entered the dining car.
Jane and I were already there, seated at a table midway along.
“He looks gloomy,” observed my wife as Groucho came slouching toward us.
“He always looks gloomy. Most great clowns are tragic figures at—”
“I bet it has something to do with that Variety he’s clutching.”
“Greetings, my children.” Groucho seated himself across from us, placed the tabloid on the table in front of him. “Who would you say, offhand, is the greatest interpreter of Gilbert and Sullivan in the entire civilized world?”
“Martyn Green?” suggested Jane.
“Let me rephrase the question,” he said. “Who’s the world’s greatest interpreter of Gilbert and Sullivan who happens to be sitting at this table with you?”
“You?” she asked.
“Right the first time.” Groucho turned to an inside page of the show
business paper. “Someone left this periodical in the observation car and, borrowing it, I discover therein the news that there have already been not one but two versions of The Mikado on Broadway this year.”
“Sure, The Swing Mikado and The Hot Mikado, ” said Jane. “Both flopped, so they won’t be competing with you.”
“Even so, it plants the notion in the public mind that The Mikado is a clinker,” complained Groucho. “They’ll think it’s another Room Service.”
“You’re giving them the tried-and-true version,” I pointed out. “Not a swing adaptation.”
“People will flock to see you,” predicted Jane. “Don’t fret.”
“Well, I have to admit I am a potentially fabled performer in the Gilbert and Sullivan area,” he said with obvious false modesty. “Why, not since the glorious days when D’Oyly Carte first staged The Mikado —or even earlier, when they put the D’Oyly Carte before the horse—has anyone performed Gilbert and Sullivan the way I do.”
“All too true,” acknowledged Jane.
He closed the tabloid. “Let’s just hope that Olsen and Johnson don’t decide to do their version,” he said and picked up his menu card.
“I found out something interesting about the case,” I told him.
“We don’t have a case, Watson,” he reminded. “You are but a humble radio writer and I am a roving Savoyard. We are not in the gumshoe trade at the moment.”
“You ought” put in Jane, “to hear this anyway, Groucho.”
“Very well, my boy, you may tell me. But please don’t use that annoying Swedish accent you’ve been affecting of late.”
Nodding, I filled him in on what I’d found out from May Sankowitz about the romances the late Nick Sanantonio had allegedly carried on with Dian Bowers and Willa Jerome. I concluded, “I’m not exactly sure it has a damn thing to do with what happened to Manheim and Arneson. But it is sort of interesting.”
“Like the flowers that bloom in the spring, Rollo, it probably has nothing to do with the case.” Leaning back in his chair, Groucho took a
cigar out of his coat pocket. “Big-time gamblers tend to be irresistible to women. Chico’s the same way. Whereas myself, who limits his activities in that area to bingo and pitching pennies, am notably unlucky in love.”
“Did you know about Dian and Sanantonio?” Jane asked him.
He shook his head. “I hadn’t the faintest scintilla of a notion,” he admitted. “Matter of fact, up until last Tuesday I didn’t even know what a scintilla was.” Unwrapping the cigar, he lit it. “But, since we no longer have any interest in this particular mess, I’m not going to worry my pretty little head about who’s doing what to whom.” He exhaled smoke. “I advise you two cherubs to do the same.”
T he streamliner was clacking through the night and we were in the vicinity of Cleveland. From the lower bunk Jane said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“No good will come of it.” Up in my berth I’d been reading the new issue of Black Mask I’d picked up at a newsstand in the Chicago railroad station. I estimated I was less than five
Jane and I were already there, seated at a table midway along.
“He looks gloomy,” observed my wife as Groucho came slouching toward us.
“He always looks gloomy. Most great clowns are tragic figures at—”
“I bet it has something to do with that Variety he’s clutching.”
“Greetings, my children.” Groucho seated himself across from us, placed the tabloid on the table in front of him. “Who would you say, offhand, is the greatest interpreter of Gilbert and Sullivan in the entire civilized world?”
“Martyn Green?” suggested Jane.
“Let me rephrase the question,” he said. “Who’s the world’s greatest interpreter of Gilbert and Sullivan who happens to be sitting at this table with you?”
“You?” she asked.
“Right the first time.” Groucho turned to an inside page of the show
business paper. “Someone left this periodical in the observation car and, borrowing it, I discover therein the news that there have already been not one but two versions of The Mikado on Broadway this year.”
“Sure, The Swing Mikado and The Hot Mikado, ” said Jane. “Both flopped, so they won’t be competing with you.”
“Even so, it plants the notion in the public mind that The Mikado is a clinker,” complained Groucho. “They’ll think it’s another Room Service.”
“You’re giving them the tried-and-true version,” I pointed out. “Not a swing adaptation.”
“People will flock to see you,” predicted Jane. “Don’t fret.”
“Well, I have to admit I am a potentially fabled performer in the Gilbert and Sullivan area,” he said with obvious false modesty. “Why, not since the glorious days when D’Oyly Carte first staged The Mikado —or even earlier, when they put the D’Oyly Carte before the horse—has anyone performed Gilbert and Sullivan the way I do.”
“All too true,” acknowledged Jane.
He closed the tabloid. “Let’s just hope that Olsen and Johnson don’t decide to do their version,” he said and picked up his menu card.
“I found out something interesting about the case,” I told him.
“We don’t have a case, Watson,” he reminded. “You are but a humble radio writer and I am a roving Savoyard. We are not in the gumshoe trade at the moment.”
“You ought” put in Jane, “to hear this anyway, Groucho.”
“Very well, my boy, you may tell me. But please don’t use that annoying Swedish accent you’ve been affecting of late.”
Nodding, I filled him in on what I’d found out from May Sankowitz about the romances the late Nick Sanantonio had allegedly carried on with Dian Bowers and Willa Jerome. I concluded, “I’m not exactly sure it has a damn thing to do with what happened to Manheim and Arneson. But it is sort of interesting.”
“Like the flowers that bloom in the spring, Rollo, it probably has nothing to do with the case.” Leaning back in his chair, Groucho took a
cigar out of his coat pocket. “Big-time gamblers tend to be irresistible to women. Chico’s the same way. Whereas myself, who limits his activities in that area to bingo and pitching pennies, am notably unlucky in love.”
“Did you know about Dian and Sanantonio?” Jane asked him.
He shook his head. “I hadn’t the faintest scintilla of a notion,” he admitted. “Matter of fact, up until last Tuesday I didn’t even know what a scintilla was.” Unwrapping the cigar, he lit it. “But, since we no longer have any interest in this particular mess, I’m not going to worry my pretty little head about who’s doing what to whom.” He exhaled smoke. “I advise you two cherubs to do the same.”
T he streamliner was clacking through the night and we were in the vicinity of Cleveland. From the lower bunk Jane said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“No good will come of it.” Up in my berth I’d been reading the new issue of Black Mask I’d picked up at a newsstand in the Chicago railroad station. I estimated I was less than five
Similar Books
