by George Baxt
Luba said defiantly, “So was I!” Good for Luba, thought Ginger. “I too was Nikolai s mistress and you never suspected! Ha ha ha!”
“You lie!”
Luba mocked her mercilessly and now Ginger thought she might be going too far. “The great Valgorski! The goddess! Nina the impeccable!” She moved her face closer to Valgorski and Ginger had to strain to hear what she was saying, “I have long suspected you were an important player in the affair, that you too had a motive to kill the parents. And how do I know all this?” She answered herself. “Because Nikolai talked in his sleep!”
Well, so does Jacques Bergerac, thought Ginger, but I haven’t learned anything useful except for his recipe for boeuf hourguinon.
“He didn’t talk in his sleep when I slept with him. I kept him much too busy. Why, Ginger! How long have you been sitting there?” Luba moved her head and smiled at Ginger.
Ginger answered Nina swiftly. “Not very long, but long enough to wish I understood French.”
Nina cocked her head to one side. “You are married to a Frenchman and you don’t understand French?”
“I don’t need French to understand Jacques. Am I interrupting a very important conversation?”
Luba deferred to Nina who said expressively, “Interrupt? What is there to interrupt? We were discussing pliés and tours jetês.”
“Hockey teams?”
Nina smiled. Luba recognized the smile as a prelude to an onslaught of bitchery. “Are you excited about dancing the role of the Czarina?”
“I’m all atremble.”
“Did you know I am dancing Tatyana and Luba will be dancing Olga?”
“Ladies in waiting? I haven’t discussed the casting with Fred. That’s strictly his department. I know next to nothing about Rasputin and the Romanov’s, so I’m leaving it all up to Fred. I trust him implicitly.”
Nina ploughed on. “We are two of your four daughters.”
“You’re sure you don’t mean ladies-in-waiting?”
“We do not wait,” said Nina, positive Ginger was paling under her makeup. “We are two of your four daughters.”
“You’re sure you don’t mean my sisters?”
“Your daughters.”
Ginger blinked her eyes. It had sunk in. Tap dancing or no tap dancing, she was playing the mother of four adult daughters and one bleeder of a son. “Four daughters. Four big daughters.” She arose. “Excuse me, girls, I need a drink.” She hurried out.
Luba said, “Nina, you make an art of cruelty.”
In Romanov’s bedroom, lit by a single lamp on die end table, the doctor was sleeping fitfully. He tossed and turned, racked by a nightmare that recurred too often. Dogs barked ferociously and he saw his wife’s frightened face as she tried to escape the gulag to join him at their rendezvous, and then he heard the sounds of shots ringing out and his wife screaming in agony as blood oozed from her wounds. The doctor was babbling in Russian. He was delirious. His eyes flew open and the babbling continued.
Malke Movitz entered the room wearing a bathrobe and bedroom slippers, her hair hanging down the back in two disarrayed braids. Malke watched as the doctor sat up, hands outstretched, but seeing nothing but the hazy figure of a large woman coming toward him. A horrendous shriek filled the room. Malke stared at the doctor and he fell back on the pillow, mouth and eyes open, eyes seeing nothing. Malke bent over and pressed an ear to his chest. She heard no sound of his heart beating, she heard no sign of life. She went to the phone and very calmly dialed the emergency police number. She told the voice that answered she needed an ambulance for a dead man. The policeman on the other end recognized the doctor’s name, which he wrote down carefully, also writing the address and phone number, and promised Malke assistance would arrive in very short order. While looking at the corpse, she then dialed information and asked for the number of the Ambassador Hotel, which she wrote on a pad. She dialed the hotel and asked to have Alida Rimsky paged as this was an emergency. A very efficient operator soon connected Malke to Alida.
Alida dreaded the news that she knew awaited her on the telephone. Only Malke knew she was in the ballroom and it could only be Malke to tell her the doctor had taken a turn for the worse. Varonsky followed Alida to the phone. They passed the terrace door and Varonsky had a glimpse of Luba standing with her arms around Mordecai Pfenovs neck. Varonsky hurried out to the terrace and alerted the chauffeur that Alida would probably need him to drive her back to the Romanov house right away. The chauffeur went to get the car while Luba, disconsolate at losing her man for the second time that night, went back to the ballroom for more champagne.
