It’s not anything important and—oops. I see Arneson looming in the doorway. I’ll phone you in Manhattan. And thanks.” Hurriedly, she got up and crossed to another table.
Arneson came lumbering in and joined her, after glowering across at Groucho.
Groucho raised his water glass in a toasting gesture. “May you fall off a bridge,” he muttered very quietly, smiling falsely.
Turning in his chair, he said to the portly man, “I’m going to start humming again. Is there any special song you’d like to hear?”
Fifteen
W e arrived in Chicago later that morning. In the afternoon, after being partially treated to lunch at a nearby delicatessen that Groucho professed to have fond memories of, we boarded the Twentieth Century Limited for New York City.
This streamliner was a bit more sedate in its décor than the Super Chief, going in for grey and silver rather than bold desert colors.
About fifteen minutes out of the station I decided to find a lounge car and get a cup of coffee. Jane chose to stay in our compartment and work on some notes for her next Hollywood Molly continuity. So I was roaming a swaying corridor alone when a voice exclaimed, “Frank! Just the man I want to see.”
A slim arm reached out through the open doorway of the bedroom I’d been passing and May Sankowitz yanked me inside.
After kissing me enthusiastically on the cheek, she sat me down in a chair and leaned close. “Okay, tell me everything you know.”
“Well, it all began when the world was created in the year four-thousand-four B.C. and the—”
“Dope, I mean about what was going on aboard the Super Chief,” she said, giving me a poke in the ribs and an impatient look. “I got a hunch I can sell some stories to the news syndicates—in addition to my regular magazine assignment.”
“You still with Hollywood Screen Magazine?”
“Not only am I still with them, I was promoted to associate managing editor since last we met.”
“Which means?”
“Fifty bucks a week more.”
May was a small, slim woman getting close to fifty. She was a reddish blonde just now and I’d known her since we both worked for the Los Angeles Times. Then she’d run the lonelyhearts column as Dora Dayton. For the past year or more she’d been writing for the movie fan magazine.
“And how come,” I asked her, “you’re on this train?”
May sighed, closed the toilet, and sat on the padded lid. “Manheim persuaded my nitwit bosses that a blow-by-blow account of his new discovery’s arrival in Manhattan would titillate our multitude of moronic readers. So I’m stuck with writing a travel diary— I Take Manhattan with Dian Bowers . It means making the last lap of the train ride with the allegedly demure actress and following her hither and yon for her first day in New York City.”
“How’d you get to Chicago?”
She pointed a thumb at the ceiling. “Flew.”
“Welcome aboard. You can have dinner with Jane and me—and maybe Groucho.”
“Skip the sociable stuff, Frank. Tell me about the attempt to murder Manheim.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.
“For some reason,” I mentioned, “Hal Arneson is trying to keep the whole business quiet. Might not be a good idea to annoy them by trying to cover—”
“Let me worry about that, dear. Just provide me with some juicy details.”
“How’d you hear about it anyway?”
“I know some of the kids in the Watch Your Step company and I happened to cross paths with them in Chicago. So?”
I eyed the ceiling for a few seconds. “Okay, and keep in mind that
most of what I know is secondhand,” I began. “I wasn’t a witness to much of anything.”
I then gave May a relatively concise account of what had been going on.
When I concluded my narrative, May stood up, smoothed her skirt and nodded. “If you ask me, kid, little Dian Bowers is a definite jinx.”
“How so?”
“Well, her hubby had a whole stewpot of bad luck trying to get work out on
Arneson came lumbering in and joined her, after glowering across at Groucho.
Groucho raised his water glass in a toasting gesture. “May you fall off a bridge,” he muttered very quietly, smiling falsely.
Turning in his chair, he said to the portly man, “I’m going to start humming again. Is there any special song you’d like to hear?”
Fifteen
W e arrived in Chicago later that morning. In the afternoon, after being partially treated to lunch at a nearby delicatessen that Groucho professed to have fond memories of, we boarded the Twentieth Century Limited for New York City.
This streamliner was a bit more sedate in its décor than the Super Chief, going in for grey and silver rather than bold desert colors.
About fifteen minutes out of the station I decided to find a lounge car and get a cup of coffee. Jane chose to stay in our compartment and work on some notes for her next Hollywood Molly continuity. So I was roaming a swaying corridor alone when a voice exclaimed, “Frank! Just the man I want to see.”
A slim arm reached out through the open doorway of the bedroom I’d been passing and May Sankowitz yanked me inside.
After kissing me enthusiastically on the cheek, she sat me down in a chair and leaned close. “Okay, tell me everything you know.”
“Well, it all began when the world was created in the year four-thousand-four B.C. and the—”
“Dope, I mean about what was going on aboard the Super Chief,” she said, giving me a poke in the ribs and an impatient look. “I got a hunch I can sell some stories to the news syndicates—in addition to my regular magazine assignment.”
“You still with Hollywood Screen Magazine?”
“Not only am I still with them, I was promoted to associate managing editor since last we met.”
“Which means?”
“Fifty bucks a week more.”
May was a small, slim woman getting close to fifty. She was a reddish blonde just now and I’d known her since we both worked for the Los Angeles Times. Then she’d run the lonelyhearts column as Dora Dayton. For the past year or more she’d been writing for the movie fan magazine.
“And how come,” I asked her, “you’re on this train?”
May sighed, closed the toilet, and sat on the padded lid. “Manheim persuaded my nitwit bosses that a blow-by-blow account of his new discovery’s arrival in Manhattan would titillate our multitude of moronic readers. So I’m stuck with writing a travel diary— I Take Manhattan with Dian Bowers . It means making the last lap of the train ride with the allegedly demure actress and following her hither and yon for her first day in New York City.”
“How’d you get to Chicago?”
She pointed a thumb at the ceiling. “Flew.”
“Welcome aboard. You can have dinner with Jane and me—and maybe Groucho.”
“Skip the sociable stuff, Frank. Tell me about the attempt to murder Manheim.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.
“For some reason,” I mentioned, “Hal Arneson is trying to keep the whole business quiet. Might not be a good idea to annoy them by trying to cover—”
“Let me worry about that, dear. Just provide me with some juicy details.”
“How’d you hear about it anyway?”
“I know some of the kids in the Watch Your Step company and I happened to cross paths with them in Chicago. So?”
I eyed the ceiling for a few seconds. “Okay, and keep in mind that
most of what I know is secondhand,” I began. “I wasn’t a witness to much of anything.”
I then gave May a relatively concise account of what had been going on.
When I concluded my narrative, May stood up, smoothed her skirt and nodded. “If you ask me, kid, little Dian Bowers is a definite jinx.”
“How so?”
“Well, her hubby had a whole stewpot of bad luck trying to get work out on
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