[Celebrity Murder Case 12] - The Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “So, Nina Valgorski, you have almost outsmarted yourself again. You overestimated yourself and underestimated this detective Herb Villon. But you covered yourself beautifully by using slivovitz as a metaphor for cadmium.” She took a long drag on the cigarette.

  The phone rang. She crossed back to it. “Yes?”

  “It is Hurok here,” he boomed in his room, where he and Mae Frohman had shared his usual breakfast of stewed prunes, Wheaties, and warm milk and cocoa. Later, Mae would repair to the coffee shop for more substantial fare. “What did the detective want?”

  “How did you know I was visited by a detective?” And why had she bothered to ask? She knew he was tipped off by the desk clerk.

  “I know everything!” Mae winced at his booming voice and refreshed her coffee cup.

  “Then you know what he wanted to know!”

  “Nina, don’t be difficult. Tell me, my dear, is there a connection between the company and Romanov’s murder?”

  “I knew him when I was in my teens, but that’s hardly much of a connection, don’t you agree?”

  After a few seconds he said, “If you say so.” She told him she was in a hurry to get to the photo shoot and they both hung up. “Mae?”

  “Yes?”

  “There is something going on behind my back. I must move it to the front.”

  “You will, Mr. Hurok, my moneys on you.”

  “You know what Sherlock Holmes always says.” He raised a finger and pointed it ominously as he misquoted, “There is something underfoot!”

  “Afoot,” Mae corrected, afoot.”

  FOURTEEN

  Theodore Varonsky was at the wheel of a car provided by NBC and was driving Alida to the Romanov house. He had spent the night with her in her modest West Hollywood apartment. They had made love and then she brewed tea. They were driving in silence and it gave Varonsky time to measure Alida against the girl he had married seven years ago and had not seen for over five of them. Then she was staid and stoic, the model of a young Russian bride trained to be a good and obedient wife. Last night in bed he found her a bit frivolous, like the ditsy French ballerina in Anthony Tudors delightful ballet Gala Performance. Then when they settled down to tea and slices of babka, the popular Russian cake, she was so animated and bubbly, he suspected she must have had many lovers in Hollywood. He’d been told by a KGB spy who had spent several years in the Russian embassy in Los Angeles that lovers of both sexes literally grew on trees. On the other hand, he had not lacked for female companionship during their long separation, either. They had agreed before parting that each was free to pursue sexual adventures but each also was to try not to take any liaison too seriously. They did not ask each other questions, a rule that had also been agreed upon, but Varonsky had little doubt that Alida had provided Romanov with a certain degree of comfort. He caught a glimpse of her looking out her window as they drove along Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills, past the many lovely mansions with their well-manicured lawns and beautiful landscaping.

  Varonsky commented, “There is much wealth here. How seductive it must be. Romanov, I assume, was easily seduced.” Alida rose to the late psychiatrists defense. “He worked very hard for his wealth. Sometimes seven days a week, ten hours or more a day. It was very grueling. I know because I was there with him.”

  “You should have resided in his house. It is a long drive from your apartment.”

  “My darling Theodore, everything is a long drive in Los Angeles. Los Angeles is thirty suburbs in search of a city. You must have wheels to survive in this place.”

  “You never learned how to drive.”

  “I am terrified of driving. Especially here. They are maniacs. They ignore speed limits and if they are trapped they think little of offering bribes. It is a very corrupt city. The police here are notorious for their corruption.”

  “Yes? Policemen must be very wealthy.”

  “Not all, of course, but a good proportion.”

  ‘This Herb Villon and his partner..

  “Jim Mallory.”

  “Ah yes, Jim Mallory. They too are corrupt?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. I like them very much.”

  “You know them? You’ve met them before?”

  “I’ve never met them before last night. But I couldn’t help noticing they had good manners.”

  “And the lady with the terrifying hair?”

  “Hazel Dickson. She is what they call in this country a ‘yenta.’” He repeated the word. “A yenta is a loud-mouthed, nosy gossip.”

  “1 have been told gossip is a very big industry in this country.”

  “Especially in this city. Hazel is almost a celebrity in her own right She gathers gossip from various sources and sells it to the people who write gossip columns.”

  “Was there much gossip about Romanov?”

  “Not as much as about his patients.”

  “I see. What do you know about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?”

  Here it is, she thought. The cross-examination. She knew it was inevitable, and had expected it last night. But he was so hungry’ for her sexually that he tabled the cross-examining and busied himself teaching her a few things, several of which she could have happily done without. Even after they were spent and settled down to tea and cake, he surprised her by talking only of Russia and the friends and family she had left behind and how his career as a maître de ballet had thrived from the moment he’d been assigned the much sought-after position.

  “1 asked you about Astaire and Rogers.”

  “Yes, my dear, I was wondering what took you so long to get around to it.”

  “My wise Alida, you are prepared for me.”

  She shrugged. “What is there to prepare? It isn’t as though you gave me a list of questions. Certainly you read my communiques, which I fed to the KGB quite steadily.”

