by George Baxt
Varonsky began pacing the room as Alida sat on her desk and Ginger sat in the chair she had first occupied a few years back on her initial visit to Dr. Romanov. Varonsky said, “Fred, we are both men of the world, are we not?”
“Well, which world did you have in mind?”
‘This world The world of cold war and the iron curtain and the House Un-American Activities Committee, a world that would destroy Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, whose only crime as I see it is in being naive and ineffective. But still,” he shrugged, “like so many others, they are expendable.”
“Is that what Romanov was?” asked Ginger. “Expendable?”
“Very.” The coldness in his voice infected Ginger, and she embraced herself in an attempt to ward off the sudden, unexpected chill. Varonsky continued, “Romanov was the servant of two masters. He didn’t want to be but circumstances made it unavoidable. First he was to spy for the Soviets. That is how he talked himself into an exit visa. You see, his escape from the gulag was orchestrated by us. It was arranged that he and his wife would escape the same night.”
Ginger asked innocendy. The gulag was coed?”
Varonsky smiled at her naivete. “The gulags did not discriminate. Yes, they held men and women but in separate sections. It was made easy for the Romanov’s to be in touch and plot their escape. We wanted Romanov. We wanted his shrewd mind to spy for us. We didn’t want his wife. She was, as you say, wishy-washy. She had been a dancer with a small company but was merely adequate. She auditioned several times for the Baronovitch, having known several members from their teenage days when Romanov showed promise as a concert pianist and his wife and Nina Valgorski trained for the ballet. Nina and Romanov became lovers at the time. But the very powerful Nikolai Vanoff wanted Nina and he got her.”
“And what about that there Beria?” asked Ginger, who was beginning to admire Ninas versatility.
“Oh there was also Beria and Gregor Sukov and several musicians and composers and heaven knows who else, who shared one-night stands. Nina was so generously accommodating!”
“By God, when did she find time to dance?” asked Fred.
‘In between,” said Varonsky matter-of-factly. “But back to Romanov. He was permitted to escape, the wife was shot. Whether he mourned her or not, I do not know. They had been married a short time, he on the rebound from Nina, she all wide-eyed innocence at having landed Romanov. What she and few others knew was that the piano was Romanov’s cover. He was a brilliant spy for us. He was in demand at all the foreign embassies, which was great as far as we were concerned. By ‘we’ by the way, I am using the royal we, which covers a multitude of sins. Romanov was like the Frank Sinatra of embassy entertainers. Women literally swooned when he played and were soon putty in his hands. Secretaries were pressing all manner of confidential communiques into his hands and in time he was swamped with so much paperwork he had to be provided with a secretary.”
Fred snapped his fingers. “I get it. Romanov in time also played footsy with the embassies and as a result, he and the wife were warehoused.”
“Your brainwork is as clever as your footwork,” complimented Varonsky. “Sadly, we realized it had been a mistake. Embassies complained, they wanted Romanov back. The secret service complained because of the poor quality of the so-called privileged information they were receiving. Secretaries had grown listless and sought transfers back home. So to save the whole system from imminent disintegration, Romanov was ordered seated at the piano again.” He was lighting a Turkish cigarette. After a few puffs he resumed talking. “But Romanov did not wish to return to the piano. He sought other horizons. He wanted the United States. Believe me be was met with resistance, but Romanov persisted and soon his will prevailed. He was trained in psychiatry and one of our most important operatives in America arranged for his license as a psychiatrist and set him up in Beverly Hills.”
“So that’s that,” said Ginger.
“Oh no it isn’t,” said Fred. “It isn’t, is it, Varonsky.”
“No, unfortunately Romanov became so impassioned with the capitalistic system, in addition to spying for Russia against the U.S., he was persuaded to spy on Russia for the U.S. So see, now he was enjoying the best of all possible worlds. But soon Romanov was faltering. The quality of the information he was feeding us soon fell off. The home office got suspicious, and decided to recall Romanov. Sadly, this could not be done. Romanov had outtrumped us.”
