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Authors: Ron Goulart

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BOOK: Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders
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T
he El Perro Undo restaurant was on Olvera Street in Los Angeles, a short walk from the recently inaugurated Union Station over on Alameda Boulevard. Early Friday night, after checking our luggage, Jane and I dropped in there for dinner. The Santa Fe Super Chief was due to depart for points east at eight o’clock.
“Six isn’t bad,” Jane was saying across our table.
“Better than nine.”
She had been able, after considerable note taking, soul-searching, unpacking, and repacking, to narrow her number of suitcases to four. “I think it’s admirable,” she said, picking up her menu, “the sacrifices I made in my wardrobe. I was planning to stun the syndicate executives and all the radio people with the infinite variety of my clothes. But now …” She shrugged.
“You’re innately stunning,” I assured her. “You don’t need all those extra dresses and—”
“Just because you only have two suits to your name is no reason to—”
“I epitomize the casual California approach. It’s sports coats, polo shirts, and slacks that the fashionable male wears in these parts.”
She studied the menu for a moment. “I think I’ll try the
chiles rellenos,
” she decided. “Maybe you’ll be lucky and lose that pumpkin-colored sports coat of yours on the trip.”
“That particular coat has been favorably commented on by several arbiters of fashion.”
“It looks like something Groucho would wear.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Groucho was one of the fashion arbiters who said nice things about it.”
The Mexican restaurant was of medium size, with about a dozen white-clothed tables around the main dining room. The low-volume jukebox specialized in tunes by Tito Guizar. There was a cocktail bar near the entrance and through the high, wide front window you could see the brick-paved courtyard, part of a decorative fountain, and a collection of potted cactus. Dusk was just beginning to settle in and lights were coming on outside.
About half the surrounding tables were occupied so far.
“That’s interesting,” I observed, after glancing around the place.
“What is?”
“At that table over near the little stage,” I answered. “That’s Willa Jerome.”
Casually, Jane turned to take a look. “The studiously plain one with the glasses?”
“Nope, the gorgeous one with the pale complexion, blonde hair, and patrician look.”
“She’s the one Twentieth Century Fox signed, with much hoopla, last year, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, she was supposedly already a movie star over in her native England. Twentieth imported her and stuck her into
Trafalgar Square
with Tyrone Power. It’s supposed to open next week.”
“Going to be boffo at the box office,” commented my wife. “Or so Johnny Whistler predicted the other day.”
“I’d say more socko than boffo.”
“Who’s the portly gent with them?”
“No idea.” There was a chubby blonde guy of about forty at the table
with the two women. He had on a very businesslike grey suit and his puffy face was flushed. Three empty Dos Equis beer bottles stood next to his plate.
Jane said, “Maybe Willa Jerome is the one.”
“The one what?”
“Who had the torrid affair with the late Nick Sanantonio.”
“You’ll have to stay tuned to Johnny Whistler to find out.”
Our waiter appeared and inquired, “Have you and the señora decided, señor?”
“My wife’ll have the
rellenos
and I’ll try the number three combination.”
“And to drink?”
I looked across at Jane and she shook her head. “Just water for now.”
“
Bueno
,”he said and left us.
“Several people,” Jane said, “have asked me if this trip of ours is going to be a second—”
“Frank,” said a raspy voice, “what the hell are you doing in this joint?”
“Getting ready to embark on a second honeymoon on the Super Chief,” I said to the tall, lean man who’d come over to our table. It was Larry Shell, a
Los Angeles Times
photographer.
He had his camera dangling in his left hand. “I just popped in for a beer and spotted you and … this is your wife, isn’t it?”
“We’re pretending I am,” said Jane, smiling sweetly up at him. “There’s some kind of law against transporting unmarried women across state lines for dubious purposes.”
“This is my wife,” I said. “Jane Danner, Larry Shell.”
“Hey, that’s a great comic strip you do, Janey,” said the photographer. “I read
Hollywood Molly
every damn day faithfully. Except Tuesdays, when I’m usually too hungover to read much of anything.”
“I can send you a synopsis every Tuesday,” she offered.
“You on your way to Union Station?” I asked him.
“Yeah, monumental events are unfolding there and I’ve got to get some pictures. Supposed to meet Bockman over there. He’s going to do the story.”
“What story?” asked Jane. “Not a train wreck?”
“Nope, nothing so interesting,” answered Shell. “It’s Daniel K. Manheim, the man who would be David O. Selznick. He thinks he’s got another Vivien Leigh in the person of some skinny broad he’s calling Dian Bowers.”
