Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders Read Online Free PDF

very proud of this new discovery of mine and, I might add, we’ve just heard that the author of Saint Joan, none other than George Bernard Shaw himself, has just viewed a rough cut of the film, which we rushed to him in England. The word is that GBS is raving about it.”
    Lumbard said, “They say he’s not only raving, he’s screaming, yelling, and threatening to sic his pack of lawyers on you, Manheim.”
    “This is no place for making jokes, Gil,” the hefty producer told him. “Dian’s performance in my production of Saint Joan is—”
    “I know I saw you in B Westerns, honey,” persisted Lenzer, pushing closer to the uneasy actress.
    “No, you must be mistaken, Mr. Lenzer,” Dian replied softly. “As Mr. Manheim has explained, this is my very first film and—”
    “Who’d believe that son of a bitch?” asked a lean young man who’d just come up to the edge of the group surrounding the producer and his protégée.
    “One of the dancers,” whispered Jane.
    “Not too smart for a Hollywood hopeful to malign Manheim,” I whispered back. “Even if he is a little soused.”
    “Young man, you’re interrupting,” said Manheim evenly.
    Ignoring him, the young dancer said to the reporters, “Why don’t you ask him about Kathy Sutter?” His voice was too loud, and had a blurred edge to it. “See what he has to say about her .”
    Hal Arneson had worked his way over to him. “What say, sonny, you lay off the heckling?” He took hold of his upper arm, tightly.
    “What say you take a flying leap at the moon, you god damn Gestapo.” He started to swing at the big troubleshooter.
    Arneson grinned, dodged, and caught the fist. He used the arm as a lever to turn the angry dancer around. “You keep acting up, kid, and the station cops are going to haul you away,” he warned. “Calm down, huh, and go catch your train.”

    “C’mon, Len, let’s get aboard.” A platinum blonde, not more than nineteen, caught the young guy’s hand. “Better take it easy.”
    “But that bastard …” He didn’t finish the sentence, shook his head instead. Scowling, he jerked free of Arneson’s grasp. “Okay, all right. For now.” He let the blonde dancer lead him away.
    As Jane and I continued on our way, she said, “Intrigue always enlivens a train trip.”
    I was glancing around the big waiting room, scanning the place. “Um,” I muttered.
    “What’s the matter, Frank?”
    “Nothing,” I replied. “It’s only that I thought maybe Groucho would be here to see us off.”
    “Did he say he would?”
    “Nope, not exactly,” I admitted. “But he asked a lot of questions about which train we were taking, and when it was leaving.” I glanced around again. “I guess he’s not here, though.”
    “Count your blessings,” she advised.
     
     
    T he Santa Fe Super Chief was an impressively streamlined diesel train. It consisted of nine gleaming stainless-steel cars and its sharp-nosed engine, which was painted a bright red and gold in a design that was supposed to suggest an Indian war bonnet. Just sitting there on the tracks beside the night platform, the train gave the impression it was surging ahead.
    “Nice design,” I commented as we headed back in the direction of our train car.
    Jane said, “Doesn’t Buck Rogers fly around in something that looks a lot like our engine?”
    “You’re thinking of Flash Gordon.”
    Up ahead of us some fifteen feet or so Willa Jerome and the two people we’d seen having dinner with her were walking. The chubby blonde
man was seriously unstable on his feet and kept swaying into the actress.
    “Honestly, Phil,” Willa said, frowning and giving him a small shove. “Try and stay upright at least until we reach our drawing room, can’t you?”
    “Sorry, my pet.” He was carrying what looked like a medical bag and as he stumbled away from her side, it became entangled with his legs. “Oops.”
    The plain young woman in glasses reached out to catch him, but he