by George Baxt
“All 1 know is what I read in the papers,” growled Herb. Of Ginger and Fred he asked, “What are you two doing here?”
“You have such a short memory, Mr. Villon. Didn’t you ask us to accompany you here?”
“I did not!”
Ginger pulled him to one side. “You’re going to need me. That’s a very formidable housekeeper in there and she has an acute distaste for strangers, especially cops. She happens to like me and I’m pretty sure she’ll talk if I ask her to talk. And besides, Romanov was my psychiatrist”
“So what?”!
“What do you mean, so what? Losing a psychiatrist is worse than losing an arm. And although you may not be interested, I have my own theories as to who might have poisoned Romanov.” She lowered her voice. “Feodor Vanoff.”
Exasperated, Villon said, “Another country is heard from. Who is this Vanoff and where did he pop from?”
Over her shoulder Ginger said, “Fred, you’re crowding me.” To Villon she said, “You missed something terribly important Sol Hurok told some of us after you left to come here. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
“What? With all these reporters and photographers crowding us? No way!” She addressed the press. “Gentlemen of the press! We assume you are gentlemen so behave yourselves. Now let us get through, please.” Villon instructed Jim Mallory to force an opening for them, which he did with alacrity. Ginger took Fred’s hand. “Come on, Fred, ahead lies sanctuary.”
“And a corpse,” said Fred, now astonished at Gingers eagerness to participate in the investigation. In the car on the drive to the doctors house, she had astounded him with her perspicacity, discussing Nina and Luba, the Vanoff affair, and the probability that the doctor had been murdered. “For weeks now during my sessions with the doctor he complained about what he said were gas pains. I mean, really, how much gas can a person suffer and how often?”
“Gas can be caused by emotional stress,” advised Fred.
“I frequently get emotionally stressed but I don’t get gas. I burp.”
“Gas.”
“Oh really? Anyway, getting back to the doctor. He’d leave me to go to the kitchen where the housekeeper gave him some medication for gas pains.”
Fred’s eyes left the road ahead of him briefly to question Ginger. “Maybe the medication?”
“You mean it’s possible the doctor was being poisoned under my very eyes and I didn’t suspect a thing?”
“You didn’t know then he was a marked man.”
“Well, I’ll be a monkeys uncle.”
“Aunt,” corrected Fred.
“You mean it could have been the housekeeper who was poisoning him?”
“It could also have been his nurse and possibly whatsisname the chauffeur.”
“Mordecai Pfenov?”
“If that’s his name then he’s who I mean. He was also his valet, right?”
“There wasn’t all that much chauffering to do so the doctor being the practical type hired him for double duty. Although come to think of it, I think the doctor inherited him.”
“You don’t inherit people.”
“Oh don’t take me so literally” chafed Ginger. “Mordecai is Malke’s nephew. She told me when he arrived in this country five years ago she got the doctor to give him a job, which of course, out of the goodness of his heart, he did.”
“And in gratitude they began poisoning him.”
“Oh really, Fred.”
“Oh really Fred, indeed. Stand back. Ginger, and get a perspective. They are all of Russian descent, presumably refugee escapees from political persecution. How did they get out? From what I’ve read, it’s not all that easy for Russian citizens to get out, not the hoi polloi, the common ordinary everyday people like you and me.”
Ginger said huffily, “I am not common!”
Fred said patiently, “Ginger, if we couldn’t hoof better than most and put over a song better than most, thanks to film technicians, we’d be common ordinary people like everybody else.” Ginger said as her eyes narrowed, “Common ordinary people don’t win an Academy Award and by God I’ve won one and against some pretty stiff competition and…”
“And let’s get back to our Russkies. How indeed did they get out?”
“Search me. I don’t know. I haven’t a clue.”
“Let’s go back to Nina and Luba. You overheard them in the powder room.”
“1 most certainly did!”
“Did they do anything except by to expose each other for something or another?”
“No, not that I recall. Nina suspected Luba of planning to defect with Gregor Sukov, and Luba in return, and I might add, quite maliciously, brought up the Vanoff affair and Nina’s presumed involvement.”