“She’s the one Manheim’s starring in his million-buck movie production of
Saint Joan,
huh?” I said.
“The same, yeah,” answered Shell. “Me, I’d title the flicker
Manheim’s Folly,
but certain powers at the god damn paper are convinced that the fact that Manheim and Miss Bowers are leaving tonight for New York City, where he intends to premiere the flicker, introduce her to his money people and the press, is a big event.” He patted his camera. “So I’ve got to take some immortal pics.”
“We’ll see you over there,” I said.
He leaned, patted Jane on the back. “Bon voyage, Janey,” he said and headed off.
I watched him step out into the deepening twilight. “Larry’s something of a jerk,” I explained. “But he’s a good photographer.”
Jane waited until our waiter had delivered two glasses of water, then said, “So we’re going to have Dian Bowers and her Svengali on our journey East.”
“Sounds like it. And probably Willa Jerome and her entourage.”
“Maybe we ought to wait for the next circus train. It’ll probably be quieter.”
I was looking over toward the bar. “And there’s another potential fellow traveler.”
“The fella who looks like a football player who’s gone to seed?”
Nodding, I answered, “He actually used to be a football player at USC about ten years back. That’s Hal Arneson.”
“He’s Manheim’s publicity flack now, isn’t he?”
“Publicity man, bodyguard, troubleshooter,” I said. “All-around handyman at Manheim Productions, Inc.”
“Oops, he’s rising up from his stool and heading this way. Is he another friend of yours?”
“No, Arneson and I aren’t close. He’s not coming to chat with us.”
The large blonde man walked by our table, with a quick nod at me, and crossed to that of Willa Jerome. He was wearing a rumpled blue suit and a hand-painted tie that showed a sunset over a tropical isle.
Smiling, Willa stood up and exchanged hugs with the publicity man. “Hal, darling,” she said in her drawling British accent. “So wonderful to see you. Are you going to be taking the Super Chief?”
“Right, kid. I’m tagging along with Manheim and Dian Bowers.”
“I’ve heard the girl is marvelous,” said Willa.
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Arneson, grinning.
H
and in hand, Jane and I approached Union Station through the oncoming night. It glowed up ahead of us, a large, sprawling structure of tinted stucco and red-tile roofs, dominated by a clock tower. Built at the cost of over ten million bucks, it looked like the result of an uneasy collaboration between Father Junipero Serra and Cecil B. DeMille.
The pillared art deco lamps out front were on, lending a Hollywood glow to the sidewalk and the decorative palm trees along Alameda Boulevard. As we approached the entrance to the vast waiting room, two yellow cabs pulled up to the curb. A half-dozen or so buoyant young people came bouncing out, laughing, chattering, and unloading an assortment of suitcases. Two Red Cap porters hurried over with luggage carts. From out of the trunk of the rear cab the driver tugged a battered trunk that had “STEP RIGHT UP” freshly lettered on the side in whitewash.
“Pretty girls,” I mentioned.
“Pretty boys, too,” said Jane.
“Dancers, maybe?”
“Yep.
Step Right Up
is a new musical that’s trying out in Chicago before, maybe, opening on Broadway,” said Jane. “With a cast of Hollywood hopefuls.”
“More information obtained from Johnny Whistler?”
“Louella Parsons in this case.” We entered the vast, high-ceilinged
waiting room. “Bear in mind, dear, that I have to keep up-to-date with goings-on in movie land. Background stuff for
Hollywood Molly
. It’s not that I’m addicted to show business gossip.”
“I’m a Hollywood hopeful myself at the moment,” I mentioned. “If only I could dance better, I might join this show.”
“First thing to do is improve your fox trot, then work up from there.”
The waiting room still had a brand-new smell to it. You got the feeling you’d entered a huge, new, and affluent Beverly Hills church and that the rows of leather settees were pews. The high-hanging chandeliers were made of gold-tinted glass and added a soft, expensive glow to everything.
Midway into the big vaulted room, at the edge of the pastel-tiled walkway leading to the access tunnel for the train platforms, was gathered a small crowd of people. Reporters, photographers, curious passengers. I spotted Larry Shell, using his camera, and Dan Bockman from the
LA Times
. Also Norm Lenzer of the
Herald-Examiner,
Gil Lumbard of the
Hollywood Citizen-News,
a fat guy who worked, I think, for the
San Diego Union,
and an attractive blonde I was pretty sure was Sheilah Graham. They were all circling a smiling Daniel K. Manheim and an obviously nervous Dian Bowers. The producer was a large, heavyset man in his early forties, his thick wavy hair already a silvery white. He was wearing a well-tailored—all things considered—dark grey suit and had his right arm protectively around the slim shoulders of the slim, dark-haired young actress. She was pretty, but not in a glamour-girl way, and her hair was still worn in the short cropped style that portraying Joan of Arc had called for. Standing nearby, in a soldier-at-ease position, was the burly Hal Arneson.
