Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders by Ron Goulart Page A

I’ll deny it in court.”
    She smiled, somewhat perplexed, and returned to her husband and her highball.
    Groucho returned to his magazine.
    It was suddenly yanked out of his hands by an angry young man. “I’m Len Cowan,” he announced, scowling.
    “Maybe you can help me with my upside-down-cake problem,” said Groucho. “Or did you skulk over to beg me to sing”Lydia the Tattooed Lady” yet again? I understand the tune will soon be climbing up the
Hit Parade list, which is somewhat better than climbing up a slippery elm or—”
    “Quit poking your nose in my business,” warned the young dancer.
    “Is this a threat? I hope so, because I always say there’s nothing that livens up a dull journey like a threat from an impetuous young nitwit.”
    “I’m not interested in jokes, Groucho. What I—”
    “Then you ought to flock to At the Circus when it’s released,” he advised. “Not a joke in a carload.”
    Cowan gave him a lopsided glare, his hands fisting. “You’ve been asking people questions about me.”
    “You’ve got me mixed up with Professor Quiz.”
    “If you’ve got something to ask, ask me to my face, damn it.”
    “I will, my lad, soon as you and your whiskey breath get downwind.”
    “Ask me, damn you.”
    “Okay. Did you attack Hal Arneson and Daniel Manheim last night?”
    “None of your damned business.”
    “With answers like that, you ought to be able to understand why I have to go to strangers for my—”
    “How’d you like a poke in the nose?”
    “Is this an essay question or multiple choice?”
    “Don’t try these wiseass answers on—”
    “Go and sit down,” I suggested. I’d come into the cocktail lounge about twenty seconds earlier, hunting for Groucho.
    “Who the hell are you?” demanded Cowan, turning to glare at me.
    Quietly I said, “I’m the guy who’s going to escort you the hell out of here in a very rough way, Cowan, unless you scram right now.”
    “Another damn fascist,” he muttered. Staggering slightly, he made his way out of the car.
    “Maybe you ought not to carry that guitar around with you,” I suggested to Groucho as I settled into the chair next to his. “It seems to inspire attacks and assaults.”
    “True, but the open case comes in handy for catching money when
people throw pennies,” he said, locating a cigar in one of the pockets of his mustard-colored sports jacket. “Am I correct in assuming that you also have perused a copy of Manheim’s latest memo, which literary critics have certified as being nearly a thousand words longer than Remembrance of Things Past?”
    “I read the whole thing, yeah.”
    “May we have your conclusions, Rollo?”
    “I’ve got nothing against going around doing good deeds,” I answered. “But I’ve decided we might as well quit working on this whole Manheim mess.”
    “My sentiments exactly,” Groucho said. “I intend to devote my time henceforward to astronomy, quilting, and Honeymoon Bridge.”
    “Fine,” I said.
    He lit his cigar and blew a wispy smoke ring. “But I don’t think Manheim’s troubles are over,” he said.

Thirteen
    M y troubles weren’t over either. I didn’t come to grief, though, until late that night, somewhere in the vicinity of Hutchinson, Kansas.
    When Jane and I came back from having dinner with Groucho, I was saying, “He’s fairly generous after all.”
    “Offering to treat everybody in the dining car to water isn’t my idea of generosity.”
    I eased our door open. “I was referring to the fact that he paid for our dinners.”
    “After lecturing us on the many virtues of fasting.”
    I clicked on the lights. “Hello! What’s this?”
    Jane eyed me. “Nobody says that in real life.”
    “All too true,” I admitted, genuflecting and picking up the pale blue envelope I’d noticed lying on the floor of our compartment. “But I’ve always admired the way British sleuths exclaim that in B movies.”
    She wrinkled her nose.