Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders by Ron Goulart Read Free Book Online Page A

when Manheim had decided she was ready, starred her in his very expensive production of Saint Joan .
    Leaning back, Groucho steepled his fingers under his chin. “And what does your husband think about this miraculous transformation?”
    She looked down at the folded hands. There wasn’t any ring showing. “Jim and I are separated.”
    “Your idea?”
    “I thought so at the time,” she answered slowly. “But, it seems to me now that this was really Daniel Manheim’s idea.”
    “And where’s Jim?”
    “Well, he’s opening next week in a new play on Broadway,” she said, allowing herself to smile for a few seconds. “It’s a wonderful break for him. Jim’s starring in that new mystery comedy, Make Mine Murder .”
    “I’ve heard of it. One of the few Broadway comedies that George S. Kaufman didn’t write.”
    “I’m planning to see the play opening night,” she said, defiance in her voice now.
    “Manheim objects?”

    She nodded. “Yes, he wants me to stay completely away from Jim,” she said. “I know this will sound like melodramatic hokum, Groucho, but he really is a Svengali. Sometimes I think he wants to just control me completely.”
    “Has the guy made any passes at you?”
    She shook her head. “Not really, no, but …”
    “But what?”
    “He’s even more possessive than if he were my lover.”
    “What you ought to do, my dear, is—”
    “Did you know Nick Sanantonio?”
    Groucho elevated both eyebrows. “No, but my brother Chico did,” he answered. “Chico, alas, is on cordial terms with all and sundry gamblers in southern California. He’s contributed generously to their cause.” He watched her for a moment. “Don’t tell me that you were friends with a gangster like Sanantonio?”
    “Not exactly, although I met him a few times while I was doing a picture at Warner’s,” the actress answered. “He was a good friend of George Raft.”
    “Many a hoodlum is. If you’re going to specialize in saintly roles, kiddo, you ought not to hang around with the likes of the late Nick.”
    “I never actually hung around with him, Groucho,” she assured him. “But I did know him casually and he was always very nice to me. When I read about his death in the paper this afternoon, I was really upset. That’s a horrible way to die.”
    “True, but expiring in that style is one of the work-related hazards of Sanantonio’s field of endeavor.”
    “I know, but still it’s very brutal to be shot down in—”
    The new knocking on his compartment door was far from timid. It came close to being a pounding.
    “Do they have house detectives on the Super Chief?” Groucho slouched over to the door and tugged it open.
    “Ah, I thought maybe I’d find my princess here.” Manheim was
looking into the room, smiling in Dian’s direction. “It’s way past your bedtime, darling.”
    “I’ll be back to my room in a few minutes, Daniel.”
    “I think now would be better, dear. You need to rest up for the ordeal that Manhattan will—”
    “Let me paraphrase the immortal Voltaire, Manheim,” said Groucho. “Scram or I’ll punch you in the snoot.”
    The hefty white-haired producer gave Groucho a nasty smile. “That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to try, Julius,” he said. “Dian?”
    “Soon,” she said.
    “Very well.” He turned on his heel and started off down the swaying train corridor. “Don’t be too long.”
    Leaving the chair, the young woman said to Groucho, “Joan of Arc is a marvelous part. It really will make me a star.”
    “Keep in mind how the real Joan of Arc ended up,” he reminded.

Eight
    G roucho couldn’t sleep.
    And he wasn’t in the mood for any more T. S. Eliot.
    So around 2:00 A.M., a little while after the speeding Super Chief had crossed into Arizona, he decided to stroll through the train and visit the baggage car.
    Humming a few bars of “My True Love Lies Dead in the Baggage Coach Ahead,” he shed his venerable robe and donned a tweedy sports