“Want to stop and listen?” I asked Jane.
She shrugged her left shoulder. “Might as well. We’ve still got about twenty minutes before the train starts.”
“ … weren’t you in the movies before, Dian?” Lenzer was asking.
“Norm, Miss Bowers is a brand-new, freshly minted motion picture
star,” Manheim answered for her in his deep chesty voice. “As bright and new as this railway station.
Saint Joan,
which will have its world premiere in New York City late next week, is Dian Bowers’s very first movie. I’m very proud of this new discovery of mine and, I might add, we’ve just heard that the author of
Saint Joan,
none other than George Bernard Shaw himself, has just viewed a rough cut of the film, which we rushed to him in England. The word is that GBS is raving about it.”
Lumbard said, “They say he’s not only raving, he’s screaming, yelling, and threatening to sic his pack of lawyers on you, Manheim.”
“This is no place for making jokes, Gil,” the hefty producer told him. “Dian’s performance in my production of
Saint Joan
is—”
“I know I saw you in B Westerns, honey,” persisted Lenzer, pushing closer to the uneasy actress.
“No, you must be mistaken, Mr. Lenzer,” Dian replied softly. “As Mr. Manheim has explained, this is my very first film and—”
“Who’d believe that son of a bitch?” asked a lean young man who’d just come up to the edge of the group surrounding the producer and his protégée.
“One of the dancers,” whispered Jane.
“Not too smart for a Hollywood hopeful to malign Manheim,” I whispered back. “Even if he is a little soused.”
“Young man, you’re interrupting,” said Manheim evenly.
Ignoring him, the young dancer said to the reporters, “Why don’t you ask him about Kathy Sutter?” His voice was too loud, and had a blurred edge to it. “See what he has to say about
her
.”
Hal Arneson had worked his way over to him. “What say, sonny, you lay off the heckling?” He took hold of his upper arm, tightly.
“What say you take a flying leap at the moon, you god damn Gestapo.” He started to swing at the big troubleshooter.
Arneson grinned, dodged, and caught the fist. He used the arm as a lever to turn the angry dancer around. “You keep acting up, kid, and the station cops are going to haul you away,” he warned. “Calm down, huh, and go catch your train.”
“C’mon, Len, let’s get aboard.” A platinum blonde, not more than nineteen, caught the young guy’s hand. “Better take it easy.”
“But that bastard …” He didn’t finish the sentence, shook his head instead. Scowling, he jerked free of Arneson’s grasp. “Okay, all right. For now.” He let the blonde dancer lead him away.
As Jane and I continued on our way, she said, “Intrigue always enlivens a train trip.”
I was glancing around the big waiting room, scanning the place. “Um,” I muttered.
“What’s the matter, Frank?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “It’s only that I thought maybe Groucho would be here to see us off.”
“Did he say he would?”
“Nope, not exactly,” I admitted. “But he asked a lot of questions about which train we were taking, and when it was leaving.” I glanced around again. “I guess he’s not here, though.”
“Count your blessings,” she advised.
 
 
T
he Santa Fe Super Chief was an impressively streamlined diesel train. It consisted of nine gleaming stainless-steel cars and its sharp-nosed engine, which was painted a bright red and gold in a design that was supposed to suggest an Indian war bonnet. Just sitting there on the tracks beside the night platform, the train gave the impression it was surging ahead.
“Nice design,” I commented as we headed back in the direction of our train car.
Jane said, “Doesn’t Buck Rogers fly around in something that looks a lot like our engine?”
“You’re thinking of Flash Gordon.”
Up ahead of us some fifteen feet or so Willa Jerome and the two people we’d seen having dinner with her were walking. The chubby blonde
man was seriously unstable on his feet and kept swaying into the actress.
“Honestly, Phil,” Willa said, frowning and giving him a small shove. “Try and stay upright at least until we reach our drawing room, can’t you?”
“Sorry, my pet.” He was carrying what looked like a medical bag and as he stumbled away from her side, it became entangled with his legs. “Oops.”
The plain young woman in glasses reached out to catch him, but he fell over and landed, hard, on the platform.
He let go of the black bag, which hit the planks with a rattling thunk.