“In which Nina goes to great pains to insist she was not involved.”
“Just a second,” said Ginger as Fred swerved to avoid a rabbit crossing the road in front of him.
“Sorry. I only just saw him.”
“That’s all right. Where was I? Maybe Nina was not involved in Nikolai’s murder or suicide, but she certainly was involved with Nikolai.”
“And this joker Beria. Where does she get her stamina?”
“Probably has exemplary genes.” After a moment she said, “Fred? Why do I think the missing brother is in this country?”
“I don’t know. Why do you? And what missing brother?”
She was losing her patience. “Feodor Vanoff! Nikolai’s brother! The fink who blew the whistle on him with their mother and father.”
“Say. there’s a possibility. Maybe the old folks sent Nikolai flying into space.”
Ginger folded her arms and looked out the window, “Fred, stick to your dancing.”
“Say, Ginger…”
“What?”
“You may have a point. Maybe Feodor is in this country.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe he’s masquerading as Mordecai Pfenov.”
“Oh my God! That is a possibility, isn’t it?”
“When we get to the house, let’s try for a good look at good old Mordecai and see if he looks like he could be somebody’s brother.”
Now, in the downstairs hallway of the Romanov house. Herb Villon listened attentively to the information Ginger was dispensing with great dramatic effect. She had Jim Mallory s’s undivided attention and Hazel could have done without the constant movement of Ginger’s expressive hands. Most of the information Ginger imparted Villon digested eagerly. He particularly liked the theories on how the £migr£s got out of Russia so easily. He knew how difficult it was to get exit visas. He’d heard of people and families, especially Jews, desperate to make new lives for themselves in Israel, who had been waiting years for the necessary documents. He accepted as a possibility that Feodor Vanoff had made his way to the United States and might be at large under a pseudonym, might be under this very roof as a combination chauffeur and valet.
Fred reminded Villon, “Valets are forever mixing drinks and bringing all sorts of beverages. My valet, for example, is always slipping vitamins into my milk.”
“If you keel over, Fred, he’ll be the first suspect,” said Ginger.
Hazel said, “I think you should cross-examine Nina Valgorski and Luba Nafka as soon as possible.”
Why?” asked Villon, who was in no mood to discuss cross-examining anybody.
Hands on hips. Hazel insisted, ‘They are very likely candidates as spies.”
“So they are,” agreed Villon. “But spies are Don Magrew’s department. Murder is mine.” And then he was suddenly mesmerized. Malke Movitz the housekeeper had quietly descended the stairs from the upper floor and Villon wouldn’t have heard her if she hadn’t loomed within his vision, emerging behind Hazel.
Ginger said, “Oh Malke. What a terrible tragedy. Did he say any last words?”
“No,” she said calmly, “he only yelled and fell back on the pillow” Behind her another figure had descended the staircase, Mordecui Pfenov.
Ginger said, “Hello, Mordecai. Such a terrible tragedy.”
Modecai said, “Yes,” and wondered why the actress nudged the detective.
Ginger said to Villon, “Mordecai is—or is it was?—the doctors valet.”
Fred thought. Hardly very subtle, Miss Rogers, and I think Mordecai is sharing my sentiment from the look on his face. He heard Malke asking, “Which one is Detective Villon.”
“That’s me,” said Villon.
“The coroner asked if you would come to the master bedroom.”
Ginger said to Villon, “Over here, through this door, is the reception room and beyond that is the doctor’s office. I thought you’d like to know.” She pointed to a door on the opposite side of the hall. “That leads to the dining room and then the kitchen and in back of the house is an arboretum with some of the loveliest plants and flowers and greenery and that leads to a potting shed where they keep the weed killers, cyanide, and all that.” She stressed cyanide and it certainly did not fall on deaf ears. “Malke has the green thumb around here and she’s otherwise terribly colorful. When she was a teenager she won the shot-put medal in the Berlin Olympics and she also won a belt for wrestling. Isn’t she marvelous?”
Malke said, “Mr. Villon, I will lead you to the master bedroom.” She ascended the stairs with Villon and Mallory following her. Hazel brazenly went up behind them.
Ginger said, “I’m going with them.”
