Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

fell over and landed, hard, on the platform.
    He let go of the black bag, which hit the planks with a rattling thunk.
    Sprinting forward, I bent beside the sprawled man. “You okay?”
    “Perfectly fine and in ship shape,” he assured me in a boozy murmur. “I simply completely and totally lost the ability to navigate. Nothing serious.”
    I took hold of his arm. “C’mon, I’ll help you up.”
    “That’s very Good Samaritan of you, old man,” he said, exhaling a breath that was strongly scented with the odor of Mexican beer and stale bourbon.
    After some grunting and creaking on his part, we got him into a standing position.
    The young woman, who I figured must be Willa’s secretary, said to me, “Thank you very much. Dr. Dowling’s getting over a bout of influenza and he’s wobbly.”
    “Four beers didn’t help much either,” added Willa, who was watching us, frowning, arms folded.
    “Three beers,” the plump doctor corrected. “And thank you, sir. I’m in your debt.”
    “All part of our friendly service,” I said.
    “If you have a headache during our trip East or find yourself in the need of minor surgery, give a holler,” said Dr. Dowling, brushing at his suit.

    “You’d be better off calling Dr. Kildare.” Willa snatched his black bag up off the platform and thrust it at him. “Let’s move along, Philip.”
    She turned on her heel and started off. The tipsy doctor, after taking a deep breath, went wobbling along after her.
    The secretary said, “Thank you again,” and hurried away in their wake.
    Jane said, “That must be Philip Dowling.”
    “That was the name that was bandied about, yeah.”
    “He’s Willa Jerome’s personal physician. Travels with her, holds her hand between scenes on the set,” she said. “Must be nice to have a personal physician.”
    “I’m happier with a personal cartoonist,” I said, taking her hand again. “Here’s the car we’re looking for.”
    A porter was waiting for us just outside Compartment F. “Good evening, folks. I’m Earl Johnson and I’ll be looking after you on your Super Chief trip to Chicago. And I’ll see that you change trains for New York,” he explained. “The journey to Chicago takes exactly thirty-nine-and-a-half hours, give or take a half hour.”
    “My husband needs all the looking after he can get,” said Jane. “Did our luggage get here?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I took care of that myself,” Johnson answered. “First call for dinner is at eight-thirty You want me to put you down for—”
    “We already ate, thanks.” I handed him four bits. “That’ll do for now.”
    “Welcome aboard, folks,” he said and moved along the corridor.
    “Want me to carry you across the threshold?” I asked Jane.
    “Not necessary.” She stepped into our compartment.
    I followed and slid the door shut behind us. “Roomy.”
    “And Venetian blinds on the windows.”
    “For an extra thirty-nine bucks, they’d better include Venetian blinds.”
    “Hey, my newspaper syndicate is paying for all this, remember?”

    “Are you implying that I can’t afford to keep my wife in Venetian blinds?”
    Smiling, she came over and hugged me. “Let’s pretend we won this trip playing Bingo. Then you won’t feel like a kept man. Okay?”
    “If I were a kept man, we’d be traveling in a drawing room.” I kissed her.
     
     
    T he streamlined Super Chief glided out of Union Station at about ten minutes after eight. Nighttime Los Angeles rapidly grew up all around us, our view sliced by the Venetian blinds.
    Out in the corridor a steward went by, striking that sort of miniature glockenspiel they carry, and announcing, “First call to dinner. First call to dinner.”
    Jane had taken her shoes off and was sitting on our narrow streamlined reddish-brown couch, her legs tucked under her. “Can I confess something?”
    “So long as it doesn’t involve any criminal activities you were involved in before our marriage.”
    “It’s just that