Sprinting forward, I bent beside the sprawled man. “You okay?”
“Perfectly fine and in ship shape,” he assured me in a boozy murmur. “I simply completely and totally lost the ability to navigate. Nothing serious.”
I took hold of his arm. “C’mon, I’ll help you up.”
“That’s very Good Samaritan of you, old man,” he said, exhaling a breath that was strongly scented with the odor of Mexican beer and stale bourbon.
After some grunting and creaking on his part, we got him into a standing position.
The young woman, who I figured must be Willa’s secretary, said to me, “Thank you very much. Dr. Dowling’s getting over a bout of influenza and he’s wobbly.”
“Four beers didn’t help much either,” added Willa, who was watching us, frowning, arms folded.
“Three beers,” the plump doctor corrected. “And thank you, sir. I’m in your debt.”
“All part of our friendly service,” I said.
“If you have a headache during our trip East or find yourself in the need of minor surgery, give a holler,” said Dr. Dowling, brushing at his suit.
“You’d be better off calling Dr. Kildare.” Willa snatched his black bag up off the platform and thrust it at him. “Let’s move along, Philip.”
She turned on her heel and started off. The tipsy doctor, after taking a deep breath, went wobbling along after her.
The secretary said, “Thank you again,” and hurried away in their wake.
Jane said, “That must be Philip Dowling.”
“That was the name that was bandied about, yeah.”
“He’s Willa Jerome’s personal physician. Travels with her, holds her hand between scenes on the set,” she said. “Must be nice to have a personal physician.”
“I’m happier with a personal cartoonist,” I said, taking her hand again. “Here’s the car we’re looking for.”
A porter was waiting for us just outside Compartment F. “Good evening, folks. I’m Earl Johnson and I’ll be looking after you on your Super Chief trip to Chicago. And I’ll see that you change trains for New York,” he explained. “The journey to Chicago takes exactly thirty-nine-and-a-half hours, give or take a half hour.”
“My husband needs all the looking after he can get,” said Jane. “Did our luggage get here?”
“Yes, ma’am. I took care of that myself,” Johnson answered. “First call for dinner is at eight-thirty You want me to put you down for—”
“We already ate, thanks.” I handed him four bits. “That’ll do for now.”
“Welcome aboard, folks,” he said and moved along the corridor.
“Want me to carry you across the threshold?” I asked Jane.
“Not necessary.” She stepped into our compartment.
I followed and slid the door shut behind us. “Roomy.”
“And Venetian blinds on the windows.”
“For an extra thirty-nine bucks, they’d better include Venetian blinds.”
“Hey, my newspaper syndicate is paying for all this, remember?”
“Are you implying that I can’t afford to keep my wife in Venetian blinds?”
Smiling, she came over and hugged me. “Let’s pretend we won this trip playing Bingo. Then you won’t feel like a kept man. Okay?”
“If I were a kept man, we’d be traveling in a drawing room.” I kissed her.
 
 
T
he streamlined Super Chief glided out of Union Station at about ten minutes after eight. Nighttime Los Angeles rapidly grew up all around us, our view sliced by the Venetian blinds.
Out in the corridor a steward went by, striking that sort of miniature glockenspiel they carry, and announcing, “First call to dinner. First call to dinner.”
Jane had taken her shoes off and was sitting on our narrow streamlined reddish-brown couch, her legs tucked under her. “Can I confess something?”
“So long as it doesn’t involve any criminal activities you were involved in before our marriage.”
“It’s just that I’m kind of anxious about this trip to New York,” she admitted. “The business side of things, I mean. I’ve never met most of those syndicate executives before, not to mention the network people.”
“You’ll charm them, Jane,” I assured her. “And the ones you can’t charm, I’ll take care of.”
“I guess you’re right. Together, we can charm the birds down out of the trees.”
“Which could result in a lot of birds underfoot,” I said. “Want to find the club car and have a drink?”
“Not a drink, no,” she said, standing up. “But a cup of coffee maybe.”
Soon as she located both her shoes and put them on, we moved out into the corridor of the gently swaying car.
Our porter was standing nearby. “Help you folks?”
“Club car is which way?” I asked.
“It’s called the cocktail lounge, sir.” Johnson pointed forward. “Go through this car, then the dining car, and it’ll be on the other side of that.”
The dining car, judging by the number of tables, would accommodate about three dozen. But there were only about fifteen passengers scattered around it so far. Sharing a table were the young dancer who’d interrupted Manheim and the platinum blonde who’d persuaded him to move along. He appeared to be somewhat less angry.
BOOK: Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders
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