Ginger had rejoined Fred and Hurok and Mae Frohman at the table, where the three were convincing her the audience would accept her grown daughters as a joke. After all, this was their Ginger and their Ginger was ageless. “I shouldn’t be playing Ninas mother,” fumed Ginger. “She should be playing my mother. Why, for crying out loud, I look younger then she does.”
“Of course you do, darling,” said Hurok, “that’s the joke. Toe in cheek!”
“Tongue in cheek.” corrected Mae.
“I swear, darling Ginger. Nobody is trying to pull the wolf over your eyes.”
“Wool,” corrected Mae, somewhat wearily.
Hazel had seen the activity involving Alida, Varonsky, and the chauffeur and sensed a story. She followed in Alidas wake while Villon said to Mallory, “Lets follow Hazel. She’s chasing after the doctors nurse which means she’s on to something. You know Hazel’s a better sniffer than any bloodhound.”
Alida was in the small lobby that led to the ballroom, where there was a large desk behind which sat three managers in charge of the guest list. It was one of these men who had summoned Alida. She picked up the phone and said, “Yes?”
Malke spoke softly into the phone. “Romanov is dead. You had better come. I have sent for an ambulance and the police.”
“When did he die?”
“Perhaps ten minutes ago. He was babbling in his sleep. He was delirious. Then he sat up and shrieked. It was horrible. And then he fell back dead. Please hurry. I don’t want to be alone much longer.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll come as quickly as possible.” She hung up the phone and said to Varonsky, standing at her side, “Romanov is dead. I must go to the house at once.”
“Of course. I’ll have the chauffeur bring the car.” He hurried away. Hazel was bearing down on Alida. “I can tell by your face Romanov’s dead. He is, isn’t he?”
“He is,” said Alida quietly, “and now the vultures shall gather.” Hazel ignored Alida mostly because she didn’t understand what Alida meant. Villon and Mallory confronted Alida as she headed for the terrace. Alida tried to hurry past them but Villon grabbed her wrist. He flashed his badge. “Is the doctor dead?”
“Yes. He’s dead.” She thought for a moment and then asked, as Varonsky returned to her side, “Why are the police interested?”
Don Magrew, wondering what all the sudden activity on the part of Varonsky and Villon was all about, hurried to them in time to hear Alida ask why the police were interested.
“Interested in what?” asked Magrew.
Villon told him Romanov was dead and then returned his attention to Alida. “I’m interested, Miss Rimsky, because I think the doctor may have been poisoned.” As he spoke, he realized unhappily that his audience was increasing. They now had the interest of Nina and Luba as well. Villon instructed Jim Mallory to phone the precinct and to tell them to order an immediate autopsy. Jim headed for the phone but Hazel Dickson was prattling into it telling Louellas assistant, Dorothy Manners, that Hollywood’s most prominent shrink had gone belly up. “I’ve got an exclusive, Dorothy, straight from his nurse’s mouth.” Mallory hunted for another phone. He knew that demanding the phone by showing Hazel his badge was an essay in farce; she would tell him what to do with the badge because she was an old pal and had no intention of relinquishing the telephone to anybody. She held back on Villons suspicions that the d
octor may have been murdered because that constituted another profitable item in her avaricious way of thinking.
“Poisoned!” gasped Alida. Her eyes found Varonsky but he expressed no emotion. She was on her own. “But why?”
“Why not?” countered Magrew. Villon wished the CIA man would stay out of it; this was his turf and he permitted no poaching. But he knew he had to tread carefully with Magrew because most government agents were big mouths with even bigger egos. Whatever job there was to do, Villon knew he could do it far more efficiently than Magrew.
Now Alida was indignant. Who was this upstart? She didn’t know Magrew, “What do you mean, why not? The doctor had no enemies!”
Villon took the spotlight. “Everybody has enemies, some they haven’t been properly introduced to.”
