F
rom the large windows of Conference Room 3 on the eleventh floor of the Amalgamated Radio Network building on Madison Avenue you could look out at the surrounding office buildings and a patch of clear blue afternoon sky. I was doing that when the Vice President In Charge Of Night Time Programming came striding into the room.
He was followed by a trim brunette in a tan suit who announced, “Mr. Gramatky apologizes for being ten minutes late.”
“He’s twenty minutes late,” I said to Jane, who was standing beside me at the big window.
“He’s probably operating on Eastern Executive Time,” she suggested, leading me back to the oval conference table.
Wardell Gramatky was a plump, well-groomed man in his early forties, resembling a sort of preshrunk Paul Whiteman. “Very happy to meet you, Miss Danner,” he said, installing himself at the end of the table. “And your gifted husband.”
As soon as he sat, his secretary came around to our side of the cherry-wood table to give us each a fresh yellow legal tablet and a brand-new mechanical pencil. “To keep track of what’s going on,” she explained.
The only other person at the meeting was Milt Banion, the lean blonde executive from the McKay and Forman advertising agency. He
was in charge of producing the
Hollywood Molly
radio show for the network.
“Does the afternoon find you well, Milt?” inquired Gramatky.
“Never better, Wardell. And you?”
“My ruptured disc is acting up and I’m afraid I’ll be heading straight from our little meeting to my chiropractor.” He smiled brieffy “But let’s get down to business. Jane—if I may call you that?—Jane, I’ve read all the proposed story lines for the
Hollywood Molly
programs and I love them. Miss Farmer will testify that I chuckled more than once while reading the batch.”
“He did,” confirmed the dark-haired secretary.
Jane said, “That’s very gratifying.” She began to doodle on her tablet.
“There’s really only one story idea we can’t use on ARN and that’s because—which you had no way of knowing—it doesn’t conform to our standards,” said Gramatky, a little sadly. “While murder is perfectly permissible on our successful mystery shows—such as
The Casebook of Dr. Thorndyke, The Amazing Mr. Woo,
and
Bentley of Scotland Yard—
we simply frown at using murder on a comedy show.”
“It goes beyond frowning,” said Banion. “You absolutely can’t have any killings on a comedy show.”
Jane squeezed my hand below the level of the table. “I’m certainly glad you’ve cleared that up for us, Mr. Gramatky,” she said sweetly. “As you know, Frank wrote Groucho Marx’s comedy mystery show for two seasons and there—”
“Different networks, different standards.” Gramatky smoothed at his thin moustache.
I asked, “Are we allowed a jewel theft or a burglary now and then?”
Gramatky considered. “If you absolutely must, but we’d like to see that sort of thing only rarely.”
Banion suggested, “This would be a good time to bring up the dog.”
“What dog?” asked Jane and I, just about simultaneously.
“Do you have that memo from Research?” Gamatky asked his secretary.
From one of the three manila folders before her, Miss Farmer extracted a mimeographed sheet. “Here it is.”
Gramatky took the page, scanned it. “Yes, we’ve found that most people like dogs better than cats,” he told us.
“And?” asked Jane.
Banion said, “We’ll be changing Molly’s cat—Boswell, is it?—to a dog. Young boys relate to dogs better, so does the average family. And I can get one of the top dog impersonators in the business to play the—”
“Boswell is a cat,” said Jane. She pressed so hard with her mechanical pencil that the lead snapped.
“In your comic strip, yes,” agreed Gramatky. “For the purposes of our radio show, however, we—”
“He’s going to remain a cat,” Jane said firmly. “If you guys want a dog, we’ll come up with a new name.”
“Dorgan,” I offered.
“We’ll call him Dorgan, sure,” said Jane, nodding.
“If Research determines that the name is acceptable,” said Gramatky, touching his moustache again.
“It doesn’t have to be Molly’s dog,” said Banion. “It can just as well be her brother’s.”
“She doesn’t have a brother,” I reminded.
“It’s our feeling over at McKay and Forman, as I’ve mentioned before, Miss Danner, that a kid brother will add a heck of a lot of appeal to the show.”
“Hooey,” remarked Jane.
“Let’s get back to that dog for a moment, Milt,” said Gramatky. “It occurs to me that a dog will sit very well with old Dr. Weber.”
“Right. He loves dogs.”
“Who,” asked Jane, “in the heck is Dr. Weber?”
Banion replied, “He’s very interested in sponsoring the
Hollywood Molly
show.”
“We’re pretty certain,” added Gramatky, “that he’ll sign up for a trial thirteen weeks.”
Leaning toward Jane, Miss Farmer said, “Dr. Weber’s Tooth Powder—Regular and Mint Flavor.”
“‘For That Million Dollar Smile,’” added Banion, smiling.
Jane said, “We’ll concede on a dog. But no kid brother for Molly.”
Gramatky nodded and scribbled something on his own yellow pad. “What sort of dog do you have in mind?”
The meeting went on for another hour and ten minutes.
T
wilight was settling on Manhattan and Groucho, softly whistling “I’ve Got a Little List” from
The Mikado
, was slouching his way up Broadway.
When he halted at the curb for a traffic signal, a plump woman pedestrian in a tan cloth coat came to a stop beside him. She glanced casually over at him, then gave a surprised gasp. She said, “You look like Groucho Marx.”
“And that’s precisely why I’m suing my plastic surgeon,” he replied. “I was supposed to end up looking like Cesar Romero.”
“But you are Groucho Marx, aren’t you?”
“Certainly, but that’s no reason why I have to look like him.”
The light changed and he went loping away across the street. Halfway up on the next block Groucho entered Alfie’s Pub.
