A
bout the same time that Daniel Manheim’s body was making its Broadway debut, I was contemplating doing violence to an executive of the Empire Feature Syndicate.
This was in the East 50s at a new and currently fashionable nightclub called El Pobrecito. It was a large black-and-white place, something like the huge fictitious hot spots you see in Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers musicals. Jane and I had been taken there by the president of her newspaper syndicate and joined by the syndicate sales manager and an advertising agency executive who was going to handle producing our
Hollywood Molly
radio show.
The Empire Feature Syndicate sales manager was a tall, wide guy named Dobbs Walling. He was good-looking, in his middle thirties, and at the moment out on the glistening black dance floor doing, I think, a samba with my wife to the rhythms of José Fayal and his Brazilian Bunch.
Walling had brought along a pretty brunette debutante named Brenda. She was sitting on the other side of Jane’s empty chair. Leaning toward me, she said, “He dances that way with everybody. Don’t let it bother you.”
“I was just worrying that the referee would charge him with a foul,” I said.
Smiling very faintly, she said, “Dobbs is harmless, really.” She took a silver cigarette case out of her purse. “Like one?”
“Don’t smoke, thanks.”
“You’re the writer, aren’t you?”
“Writer and irate husband, yeah.”
She selected a cork-tip cigarette and I fished a book of matches out of my coat pocket to light it. “Trocadero, huh?” she said, glancing at the matchbook. “God, I haven’t been out to the Coast since April.”
I was back to watching the husky Walling dance with my wife. “Oh, so?”
Ralph Diggs, a portly man in his middle fifties who was president of EFS, was sitting directly across from me. “I believe that was a terrific preliminary meeting we had this afternoon, Frank,” he said. “I really liked the ideas you and Janey have cooked up for our radio show. So did Wally.”
I wasn’t exactly clear as to who Wally was, but I said, “Well, that’s gratifying to—”
“Have you given any more thought to the kid brother?” asked Milt Banion, who was with the McKay and Forman advertising outfit.
“Which kid brother?” I inquired.
“Our thinking at the agency is that Molly needs a cute kid brother. Somewhat like the one in that other comic strip …”
“
Ella Cinders
,”supplied Diggs. “But we’re not convinced that’s necessary, Milt.”
“Leon Janney would be great as her kid brother.” Banion was a lean blonde man with a thin blonde moustache. “He’s available. We could call the kid something like Blackie.”
“That’s Ella Cinders’s brother,” Diggs pointed out.
“It could be Curly or Buster or Freckles.”
“There’s a Freckles in somebody else’s strip, Milt.”
“Okay, I’ll leave it to creative minds of the likes of Fred here. He and Janey can—”
“Frank and Jane,” I corrected. “And we don’t think it’s too smart to change the cast of characters just—”
“Is there a Mr. Dumpty at the table?” Our waiter had appeared, carrying a white plug-in telephone.
“No such person,” said Banion. “Tell them Mr. Dumpty had a great fall and—”
“Could that be Mr. Denby?” I inquired.
“Might just be,” decided the waiter. “There’s a call for you from somebody claiming to be Groucho Marx.”
“Yes, it’s a sad case,” I said. “He frequently claims to be Groucho Marx. I’ll take the call.”
“Who is he really?” asked Brenda.
“Groucho Marx.” I picked up the receiver. “Are you there? Frank Dumpty here.”
“I hesitated over interrupting your company picnic, Rollo,” said Groucho. “But a little something has come up.”
“Such as?”
“Manheim has been murdered.”
“Jesus. Where?”
“As the finale of the first act of
Make Mine Murder,
” he answered. “If you can see your way clear to trotting over here to the Coronet Theatre, I’ve arranged with the minions of the law to let you sneak in backstage.”
“How the hell did you arrange that?”
“I happen to know one of these particular minions.”
“And how’d you track me to this bistro?”
“By using mystical powers that I picked up years ago in the Orient. Unfortunately, I also picked up an annoying rash in the vicinity of my … but plenty of time to chat about that when you arrive here at the scene of the crime.”
