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

by George Baxt

  Rowe sat up, looking like a puppy begging a treat. “So the CIA caught on and arranged for him to be killed!”

  “Close,” said Villon, “but no cigar. When the CIA caught on, which was quite a while ago, they forced Romanov to work for them. Romanov became a two-headed spy to save his skin. Except once the Russians wised up to the situation, Romanov’s goose was cooked. The old familiar recipe.”

  “You said friends murdered Romanov?”

  “I call them friends. Three of them worked for him. His nurse, his housekeeper, who was also his cook—”

  “Aha!” aha’d Rowe. “She had the easiest access to the skullduggery!”

  “—and his valet who was also his chauffeur and is the housekeepers nephew.” He lit a cigarette. “They all fed him cyanide in carefully measured doses. But now Romanov had to die a little faster than originally planned. Nina Valgorski took care of that.” Edgar Rowes chin dropped. “A prima ballerina assoluta a poisoner?”

  Jim Mallory said, “She’s been killing audiences for years,” and then wished he hadn’t after the deadly look Villon flashed him. Villon told them how the dancer had accomplished her contribution to Romanov’s death.

  The coroners eyes sparkled. “Our own Lucrezia Borgia! When are you collaring them?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re letting them go scot-free?”

  “I’ve got no proof and I’ve got no evidence. So now I wait, and soon my pigeons will come home to roost. Soon they’ll give themselves away. They’ve been telling lies left and right. And they’ll soon start tripping over them. You see, the four who poisoned Romanov are small fry.”

  “But Nina Valgorski is an international star” said Rowe.

  “A tool, like the other three, all tools. And I’m after bigger game.”

  “Come on. Herb. Stop being so obtuse.” Rowe was sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning forward.

  “All in good time, Edgar.” Villon extinguished his cigarette.

  “In other words, you don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot I know and suspect that I’m not sure about. Frankly, Edgar, I’m dealing with people who as far as I’m concerned are from outer space. And then there’s Don Magrew.”

  “Ah! Another country is heard from! And who is Don Magrew?”

  “He’s CIA. Assigned to the ballet company. Been with them since they began touring, but seems to keep a very low profile. So far he’s not been underfoot, which is the way I prefer it.” Villon looked at his wristwatch. “Come on, Jim. Let’s go to my office and order some lunch. I’ve got notes to type up while you, Edgar, get your report to me in triplicate. And get somebody to phone Romanov’s housekeeper and tell her the cold cuts are ready for delivery to the mortuary. The company starts rehearsing this afternoon and I’m interested in seeing how far Fred gets with this bunch before artistic temperaments start exploding all around him.” He had the door open to leave.

  “Wait!”

  Villon and Mallory turned to face Edgar Rowe. “Promise me Fred and Ginger aren’t in danger!”

  The little man was truly concerned. Villon asked, “Now who would want to kill either Fred or Ginger?”

  FIFTEEN

  At the same time Edgar Rowe was probing into Romanov’s body, Theodore Varonsky pulled into the doctor’s driveway. Alida led the way into the house and they could hear Malke Movitz laughing heartily. The laughter came from the library, which was in back of the house, adjoining the kitchen. The laughter, Varonsky thought, was hardly appropriate to a house supposed to be in mourning. He and Alida heard a car pull into the driveway and park behind them. It was the doctors limousine and Mordecai Pfenov got out of the car, paused to breathe deeply of the air rich with the scent of the flora that surrounded the house, and then examined the car on loan from NBC. Then he went into the house where he too wondered what was the cause of his aunts apparently uncontrollable mirth. He too followed the laughter into the library where Malke sat facing a man who sat behind the desk on which was a briefcase from which spilled some important-looking documents.

  The man behind the desk, whom all three recognized as Romanov’s lawyer, Morris Snyder, signaled hello and then suggested Mordecai get his aunt a glass of water.

