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

physical assaults.”
    “Who was the Kathy Sutter he alluded to?”
    Franki looked out the window, watching the bright morning desert rush by. “Well, her real name was Kathy Cowan.”
    “Len’s wife?”

    “Sister.”
    “What happened to her?” asked Groucho, resting an elbow on the tabletop. “And how does it tie in with Manheim?”
    “It was about two years ago,” she said. “Kathy was … hell, she was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three.” She took a slow breath in and out. “Manheim discovered her, too.”
    “But something went wrong?”
    “Yeah, just about everything,” Franki answered. “Kathy had never gotten out of the chorus, but she’d studied ballet since she was a kid. Anyway, Manheim noticed her. See, he was planning to do an epic about Pavlova and he had a hunch he could turn Kathy into a star and that she’d be perfect for the leading role. She became one more of his discoveries and he groomed her, had his people remodel her and … well, they became lovers for a while.”
    Groucho nodded.
    Franki said, “After about five months Manheim decided he wasn’t going to make a Pavlova flicker after all. From that moment he wasn’t interested anymore in having her at his studio or in his bed.”
    Frowning deeply, Groucho said, “I remember her now, reading about her in the papers. She—”
    “Killed herself, yeah. Swam out into the Pacific from Santa Monica one night until she couldn’t swim anymore,” said Franki quietly. “Then she drowned. A nice Hollywood finish.”
    “And her brother blames Manheim for her death.”
    “Sure, wouldn’t you?” she said. “Kathy, poor kid, was sort of soft and not very sure of herself. Me, I would have spit in Manheim’s eye and told him where he could stuff Pavlova. But Kathy … she just gave up.”
    “Did you folks know that Manheim was going to be traveling on this particular Super Chief?”
    “Sure, it was in all the trades. Don’t you read them?”
    “I can only afford to subscribe to Nick Carter’s Weekly, I fear.”
    When the breakfasts arrived, Franki looked down at her plate and
then shook her head. “Funny, I don’t feel hungry at all, Groucho. Think I’ll head back to my roomette.” She pushed back from the table.
    “If you don’t mind, my child, I won’t escort you,” he said, watching her get up. “Someone had better stay here and look after all this French toast.”
     
     
    W hile Groucho was occupied in the diner, I headed up through the train toward the bedroom car where Manheim had his trouble. Groucho had suggested that I talk to Dian Bowers and find out what she knew about the attack.
    Making my way through the car that housed the roomettes—which even Santa Fe literature described as tiny—I had to dodge wandering members of the Step Right Up bunch, who were room-hopping, heading for the dining car, or simply loitering.
    A blonde, freckled dancer signaled me as I passed her open roomette. “You’re a friend of Groucho Marx, aren’t you?”
    I halted. “Yeah,” I admitted.
    She was wearing a white imitation satin robe and not much lingerie under it. “Are you in the movie business?”
    “Not at the moment, no.”
    After making a disappointed noise, she inquired, “What then?”
    “Radio,” I answered.
    “Not much work for hoofers in radio.”
    “Nope,” I agreed. “We have soundmen to provide the tap dancing.”
    “Then there’s not much point in my vamping you.”
    “Just about none at all.”
    “See you around, kid.” She slid her door shut and I continued on my way.
    I was passing the rest room at the car’s end when the tan curtain that masked the door parted. A large hand came shooting out and caught my sleeve.

    “Hold it a minute, junior.”
    Hal Arneson was attached to the fist that was detaining me.
    “I already shaved and washed up, Hal, so you don’t have to drag me into the—”
    “You wouldn’t, would you, Denby, be on your way to try to annoy Mr. Manheim or Miss