the coast. Nick Sanantonio got himself gunned down in the street. Now Manheim is attacked while—”
“Whoa, wait. What does that dead gambler have to do with Dian?”
May made an impatient noise, sat down again, crossed her legs. “As I understand it, Dian Bowers had a very hot and heavy little romantic affair with the late Mr. Sanantonio. So much so that Manheim went through the ceiling and ordered his sweet little saint to knock it off or he’d make it extremely tough for all concerned.”
“She looks like a very sweet and innocent young—”
“Hey, dummy, she’s an actress, remember? Acting innocent isn’t that tough,” the writer reminded me. “I’m not saying she’s a tramp or anything like that, but she hasn’t been especially loyal to her estranged husband. I hear, though, that she hasn’t given in to Manheim so far.”
“Gosh, between you and Johnny Whistler all my boyish beliefs are getting shattered.”
May cupped both hands around one knee and leaned back. “Sanantonio was quite a tomcat, especially with ladies in the movies,” she said. “For a while, a few months back, Willa Jerome and he were a very hot item.”
“She’s on this train, too.”
“I know, Frank dear, which is why I dropped her name.”
I asked, “Any ideas about a motive for trying to stick a knife in Manheim?”
She shrugged. “Too many candidates for the job,” she said. “A large
percentage of the Hollywood population isn’t especially fond of the guy.”
“Has to have been somebody who was on the Super Chief.”
“Sure, but not necessarily somebody whose name is on the passenger list, Frank,” she pointed out. “Like me, somebody could’ve flown out of LA. Caught up with the train, hopped aboard, made a try for the bastard, and hopped off.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Are you and Groucho doing your detective act again?”
“Not anymore, no,” I assured her and explained about Manheim’s requesting that we lay off.
May said, “The world might be a better place if you guys did forget the whole darn thing and let somebody knock Manheim off.”
“Possibly, although I would like to know who conked me on the head.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t mention that before, Frank. Tell me about it.”
I told her about it.
A s Groucho was about to enter the dining car, with a copy of Variety tucked under his arm, a plump woman in a flower-print dress and a fox fur entered the corridor.
She recognized him, gasped, and exclaimed, “Groucho Marx!”
“What a coincidence. That’s my name, too.”
After taking a deep breath, she told him, “My son wants to be just like you.”
“You mean the poor lad wants to be middle-aged, wrinkled, balding, and incontinent?”
“No, no. He wants to be a movie comedian and you’re his absolute favorite,” she explained. “Why, he worships the ground you walk on.”
“Ah, then I’m sorry I walked through the stockyards during the layover in Chicago.”
Smiling and frowning at the same time, the plump woman said, “He’s seen all the Marx Brothers movies at least three times. And he knows every line in A Night at the Opera by heart.”
“That’s something. Chico never even knew all of his own lines.” He prepared to circle the woman and push on into the dining car.
She extracted a sheet of blank hotel stationery from her purse. “Could you sign this for him?”
Groucho accepted the sheet, rested it against the corridor wall, and uncapped his fountain pen. “What’s the lad’s name?”
“Stanley.”
“‘Dear Stanley,’” Groucho said aloud as he wrote, “‘your mother picked my pocket on the Twentieth Century Limited. I’ll let it go this time, but if she does it again I suggest you have her carted away. Your humble servant, Elihu Root (a.k.a. Groucho Marx).’”
As he handed the sheet of paper back to her, she said, “You’re a funny man, Mr. Marx.”
“One of us has to be and, alas, the task fell to me.” He
“Whoa, wait. What does that dead gambler have to do with Dian?”
May made an impatient noise, sat down again, crossed her legs. “As I understand it, Dian Bowers had a very hot and heavy little romantic affair with the late Mr. Sanantonio. So much so that Manheim went through the ceiling and ordered his sweet little saint to knock it off or he’d make it extremely tough for all concerned.”
“She looks like a very sweet and innocent young—”
“Hey, dummy, she’s an actress, remember? Acting innocent isn’t that tough,” the writer reminded me. “I’m not saying she’s a tramp or anything like that, but she hasn’t been especially loyal to her estranged husband. I hear, though, that she hasn’t given in to Manheim so far.”
“Gosh, between you and Johnny Whistler all my boyish beliefs are getting shattered.”
May cupped both hands around one knee and leaned back. “Sanantonio was quite a tomcat, especially with ladies in the movies,” she said. “For a while, a few months back, Willa Jerome and he were a very hot item.”
“She’s on this train, too.”
“I know, Frank dear, which is why I dropped her name.”
I asked, “Any ideas about a motive for trying to stick a knife in Manheim?”
She shrugged. “Too many candidates for the job,” she said. “A large
percentage of the Hollywood population isn’t especially fond of the guy.”
“Has to have been somebody who was on the Super Chief.”
“Sure, but not necessarily somebody whose name is on the passenger list, Frank,” she pointed out. “Like me, somebody could’ve flown out of LA. Caught up with the train, hopped aboard, made a try for the bastard, and hopped off.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Are you and Groucho doing your detective act again?”
“Not anymore, no,” I assured her and explained about Manheim’s requesting that we lay off.
May said, “The world might be a better place if you guys did forget the whole darn thing and let somebody knock Manheim off.”
“Possibly, although I would like to know who conked me on the head.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t mention that before, Frank. Tell me about it.”
I told her about it.
A s Groucho was about to enter the dining car, with a copy of Variety tucked under his arm, a plump woman in a flower-print dress and a fox fur entered the corridor.
She recognized him, gasped, and exclaimed, “Groucho Marx!”
“What a coincidence. That’s my name, too.”
After taking a deep breath, she told him, “My son wants to be just like you.”
“You mean the poor lad wants to be middle-aged, wrinkled, balding, and incontinent?”
“No, no. He wants to be a movie comedian and you’re his absolute favorite,” she explained. “Why, he worships the ground you walk on.”
“Ah, then I’m sorry I walked through the stockyards during the layover in Chicago.”
Smiling and frowning at the same time, the plump woman said, “He’s seen all the Marx Brothers movies at least three times. And he knows every line in A Night at the Opera by heart.”
“That’s something. Chico never even knew all of his own lines.” He prepared to circle the woman and push on into the dining car.
She extracted a sheet of blank hotel stationery from her purse. “Could you sign this for him?”
Groucho accepted the sheet, rested it against the corridor wall, and uncapped his fountain pen. “What’s the lad’s name?”
“Stanley.”
“‘Dear Stanley,’” Groucho said aloud as he wrote, “‘your mother picked my pocket on the Twentieth Century Limited. I’ll let it go this time, but if she does it again I suggest you have her carted away. Your humble servant, Elihu Root (a.k.a. Groucho Marx).’”
As he handed the sheet of paper back to her, she said, “You’re a funny man, Mr. Marx.”
“One of us has to be and, alas, the task fell to me.” He
Similar Books
