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

not tall. Since there was a minimum of illumination at the time, I didn’t see any details.”
    Jane said, “Man or woman?”
    Groucho narrowed his left eye and gazed at the ceiling of the compartment.
“A man, I’m pretty certain. Although I wouldn’t swear to it in court. Although the last time I swore in court they washed out my mouth with soap and gave me thirty days. And you should’ve seen the days they gave me. Why, at least a dozen of them were Mondays and extremely moth-eaten. But, then, so was I.”
    I asked, “Are you thinking about our looking into this incident?”
    “No, definitely not, nope, nosiree.” Groucho held up his right hand in a halt-right-there gesture. “I might also add nay and not at all. This will be a detection-free sojourn. I merely, since you’ve occasionally served as my Boswell—that’s James not Connee—was anxious to fill you in on what’s been occurring in my rich and eventful life. The next event, by the way, will be the Annual Strawberry Festival, which will commence just the minute the strawberry in question arrives from far-off—”
    “When I referred to this guy as an assassin, you didn’t correct me,” put in Jane. “Do you fellas believe that somebody tried to murder Manheim?”
    Halting and frowning in my wife’s direction, Groucho said, “It makes no nevermind, Little Dorrit. The firm of Marx and Denby—Ratiocination While You Wait—isn’t interested in whether or not somebody attempted to bump off a mamzer like Manheim. I only wanted to inform you of—”
    “Seems to me,” she said, “that you can’t pick and choose, Groucho. I think you two ought to look into this some more, because maybe next time this mystery man will succeed in killing him. I wouldn’t want something like that on my conscience.”
    Groucho lit his cigar, slowly. Then he nodded in my direction. “What’s your opinion, Rollo?” he asked. “Are we obliged to protect Manheim?”
    I took a slow breath in and out. “We can at least poke around a little,” I told him. “Even though, from what you told us, Arneson wants to keep the lid on this.”
    Jane said, “That’s something else you two might think about. Why’s a publicity man so eager to cover this up?”

    I said, “That’s what a troubleshooter is supposed to do, Jane. Keep scandals hidden, see that the newspapers don’t find out about embarrassing—”
    “But that’s just it,” she persisted. “Why is this embarrassing? You could get a lot of swell publicity from it. You know, ‘Producer of Saint Joan Victim of Mystery Attack,’ ‘En Route to Introducing Dian Bowers to World, Manheim Attacked by Mystery Assailant.’”
    “That last one’s way too long for a headline.”
    “So make it a subhead. You ought to be wondering why Arneson doesn’t want this to get out.”
    Groucho exhaled smoke. “What’s your theory, Nancy Drew?”
    “Well, it could be that the guy knows more than he’s letting on.”
    “Knows who it was who assaulted him and Manheim?” I said.
    “Maybe so. But, listen, you fellas are the detectives, remember?” she said, grinning. “I’m only a gadfly. And a sleepy one at that.”
    Groucho had commenced pacing again, a bit more slowly than before. “One thing to establish is what was actually afoot in Manheim’s bedroom,” he said. “Somebody rendered him unconscious with chloroform. And that somebody was seen, by a reliable witness—one Julius Marx, unemployed steeplejack—in the producer’s vicinity clutching what looked very much like a knife.”
    I said, “That somebody also knocked Arneson out, probably with a blackjack. Then he goes in and chloroforms Manheim, so that he can then take his time stabbing him and making sure he hits a vital spot.”
    “What about the lights in the corridor?” asked Jane.
    “Hm?” I inquired.
    “Why did the mystery man put out the lights in the corridor.”
    “So he could sneak up on Arneson, probably,” I answered.
    “The lights