“He had become an American citizen,” said Fred.
“Exactly! Fred Astaire, you are too brilliant!”
“Try telling that to my sister.” He looked at the ceiling and then at Varonsky. “And so, unwittingly and I’m sure unwillingly, Romanov became expendable.”
“Gee, that was a good picture,” said Ginger.
“What picture? What the hell are you talking about?” The others in the room were equally bemused.
“Don’t you remember? We were both at the same screening. It starred John Wayne. They Were Expendable.”
“I’ll suffer in silence,” said Fred. He asked Varonsky, “Are you with the Russian secret police?”
“Now that Stalin is dead, it’s not so secret. The foundations of the Soviet Union are slowly beginning to disintegrate. But a discussion about that is for another time. I haven’t officially been with the secret police for a long time. Now I am a maître de ballet and the tables are turned. Now I’m the one who is being spied upon.”
Ginger said dramatically, “What irony.”
“My last official act,” said Varonsky, “was to spirit my darling wife to the safety of Beverly Hills and Dr. Romanov while he was still, shall we say, playing fair with us.”
Fred asked Mordecai, “And how did you get out?”
Mordecai fumbled about for a moment or two and then his expression brightened. “Dr. Romanov got me out. That was five years ago. My aunt, who was his housekeeper, implored him to rescue me. He did and I shall always be grateful, but, Fred Astaire, I would be more grateful if you help me to appear with Ed Sullivan!”
At about the time Ginger barged in on the Varonskys in the reception room, Malke Movitz ushered Villon, Mallory, and Hazel into the doctor’s bedroom. Hazel steeled herself against what she sensed would be the unappetizing sight of Romanov’s body stretched out on the bed. Instead, the body was wrapped in a sheet and strapped to a stretcher with two ambulance attendants preparing to carry the stretcher out to the police ambulance. The coroner, a grumpy little man named Edgar Rowe, greeted the three, having worked with Villon and Mallory on many cases where he usually suffered Hazel’s prying presence stoically.
Malke said, “I will go to the kitchen now.”
“I’d prefer you wait up here,” said Villon, and Hazel marveled at how pleasantly he said it. He obviously, as he usually did, had sized up the housekeeper in just a few minutes and decided to treat her gently for the best results, whatever results he expected.
Malke sat in a chair, glimpsing briefly the wrapped body, while Hazel made some notes on a small pad. Edgar Rowe was also making notes in a pad and determined from past experience not to let Hazel get a look at them.
Villon asked the little man, “What have you got so far, Edgar?”
“A raging appetite. I hate these late-night calls. I get so hungry I can’t sleep and when I don’t sleep I eat.”
Herb watched the doctor as he wrote in his pad and then said, “Lets get to the nitty-gritty. From the looks of him at the Ambassador Hotel ballroom—”
“Were you boys dancing?”
“Just a couple of times around the floor. I led.” One had to humor Edgar Rowe. Otherwise he would become so cantankerous you couldn’t get anything out of him until you read it in a memorandum. “Now seriously, Edgar, this has the makings of a bitch of a case. The Baronovitch ballet company are mixed up in it and I’ve got Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers waiting downstairs.”
The coroner’s eyes widened with joy. “Fred and Ginger? My Fred and Ginger?” He began singing “Isn’t
It a Lovely Day” and nimbly dancing around the bedroom. Hazel feared he’d try to do a leap over the corpse à la Astaire and Rogers, but fortunately the ambulance attendants were already out the door with the stretcher.
“Come on, Edgar, cut the clowning. Give me some facts. He was poisoned, right? Possibly cyanide.”
“If you know so much, why ask me?” Testy with a touch of petulance.
Hazel said to Villon, “You should have let him finish the dance.”
“Now, Edgar, don’t get testy. I’ve got a long night ahead of me and a short temper,” said Villon.
