N
ight had fallen on the World’s Fair and all across the dark sky there were scrawls of bright-colored light, geysers of illuminated water, and splashes of gold, crimson, and electric blue. Music, noise, and laughter were thick.
Groucho and I left much of that behind when we turned off onto a side lane that ran from the picnic grounds toward Liberty Lake. The Haunted House Arcade sat darkly next to a boarded-up shooting gallery. It had been built to look like the sort of haunted Victorian mansion you’d see in a Universal horror movie. Like a few of the other 1939 concessions, it hadn’t thrived. Shut down, it sat awaiting an optimistic new tenant who’d revise, renovate, or change it completely.
There were only a few overhead streetlights down this way and the thick shadows seemed to muffle the noise of the fairgrounds we’d left behind.
“That reminds me,” said Groucho as we neared the haunted house, “Bela Lugosi didn’t send me a Christmas card last year. I wonder if he’s miffed at us because Harpo tried to drive a stake through his heart at that party in Malibu.”
“Some vampires do carry grudges.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” said Groucho. “And zombies can be even
worse. I dated a girl in New Orleans once who … Ah, but, Rollo, we’re at the back door to this gloomy establishment.”
I took hold of the brass doorknob in the ornately carved oaken door and turned. With a spectral creak the door swung open inward.
Groucho clicked on the small pocket flashlight he’d brought along. “I’ve got to cease packing this in my guitar case,” he decided. “It’s starting to smell too much like a pastrami sandwich. Although, I suppose, that’s not all bad.”
Shutting the creaking door behind us, we moved quietly along the shadowy hallway. Artificial cobwebs festooned the wrought-iron wall lamps and the crystal chandeliers and shrouded the claw-footed chairs that were lined up along the dark-paneled walls.
There were several plastic bats stacked under one of the chairs, along with a yellowed plastic skull.
Our footfalls caused real dust to swirl up.
“Footprints,” observed Groucho, pointing with his flash beam. “Two people up ahead of us.”
“Both of them women.”
“If you’ll be so kind as to step in here, gents,” suggested a female voice on our left.
“The correct line,” observed Groucho, “is ‘won’t you step into my parlor?’”
A portable electric lantern was turned on in the parlor and we could see Willa Jerome framed in the doorway. She was holding a .32 snubnose revolver and wearing dark slacks and a navy blue pullover.
“Ah, good evening, Miss Jerome.” Groucho bowed slightly. “I’m a great fan of yours and I was wondering if I sent you two bits, would you send me an autographed photograph of yourself in a glamourous pose?”
“In here, both of you,” ordered the actress, gesturing with the gun.
After we crossed the threshold, Emily Collinson came up and frisked us. She took Groucho’s flashlight and my pocketknife.
“You can continue to fondle me, if you’d like,” he invited the secretary.
“Asshole,” she said.
“Now, now, young woman, that’s no way to address one of the two stalwart champions who rushed out into the night to save you from a dire fate,” said Groucho.
“Two jerks, you mean.” Emily tossed the flashlight onto a bentwood love seat, where a full-size plastic skeleton was sprawled. “You just dote on rescuing poor girls in trouble, like that insipid bitch who calls herself Dian Bowers.”
I asked Willa, “Now what?”
“You’ll be found here, eventually,” she answered. “Two more unfortunate victims of the crazed killer who murdered poor Phil Dowling.”
“Also poor Daniel Manheim,” added Groucho.
The actress nodded, smiling. “If Phil hadn’t started remembering things and having pangs of conscience, he’d certainly be alive still,” she said. “He wasn’t, when he was sober, a bad doctor and we’ll miss him. He was especially good at prescribing all sorts of useful drugs and medications for me and my friends.”
“He was actually known to have sober moments?” Groucho’s eyebrows rose.
“You’re taking up too much time,” said Emily, impatient.
“You really don’t think,” I put in, “that you can murder Groucho Marx and not get caught?”
