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

Bowers, huh?”
    I shrugged free of his grasp. “Groucho was anxious to know how you two fellows were feeling after your ordeal of last night,” I lied. “He was also concerned about how Dian Bowers was faring and—”
    “As you can see for yourself, buddy, I’m in great shape,” Arneson told me, stepping fully out into the corridor. “Mr. Manheim, Groucho will be pleased to learn, is resting comfortably in his private bedroom. Notice the word private .”
    “He came out of his stupor?”
    “He’s just fine. Don’t worry about it, Denby. You or Groucho.”
    “And how about Dian Bowers?”
    “How about her?”
    “Groucho was wondering if all that action in the corridor last night disturbed her,” I said. “Seeing as how her bedroom is just two down from Manheim’s, Groucho wanted to make sure she got back to sleep after—”
    “It’s not you know, really any of his god damn business,” cut in the big man. “I will tell you, though, so Groucho doesn’t fret, that Miss Bowers didn’t see or hear a damned thing. She doesn’t sleep very well on trains—he can understand that, I imagine—and Mr. Manheim had his physician prescribe a sedative for her to use on the trip. Dian Bowers slept through the whole business, Denby.”
    “Didn’t see or hear anything?”
    “Exactly. Now why don’t you go back and have breakfast with that charming wife of yours?”
    “Splendid idea,” I said and withdrew.

Twelve
    I n Spanish the word ratón means mouse. At about half past three that afternoon, as the train was pulling out of Raton, New Mexico, there was a polite tapping on the door of our compartment.
    Jane had been saying, “What mouse do you suppose it was named after?”
    “Probably not Mickey.” I moved to the door and slid it open a few inches.
    Johnson the porter was standing politely out there. “Message for you, Mr. Denby,” he said, handing me an envelope that looked to have several sheets of paper folded up within.
    Accepting the envelope, I handed him a quarter. “Thanks.”
    “From Groucho?” asked my wife.
    I shut the door. “Nope. The envelope says it’s from Daniel Manheim Productions of Burbank, California.”
    “Want to bet it isn’t an offer to go to work for him as a writer?”
    I sat down in our chair and slit the envelope open with my thumb. “Arneson probably informed him that I was trying to talk to Dian Bowers,” I said, “and this is to shoo me off.”
    There were four folded sheets of Daniel Manheim Productions stationery. What I had was a carbon copy of a typed memo he’d apparently sent to Groucho.

    “Well?” asked Jane.
    “It’s addressed to Groucho with a copy to me,” I answered after scanning the first page. “Or rather—To: Mr. Marx, cc: Mr. Denby.”
    She made a keep-going gesture with her right hand. “Some details?”
    “Well, Manheim starts off with ‘Let me express my sincerest appreciation to you, Groucho, for coming to my assistance during the unfortunate incident that apparently took place on this very train late last evening. I appreciate as well—which goes without saying—your timely intercession on behalf of my associate, Mr. Arneson.’ And then there’s another long paragraph wherein he says that all over again in slightly different terms.”
    “This is what then—a very windy thank-you note?”
    I was glancing at the other pages. “Not exactly, Jane.”
    “Okay, what’s the gist of it?”
    “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow when we broadcast that on Gist Plain Bill. ”
    “Oh, boy,” she said, groaning delicately. “You’re coming down with another bad case of Grouchoitis.”
    “Sorry,” I apologized. “Would you prefer Beau Gist ?”
    “I’d prefer to know why in the heck Manheim is sending out bulky memos to you and Groucho.”
    “Okay, he goes on to say that he ‘sincerely believes that the incident that took place in my bedroom last evening was more than likely the work of some deranged crank who climbed