Leo Haskell, the
New York Daily Tab
columnist, was sitting at the first booth to the left of the doorway. A pudgy bald man in a wrinkled sharkskin suit was leaning over the table, trying to show him some publicity photos.
“She’s a real looker, Leo.”
“Average puss, average stems.”
“She’s always coming up with witty lines.”
“So you claim, buster.”
“She’s about to take over the lead in
Kick Up Your Heels
.”
“It’s a long shot.”
“One damn mention in your column, Leo.” The perspiring bald man
held his thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart. “Just this much space. It would be a terrific break for the kid.”
“You can shuffle off now, Otto,” suggested Haskell, noticing Groucho’s approach. “Park your cadaver, Julius.”
“Glad to see you again, Groucho,” said the plump man as Groucho seated himself across from the columnist. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“I would, except that not ten minutes ago I was stricken with severe amnesia.”
“I’m Otto Zimmer, the publicity guy.”
“You know, I was guessing you were Otto Zimmer the Gypsy violinist,” said Groucho. “Which shows how amnesia can play hob with your memory.”
“Take a powder, Otto,” advised Haskell, pointing a thumb in the direction of the door to the dim-lit bar.
“See you guys around.” The rumpled Zimmer, sliding the photos back into his scuffed briefcase, made his way out of the moderately crowded room.
Haskell picked up his glass of Chivas Regal scotch and took a sip. “So you’re going to be appearing at the World’s Fair this Friday, my boy?”
“We’ll be putting on an informal rehearsal of
The Mikado
at the Bascom Music Pavilion out there, yes,” replied Groucho. “It’s a one-shot charity festivity that our producer and Grover Whalen cooked up. They only got around to mentioning it to me this afternoon. I was planning to enter a six-day bike race on Friday, but now I’ll have to wait around until they hold a five-day bike race.”
Haskell made the dry barking noise that he used for a laugh. “I see old age hasn’t dimmed your sense of humor, Julius,” he said, taking another sip. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’d rather you buy me a controlling interest in the Brooklyn Dodgers, but I’ll settle for a ginger ale.”
The columnist signaled a waiter, then said, “I’m plugging your Friday
clambake at the fair in my column mañana, Julius. You’ll have standing room only, pal.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping I’d get to sit down.”
“You never get tired of kidding around.”
“As a matter of fact, Leo, I do. I’m seriously considering quitting show business and taking up folk painting. I plan to call myself Grandma Marx.”
Somebody dropped a nickel in the jukebox and it commenced playing “The Beer Barrel Polka.”
After the waiter took Groucho’s order and moved away, Haskell said, “Are you and your brothers really going to make more movies?”
“We’re committed to doing two more for MGM.”
Haskell shook his head. “I was going to suggest you bail out while you’re ahead, but from what I hear about
At the Circus,
it’s already too late for that.”
“What we’re going for now is an item in Ripley,” explained Groucho. “First comedy team to make a motion picture without one single laugh in it. We’re getting closer every film.” He hunched his shoulders slightly and rested his elbows on the table. “One of the reasons I wanted to chat with you, Leo, is because you know a lot of scuttlebutt and—”
“You really are working on this Manheim thing, huh?” said Haskell. “You’re trying to prove Bill Washburn isn’t the guy who did it.”
“I’m interested in the case,” admitted Groucho. “Have you heard anything about who else might want to—”
“You and that writer pal of yours had some luck solving mysteries out on the Coast,” said the columnist. “You even outwitted Sherlock Holmes.”
“We outwitted a hambone actor who was playing Sherlock on the silver screen,” corrected Groucho. “Have you—”
“If you solve this one, Julius, will you give me an exclusive?
Clown Catches Killer!
That’s front-page stuff, pal.”
“Not to mention alliterative.” Groucho glanced at his just-arrived glass of ginger ale. “Who else might want to do Manheim in?”
“There are a lot of contenders,” answered Haskell. “Of course, I’d put Washburn high on the list. Manheim gave Washburn’s missus the usual treatment. Seduces her away from her marriage, tries to turn her into a movie star, and, for good measure, has her hubby worked over to keep him in line.”
“You know for a fact he did that to Washburn—had him beaten up?”
“You’ve got to follow my damn column more often—I’m in twenty-six papers out in California,” Haskell said. “I had an item about that last year. ‘What low-budget fillum thesper got a darkalley drubbing at the behest of what Tinselvania moompitcher nabob?’”
“Give me a rough translation.”
“Manheim hired some heavies to work the Washburn lad over,” replied the columnist. “My sources out in Movietown tell me that Manheim made a habit of discouraging his rivals in that fashion, Julius.” He frowned in the direction of the jukebox across the smoky room. “I loathe that goddamn song.”
“You wouldn’t have a list of the folks who benefited from beatings that Manheim arranged?”
“Nope,” said Haskell, shaking his head. “Do you figure one of his victims decided to get even by writing the poor sap into
Make Mine Murder?”
“Well, revenge does make a dandy motive.”
“Suppose Manheim had been involved in something more serious than having somebody worked over?”
Groucho sat up, eyebrows rising. “Such as what—a murder?”
“This is only a very vague rumor so far,” answered Haskell. “Much too vague even for my column.”
“And who, according to your vague sources, was the recipient of Manheim’s attentions?”
“Soon as I have specifics that I can hint at,” promised the columnist,
“you’ll be among the first to know, pal.” He stood up. “I’ve got to catch a nap before I commence my nightly round of hot spots, my boy. Keep in touch, huh?”
“Oh, I will,” promised Groucho.
A
fter six rings, somebody answered the phone at the Ivy Hotel out in Los Angeles. “Hold on,” requested a blurred voice.