“Daniel Manheim’s dead and we’re still free,” reminded Willa. “He was—forgive me, Groucho—a lot more bloody famous than you’ll ever be.”
“Probably, though nowhere near as cute.”
I asked them, “Why are you adding us to your list?”
Emily said, “We warned you to drop this on the damn train. You didn’t pay any attention.”
Willa said, “Once Phil Dowling made an appointment to talk to you
and then got killed before he could—well, it would only have been a matter of time before you connected us with the Manheim execution.”
“Killing you right now,” added Emily, “means you’re not going to keep poking around in our business.”
“True, death is a great deterrent,” agreed Groucho. “Since we’re scheduled for immediate shipment for glory and will probably be rotting in this run-down spook concession—would you mind telling us exactly why you killed Daniel Manheim?”
“Oh, you’ve no doubt guessed that by now,” said Willa. “I killed him because he had Nick Sanantonio killed.”
“And you and Nick were sweethearts,” said Groucho. “But I thought that was over.”
“Nick and I were going to get back together,” the actress told him. “All that bullshit about his going back to Dian didn’t mean anything. Nick was like that, but it was me he really wanted again. Manheim ruined all that.”
Groucho said, “So you killed him.”
“Executed him, yes. The way you take care of a murderer.”
I glanced over at Emily. “Why are you in on this?”
“Because I loved Nick, too.”
Groucho asked, “And vice versa?”
“We’d better get on with this now,” cut in Willa.
“Wait, wait, just a mo,” said Groucho. “Satisfy my curiosity and tell us how you knew that Manheim was behind the gunning down of Nick Sanantonio.”
The actress laughed. “What’s your theory, Edgar Wallace?”
“Either somebody in Salermo’s mob tipped you off, which is unlikely considering that you seem to have known before they did, or it was someone close to Manheim himself who—”
“C’mon,” interrupted Emily, angry. “This is dragging on far too long, Willa.”
“You’re right, Em.” From the pocket of her jacket she took an ordinary kitchen knife.
Holding up a cautionary hand, Groucho asked, “Could you two Valkyries hold on for a minute or two more?”
“What are you babbling about now?” asked Willa, gloved hand closing around the blade of the knife.
“It’s only that I hear the World’s Fair troopers sneaking up outside and getting ready to come charging in here,” he explained. “I really would like to have them interrupt the festivities
before
rather than after you stab us.”
“Shit.” Emily sprinted out into the hallway. “He’s probably bluffing, Willa.”
Groucho gave Willa a sympathetic look. “You really didn’t think that two such astute sleuths as Frank and myself would walk, all guileless, into such an obvious trap, did you, my dear?” he inquired. “I had a guide friend of mine alert the bobbies before we took a step out of the music pavilion.”
Willa was about to reply when the rear door of the haunted house came slamming open.
H
ands on hips, Jane was surveying the suitcases lined up on the living room of our hotel suite. “I didn’t buy that much stuff while we were here,” she said forlornly. “And, you know, basically I don’t like shopping.”
“Relatively speaking,” I said from the sofa.
“But here I am just about packed for the trip home and I’ve got enough left over to fill up another suitcase.” She gestured at a pile of magazines, books, and Sunday comic sections, and a stack of folded blouses.
“Well, don’t fret. Buy another suitcase if need be.”
“That’s sort of extravagant.”
“We can afford to be extravagant, at least once.”
She smiled, crossed over, sat beside me, and hugged me. “That’s true, Frank,” she said. “Everybody loves the
Hollywood Molly
radio show, mostly because of your terrific scripts, and it looks like we’re guaranteed a whole season.”
“What everybody loves, Jane, is your terrific characters,” I said. “I merely fleshed them out a little.”
After kissing me on the cheek, “Well, as a matter of fact, my comic strip characters are darn good,” she admitted. “And I had as much to do with our radio success as you did.”
