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were on when Arneson got slugged,” said Groucho. “Besides, it would be difficult to smash the lights without attracting the guy’s attention, since he was patrolling the area.”
    “So he bops him, goes in and drugs Manheim, comes back out to put the lights on the fritz, then goes back in to try his stabbing?”

    “He no doubt wanted to work under the cover of as much darkness as possible—one reason he brought a flashlight along,” said Groucho, dropping into a chair.
    Jane snapped her fingers. “Hey, suppose there were two people involved,” she said, straightening up. “One to deck our erstwhile football player, the other to go in and knife Manheim.”
    Groucho shook his head. “I didn’t see anybody else lurking around.”
    “It was dark,” reminded Jane.
    “Arneson’s a former fullback,” I said. “If a former fullback falls over in the corridor, wouldn’t somebody have heard it?”
    “Is this one of those philosophical speculations,” asked Groucho, “like the one about the tree falling in the forest?”
    “Apparently Manheim didn’t hear anything,” said Jane. “It might be worthwhile to talk to the other passengers in that car. Does this protégée of his, Dian Bowers, have a bedroom in that same car, for instance?”
    “Am I correct in concluding that you think we should go ahead and investigate this sordid incident?” Groucho asked me.
    “It’ll help us pass the time on the trip,” I pointed out.
    “Okay, but I prefer cribbage,” said Groucho. “Or, if worse comes to worst, corned beef and cribbage.”
    “What about motive?” said Jane.
    “Our motive, according to your common-law hubby, is to avoid playing cribbage and enjoying scenic America while rushing eastward in this streamlined cattle car.”
    “I mean the motive for killing Manheim. Any notions?”
    “A recent survey conducted by the Mind Your Own Beeswax Foundation of Petaluma determined that well over fifty percent of the people in the movie business have good reason to loathe Manheim and wish him dead,” said Groucho, puffing on his cigar. “We’re going to have to work some to narrow that list down. I’d also estimate that half the people on this streamliner don’t like him.”
    “The dancer,” said Jane.

    “You think maybe?” I said to my wife.
    “He’d be on my list if I were a sleuth, yes.”
    “Oh, what fun,” said Groucho, clapping his hands together. “I just love guessing what in the blue blazes you two pixies are babbling about.”
    I explained about the young dancer who’d heckled the movie producer during the platform press conference. “His first name is Len,” I wound up.
    “I’ve been able to establish diplomatic relations with several of the young ladies in the Step Right Up dance troupe,” said Groucho. “I’ll make a few discreet inquiries come morning.”
    Jane yawned a small yawn. “Morning’s not that far off,” she said, standing. “We better think about turning in, Frank.”
    “Go right ahead, you young folks,” said Groucho. “I’ll be just simply fine all alone here in my cell, with only my memories and those tusks we brought back from our last expedition to Tarzana.”
    Jane crossed to him, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “Send for us if you fall over again, Groucho.”
    I said good night and we went along the corridor to our compartment.

Eleven
    T he next morning, as the speeding streamliner was approaching Gallup, New Mexico, Groucho came slouching into the slightly swaying dining car and seated himself next to the pretty red-haired dancer. Her name was Franki Rafferty and Groucho had, he later told me, arranged to meet her for breakfast so he could gather information. “And I wasn’t above gathering a few rosebuds while I might,” he added.
    Outside the diner windows showed an immense stretch of desert, dotted with prickly organ-pipe cactus and spiky yucca plants.
    “No funny stuff,” Franki warned as Groucho dropped into the chair next to