  “Seltzer!” countermanded Malke between hiccups, and then began laughing again like a calliope out of control. Snyder was a middle-aged man in a business suit, something rarely worn or seen in Beverly Hills, where mens’ wardrobes were expensively casual. He had a bald spot, which he carefully attempted to camouflage with hair combed expertly over the bare skin, but to little effect. Mordecai had hurried to the kitchen in fear that his aunt might be suffering an apoplectic fit. Alida and Voronsky were perplexed and stared at Malke, who now had two streams of tears coursing down her cheeks, unlike the night before when the tears would have been more appropriate but were noticeably absent.

  “What is it?” Alida asked the lawyer. “What is she laughing at?”

  “Please sit down. Miss Rimsky,’’ said Snyder in the voice he usually reserved for the courtroom.

  “Mrs. Varonsky,” corrected Alida. ‘This is my husband. He is newly arrived in the city. He is the maître de ballet of the Baronovitch ballet company.” The men shook hands.

  The lawyer didn’t know what the hell she was talking about but accepted it on face value. After all, Alida was now a client of his and he rather liked her. The sudden materialization of a husband was like an arrow to his heart, as he had long fancied an affair with Alida as soon as his wife, who was fatally ill, made her long-awaited departure.

  Malke s laughter was beginning to subside. She had rummaged in her cleavage and found a handkerchief which she now used to dab at her face. Mordecai had returned from the kitchen with the glass of seltzer, which Malke downed in one sustained gulp.

  “Are you feeling better now, Malke?” asked the lawyer. Malke blew her nose with such force her nephew thought the room trembled. “Sit down, Mordecai,” ordered the lawyer and Mordecai willingly complied. He’d had quite a night with Luba Nafka in her suite at the Ambassador Hotel and both were so exhausted she barely made it to the photo shoot, and he ached to soak in a hot bath.

  Malke looked at Mr. Snyder and then at Alida and finally at Mordecai and her body began to shake in prelude to another fit of laughter.

  “Please, Malke, please!” pleaded the lawyer. She managed to gain control of herself and then sat back with a sigh, moving her head from side to side, disbelieving something the others would soon be hearing.

  The lawyer cleared his throat and explained to Alida and Mordecai, “I made this appointment last night with Malke when she phoned to tell me of Dr. Romanov’s sad and unexpected demise.”

  “Unexpected!” And Malke was laughing again.

  “Malke!” shouted Snyder and it was effective. The laughter strangled in her throat and this caused a fit of coughing during which Varonsky said to Alida, “I must get back for the photographs and then the rehearsal. Fred has blocked his preliminary movements and this morning he phoned bubbling with enthusiasm. Hermes Pan was even able to secure the services of their favorite rehearsal pianist, whom Fred says they expect to adapt the Khrennikov symphony for them. This, of course, is great progress. Americans move so fast!”

  “Oh we do move fast, indeed we do,” said Snyder who had overheard Varonsky now that Malkes coughing had died like the stalling motor of a Mack truck. “All better now, Malke?” asked the overly solicitous lawyer.

  “Yes, yes, 1 am fine. I am sorry.” She asked Varonsky, “You will forgive me, please.” Then she looked at Mordecai and chuckled. Mordecai was annoyed. “What is so funny about me?”

  “Not you, all three of us. Me, Alida, and you. Wait till you hear!” She urged the lawyer, “Go ahead, Mr. Snyder, tell them.” Snyder folded his hands on the desk. “Mordecai, Mrs. Varonsky … did I get that right?”

  “Very good,” complimented Varonsky while Alida smiled weakly. Her intuition warned her a bombshell was about to be dropped.
r />   “I’ve already congratulated Malke, now I have the pleasure of congratulating you, Alida, and you, Mordecai. On the desk are copies of Dr. Romanov’s will. One for each of you and I’m anxious to file it for probate, which was the doctor’s wish and offidally documented and signed elsewhere.” He held up a sheet of paper. “I won’t read the entire will as it has all those dreadfully boring whereases and wherefores and the rest of the deadly legal phraseology, which I loathe and I’m sure you would too if you had to listen to as much of it as I do every day.”

  He riffled the pages and Alida was beginning to feel giddy. He has left me something. A keepsake. A memento. His appointment book.

