At a little after seven the next morning, Jane appeared in the doorway to her bedroom. “There’s a strange creature scratching at my front door,” she announced.
I sat up in bed, blinking. “You’re not referring to Groucho?”
“No, this is a four-footed strange creature. Come take a look.” She was already dressed, wearing a tan skirt and a white blouse.
I hopped free of the tangle of blankets and sheets, tugged on my pants and worked my way into my shirt. Shoeless, I followed her across her living room.
The morning was overcast and out over the ocean gulls were making complaining squawks.
Some kind of claws were scratching at the wooden panels of Jane’s closed front door. And there were also low whimpering, slobbering noises to be heard.
I opened the door, gingerly, a very few inches. “Who are you?” I asked the mournful-looking hound who was looking up at me.
He cocked his head to one side, panting enthusiastically.
“Allow me, suh, to introduce you to Dorgan,” said Groucho, who walked into view from out of the misty morning. “A genuine southern-fried bloodhound.”
I crouched and held out my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dorgan.”
The dog sat and held out a forepaw. “Why are you here, several hours ahead of schedule, Groucho, and accompanied by this cartoon dog?”
“Let me explain the hound first,” he said. When he lowered himself onto the top step of Jane’s porch next to me, Dorgan waddled over and rubbed against him, licking Groucho’s cheek with a long moist tongue. “Save that romantic stuff for later, mutt.”
“Good morning, Groucho,” said Jane, leaning against the doorjamb and smiling out at us. “What is that thing?”
“Dorgan happens to be a genuine bloodhound,” explained Groucho, attempting to dissuade the dog from expressing quite so much affection for him. “I borrowed him from a lifelong chum of mine, whom I’ve known for well over a year. He trains animals for the films and happens to have this crackerjack bloodhound in his menagerie.”
“You intend to take Dorgan up to Lake Sombra with us, huh?” I realized. “To help us search for traces of Babs McLaughlin.”
“Actually, Rollo, it turns out that you are going to take this worthy canine up to the woodland glades,” he corrected. “And to help you in your quest, I’m entrusting to you this handkerchief I purloined from one of Babs McLaughlin’s other autos just as dawn was tripping in on little cat feet this morning. Or whatever it is dawn does at such an ungodly hour. Give Dorgan a whiff, then tell him to go find the lady.”
“Wait a minute, Groucho,” I said, accepting the proffered silk hanky. “As I recall, you were extolling the team spirit only last night. We were going up to the Shadow Lodge area, side by side and hand in hand, to ferret out clues together.”
“Well, there’s been a change of plans, Rollo, and you’re going to have to ferret alone,” he said, shaking his head. “As you may’ve heard, Harpo, also known as the musical Rover Boy, is scheduled to perform this evening at the Hollywood Bowl. Why otherwise rational people would want to sit out in the open air and risk respiratory illnesses merely to hear my brother plunk on a harp is one of the great mysteries of the world.”
“So you’ve decided to attend the concert, is that it?” asked Jane.
“Alas, no, dear child,” he said, sighing. “I’ve allowed my cold, ruthless heart to be melted by the pleas of my hapless sibling. It seems Adolph injured his hand while playing croquet yesterday afternoon with a group of his intellectual chums from the snobbish East.” Groucho put a restraining hand on the panting dog and stood up. “I’m alluding to Adolph ‘Harpo’ Marx and not Adolf Hitler, by the way.”
“Come on,” said Jane, eying him. “You don’t mean that you’re going to take his place, do you? If they paid to hear harp music, are they going to sit still for a guitar and selections from Gilbert and Sullivan?”
Groucho pressed a palm over his heart. “You haven’t, sweet innocent that you are, grasped the full extent of my perfidy,” he told her. “Nor, for that matter, the full extent of my stupidity. In a rash moment, I agreed to impersonate Harpo.”
“Impersonate him?” I said, quite loudly.
The bloodhound’s ears pricked up and he glanced at me.
“Can you play a harp?” asked Jane as the dog began to howl.
“Hush, Dorgan,” suggested Groucho. “There’s no trick to playing a harp, Jane. And, keep in mind, all the Marx boys have an ear for music. However, playing a harp with one’s ear is a feat that calls for extreme skill and concentration. I could go on and say something about playing a harp with one’s feet, but I’m hoping someone will call a halt to this whole chain of thought.”
“You really think you can bring it off?” I asked him.
“I was asked similar rude questions when I announced my plans for flying the Atlantic solo, Rollo,” he said. “And that was only last week.” He knelt beside Dorgan and glared at him. “Cease this yowling.”
The dog stopped and resumed licking Groucho’s face.
Jane said, “Frank, you can’t drive up to Lake Sombra and back alone and look after that creature.”
“If I went on this jaunt,” said Groucho, standing again, “it would be impossible to get back to Los Angeles in time for the concert tonight. Besides which, blood is thicker than water. Though nowhere near as good for washing out your delicate things in.”
“I’ll go along with you, Frank,” said Jane. “Unless you two want to postpone the trip until tomorrow.”
“Time is of the essence,” reminded Groucho. “On top of which, we don’t have the use of Dorgan for very long. In two days he’s due over at Hal Roach’s wickiup to star in an Our Gang epic.”
When Groucho said Our Gang, the dog began to howl again.
I moved over beside Jane. “You can’t go with me, you have to report back to Tommerlin and toil away on Hillbilly Willie.”
“I’ll tell Rod I caught his cold and am staying home for a day.”
Groucho’s eyebrows rose. “I can’t believe, Little Nell, that you would tell such a fib.”
“Hanging around with you two has eroded my moral sense,” she said.
“Ah, you’re commencing to sound like my sort of woman,” he told her. “Well, my children, I must be going. I popped over bright and early to explain my plight and to deliver this splendid specimen of doghood. If you’d like a splendid specimen of dogwood, along with selected splinters from the True Cross, send ten dollars along with your name and address to the Convent of the Little Sisters of the Poor. Allow five to six weeks for delivery and then forget about the whole darn thing.” He bowed toward Jane, patted Dorgan on the head. “Stay, boy, you’re working for Master Frank now.”
The dog stopped howling and licked at my bare feet.