“You seem to be implying that we may be back in business.”
“I am, kiddo,” Groucho replied. “The main reason being that I’ve a
hunch they’re going to try to pin the murder on Dian’s husband, Bill Washburn. See you soon.” He hung up.
Jane returned to her chair just as I put down the phone. Then she leaned back, frowning. “What’s wrong?” she asked, touching my hand.
“Oh, it’s just one of those nagging bouts of jealous rage I suffer from,” I confided in a very low voice. “I don’t know, every time I see a total stranger clutching your backside, I get—”
“Walling isn’t a
total
stranger,” she said, smiling. “But, hey, what I meant was—who just phoned you?”
“Groucho. Seems somebody’s killed Manheim over at the Coronet Theatre,” I said. “Apparently during the damn play.”
“And Groucho is on the case already and wants you to join him?”
“Yeah,” I answered, nodding. “I’d better get over there. You can stay here if you want.”
“And have to grapple with Walling again?” she said. “No. I’ll tag along with you. If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
A
s the curtain came rushing down, Dian stood and grabbed her wrap from the back of the theater seat. “I’ve got to get backstage,” she said.
Groucho, as he later told me, popped to his feet. “I’ll escort you, my child,” he offered.
They hurried along the aisle to one of the doors that led backstage.
The audience, starting to get over its shock, was murmuring, talking, shifting in its seats.
Taking hold of the young actress’s arm, Groucho guided her up the short, narrow staircase and through the doorway.
There was considerable noise and movement back there. It was still fairly dark, but as they started across the bare boards, overhead lights blossomed.
A husky stagehand noticed them and came striding over. “Stay out in the house, folks, where you belong,” he ordered in his raspy voice. “No kibitzing, okay?”
Dian said, “I’m Bill Washburn’s wife.”
The big man took a step nearer. “Oh, yeah, I read about you in the News yesterday,” he said. “I think Bill’s still out on the stage.” He frowned at Groucho. “And you are, buddy?”
“I’m their spiritual advisor,” he explained, following Dian.
The stage was bright-lit now and a tall thin man in his shirtsleeves
was on one knee beside the dead producer’s body. “Dead as they come,” he announced, standing up. “Looks like he was stabbed. No sign of a knife, though.”
“Bill,” said Dian quietly.
The young actor, pale under his stage makeup, was standing in about the same spot where he’d been when the curtain dropped. He was staring down at Manheim.
Elena Styverson was sitting over on a paisley-pattern love seat, hugging herself and shivering slightly. “Bill, it’s your ex,” she called out.
He looked up, saw Dian, and, smiling briefly, came hurrying over to her. “Nancy, do you have an idea what the hell’s been going on?”
She frowned in the direction of the nearby seated actress. “I’m not his ex, by the way,” she said. “We’re still married.” She put her arms around her husband, hugged him, and then stepped back. “I don’t know a damn thing, Bill. What was Manheim doing here at all?”
“Oh, that part I know,” he told his wife. “He came to threaten me.”
“What do you mean?”
Groucho had eased closer to the couple. “Don’t mind me, young folks,” he said. “I’ll simply park here and eavesdrop.”
“Bill, this is Groucho Marx,” Dian said.
“Sorry I didn’t recognize you, Groucho. You usually have a moustache.”
“Yes, but now that my mind’s failing, I often come out without it,” he explained. “Go on about what Manheim was up to.”
“Well, as you probably know, he was extremely protective of Nancy—excuse me, of Dian Bowers,” he said. “He came barging into my dressing room about ten minutes before my entrance cue and started yelling at me.”
“Suggesting that you stay away from your wife?”
“Exactly, yeah. He told me that he knew I’d invited her to the opening performance tonight,” said Washburn. “That I was going to ruin her career if I didn’t give her up completely and—”
“I know,” cut in Dian. “I’ve been trying to explain to him that being his bright new discovery didn’t mean I was his indentured slave.”