“Since we’ve dropped the false modesty, I better confess that I think my scripts were sensational, too,” I said. “The conclusion being that we’re equally responsible for creating what looks to be a hit radio program and both deserve extra suitcases.”
She hugged me once more before standing up. “And it’s great that the advertising agency decided to produce the show out of their Los Angeles office,” she said. “That way we can keep in closer touch with the production and you won’t have to mail scripts here to Manhattan.”
“Better radio actors in Hollywood, too.”
“Maybe we can cast Dorgan as himself.”
“And we could persuade him to give us a kickback on his salary.”
Jane studied the collection of suitcases for a moment. “You won’t take this the wrong way,” she began, “but …”
“You want
two
more suitcases?”
“No. I was going to mention that I’m glad Groucho’s not traveling home on the train to LA with us,” she said. “He’s a marvelous person, but … well, when you guys team up you inevitably seem to get bopped on the head somewhere along the way.”
“That does appear to be a trend, yeah.”
“This time you also nearly got murdered by Willa Jerome and her dippy secretary.” She frowned, shaking her head. “They might have tossed you in a lagoon or a fountain, the way they did that drunken doctor.”
“They didn’t toss Dowling. He fell in after they stabbed him.”
“Even so, when you’re working on a case with him, I worry a heck of a lot that something terrible’s going to happen to you.”
“I appreciate that, Jane, but I can usually take care of myself.”
“Then how come you get conked on the skull so often?” she asked. “By the way, was it Willa or Emily who sapped you this time?”
“They haven’t made a full confession as yet.”
“I’m not trying to curtail your detective career, mind you,” my wife assured me. “Still and all, I hope it doesn’t become any more frequent than it has been. And with Groucho staying on in Manhattan for a long
run in
The Mikado
and us going back to Los Angeles, well, you can concentrate on your writing.”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, my dear, Groucho won’t be staying in New York.”
“How can he play the Lord High Executioner on Broadway and not remain in town?”
“I haven’t gotten around to telling you,” I said, “but he telephoned while you were in the shower.”
“And?”
“The backers of his version of
The Mikado
suffered some serious financial troubles and pulled out. The show won’t be opening at all.”
“That’s awful for Groucho,” she said. “Now he’ll miss the chance to inflict Gilbert and Sullivan on a wider audience.”
“He did sound somewhat downcast.”
She eyed me, suspicion touching her face. “Wait now,” she said, uneasy. “If he doesn’t have to remain in New York … Frank, Groucho isn’t coming back on the Super Chief with us, is he?”
I grinned. “Nope,” I assured her. “He’s staying in town a few more days and then flying home.”
She exhaled, relieved. “Why’s he hanging around in Manhattan?”
“For one thing, he promised Dian Bowers he’d attend the premiere of
Saint Joan.
She and Bill Washburn have gotten back together again and he also wants to wish them well, being in one of his avuncular moods apparently.”
Jane sat in an armchair, tucking her legs under her. “Does that make for a happy ending—their getting together again?” she said. “From what you’ve told me, she was never particularly faithful to her husband, whatever name she was using.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Jane, but not every woman in Hollywood is as trustworthy and faithful as you are. Oh, you might dance with a syndicate executive now and then, but basically—”
“Nuts to you,” she mentioned.
Stretching up off the sofa, I wandered to the window to gaze down
at Central Park across the way. “I think Groucho’s also unhappy that there are some loose ends to the case.”
“You caught the killers. What more does he want?”
“There’s Hal Arneson, for one thing,” I answered. “It’s pretty obvious that he must’ve helped Manheim arrange for Nick Sanantonio’s death. And Groucho has a hunch that Arneson may be the one who tipped Willa Jerome off to the fact that Manheim had her lover killed. But he probably won’t ever be able to prove any of that.”
“Frank, we’re heading home tomorrow, no matter what. Aren’t we?”
“We are, sure. I’m only telling you why Groucho is sticking around for a few more days.”
