Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders by Ron Goulart Page B

“Jasmine.”
    “Yep, it sure smells right pretty, and it’s addressed to me.”
    “Would you like me to step out into the corridor while you read it?”
    “It’s our policy to share all our clandestine affairs.” Opening the envelope, I extracted the sheet of pale blue notepaper enclosed. “It’s from Willa Jerome.”

    The actress’s name was printed in a delicate typeface in the left-hand corner of the page.
    “Is she maybe looking for a screenwriter?”
    “She says, and I quote, ‘If you meet me in the observation car tonight at eleven, I can tell you something important about what’s been going on. Your Friend, Willa J.’” I let the hand holding the letter drop to my side. “Gosh, an audience with the star of Trafalgar Square .”
    “It was my impression at dinner that you and Groucho were dropping this case.” Jane sat on the sofa.
    “We are, we did,” I said. “But even so, Jane, if she knows something about who tried to knife Manheim, maybe I ought to go talk to her.”
    “I think slim, pretty witnesses are always more fun to interview than dumpy—”
    “Hey, you come tag along with me,” I invited. “If this were some kind of romantic interlude, she wouldn’t want to meet me in the observation car. Where people could observe us.”
    “I trust you, Frank,” Jane assured me. “You can go to your rendezvous solo.”
    “Okay, I guess I will.” I went over to the window, spread a couple of the Venetian blind slats apart, and gazed out at the growing darkness we were traveling into.
     
     
    A few minutes after eleven Groucho, he later told me, was settled in his compartment. Well, not exactly settled, since he was pretty sure he was going to have another night of insomnia.
    “A sleeping potion might prove useful,” he said to himself. “Although a love potion would also help while away the wee hours of the night.”
    He opened the small narrow clothes closet to select a sports coat. Because of the motion of the speeding streamliner, the coats were
swinging gently on their hangers. He caught a nubby earth-brown jacket and put it on.
    “Perhaps I can kill an hour or two in the observation car,” he decided, unlocking his door and stepping out into the corridor.
    The clacking of the wheels on the tracks sounded louder out here.
    As he pushed open the door leading to the passageway connecting our car with the observation car, Groucho became aware of a faint groaning.
    He squatted, staring into the shadows.
    There was an unconscious man huddled there.
    It was me.
    “Frank!” recognized Groucho.
    I groaned again.
    As Groucho leaned closer, he saw the sheet of white paper that had been left on my chest.
    It read, “Quit now!”
     
     
    I became completely conscious to find a plump, white-haired man feeling the back of my head.
    “I don’t believe,” I managed to say in a voice that I didn’t quite recognize, “in phrenology.”
    “Returning to ourself, are we?” he asked in a sympathetic voice.
    “Who exactly are you?” My voice was sounding more like my own.
    “I’m Dr. Mackinson,” he told me.
    “He’s the best we could find on such short notice,” explained Groucho, who I now noticed was crouching next to the concerned doctor.
    I also noticed that I was still on the floor of the passageway. “Where’s Jane?”
    “Right here, darling.” She was standing just behind Groucho. “Groucho came and got me soon as he found you, then we asked the conductor to find a doctor. You okay?”

    “I think I might be.”
    “How many fingers am I holding up?” inquired the doctor.
    “Three,” I replied. “Does anybody have any idea what actually happened to me?”
    “I’m hoping you’ll be able to provide some details on that.” A uniformed conductor stepped out of the shadows beside my wife.
    “Don’t you have any idea, Frank?” asked Jane.
    “All I’m certain about is that I got hit on the head.” I winced as Dr. Mackinson shined his pocket flashlight into my eyes,