Groucho was glancing over at the dead movie producer, who was spread out facedown on the library carpet. “Couple of cuts and bruises on what you can see of Manheim’s cheek,” he observed. “Seems unlikely he did that when he fell.”
Washburn shook his head. “No, I did that,” he admitted. “He tried to take a poke at me and … well, I slugged the bastard a few times.”
“And then?”
“They called me to go on,” answered the actor. “So I left Manheim sitting, groggy, in the armchair in my dressing room.”
“You never saw him again until he came tumbling out of the closet?”
“That’s right, Groucho,” said Washburn, nodding. “See, Andy Truett doesn’t actually do the fall out of the closet. It’s supposed to be a realistic-looking dummy.” He pointed a thumb at the open closet door. “Thing is rigged to come toppling out when I yank the door open. Then just before the Act Two curtain rises, Andy comes out and takes the dummy’s place. Saves a lot of wear and tear on the old boy.”
“Any idea how Manheim came to replace the dummy?
Washburn said, “Nope, not a one.”
The gaunt man said, “I noticed the dummy lying behind the flat. That’s where whoever tossed it when they replaced it with this guy.”
“Anybody see that happen?”
“Nobody’s mentioned it as yet, but things are still pretty confused around here.” He held out his hand. “I’m Peter Goodwin, by the way, the stage manager.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Groucho said. “I’m merely an old busybody who’s taking an interest in this business.”
“I saw you and your brothers in
I’ll Say She Is
when I was a kid,” said Goodwin. “You were terrific.”
“I used to be, yes,” said Groucho. “Where’s this Andy who plays Lawyer Pringle?”
“Probably snoozing in his dressing room,” answered Washburn. “That’s what he did during our last couple of dress rehearsals.”
“And who would’ve—”
“Would you folks mind if I took over and asked some questions?” A middle-sized, dark-haired man in a rumpled grey suit had stepped onto the stage and was striding toward them. “I’m Lieutenant Lewin, New York City Police.”
Groucho frowned. “About ten years ago weren’t you the patrolman Herb Lewin whose beat was the theater district?”
The plainclothes policeman looked more closely at Groucho. “By gosh, Groucho Marx,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you right off without your moustache.”
After touching his upper lip, Groucho shook hands with the cop. “All the public opinion polls seem to agree on that point,” he said.
Lewin said, “The rest of my crew will be here in a minute or so. I’d appreciate it if all of you got off the stage and waited for me in the wings.” He moved closer to Groucho. “I hear you’ve been solving mysteries out in Hollywood, playing detective.”
“Actually, Herb, I’ve mostly been playing Old Maid and Gin Rummy.”
“And you don’t intend to poke around in this case?”
Groucho eyed the catwalks high above the stage. “Well, if you don’t mind,” he said, “I might do a wee bit of poking.”
T
he body was being carried out of the backstage entrance on a stretcher as we arrived at the Coronet. Three photographers and four reporters were already in the alley, where they’d been working at trying to persuade the two uniformed policemen on duty there to allow them inside the theater.
They went scattering backwards now, turning and following the stretcher. The photographers started to shoot pictures of Manheim’s corpse as it was being hauled toward the waiting ambulance.
Jane and I approached one of the cops, a large heavyset guy. “I’m Frank Denby,” I said.
“Are you now? And so what?”
My wife smiled at him. “We’re wanted inside and we were told we’d be admitted to—”
“Oh, you must be Jane Danner,” he said. “I read
Hollywood Molly
every blessed day in the
Sun
. And this lad with you is who exactly?”
“My current husband,” she explained, taking hold of my arm.
The policeman nodded. “Lieutenant Lewin did mention you’d be dropping by, Miss Danner,” he acknowledged. “You and this fellow can go right in, but, and this is straight from the lieutenant, be sure you don’t get in the way.”
“We’ll be very unobtrusive,” she promised as we climbed the three concrete steps to enter the backstage area.