  The lawyer was clearing his throat again and riffling papers. Mordecai was perspiring with anticipation. What could Romanov have left him? The cars? Oh yes! Probably the cars. He would keep one and sell the other two. How many could he drive at one time?

  Snyder was speaking. ‘The house and its contents will have to be completely inventoried. I will leave that to you three. Of course one of my assistants will work with you to make sure everything is in order. It’s not that you aren’t trusted, it is required by law.” Alida sat forward and spoke up. “Mr. Snyder, exactly what are you supposed to be telling us?”

  “Oh my, do forgive me. I’d already told Malke.”

  “We’re rich!” boomed Malke. “The three of us are loaded! He’s left us everything! Everything!” She boomed the word again. “Everything! This house with all its acreage! The contents! The furnishings! The paintings! His bank accounts! And you want to know why I am laughing? Because it was the bastard’s little joke. He guessed what was going on and now he exacts his revenge from the grave. Because with all this wealth, how can we go on being communists?”

  He guessed what was going on and now he exacts his revenge from the grave.

  Snyder considered himself a true Hollywood sophisticate. He belonged to a country club. He played golf and tennis. He drank martinis with three olives, and he was in his third year of trying to read War and Peace. He enjoyed watching television tremendously but told everyone he loathed it. In his household there were three in help, a cook, a maid, and a man of all work. There was a part-time gardener and a part-time pool man. But what had Romanov suspected was going on and what kind of revenge was he exacting from the grave? Leaving this trio in a financially advantageous position was a form of revenge? Such revenge should befall him. He held his peace. He asked no questions. With all this money, Malke had asked, how could they go on being communists? Though they were of Russian origin, it had never occurred to him they might be dyed-in-the-wool dedicated communists. And therefore, would he be guilty by association?

  Alida asked, “Supposing the will is contested?”

  “Who by? He has no known relatives, unless—do you know of any relatives?’

  None of the heirs did. “So you see, the three of you are home free.”

  Varonsky was on his feet hugging Alida, Malke dabbed at her eyes. The tears now were genuine; she now found it affecting to be an heiress and she was already planning how to stash her inheritance so that the Soviets couldn’t possibly demand a share if not all of it. Mordecai was planning the wardrobe for his debut on the Ed Sullivan show and whether to permit Luba Nafka to hitchhike a trip to his future success by riding on his coattails. Last night she spoke of commitment after five years of separation, the plan to defect and find a worthier international career. He wondered what the strange look on Morris Snyder’s face meant. Then he nursed the chilling thought that Snyder was now harboring suspicions about Igor Romanov’s death. He would discuss this with Malke at the first opportunity. Determination was reflected in his face but recognized by no one because no one was looking at him.

  Varonsky asked Morris Snyder, “Will there be a mention of the inheritance in the newspapers?”

  “I don’t see why, unless you want one. I can have my friend Hazel Dickson spread the good news if you want it publicized.” They all had met Hazel Dickson and preferred she not be involved. All agreed a cloak of silence should be the fashion for their windfall.

  Snyder reminded them, “There is no avoiding taxes, you understand.” He chuckled. “Perhaps you’ve heard the expression ‘Nothing is inevitable except death and taxes.”

  Malke thought in Russian, “Da, this death has certainly led to taxes.” She said in English, “We shall certainly not avoid paying taxes. I, after all, am an American citizen. And soon also Alida and Mordecai.” And like all good Americans, thought the lawyer, you’ll bust your gut setting up a scheme to defraud Uncle Sam. “I have an excellent tax lawyer in my office, and he’ll be of great help to the three of you.”

  Varonsky consulted his pocket watch. “I must fly! I will be too late for the photographs. I shall go directly to rehearsal. Alida, you will have no transportation problem?” She assured him she wouldn’t and walked him to the door. He took her hand and led her outside to his car where he said, “You heard what the cow said? Romanov exacts his revenge from the grave. The lawyer must be wondering what she meant by that.”

  “No, no,” Alida reassured him, “I didn’t see him react. He would have asked a question if she had aroused any suspicion. He and Romanov were good friends. Snyders wife is dying and Romanov has been his rock of Gibraltar. Don’t worry, Theodore.” They kissed. “Have a good rehearsal. Tell me, my darling: do I taste any different now that I am an heiress?”