She got up. “Let’s go buy a suitcase,” she said.
T
he premiere of
Saint Joan
was held at a movie palace nearly as large and opulent as Radio City Music Hall and less than two blocks to the west of it. The first person Groucho encountered when he went slouching backstage before the initial festivities was Conrad Nagel.
Noticing Groucho, the dapper actor hurried over to him. He adjusted the carnation in the lapel of his tuxedo, smiled uneasily, and said, “Well, Groucho, what brings you here?”
“An oxcart and, lord, what trouble we had getting it across the Brooklyn Bridge,” he answered.
Nagel chuckled. “Always ready with the quip.” He produced a crisp white handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“I’m also always ready with the Flit, so if you’re having any problems with bugs or flying insects, give a holler, Connie.”
“What I wanted to ask you, Groucho, was if—”
“Save your breath. I’m already promised to another.”
“What I was concerned about was … are you planning to take part in tonight’s premiere program? No one told me you were, yet here you are and if you’re planning to interrupt my speech, I’d like to be alerted
in advance,” said the actor. “I’ll be reading a cablegram from George Bernard Shaw himself and—”
“Sent collect, no doubt,” said Groucho.
“But are you intending any unexpected—”
“You can relax, old man. I merely popped back here to wish Dian and her husband well.”
“You see, I still recall that time in Hollywood when you barged into my introduction at
The Pirate Prince
premiere and—”
“That was different, since I was in the midst of bringing a murderer to justice,” explained Groucho.
“Yes, that’s true. This time, from what I’ve been reading in the newspapers, you’ve already bagged your killers.”
“Exactly, and to put your mind completely at ease, I promise to snooze during your entire introduction, Conrad my boy,” said Groucho. “So unless I have a bout of sleepwalking, you’re perfectly safe.”
Looking, more or less, relieved, Nagel held out his hand. “A pleasure talking to you, Groucho,” he said. “I hope your career takes a turn for the better soon.”
“The same to you.” He shook hands and moved on.
The door of Dian Bowers’s temporary dressing room was partially open and as he approached, he overheard her talking to her husband. “Of course, it’s permanent, Bill. We’re together for good.”
“I know, Nancy, but—”
“And no matter what you’ve heard, or read in the columns, dear, you know I was faithful to you the entire time we were separated.”
Rolling his eyes slightly, Groucho walked on, deciding he’d look in on the happy couple a bit later in the evening. “What you have to keep in mind,” he told himself, “is that actresses are good at acting.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hal Arneson had come out of a backstage office and was glowering at Groucho.
“Spreading joy and good cheer,” answered Groucho. “And you?”
“Okay, I know you caught Willa Jerome and Emily Collinson,” said
the publicity man. “That solved Dan Manheim’s murder, but I still don’t like you, buddy.”
“Nor I you, now that we’re letting our hair down,” he said. “But, just as a favor, can you tell me what part you played in the killing of Nick Sanantonio?”
Arneson laughed, then glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity. “Sure, since you can’t prove a damn thing,” he said, grinning. “Maybe I was aware of what Dan was up to and maybe I even knew some people who could do the job. Hell, it could be I even arranged jobs like that before for Manheim. Now try to do anything about it.”
“No, I’m through with this case,” Groucho told him. “It’s only my curiosity I’m trying to satisfy now. So, one more thing, Arneson—did you tell Willa Jerome that Manheim was responsible for Sanantonio’s death?”
Arneson looked away. “That would mean I gave her the reason to kill him,” he said quietly. “If, say, I’d picked her up at a party just before we came back east and ended up spending the night with her, well, I might’ve talked too much, huh?” He shrugged. “As I advise a lot of my publicity clients to say, Groucho, ‘No further comment.’”
“And as Charlie Chan often says, ‘Thank you so much.’”
“Let’s hope we don’t run into each other again in the near future, Groucho.” Arenson turned away.
“I’ll see to that,” promised Groucho.