There were several plainclothes officers in the theater, including a forensic crew that was prowling out on stage.
“There he is,” I said, spotting Groucho standing by himself over in front of a closed dressing room door. Both his hands were behind his back and he had an unlit cigar grasped in his teeth. “You seem to be lost in thought, Groucho.”
“Well, that’s better than being lost in the Himalayas,” he answered. “And warmer, too.” He executed a slouching, flat-footed skating motion and caught Jane’s hand. After kissing it with appropriate sound effects, he told her, “Ah, it’s a distinct pleasure to see you once again, Miss Jane. You’re looking stunning this evening.”
“I’m aware of that, yes,” she said. “In fact, I paused to stun a few passersby on the way over here, which is why we’re a little late.”
Groucho gave me a sad look, shaking his head ruefully. “I suppose, Rollo, it’s too late to have your marriage annulled?”
“Yeah, because I foolishly went ahead and consummated it already,” I replied. “How was Manheim killed?”
“Very dramatically,” he said. “He was part of the play and provided, quite probably, one of the best first act curtains in dramatic history.
Selznick, Zanuck, and DeMille will have to go some to depart this world as flamboyantly as did Daniel Manheim.” Groucho then outlined to us what had happened during the performance of Make Mine Murder.
“Was he stabbed?” I asked when he concluded the account.
Groucho nodded. “Three times, near the heart,” he answered. “Very forceful blows.”
“Ruling out a woman?”
“Not if she’s an athletic type.”
Jane asked him, “How come you have details about the wounds and such?”
“Firstly, I am a brilliant observer,” he said, holding up his right hand and ticking off a finger. “Secondly, I am a crackerjack detective. And, most important of all, I know Lieutenant Herb Lewin, who’s in charge of this investigation, and he told me.”
“You’re getting cooperation from the police?” I said, surprised.
“We all knew Lewin. He was a pal of ours, back when he was a beat cop here in Manhattan and we were the toast of Broadway,” he explained. “Or rather, Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo were the toast and I was the marmalade.”
I noticed that Bill Washburn’s name was on the placard tacked to the dressing room door. “You told me Washburn was a possible suspect.”
Taking my arm and making a come-along gesture toward Jane, he escorted us over to the vicinity of an old humpback prop trunk. Perching on it, Groucho said, “I don’t suspect the lad, but Herb Lewin, I’m pretty sure, does.”
“Seems unlikely Washburn would murder somebody and hide him on the set of his own darn play,” observed Jane.
“My feelings exactly, Nurse Jane,” agreed Groucho. “But I’m not a Manhattan minion of the law. And, we must admit, Washburn and Manheim had a conspicuous row in his dressing room just before Washburn went on stage. Further—which didn’t please the cops at all—Washburn admits punching our defunct producer. The chaps made
considerable noise, which was heard by all and sundry. Including Our Gal Sundry.”
“People heard the fracas,” I said, “but nobody saw who switched Manheim’s body with the dummy?”
“That brings up another interesting point,” said Groucho, taking his unlit cigar from his mouth and holding it like a pointer. “It was dark backstage and, because of the aforementioned thunderstorm effects, noisy and distracting. The stagehand who is usually stationed near the backside of the closet door to facilitate the dummy’s safe passage fell asleep on the job.”
“With some help?” I asked.
“Exactly, Rollo. Somebody bopped him on the coco with the proverbial sap.”
“What it sounds like to me,” I said, “is the same person who tried for Manheim on the Super Chief.
His
favorite tools included a blackjack and a knife.”
“And that would rule out Washburn, since he’s been rehearsing this storm-tossed melodrama right here in New York City for over a week and hasn’t been aboard even so much as a subway.”
Jane suggested, “So maybe you’re worrying over nothing, Groucho. It’s unlikely the police will—”
The door of Washburn’s dressing room snapped open and a middle-sized, dark-haired plainclothes cop came striding out. “We found the weapon, Groucho,” he said, holding up a handkerchief-wrapped knife.