Fred said, “You weren’t asked”
‘I’m sure he’d want me there. Look at how useful I’ve been so far”
Mordecai, who had been watching the three following Malke, said to Ginger and Fred “It is not very pleasant up there—the awful expression on the doctors face.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Fred. “I’m staying down here.” Ginger was smiling at Mordecai. “Where is the doctor’s nurse, Alicia?’
Mordecai indicated the door behind them. “She is in there.”
“The reception room, of course,” said Ginger and then moved to enter it.
“Ginger” said Fred, “she might not be in a receptive mood.”
“Nonsense. Alida and I get along just fine.” She opened the door with a sad look on her face that she considered appropriate to a condolence call. The look on her face turned to one of surprise. Alida Rimsky stood next to her desk with Theodore Varonsky. He had his arms around her. “Oh!” said Ginger.
Alida, when she saw Ginger, moved away from Varonsky. “Why, Ginger, what are you doing here?”
“Actually, Fred and I have been helping Detective Villon and I’m sure we’ve been a great deal of help to him, haven’t we. Fred?’ There was no Fred. “Fred?”
Fred came to the door. “I’m out here talking to Mordecai. Getting acquainted, you know. Why, Mr. Varonsky, what a surprise seeing you here. A friend of the family?”
The maître de ballet looked at Alida. She took his hand and held it tightly. Varonsky said, “Alida is my wife.”
TEN
“Your wife!” exclaimed Ginger. “Saaay, who wrote this scenario, Edna Ferber?”
Fred said affably, “Well, how pleased you must be to be reunited after such a long separation.” Ginger wondered how he knew it was a long separation but decided she would ask him later.
“It was a very long separation,” said Varonsky. Ginger wouldn’t have to ask Fred anything. She was seeing Varonsky in a different light than when she had first met him. Then he seemed imposing and somewhat frightening. She could tell he had a fine physique. Ginger was a connoisseur of fine physiques. Her friend Lucille Ball once said Ginger didn’t look for the ordinary qualifications of a potential husband such as financial stability, intelligence, future prospects, and so on. “Ginger,” said Lucille, “just measures them.” Ginger envied Alida the way Varonsky ate her up with his eyes. Imagine, she would later say to her mother, a man still so passionately in love with a woman he hadn’t seen in so many years. And likewise, the ardor with which Alida unabashedly regarded her man. Russians were so hotblooded, so unreservedly passionate, why hadn’t she ever sought a man who was Russian by birth? She thought of what was available in Hollywood—Mischa Auer, Leonid Kinskey, both of whom looked as though they had been drained of their blood, chunky Akim Tamiroff, Ivan Lebedeff with his so-called bedside manner, and decided she’d stick with her present spouse, Jacques Bergerac, he of the incredibly handsome face and equally incredibly formidable physique.
Ginger heard Fred asking the couple, “Aren’t you worried you might be separated again? I mean, Varonsky, don’t you have to return to Russia with the company when the tour is ended?”
“Yes, they expect me to return with the others.” He smiled. “But I am a past master at executing the unexpected.” He looked past Fred and Ginger and said, “Come in, Mordecai, and close the door. We do not know who might be lurking in the corridor.”
“I am the only one who lurks there.” He shut the door and smiled at Fred, whom in their brief few minutes together he had come to like. Mordecai had sung some of “Slap That Bass,” one of Fred’s solos by Irving Berlin in Follow the Fleet and Fred told the others with a great deal of pride, “Imagine someone as far away as Russia learning to do an imitation of me.” What Fred didn’t know was that Mordecai was just warming up.
Mordecai asked eagerly, “Would you like I should do for you ‘Bojangles of Harlem’?”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Fred, “he knows that one too. And you know, Mordecai, your voice isn’t half bad. Now if you could only dance.”
“But I am a dancer!” exulted Mordecai, and he quickly executed a few steps that had Fred and Ginger both wide-eyed with astonishment.
Ginger crowed, “Look, ma, he’s dancing!”
Mordecai clasped his hands together and beseeched Fred and Ginger, “Oh how I long to be on the Fred Sullivan show!”
