Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders by Ron Goulart

aboard the Super Chief during one of its many nighttime stops and then jumped off again after being thwarted.’”
    “Think Manheim actually believes that?”
    “It’s what he wants us to believe,” I said, tapping the memo pages. “The point of this all being that ‘it’s come to my attention that you and your associate, Mr. Denby, have been making admittedly discreet inquiries into the matter. This is being done, I hasten to point out, without my permission or approval. I must, therefore, respectfully request that you both cease any such activities and allow, as Mr. Arneson tells
me he informed you last evening, this unpleasant occurrence to be forgotten. Should I decide at a later date that any action should be taken, I will do so without any assistance from either you or Mr. Denby.’”
    “Somewhere in all that verbiage there’s a polite brush-off,” said Jane.
    I nodded, resting the pages on my knee. “Yeah, and he also warns us, politely and with considerable circumlocution, to stay away from Dian Bowers for the rest of the trip.”
    Jane stood up, smoothed her tweed skirt and sat down again on the narrow sofa. “They don’t, for whatever reason, want you fellows nosing around.”
    I folded the memo and put it back in the envelope. “Earlier we were talking about it sort of being our duty to dig into this business,” I said. “You implied that Groucho and I were pretty much in the same category as the Lone Ranger and Tonto. But it’s damn clear now that Manheim and Arneson really don’t want our help.”
    “That’s how I’d interpret the memo, yes.”
    “Okay, then. From now until New York, I’ll concentrate on dreaming up socko scenarios for our forthcoming Hollywood Molly radio show and not dabble in detection.”
    “Might as well,” agreed Jane. “Manheim doesn’t realize what he’s missing, though. You and Groucho are pretty good detectives.” She stood again, stretching. “And I’m still kind of curious to find out what really happened and why.”
    “So am I,” I admitted. “But I’m damned if I’ll try to force Manheim and Arneson to let us go on investigating this.”
    “Think Groucho will agree to abandoning the whole thing?”
    “I’ll go find out,” I said, getting up, sticking the envelope in my coat pocket, and heading for the door.
     
     
    G roucho was seated in the cocktail lounge demurely reading a copy of The Woman’s Home Companion, his guitar case leaning inconspicuously against the wall near his chair.

    He became aware, after a moment, that someone was standing in front of him.
    Lowering his magazine, he saw a plump grey-haired woman gazing, with furrowed brow, down at him. “Just the sort of person I want to see,” said Groucho. “I’m dreadfully anxious to try this new recipe for pineapple upside-down cake. But, alas, the last time I attempted an upside-down cake, I got it backwards and ended with a right-side-up cake. It was terribly embarrassing, because my smart-set friends were expecting an upside-down cake and when I offered them a mundane right-side-up cake, they were deeply offended. And, much to my chagrin, I also discovered that I was two friends short of a complete set. What I need, therefore, is your expert advice on—”
    “Could you help me settle a bet?” the woman interrupted shyly.
    “Gambling is a dreadful habit, dear lady,” he warned. “My brother Chico, for example, is shunned by polite society because of his unfortunate—”
    “It’s a bet I made with my husband,” she continued. “He says it isn’t you, but aren’t you Groucho Marx without your moustache?”
    “Ah, no, without my moustache I’m Tom Mix,” he replied. “With my moustache I am sometimes Groucho Marx and other times Harriet Beecher Stowe or Grover Whalen, depending on the weather. And without a song the day would never end.”
    “Then you are Groucho Marx?”
    He lowered his voice. “Just between us, my dear, I am indeed,” he confided. “But