“You know what you can do with your short temper. You’re lucky I waited for you to get here. I’ve got a hot poker game waiting for me in the morgue. But let me sum up before I make my exit. Yes, he was poisoned. Possibly cyanide, from the condition of the fingernails, which were suspiciously blue tinged and beautifully manicured. However, I don’t like to give snap decisions especially where murder is suspected, so you’ll have to wait until I get him back to the butcher shop for a more thorough examination, which won’t take place until tomorrow morning as I have no intention of putting in any overtime tonight.” He raised his hand like a kid in a schoolroom desperate to go to the toilet. “Now I’m going!” He moved to the door but Villon’s voice stopped him.
“I’d appreciate your report as soon as possible.” Villon folded his arms and boomed, “You must realize we are dealing with two major world powers!”
“My heavens! Just wait till I phone Mother!” Rowe pocketed his notebook while saying to Hazel, “Guess what you’re not going to get a look at tonight”
Hazel shouted after him, “I assume you mean your notebook,”
Villon said, “Shut up, Hazel.” He now turned his attention to Malke Movitz, who seemed hypnotized by Hazels dyed hair. “Well Miss Movitz … or is it Mrs.?”
“It’s Miss. I resumed my single status after my husband was liberated by a firing squad twenty years ago.”
Villon said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not.”
Hazel suppressed a shudder while Mallory wondered if the Picassos on the wall were real.
Villon asked Malke, “You’ve been with the doctor a long time?”
“Almost from the time he began his practice in Beverly Hills.”
“He practiced elsewhere before?”
“I know he studied in Vienna and Paris. He never mentioned practicing in either city.”
Villon said to Mallory, “Do a trace on that in the morning.” Mallory nodded. Hazel was telling the housekeeper her hair was done by Mr. Eloise whose salon was located on Fairfax Avenue in West Hollywood. Villon cleared his throat unnecessarily and Hazel got the signal to shut up. “Exactly how many years have you been with the doctor?”
“Oh, it must be almost fifteen.”
“How long have you been in this country.”
“Fifteen years.”
“You know the doctor from Russia?”
“No. We met in Paris. I owned a small restaurant there. Russian cuisine, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The doctor was there finishing his psychiatric studies. He ate in my restaurant almost every night of the week until I shut down.”
“Not profitable?”
“Very profitable. But I was placed under arrest.”
Hazel tried to meet Villon s eyes but his were riveted on Malke. She heard him ask, “Why were you arrested?”
“I was accused of murdering three men who were having a reunion dinner. I recognized them from the war when they killed so many of my compatriots in a massacre of my village. They destroyed almost all my family. Only myself and a nephew escaped. Those men were from Himmlers SS squad.”
“And how did you kill them?”
“I poisoned their borscht.”
ELEVEN
Sacrilege,” said Hazel, a borscht fancier.
Villon asked Malke, “You were acquitted? You didn’t serve time?”
“The judge and the jury were French. The dead men were Germans. It was shortly after the war ended and the French were still smarting from the ruthless indignities they suffered under the German occupation. I had a superb avocat. He implored the court to see and understand my position. Prior to the trial, I was in the newspapers every day. I know it’s hard to tell now, but then, I was very … how do they say… ?”
Hazel said, “Photogenic,’’ and couldn’t believe the smile of pleasure on Malkes face. Was this creature ever photogenic?
“If you have doubts, please realize that I am talking about an event that took place almost two decades ago. I know that over the years my features have coarsened, but one accepts that as a part of the aging process.” Hazel sneaked a quick look at herself in a wall mirror. She was having none of the aging process. She thought she looked perfectly fine. “My mother taught us to realize there is more to aging than wrinkles and a weak bladder. So I stood trial and there was no need to throw myself on the mercy of the court. From the very first day when my avocat—my lawyer—told the court to see me as a Russian Joan of Arc, I could tell I would be acquitted. The judge and the jury embraced me with warmth and understanding.”
Joan of Arc, thought Hazel, those people must have had very active imaginations to envision Malke Movitz on horseback and encased in armor.
