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taking off a goodly portion of my clothes.”
    “I’ll take the plain, please.”
    He wrote his name on the page beneath the prior inscription. “And now you have my permission to make a graceful exit.”
    The woman took her autograph book, smiled a bit tentatively at all three of us, and returned to her table. She and a thickset young guy who might have been her son were seated one table down from where Dian Bowers was sitting, somewhat uneasily, alone.

    As Groucho took up the order slip, he frowned thoughtfully. “By Jove, Rollo, that young wench yonder looks deucedly familiar.”
    “She’s Dian Bowers,” I told him. “You know, Daniel Manheim’s newest discovery.”
    “Saint Joan,” added Jane.
    Groucho glanced again over his shoulder at the solitary actress. “I have the distinct impression I knew her before she achieved sainthood.” Concentrating on his order form, he wrote out what he wanted for dinner. “The next time I run into Fred Harvey, or any of his girls, I’m going to remind him that pastrami and lox ought to be staples on the Super Chief menu. After all, if the Donner Party had traveled with pastrami, they … no, her name isn’t Dian Bowers.”
    Jane said, “Manheim probably rechristened her.”
    Dr. Dowling had entered the dining car from the direction of the cocktail lounge. He was less rumpled and his hair was neatly combed, but he still looked considerably wobbly on his feet.
    When the train went around a slight curve in the tracks, the doctor lurched and bumped into Dian’s table. “Well, good evening, Miss Bowers,” he said in a blurry voice. “Mind if I join you for dinner? Of course not.”
    As he lowered himself into a green-backed chair, the young actress said quietly, “I’m expecting someone to join me.”
    “Nobody here,” the doctor pointed out, gesturing vaguely at the empty chairs. “Other than us, that is. So we can have a pleasant tête-à-tête until—”
    “Really, no. I’m afraid that would only cause a good deal of—”
    “Nonsense, my dear. Now, if I can find the wine list, I’ll order us a—”
    “Miss Bowers is going to be dining with Mr. Manheim.” Arneson, who’d apparently been watching from between cars, had come into the dining area and swiftly moved up behind the tipsy physician.
    “It seems to me that the young lady ought to be the one who—”

    “Sit elsewhere.” Arneson took hold of Dr. Dowling by the coat collar and lifted him, effortlessly, clean up out of the chair.
    “Well, when you put it that way.” Back on his feet, Dowling tottered off, walking a weaving course through the car and out the far door.
    “I’m sure Daniel will be joining you shortly, Dian.” Nodding at her, Arneson withdrew from the car.
    “Bless my soul,” said Groucho. “I recognize her now. She had a bit part in A Day at the Races . Back then she was a blonde named Nancy Washburn, a struggling actress married to a struggling actor named Jim Washburn. He specialized in playing the handsome sidekick to assorted aging cowboy actors.” He rose up from his seat. “I’ll mosey over and say howdy.”
    “You’re liable,” warned Jane, “to get hoisted up by your collar.”
    “That oversized golem wouldn’t risk soiling his mitts on my coat collar, kiddo.”
    Groucho crossed to the other side of the car and bowed to the actress. “Nice seeing you again, Nancy,” he said, smiling.
    She looked up, tilted her head slightly to the right. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Marx,” she said quietly. “My name is Dian Bowers and we’ve never met.”
    Arneson had reentered the dining car and was standing, arms folded and scowling, a few feet away.
    “Well, child, if you get over this bout of amnesia, I’m residing in Compartment D for the next couple days. Adios.” He turned back toward our table, giving Arneson a lazy salute. “I’ll save you the trouble of carrying me back to my table.”

Seven
    A t about midnight, just as the streamliner