  “I read them indeed. Very good too. You will be commended officially.” Then he snapped the names. “Astaire and Rogers.” She resisted an urge to salute him. “He is a superb artist. He is highly respected. He has no particular political leanings, he is only interested in dancing and composing songs that nobody publishes or sings. He has a very few friends but he treasures them zealously. He is devoted to his wife, Phyllis, a product of what in this country they call high society, the upper classes.”

  ‘The upper classes despise communism.”

  “Oh my dear, innocent Theodore, just about all classes in this country despise communists. They think we run around in black cloaks under which we carry bombs with which to blow up bridges and factories and cause all sorts of disruptions.”

  He laughed. “What a country! We haven’t blown up anything in a long time. Bombs are so expensive. You know, we have strict orders now to tighten our belts. Fortunately, the Baronovitch company is proving to be highly profitable. Sol Hurok is a very clever partner. Now what about Ginger Rogers?”

  Alida asked shrewdly, “You want to hear about her or her mother?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ll begin with the mother. She is very bossy, very pushy, an extreme rightist, and I’m told plays a rotten game of bridge. She once dominated her daughter but as Ginger’s fame grew, she eased herself out from under her mother’s thumb. One of the few things the two have left in common is the practice of Christian Science.”

  “We banished those people from Russia!”

  “I know. Don’t shout. I’m sitting right next to you. They seem more or less devoted to each other though the mother, Lela—”

  “I know her name.”

  “—Lela never approved of Ginger’s husbands. Her first was a vaudeville performer, Jack Pepper. He taught Ginger, who was still in her teens, the ropes.” She explained ropes as gaining from experience as opposed to tying one around a neck and hanging someone. “Then she married a very fine actor, Lew Ayres, who is still popular. He is a pacifist, but survived the slings and arrows when he refused to carry a gun during the war. Instead he drove an ambulance or something li
ke that. Her third husband was Jack Briggs, a marine. She married him during the war. I think it was an act of patriotism on her part; it seemed that all he had to offer her was a magnificent body. She was with RKO then, and she got them to give him an acting contract. He couldn’t act. Now she just married a French actor, Jacques Bergerac. Beautiful body, beautiful face, I knew nothing about his politics. And there you have it.”

  “I don’t have enough.”

  She was finding his line of questioning tiresome. And he was driving much too slowly for her taste. Other cars passed them after honking horns ferociously, forcing Varonsky to give way. It didn’t seem to bother him at all. When they did it to Ginger Rogers she offered them the raised middle finger of a hand and it was days before Alida learned that it was a very offensive gesture.

  “Well, Theodore, I have sent many communiques on Ginger and her mother and Romanov’s other patients—”

  He interrupted her. ‘There was nothing to indicate she had the potential to be converted. She gave you lifts many times.”

  “So?”

  “Were there no opportunities to feel her out?”

  “You don’t bother when a person refers to us as Them there commies.”

  “Yes. You are right. And I’m beginning to think that perhaps we misunderstood Fred and Ginger.”

  Alida was a bit at sea. “Misunderstood? What was there to understand?”

  “Don’t be so dense.” She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks.

  “I am not dense!”

  “We assumed if Fred and Ginger agreed to appear with us they were sympathetic!”

  She erupted and shouted, “It is you who are dense! They are major film stars. They don’t need Baronovitch and they hardly need to be sympathetic to appear with them. Astaire said yes because he respects the tradition of Russian ballet, and so does Ginger. They feel honored to dance with the Baronovitch, and Ginger swallowed her pride to dance the part of a mother of five children, one of which is about as old as she is! Hurok gives Fred the opportunity to choreograph, his lifelong dream, and you expect them to be sympathetic? And the dream has become a nightmare—if not for them, then for me! Now Ginger and Fred are embroiled in murder! Murder! And it isn’t even their murder, it’s our murder!”

  “Shut up! You might be overheard!”

  “By who, for Gods sake! We are motoring!”

  Momentarily, he looked sheepish, then he said, “It is not good that Fred and Ginger are working with the police.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “They were with the police last night!”

  “Please, Theodore, don’t make life any more difficult than it is. Ginger came to the house to give comfort to Malke Movitz and me.”

  “Ha!”

  “You are being very difficult.”

  “We are in a difficult situation.”

  “Theodore, Romanov’s death will remain a mystery.”

  “American forensics teams are brilliant, highly sophisticated.”

  “Yes, that was understood when we were instructed to kill Romanov by the slow death. The autopsy will show there was cyanide in his system, built up over a period of months. So what? It has happened before. It is commonplace, like chewing gum.”

  “Quite true. But not when they also find cadmium in his system. And cadmium is commonplace only to Russians. Put that in your samovar and boil it.” He explained about Nina Valgorski’s administering the final fatal dose.

  Alida said, “Theodore, we may have outsmarted ourselves.”

  Edgar Rowe, the coroner, was scampering about like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. “I’m late! I’m late! I’m behind schedule. The bodies are beginning to pile up.” Herb Villon and Jim Mallory watched without flinching as he made another incision in Igor Romanov’s body. “There was a pileup on Hollywood Boulevard. Six cars, five dead.” He turned to his assistant, who was in the eighth year of the job, and said, “They’ll have to wait their turn.” As he probed and dictated, he whistled between his teeth.

