Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders Read Free

whispering as she slid to the far side of the wide seat.
    “Which one of us are you addressing that query to, my dear?” asked Groucho as he plumped down close beside her.
    “You, Mr. Marx.”
    “Just as well, because if you were asking Frank here, he’d have grounds for a substantial lawsuit for slander. He’d also have grounds for an attractive off-the-shoulder sunsuit with enough material left over to upholster his love seat.”
    Giggling, she produced an autograph album from her black-leather purse. “I collect signatures.”
    “Well, the only one I have on my person at the moment is that of John Quincy Shapiro. He was supposed to be one of the original signers of the Declaration of Independence, but he got there too late and ended up having to sign the caterer’s bill instead.”
    “No. What I want is your signature.” Opening the book to a blank page, she plopped it down on his lap.
    Our two escorts had settled into the front seat, with the larger at the wheel. The big car came quietly to life and moved away from the curb.
    “And what’s your name, my child?”
    “Bubbles.”
    “I’ll refrain from commenting on that in any way.” He gazed, thoughtfully, out at the streets of Hollywood that we were speeding through. We passed a large, high billboard advertising Beau Geste , Paramount’s new Foreign Legion epic. Groucho frowned in its direction, then scrawled something and returned the autograph album to the pretty blonde.
    Nearsighted apparently, Bubbles brought the page up close to her eye-shadowed eyes. “‘Best wishes, Groucho Marx,’” she read aloud, sounding a bit disappointed. “Gee, that’s not especially witty.”
    “Alas, kiddo,” he said, “I’m never at my wittiest when I’m in the process of being dragooned and kidnapped.”

    “Hey,” said the smaller hoodlum, glowering back at us. “Don’t talk like that, Mr. Marx. This is just a friendly little drive.”
    Groucho sighed. “Oh, forgive me for being such a silly goose,” he said. “But even a friendly kidnapping gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
     
     
    W e were driven to a hoping-to-be fashionable new Italian restaurant just off La Cienega. Its name, emblazoned in white script on the blue awning out front, was Fior d’Italia. The long dark car parked in the small, nearly empty lot behind the place.
    Bubbles remained in the backseat. “I hope I meet you again when you’re in a better mood, Mr. Marx,” she called as we were led toward the restaurant.
    “If I’d been in a better mood,” he called back, “I’d probably have assaulted you. So count your blessings. You might, in fact, also count the silverware, since I suspect—”
    “It’s not a very good idea,” suggested the larger gangster, “to flirt with the boss’s current fiancée.”
    “Well, send around a few of his former fiancées then and I’ll charm them.”
    Another large man in a dark suit opened the restaurant’s rear door from the inside, glared out, and eyed our group. “Okay,” he said, giving a come-in nod of his head.
    We were ushered along a narrow hallway and into a large, brand-new kitchen.
    Vince Salermo himself, decked out in a striped apron and a fluffy chef’s hat, was squatting near one of the ovens, studying a baking dish that held lasagna. Salermo was a small, compact man in his early fifties, deeply tanned and a shade taller than five foot four. He stood up and smiled at us.
    Lounging around the kitchen were three other large young men in suits, all of whom gave the impression that they were armed.

    “Good to see you, Groucho, Frank,” said Salermo as he carefully shut the oven.
    “Does the health department know your kitchen is infested with goniffs?” inquired Groucho.
    The small gangster scowled, removing his high white hat. “Hey, I don’t mind a little good-natured kidding, Groucho, but—”
    “I assure you, Vincent, that I’m always extremely good-natured with anybody wearing anything that remotely resembles a