Malke told them, “Romanov attended my trial every day. It wasn’t a long triaL The prosecution did their best to send me to the guillotine. They were so impassioned in their demands that beheading be my fate that I think everyone in the courtroom suspected they had been German collaborators.”
Villon said, “So Romanov proved to be a very good and loyal friend.”
Her eyes widened. “But of course! It was he who instilled in me the desire to come to America.”
If she’s intimating that she and Romanov were lovers, thought Hazel, I shall throw myself from a window, though it’s not much of a drop.
“He promised to help you find work? Perhaps open a Russian restaurant here?” There’s something wrong somewhere, thought Villon. She wouldn’t lie about standing trial because that’s easily traced. It couldn’t have been a love affair; Villon shuddered at the thought, photogenic or not photogenic.
“He suggested I cook for him and run his house. He treasured my cuisine. My pirogen, mv blinis ..
Hazel couldn’t resist. “Your borscht?”
Villon said, “What about Mordecai? I suspect he’s your nephew.”
‘Why suspect? Is it a crime to be my nephew? He is indeed my nephew, my brother’s son, a chirp off the old block.”
“Chip,” corrected Hazel.
“The Boche murdered his parents and his sisters and brothers. His father was very gifted. He sang, he danced, the whole family was musical.”
Villon marveled at what a wealth of musical talent there must be in Russia. No wonder Hurok traveled there so often to search for talent. “And so Mordecai sings and dances,” he said. “It must be very frustrating for him to be a chauffeur, and to be—or have been—the doctors valet.”
“It was good discipline for Mordecai. Mr. Villon, Mordecai is a very decent young man.”
“And he’s lucky to have a very decent aunt. Tell me, Malke, were you and Romanov acquainted before Paris? Back in Russia?” Mallory was wondering when Villon would hit her with a zinger.
“I knew him in Siberia. In a prison camp. What we call a gulag, where I was falsely imprisoned for selling goods on the black market. I received a short sentence. I knew his wife. A little peanut of a woman, but the gulag was too strenuous for her. So she took ill and died.”
Villon said, “Romanov said she was shot trying to join him in an escape.”
“Oh yes?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Perhaps he told you that because it sounded more romantic.” Villon turned his back on her and shot a “heaven help us” look at Hazel and Mallory. “Romanov made his escape the day she was buried. He helped carry her casket to the
cemetery outside the stockade. It was a miserable day. There was a blizzard and one could hardly see a few inches in front of one, or so Romanov told me. There was a howling wind and in the distance Romanov heard howling wolves.”
Howling wolves, thought Hazel as she examined her fingernails, what a lovely touch.
“And it was thanks to the blizzard Romanov made his escape. The snow and sleet blinded the guards….”
“But Romanov was not hampered,” said Villon.
“No, he wore dark glasses.”
“He told you this in Paris?”
“Oh da, da. “
Yes, yes, thought Hazel, her heart belongs to da da.
Mallory looked at his wristwatch. He was impatient. Malke and Mordecai had to be part of the spy network, most certainly Malke. Why doesn’t he let her have it between the eyes?
“Malke,” said Villon on a new tack, “you heard the coroner and I discussing the possibility Dr. Romanov was murdered. Poisoned. Poisoned over a period of time.”
“But no! That is not possible!”
“Death in small doses is very possible.”
“Death in small doses?”
“You heard me. Unlike the way you killed those Germans in Paris.”
“I am a very impatient woman. Things must be done all at once. Small doses would take much too long. Ah! Ah! Ah!” She was pointing a beefy finger at him. “You are insinuating I poisoned the doctor!” She erupted with a stream of Russian for which none of the three needed translating. “Kill Romanov? I would sooner assassinate President Truman.”
Hazel didn’t doubt her one bit.
“I was devoted to Romanov! Mordecai and I were both devoted to him! He was so kind! He was so generous! He brought us to this country, to this free, wonderful country!”
Hazel was thinking, You’re overplaying your hand, dear, slow down and possibly shed a tear, that’s usually effective.
Malke didn’t slow down, nor did she shed a tear. “He was generous to a fort!”