  Jim said to Herb, making no effort to mask his distaste for their environs, “The son of a bitch really enjoys his job. I mean talk about whistling while you work.”

  “He also teaches Sunday school.”

  Edgar Rowe was standing back, admiring his work like an artist standing before an easel. He dictated some more to the young man who was his assistant. “A very fine specimen, very fine. One of the best we’ve had here in months.” He said to Villon, “There was enough cyanide in him to kill a dozen men.”

  “Then the cadmium was overkill.”

  Hands on hips, the coroner said, “Poisoners always go too far. Especially the ones in slow deaths like this. They’re so impatient. I mean if they know it’s going to take time to polish off the bugger. then wait for the poison to accumulate in the system. I miss the good old days of belladonna and cyanide. Those are really nifty poisons, but they were hard to come by. You needed a prescription. Cyanide of course is in a weed killer, easier to get hold of.” He said to his assistant, “Cover him and refrigerate him. Anybody claiming the body?”

  “His housekeeper,” Villon told him. “Deliver the corpse to Utter McKinley on Hollywood Boulevard.” McKinleys was Hollywood’s busiest funeral parlor, with an excellent reputation.

  While removing his smock, Edgar Rowe lifted his voice in song. “‘Lovely to look at, delightful to knowww …’” He did a little tapping, then indicated for Villon and Mallory to follow him to his office where there was always a pot of coffee brewing. “What a thrill meeting Fred and Ginger last night! Weren’t you thrilled?”

  “Enchanted,” said Herb.

  Once the coffee was poured and the three were settled in chairs, Rowe asked Villon, “So who did him in? You must suspect someone. I know you. Herb. We’ve been together a long time. Come on, who done it?” He slapped his knee and laughed. If it was one thing Herb Villon could live without it was a jocular coroner, although he made an exception for Edgar Rowe. Without his sense of humor. Herb suspected the little man might be suicidal. When his wife died unexpectedly several years earlier, his despondency was so acute he was given a month’s leave of absence for fear he’d have a nervous breakdown. He spent the month touring European graveyards and becoming acquainted with the final resting places of the great scholars, poets, playwrights, heads of state, and politicians. He came back to Los Angeles refreshed and revived and a delightful source of European necrophilia.

  “Now don’t go silent on me. Herb, who’s your prime suspect?”

  Herb crossed one leg over the other. “I suspect a small group of friends murdered Romanov.”

  “Friends? You call them friends?”

  ‘That’s right. Friends who were following orders from the evil ones in the Soviet Union.”

  “Evil ones. How quaint. I thought once they were rid of the monster supreme, things might slacken up a bit. Stalin was a monster and in spades.”

  “I get the feeling his successors are out to go him one better. Here’s the scenario I’ve constructed so far. It’s a little rough because I haven’t had all that much time to think.”

  “Come come, Villon. You’re much too modest. You probably have an idea who the killer is, you can’t kid an old friend like me.”

  “Killers. Plural.”

  “Plural! Heavens! The old safety in numbers bit.”

  “Romanov had a tough assignment.”

  Rowe held up a hand. “Wait! Are you telling me Romanov was a spy?”

  “Of a very sophisticated denomination.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve autopsied my first spy!” he said joyously to the ceiling. “All things come to him who waits! Think of it! My first spy!”

  “Hold on to your patience and you might be entertaining a few more,”

  “Really?” He was ecstatic. “Oh, how my cup runneth over!” He thought for a moment. “Who’s supplying us with all these spies?”

  “The Baronovitch Ballet.”
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  “No! Oh my dear. Herb! Are Fred and Ginger aware of this?”

  “I think they’re beginning to catch on.”

  “And they’re not afraid of the danger? Oh, they are so brave.”

  Jim Mallory suddenly spoke up. “You know what show people always say—the show must go on,”

  “Jim,” said Villon,

  “What?”

  “Not too much caffeine. It can overstimulate. Where was I? Oh yeah. Romanov’s assignment.” He explained to the coroner Romanov’s training and induction into psychiatry with Hollywood as his assignment.

  “Keep in mind, Edgar. Hollywood was hyperactive during the war. USO tours, a big number in service, a lot of them given commissions and in a position to hear things that would be of use to a foreign government.”

  “Still? All these years later?” The little man was fascinated.

  “I should think there are secrets lying dormant which, once revived, examined, investigated, and analyzed carefully, would reveal a whole new secret that could be of inestimable value to the Soviets.”

  “Sure,” said Mallory, getting into the swing, “more new kinds of bombs.”

  Rowe asked, “Are you bored with the ones we’ve got?”

  Said Villon, “Jim’s thinking’s on the right track, if a little muddy. We’ve probably got secret weapons that have yet to make it to the toy stores.”

  “And deadly gases,” Jim reminded them.

  “All the actors who were active in the war met a lot of people. They ate and drank together, and heard things that may have meant nothing to them at the time. But when they repeated them years later while lying on an analyst’s couch those things could mean a hell of a lot to the analyst, especially one like Romanov, who I’m sure sent much of what he learned and thought was important back to the Soviet. And Romanov has been treating some pretty important Hollywood people.”