroll along the beach before lunch?”
Jane was standing with her right hand clasping her elbow and her left hand cupping her chin, left hip out-thrust. She was scrutinizing the tree. “Remind me to tell you sometime about the year my father fell into our Christmas tree,” she said. “It’s not a funny story, though.”
“The stroll?”
“Let me freshen up and grab a sweater,” she said. “Meet you down there.”
“It’s a date, mum.” I put on a windbreaker and went trotting down to the edge of the sea.
There was another abandoned sand castle there, larger and more intricate than the last one. I had no idea who was building them.
In the castle’s courtyard this time stood two lead soldiers in what looked to be British army uniforms. Both of them wore gas masks.
I left them there and walked a short distance along the wet sand.
The gulls were circling high up today, gliding soundlessly.
I seated myself on a large, smooth chunk of driftwood. I picked up a small twist of purplish seaweed, wound it around my wrist a few times, and then tossed it away among the pebbles and seashells. It smelled strongly of salt water and iodine.
“The object of a stroll is to keep moving.” Jane was standing beside me, wide-legged and hands on hips. “Exercise, too, requires motion and not sitting on your duff.”
I got up slowly. “Our first married Christmas is going to be okay,” I decided as we walked along near the surf.
“Do me a favor, Frank.”
“Anything, my love, so long as it doesn’t involve a large outlay of cash.”
“No, seriously.” She took my hand, frowning.
“Okay, I’ll be serious,” I promised. “Although I can’t say how long that will last.”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t talk so much about how happy we are or what a swell life we have. Okay?”
“Okay, sure, but—”
“I get scared, is all. I’m happy myself, but sometimes … I don’t know, there’s going to be a war and maybe everything we have will just get taken away.”
“That won’t happen.”
She stopped, put her arms tight around me, and kissed me. “That’s enough serious stuff for today,” she said quietly, smiling.
“I know what you’re talking about, Jane, and—”
From behind us an odd combination of snuffling, barking, and yelping had commenced.
I turned to look back.
Running right for us, in his slightly waddling way, was a bloodhound with a lolling tongue.
“That’s Dorgan, isn’t it?” said Jane, laughing and squatting on the sand.
The dog came running up to her. He put his front paws on her knees and started licking her face.
“It’s Dorgan, sure enough,” I said.
Leaving Jane, the dog came over to me. He rose up on his hind legs, pushed his forepaws into my groin, and barked with enthusiasm. “Dorgan, what brings you to Bayside?” I asked, rubbing at his knobby head.
Jane stood. “It can’t be that Groucho has another case for you to work on so soon,” she said.
“Here, here, don’t look a gift hound in the mouth.” Groucho, wearing a pair of tree green slacks, a tweedy sports coat, and a polo shirt of Santa Claus red, was hurrying toward us in a bent-knee stride.
“Wait a minute.” Jane eyed him. “What was that about a gift?”
He sighed. “I knew I should have had him gift-wrapped, but there was such a line that—”
“You’re giving us Dorgan?” I asked.
The dog had returned to Jane and was lying on his back at her feet. She crouched, rubbing his gray stomach again. “But he must be a very expensive dog, Groucho, what with his work in the movies and
all.”
“When Rollo mentioned, during our recent safari to the remote regions of darkest Santa Barbara, that you two doted on this creature and actually had voted him more personable and sweeter-smelling than me, it struck me that he would make the ideal Christmas present. Mind you, I came to that conclusion before I’d had the paltry gift you gave me x-rayed or appraised by a team of expert pawnbrokers who specialize in—”
“He’s a great present, Groucho,” said Jane. “I didn’t mean to harp on the cost, but—”
“As it turns out, Dorgan—and, alas, this happens to many of us in the cinema trade—is getting a bit long in the tooth—and even longer in the tongue, if you ask me—and his master has been thinking seriously of retiring the noble fellow to some old hounds home,” explained Groucho. “Therefore I was able to acquire Dorgan’s services at a bargain price. And you should have realized, children, that if he hadn’t been on sale, you’d have gotten the usual bottle of pickled onions that I give to everybody else on my gift list during this festive season.”
Jane left off rubbing Dorgan’s belly and stood up again. She kissed Groucho on the cheek. “I know you hate to hear this,” she told him. “But you can be a very nice man.”
“Be careful you don’t ever say that in front of witnesses,” he warned. “Oh, and Dorgan has all the necessary licenses and tags and shots. He’s also housebroken, which is more than I can say for myself.”
“Thanks,” I said. “This brightens our holiday considerably, Groucho.”
“Come on up to the house,” invited Jane, “and see our Christmas tree.”
“I will,” said Groucho. “And, as Tiny Tim observed, ‘Who stole my crutch?’”
Other Groucho Marx Mysteries
Groucho Marx, Master Detective
Groucho Marx, Private Eye
ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR GROUCHO. Copyright © 1999 by Groucho Marx Productions, Inc., and Ron Goulart. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