“Êd Sullivan,” corrected Fred. “He’s a friend of ours. Maybe we can do something.”
Mordecai was overcome. In Russian he cried, “I am so excited. I can’t believe it!” In Russian, Alida cautioned him to cool it. Varonsky said to Fred and Ginger, “In case you are wondering if Alida and I fear exposure, there are several in the company who know it, It is of no importance to them, and if it was, I couldn’t care less. Alida is safe here in the U.S. She has a permit. Dr. Romanov generously arranged it for her.”
“Oh?” said Fred, wheels turning in his head. “You knew Romanov in Russia?”
“No, but he is a legend.”
“A legend? You mean like William Tell?” asked Ginger. “I once did a dance to his overture.”
“Oh yes, his overture!” Mordecai was ecstatic. “‘Hi-yo Silver, awayyyyy!’“
“1 don’t believe it,” said Fred. “You get The Lone Ranger in Russia?”
“But of course,” said Mordecai proudly. ‘We barter for them. You know, we trade. They come on special recordings. They are stolen by our representatives here. In return, we permit your agents to steal recordings of our operas and ballets. It is all very satisfactory to both sides, isn’t it, Varonsky?”
Varonsky didn’t answer him. He could see Fred was ready with more questions, and anxious to get to them. “I can see you are curious to leam more about Romanov.”
“And there is more to learn, isn’t there?” Ginger was admiring Fred. He was doing Villon’s job for him and she knew Villon would be terribly pleased, but she didn’t know Villon. “You know, Detective Villon suspects Romanov has been systematically poisoned over a period of time prior to his death tonight. I’m sure you’ve heard, or as a nurse Alida would know, that there are certain poisons that, when fed in small doses, build up in the body and after a period of time attack the system and kill the victim. You know, like cyanide. That’s very popular. The British dote on it. Some very famous cases have been documented. Now they’re part of Great Britain’s folklore.” In response to the puzzled and questioning look on Ginger’s face, Fred grinned and explained, ‘That’s what happened to Rasputin. 1 found it when
I was researching him.”
Varonsky cleared his throat and said, “If I may amend your statement.”
“By all means,” said Fred diplomatically, “be my guest. Go right ahead and amend it.”
“The night Rasputin was murdered, he attended a party where he was fed poisoned cakes. His wine was also poisoned. But the man was blessed with an abnormally strong constitution. So Prince Youssepoff, his self-appointed executioner, shot him a few times.”
“Bang bang bang,” said Ginger.
“I believe he was shot four times,” said Varonsky.
“Bang,” added Ginger, very pleased with herself.
“But still he lived,” said Varonsky.
“Stubborn bastard,” commented Fred.
“Like some dancers I know,” said Ginger, who, without looking at Fred, sensed he was glaring at her.
“Rasputin was chased to a very deep pond. Youssepoff pushed him in and held his head under water until the holy man finally expired.”
“There’ll be none of that in my ballet. It’ll just be suggested.”
“You are privy’ to Detective Villon s suspicions?” Varonsky asked Fred.
“Oh no, there’s nothing special about us except that we’re movie stars, but from what Ginger and I discussed with Villon I think he buys the slow-death theory.”
“So do I,” said Ginger, looking to Fred for a sign of approval but receiving none.
Varonsky said, ‘Then you believe Romanov has suffered at the hand of someone in this household?”
“Hand. Maybe hands.” Fred was suddenly uncomfortable as Varonsky put an arm around his wife. Ginger was worrying that Fred might have gone too far by spilling the beans of Villons suspicion.
“Hands,” repeated Fred, briefly fearing the maître de ballet might suddenly fly off the handle. He reassured himself the detectives whom he had seen in the hallway when they arrived would come to his rescue at the sound of a disturbance.
“So my Alida would be under suspicion along with Malke Movitz and Mordecai. I hope for your sake, Mordecai, Fred is wrong or you will sacrifice the Ed Sullivan Show.” Mordecai paled.
Fred wanted to get back to Romanov, who he suspected might be as much a man of mystery in Russia as he was here. “Romanov must have had friends in high places here if he could secure a resident’s permit for Alida.”
