The fat man in the rumpled sharkskin suit dropped his big shopping bag as Groucho emerged from the elevator on the third floor of the vast Marcus Department Store.
“I know who you are,” he exclaimed, clasping his plump hands together and producing a chuckling sort of sound inside himself someplace.
Groucho rushed up to him, taking long bent-knee steps, and clutched the fat man’s upper left arm. “Then, praise the Lord, you’re the very person I’m seeking,” he confided. “I’ve been suffering from a nasty bout of amnesia for days now and, myself, have absolutely no idea who I am.” He let go of the perplexed shopper’s arm, took a step back and drew a fresh cigar out of his breast pocket. “You can’t imagine, Mr. Hoffenstein, how serious a handicap amnesia can be to a—”
“My name isn’t Hoffenstein,” he put in. “I’m Edwin Silbersack.”
Groucho gave a sad shake of his head. “Ah, then this is far worse than I supposed. Not only don’t I remember who I am—gad, I don’t even remember who you are.”
“But you’ve never seen me before in your life.”
“There now, Silbersack, no need to humor me. I’m sure we spent many happy childhood days together on the old plantation back—”
“I’m from Cleveland.”
“Right you are, Cleveland is not noted for a high incidence of plantations.” Groucho put the new cigar between his teeth. “Well, Edwin, this little strange interlude has cheered me up no end. And now, as it must to all men, I have to be up and doing.” Taking hold of the fat man’s right hand, he shook it vigorously.
“Well, nice to have met you, Mr. Marx.”
Groucho had gone a few steps, but he halted, turned back and scowled. “What did you just call me?”
“Mr. Marx. You’re Groucho Marx.”
He dropped both hands to his sides and sighed profoundly. “Really? Darn,” he said. “I was hoping I’d turn out to be Randolph Scott or, at the very least, Tom Mix. Somebody who’d look good on a horse. Because I got this horse as a present on my last birthday and the poor creature has just been standing around in the parlor, shifting from hoof to hoof, waiting for somebody to mount him.” He sighed once more and then moved on.
“You can’t smoke within the store, sir.” A very slim and sleek floorwalker, wearing striped trousers, morning coat and white carnation, placed himself directly in Groucho’s path.
“What gave you the idea, my good man, that I was intending to smoke?”
“That big fat cigar you’ve got dangling from—” The floorwalker recognized him then. “Oh, forgive me, Mr. Marx. I didn’t immediately realize it was you. I mean, since you don’t have a moustache in real life, I—”
“What’s that you say?” Groucho brought up his free hand and patted at the clean-shaven skin immediately under his nose. “This is outrageous. I was in possession of a fine bushy moustache when I entered this shabby flea market and unless restitution is made I intend to sue. Well, possibly if prostitution is made, I’d settle for that.”
The floorwalker giggled. “You’re a very witty fellow, Mr. Marx.”
“That’s what they all keep telling me in my Girl Scout troop, yes,” said Groucho. “Could you direct me to the vicinity of Sally St. Clair. They informed me down in the personnel office that she worked here on the third floor.”
“That’s right, Mr. Marx,” he answered, giggling again. “I simply must tell you that the stateroom scene in A Night at the Opera is the funniest—”
“No, Chauncy, what you simply must tell me is how the heck to find Sally St. Clair.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
“And well you should be, my lad.”
“Miss St. Clair is in Kitchenware.”
Shaking his head, Groucho addressed a skinny youth who’d paused to listen. “Wouldn’t you know it? If only he’d said she was in Women’s Underwear, I’m nearly certain I could’ve come up with some pithy rejoinder,” he explained. “Or even if he’d told me she worked in Men’s Hats, I might’ve been able to dredge up a cute saying. But Kitchenware just doesn’t inspire.”
The young man laughed. “I know who you are,” he said shyly.
“Too late, sonny,” Groucho informed him. “We’ve already done that routine. Now then, Chauncy, point me toward Sally.”
“I’ll do better than that, Mr. Marx, I’ll personally escort you to her,” he said. “Just walk this way.”
Groucho followed, saying to the skinny young man, “I’m not even going to respond to an obvious setup like that.”
* * *
Sally St. Clair was pale, blond, thin and weary-looking. She and Groucho were, with the permission of the floorwalker, sitting at a metal-topped patio table in the Outdoor Furniture section. Two imitation potted palms loomed up on Groucho’s right.
“No,” the thin girl was saying, “Peg would never commit suicide.”
Resting his elbows on the tabletop, he said, “Okay, we agree about that. What I’m anxious to find out, Sally, is what really happened.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t, you know, seen much of Peg in the past few months, Mr. Marx. But…”
“But what?”
“Well, I did run into her, of all places, at the Farmers’ Market a couple weeks ago,” she said. “Peg looked swell and she was really excited.”
“She tell you why?”
“Yes, she was going to sign a long-term movie contract.”
“I’ve heard about that. Three years with Paragon.”
“No, no, Mr. Marx.” Sally shook her head again. “She had something in the works with Monarch.”
“Monarch—you sure about that?”
“I am, yeah. I’d heard gossip about the Paragon deal and I asked her if she didn’t mean Paragon. She laughed and said that Paragon was a second-rate outfit and that she was going to be working for the biggest studio in Hollywood,” Sally explained. “Peg even told me that old man Kurtzman himself was going to make her the offer.”
Groucho absently twisted the tip of an imitation palm frond around his forefinger. “Kurtzman was going to do this, huh? But he hadn’t actually made the offer yet?”
“That’s right, but she seemed awful smug about it. They were going to sign her and soon as they did, she’d see that Monarch found some work for me, too.”
Letting go of the palm frond, Groucho said, “What about the fellows Peg was friendly with? Do you have any idea who she’s been dating lately?”
“We didn’t get around to talking about that when I ran into her.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Back when you were seeing her, you know, there were other guys, too.”
“Yeah, I knew Peg wasn’t especially faithful,” he acknowledged. “That’s only fair really, since Peg wasn’t the only young lady—and that’s not even including my wife—that I was wooing at the time.”
“You know who Shel Leverson is, don’t you?”
“A hoodlum,” answered Groucho. “He one of Peg’s beaus?”
“She never told me that, but somebody else did about six months ago.”
“Leverson is the right-hand man—or maybe it’s the left-hand man—of Vince Salermo, king of the gamblers,” said Groucho. “Not nice guys.”
“I think she was pretty much a decent girl,” Sally said. “But, you know, she got a kick out of taking risks. It was fun to her to date a punk like Leverson or to go down to Tijuana and gamble or…” Her voice trailed off. “Well, really, that’s about all I know.”
“If you remember anything else, give me a call, huh?”
Her laugh was brief and dry. “C’mon, Mr. Marx, your servants wouldn’t even put me through to you.”
He gave her a phone number. “I’m the only one who answers that particular phone, Sally.” He started to get up.
She caught at his coat sleeve. “Listen, I’m not much of a dancer anymore,” she told him. “But I think I can still do bit parts. If you run into anybody who—”
“I’ll have Zeppo give you a call.”
“An agent like him will never phone me.”
Groucho sat down again and took her hand. “He’ll phone you,” he promised her. “You have my word.”
She pulled her hand free. “We’ll see,” she said.