Nina stuck her oar in. “Poison? Perhaps cadmium? It’s a very popular poison in our country. It outsells grits. Isn’t that so, Luba?”
Luba glared at her. “And since when am I an authority on cadmium?”
Alida had time to gather her thoughts. She asked Villon, “What makes you suspect poison?”
Villon countered with, “Was the doctor diabetic?”
“He was not And I would know if he was. I do not for one moment believe the doctor was poisoned. I admit he was perspiring profusely and his skin was sallow, but those are also the symptoms of flu. Now you must excuse me, the housekeeper is alone with the body. She is very uneasy. I must go to her.”
Villon said pointedly. “I’ll follow you there.”
“As you wish,” said Alida. She hurried to the terrace. After a moment’s hesitation, Varonsky followed her to the terrace. Villon told Mallory to get their car and Hazel was not about to be excluded from the party.
At Hurok’s table. Ginger appeared to be assuaged and resigned to portraying a mother of five children. She was telling Fred, Hurok, and Mae about the incident in the ladies’ room. Sam Goldwyn had joined them, spooning raspberries and yogurt, having learned his wife had joined a group going to Preston Sturges’ Players Club, which the celebrated director had established on Sunset Boulevard as a hangout for his chums. Goldwyn froze in position when he heard Ginger ask Hurok, “Sol, did you ever hear of Nikolai Vanoff?”
Hurok and Goldwyn exchanged glances.
“Well, Sol?” Ginger was growing impatient and Fred looked at three interested faces belonging to Ginger. Hurok, and Goldwyn, who asked jocularly, “Well, boys, Nikolai Vanoff—dancer or spy or equal proportions of both?”
Sol said to Ginger, “Where did you hear the name?”
“In the powder room.” said Ginger, beaming at one and all. “I was spying on Nina and Luba.” Fred wondered if she expected to be patted on the head. After what she had just put them through about dancing the role of a mother of five, he wanted to assail another part of her anatomy with his foot.
Fred said suddenly, after “spying” had sunk in, “Why in heaven’s name were you spying on them?”
“Well actually” said Ginger with a lot less bravura, “I was eavesdropping. You see, they were having a little dustup and I sat at a dressing table next to them. Really it was the only one unoccupied and anyway, when I sat down, the ladies were batting words in French back and forth and a bit heatedly, and since my latest husband is French and I’m studying the language”—nobody looked impressed—”I decided this was a godsent opportunity to do a little practicing.”
“My latest husband,” thought Mae Frohman, and Mae had yet to land one. She poured herself a brandy and looked morose.
Ginger continued, “Well, they got so intense and the innuendos were coming to a boil and it got to a point where I thought they might take a sock at each other.” She paused to see if she was having any effect and Fred said dryly, “Go on. Ginger, the suspense is killing me.”
“Well 1 don’t want to talk out of school,” said Ginger, first aware that Villon and Hazel were standing and listening to her, Villon waiting to break die news to Ginger that she was now minus a psychiatrist.
“Ginger,” said Fred, “schools already out.”
“Oh hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. Nina said to Luba something like ‘You’re not kidding me, I know what you’re up to,’ and Luba batted her eyelashes innocently, and Nina stuck the shaft in. ‘I know you and Gregor—meaning Sukov, I suppose—are planning to defect.’“
Hurok whispered, “Oy vay” and was grateful Don Magrew wasn’t listening to any of this.
“So Luba says, ‘Oh yeah? Well I’ll tell about you and the Vanoff affair’ and making it sound like what she had to tell could result in Nina being stood up in front of a firing squad without the offer of a handkerchief to shield her eyes.” Hurok had joined Mae Frohman with a brandy. He realized the possibility of time bombs ticking away in the Baronovitch company and he didn’t relish contemplating the consequences.
“I can assure you. Ginger,” said Hurok, “if Nina was standing in front of a firing squad it would be with a pen and an engagement pad booking some assassinations.”
“He means assignations,’“ explained Mae to the assortment of bewildered people.
Goldwyn clucked his tongue and said, “Hurok assassinates the English language.” Nobody had the courage to comment on Goldwyn’s own lacerations of the language.