  After a conference with the head of his department, it was agreed that Villon with Mallory’s assistance would spend as much time as he deemed possible with the Baronovitch company. Silently, Jim Mallory was elated. He moved onto cloud nine and looked forward to a delightful and fruitful tenancy—all those nubile ballerinas—except for the few who had already been claimed by the male dancers. When the detectives arrived at this first rehearsal, they weren’t surprised to find that Hazel Dickson already had staked out the territory half an hour earlier. Though the company hadn’t had much sleep after the previous nights gala and the early photo call, they all were in high spirits and mentally alert, listening carefully as Fred and Hermes Pan blocked the opening scene. They were amazed at the resemblance Pan had to Astaire, insisting they must really be brothers. Ginger reassured the company they weren’t, and was beginning to live her role of the empress, taking the younger dancers under her wing and being generous with her time. She knew she looked quite fetching in her rehearsal clothes, simple shorts and an even simpler blouse, the shorts sky blue and the blouse ivory white.

  Esther Pincus, the rehearsal pianist, holding a container of black coffee, was pleased and flattered Ginger took the trouble to introduce herself, knowing Fred and Hermes swore by her. A rehearsal pianist could make or break you and although Ginger didn’t shatter easily, she had to be sure Esther was an ally. In two seconds flat Esther adored her and assured her she would provide the right beat at the right time. “I’m amazed I’ve never played for you before.”

  “I know. Isn’t it crazy? But I haven’t done a musical in years.”

  “Which is a crying shame. Look, I think Fred is signaling you.” Ginger turned and saw Fred at the opposite end of the large rehearsal room and shouted she’d be right there. And then she smiled, delighted to see Villon and Mallory were with Fred. Of course! He had the results of the autopsy.

  She passed Sol Hurok and Mae Frohman who were at a table with the designer, poring over the costume and scenic designs he’d spread across the table. “Very good,” said Hurok, “I admit I am very unpressed.”

  “Impressed,” corrected Mae.

  Hurok, as always, ignored her interruption. There were those who suspected Hurok deliberately mangled the English language when Mae was present to give her the pleasure of correcting him. Little did he know she found correcting his speech tiresome, and frequently thought of telling him. It was the way he mispronounced names that frequently came close to driving her around the bend. Miss Heartburn was Katharine Hepburn. Helen Hera was Helen Hayes. Josie Furrier was Jose Ferrer.
And when it came to Rabindranath Tagore, forget about it.

  Villon told Fred and Ginger the result of Romanov’s autopsy.

  Fred insisted Romanov had to know what was being done to him. Ginger had some doubts. “Remember, Fred, when they’d give a mickey to obnoxious drunks in speakeasies, those guys keeled over faster than a whore landed on her back.”

  “Mickeys,” Fred reminded her, having in his time bribed a waiter to slip one to an offensive character, “work right away, when they work, but Romanov was a long-term proposition. Why, I’m not quite sure, but I’ll bet his killers thought they knew what they were doing.”

  “They knew what they were doing because it was an old Russian custom. Death in small doses. If the victim takes a long time dying, it’s less suspicious than if he keels over right there on the spot.” Villon accepted a container of coffee from Mallory, who had ordered them for himself and Villon. “It would have worked with Romanov because he might have had the occasional discomfort that goes with an intestinal disturbance, but for some reason, the process had to be hurried up, so Nina Valgorski did the honors.”

  It was the first time her name had been mentioned by Villon in connection with the murder and the stars were dumbfounded. Ginger gasped, and Villon quickly placed an index finger on his lips warning silence. He told them how she had placed the cadmium in Romanov’s soda water.

  “And to think I admired that whistle,” said Ginger. “Boy, them there commies sure do think up some bizarre ways to knock a person off.”

  Villon asked, “Are you frightened?”

  “Speaking as a one-time girl scout and a girl guide, hell no. Speaking for myself thirty years later, don’t you dare let me out of your sight!”

  “Now, Ginger,” asked Fred, “who would want to kill you?”