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

coat. Groucho had packed an old orange crate with books and was shipping them to his New York hotel. Included in the shipment was a copy of S. J. Perelman’s most recent book.
    It was Groucho’s intention to see if he could get into the baggage car and unpack a few books, including Perelman’s, to bring back to his compartment.
    “If reading Sid’s book won’t put me to sleep, nothing will,” he said to himself as he opened the door.
    The corridor was dim-lit, the only sound the rhythmic clacking of the train wheels on the tracks. Out the windows showed darkness and moonlit desert country.
    Groucho discovered he wasn’t the only one roaming the speeding Super Chief. Before he reached the door at the other end of the corridor, it came sliding open.

    A thin, middle-aged woman entered and made a pleased noise when she recognized him. “Groucho Marx,” she said, reaching into the large imitation-leather purse she was toting. “I’m a great fan of yours.”
    “Too bad you’re not a fan dancer,” he said. “A little hootchie-cootchie exhibition would liven up this long, dreary night.”
    She produced an autograph album from within her purse. “Can you write your name on a moving train?”
    “Depends on how fast the train is moving,” he replied. “This one, for example, is moving too fast for me to trot alongside and inscribe something on its panels. A slow milk train, however, I might be able to keep up with until—”
    “I meant can you sign my book while the train’s moving.”
    Somewhat gingerly, he accepted the proffered album and, producing a fountain pen from a pocket of his jacket, scrawled his name. He returned the book, saying, “And now, dear lady, I must continue my nocturnal mission. Farewell.”
    Two porters and a waiter were playing poker up in the cocktail lounge.
    Further down in the car four members of the Step Right Up troupe, two men and two women, were gathered. The plumper guy was noodling quietly on a clarinet.
    “Do anything for you, Mr. Marx?” asked one of the porters.
    Groucho shook his head. “Pay no attention to me, lads. I’m merely walking in my sleep.”
    As he neared the group, the fellow with the clarinet started playing “Hurray for Captain Spaulding,” Groucho’s song from Animal Crackers.
    Halting, Groucho bowed and then—or so he later told me—executed an extremely graceful pirouette before continuing on his way.
    As he entered the next car, which was given over to the less expensive roomettes, a door opened. A pretty young girl dancer murmured, “Good night, Wally,” and stepped out into the swaying corridor.
    “Ah, romance,” remarked Groucho with a sigh.

    The dancer eased her roomette door open, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “And who are you visiting, Mr. Marx?”
    “I understand they have an educated horse up in the baggage car,” he answered.
    At the quiet end of the car he encountered a dozing conductor. The man was lean, his cap resting in his narrow lap. He sat slumped on a seat in a roomette, his left foot keeping the sliding door half-open.
    Groucho tiptoed by him.
    The lights in the next car, which was given over to double bedrooms, were out.
    It was while making his way gingerly along the dark swaying corridor that Groucho tripped over the body.
     
     
    W hat the heck are you doing up there?” Jane inquired from below.
    “Reading,” I replied.
    “That’s supposed to be a relatively silent pastime.”
    “Having trouble settling into a comfortable position. Sorry.”
    Our compartment had a sort of upper berth-lower berth setup and, after parting for the evening, I’d climbed into the upper.
    The monotonous clicking of the train on the rails didn’t seem to soothe me and I kept waking up every few minutes. Finally, in the vicinity of 1:00 A.M., I clicked on my overhead bunk light, fished out the copy of Dime Detective I’d slipped under my pillow, and made an attempt to read a novelette about a very hard-boiled Hollywood