“Come on, Sol,” said Ginger impatiently, “who was Nikolai Vanoff?”
Hurok sighed. “It is a very unpleasant story, so I shall tell it “
EIGHT
As Hurok refreshed his drink, Villon looked at his wristwatch and as anxious as he was to get to the Romanov house and continue his probing there, he wanted to hear the rest of this Vanoff affair. His instincts told him this could be important, maybe even have some bearing on the probability that Romanov was murdered. Hazel was fidgeting and he poked her to settle down. She had a feeling every one of Hurok’s words would be worth a couple of bucks.
“I liked Nikolai Vanoff.” Hurok began, “even though he was a ruthless scoundrel. And he in turn liked me.”
Even though you’re a ruthless scoundrel, thought Mae Frohman, and she giggled. Hurok shot her a look and the giggle died rapidly.
“Vanoff was one of Stalin’s advisors. Just about anything he wanted, Stalin got for him, which is why I spent a great deal of time and money currying favor with Vanoff. I wanted David Oistrakh and his violin for a tour of America and I got him, thank you, Nikolai. I wanted the fabulous Don Cossack choir, and I got them thanks to Nikolai. Just about everything 1 wanted I got and it cost me plenty. Nikolai was a shrewd trader—he drove very hard bargains. But still, despite his greed, I was able to show a good profit. In addition to his supply of brains, Nikolai was incredibly handsome. As a young man he had made some films and I was told a promising career awaited him in the movies. But Nikolais ambitions supersucceeded the movies.”
“Superseded,” corrected Mae.
Goldwyn asked her, “From where does he know such a word?” Mae shrugged.
Hurok rolled on. “Nikolai wanted power. Not just plain power”—Hurok made a fist for emphasis—”but power But like anyone among us, Nikolai had his shorts coming.”
“Shortcomings,” corrected Mae, although she slurred the word. The brandies she had consumed were starting to take effect.
“He adored women,” said Hurok, “especially very beautiful women like Nina and Luba, both of whom were his mistresses.”
“And at the same time,” added Ginger confidentially, glad that neither dancer was anywhere within earshot.
“Nikolai Vanoff,” said Hurok, pleased that the group were hanging on to his every word, “was a sexual mechanic. No!” He raised an index finger for emphasis. “He was an engineer!”
Fred was thinking of shouting “Encore!” but decided this was no time for frivolity.
“And adoring women led to his undoing. You see, he adored stars. Movie stars, theater stars, and ballet stars—and stars expect furs and jewels and expensive apartments and foreign cars, am I right. Ginger?”
�
��Wrong,” she snapped. “I’ve always bought my own. I got nothing out of Howard Hughes and he’s the only millionaire I ever knew.”
Asked Hazel Dickson, “What about Alfred Vanderbilt?”
“Are you kidding? His idea of a gourmet dinner was a hot dog and a root beer, let alone shower me with furs and diamonds. Sorry Sol, go on.”
Hurok easily picked up die thread of his story. “Nikolai turned traitor. He was so desperate for large sums of money he sold secrets to the British and the French and the Germans.”
“Terribly indiscriminate,” commented Fred.
“He wasn’t very choosy. He sold to the highest bidder.”
“Obviously somebody caught up with him,” said Fred.
“His mother and father.” Hurok waited while that sank in. “They were phonetical communists—”
“Fanatical,” corrected Mae. Goldwyn was positive she was wrong but said nothing.
“Nikolai had a brother, Feodor. He was a member of the secret police but everybody on his block knew it because he wasn’t all that secretive. He found out Nikolai was betraying his country and even worse, betraying his mentor, Stalin.”
“How did he find out?” asked Villon.
“From the spies in all the embassies, how else? He told his parents in hopes they would teach Nikolai to mend his ways and then Feodor presumably left on a trip, from which, by the way, he never returned.”
A wide-eyed Ginger said, “I’ll bet Nikolai murdered him!”
“Perhaps,” said Hurok, “like Cain and Mabel.”
Mae was dozing. Goldwyn nudged her. Her eyes flew open, but Goldwyn had already taken over her responsibility. “Like Cain and Abel,” he corrected.
