by George Baxt
Hazel sat up. “On duty? This is a gala, not a stakeout. Say! What’s going on? I caught that look between you two! “She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. International intrigue! Come on, Herb, give. Will the place be crawling with spies?”
Villon leaned back in his swivel chair and stared at his beloved. How she could put her finger on something without realizing what she was putting her finger on! He decided it was wiser to level with her. He didn’t want her eavesdropping on every conversation possible or poking under wigs and toupees in search of what she imagined was the elusive.
‘The CIA suspects there are spies in the Baronovitch troupe.”
“Aha!”
“But realistically, the CIA suspects there are spies all over the place. This goddamned HUAC investigation is making it rough on everybody.”
“My God, don’t tell me every actor, writer, and director who attends tonight will be under investigation!”
“They’ve already been investigated.” He told her about the meeting earlier with Dan Magrew. “You missed him by just a couple of minutes.”
“I think I saw him leaving the building. Tall, good-looking— that is, by my standards—with a pipe clenched between his teeth making him look like an Arrow collar ad.”
The pipe did it for Villon. ‘That’s him. The Russians have their secret police out in full force.”
“You mean the Soviets, darling. They stopped referring to themselves as Russians years ago.” She rubbed her hands together eagerly. “Now tonight sounds like it’s going to be fun. But just the same, Jim, you’ll by to give me a hand if you see the monsters are swamping me.”
“I’ll do what I can.” His mind was on Luba Nafka, pirouetting in his subconscious.
“What’s that silly look on your face?” Herb asked Mallory.
“What silly look?” Mallory asked innocently.
“When you’re preoccupied with the thought of some female.” Mallory shrugged and slumped in his chair. Villon could always read him and it made Mallory uncomfortable.
Hazel, uninvited as always, was now standing behind Villon and studying the guest list “Is it alphabetical?” she asked.
“It’s alphabetical.”
“Is it complete?”
“It’s the same list as the CIA’s.”
“What about last-minute additions? There are always some at these affairs.”
She happened to be right but Villon wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of telling her. “The CIA is prepared for any emergencies.”
“Ginger’s Jacques Bergerac won’t be there. He’s night-shooting at Metro.” Villon had visions of the actor aiming a rifle at the sky to pop off some portions of the night. “And Phyllis Astaire hasn’t gotten back from the East yet. I phoned Fred earlier to check on his wife. He didn’t seem bothered that she’d made no special effort to get back for Mr. Huroks gala. Anyway, he was too preoccupied with other things. He let slip he and Ginger had been rehearsing all morning in the ballroom so I’m sure that means they’ll be doing a number tonight.” She was back in her seat. She sipped her coffee. “Awful.”
Villon snapped, “Next time, bring your own.”
“Now don’t you pick a fight with me. I’ve got enough to worry about without you getting testy. If you want me to go just say so.”
“Go.”
She was rouging her lips. “Damn. This is the wrong color for my hair.” She looked at her wristwatch. “I just have time to stop off at Max Factor’s and get myself a new lipstick.”
“Don’t be forever at it,” cautioned Villon. “I’m picking you up at eight sharp.”
“Don’t sound so testy. Am I ever not ready on time?” She was on her feet. Villon did not respond to her question. Her mother had told him long ago that Hazel’s was a delayed pregnancy and that she’d been late ever since. “See you later, fellers!” and she was out the door.
“That hair,” groaned Villon, “that awful hair.” His face was in his hands, his head shaking back and forth.
“You want a cup of coffee?” asked Mallory.
“I want a cup of hemlock.” He took his hands from his face. “For Hazel.” Then he resumed studying the list.
Mallory asked, “What’s bothering you?”
“Does it show?”
‘The veins are beginning to stick out on your neck.”
“To quote our friend Bette Davis, something tells me this is going to be a bumpy night.”
“There’s a name there that bothers you?”
“There are several names here that bother me. There are several names I’ve collared on morals charges. There are some I’ve hauled in for petty theft. And there are two Romanov’s, which is one too many. There’s Mike Romanoff. Well, Hurok eats at his restaurant on the house. So he probably figured it was a good idea to ask him. And Igor Romanov.”
“The shrink?”
“The shrink,” echoed Villon. He sat back in his chair. “Jim, I could use a drink. Break out the bourbon.”
THREE
Lela Rogers was a very pretty woman who frequently harbored unpretty thoughts. She sat on an easy chair in her daughter’s bedroom, watching the respected costume designer Edith Head make final adjustments to the gown Ginger was to wear to the ball. Ginger stood on a wooden stool she had borrowed from Paramount Pictures years ago with no intention of ever returning it. Just about every star in Hollywood thought it their right to appropriate something from one of the sets of their pictures, though Greer Garson went too far when she ‘“adopted’’ an antique spinet and harp from Pride and Prejudice. Edith was on her knees fussing with the hem of the gown, a tight, form-fitting number in blue lame with a shocking-pink trim. The gown wasn’t borrowed, fortunately. Ginger ordered it designed by Edith especially for the Baronovitch gala. Just like everybody who came in contact with Gingers mother, Edith thoroughly disliked the woman, and the poisonous monologue she was now spouting made Edith like her even less.
“The idea of throwing a grand ball for them commies. Our boys dying on the battlefields of Korea, and Hollywood dances! God how I hate commies.”
Edith asked dryly, “Why? You once ate a bad one?”
Gingers eyes flashed a warning to Edith but the designer was in no position to make eye contact, bending over the hem while wondering if she jabbed Mrs. Rogers with her scissors, would that constitute homicide or a mercy killing.
“Say, Edith Head.’’ Mrs. Rogers was leaning forward and briefly resembling a judge at the Spanish Inquisition. “You’ve been in Hollywood a real long time, haven’t you.”
“Ever since Adam and Eve.”
Lela Rogers let the sally fly past her. “You must have met a hell of a lot of commies.”
“Lela,” and Edith spoke the name with exaggerated patience, “I wouldn’t know a communist from a Seventh-day adventist. And even if I suspected someone was a communist I wouldn’t stoop so low as to finger them.”
“Really!” cried Lela while Ginger looked upward seeking help from heaven. There was no muzzling either Lela or Edith, two of Hollywood’s most headstrong, no-nonsense women. “If you know any of them rotten commies, it’s your patriotic duty to name them.”
Edith ignored the statement. Her heart ached for the several friends who were suffering the blacklist, Marsha Hunt, Jean Muir, Karen Morley, Gale Sondergaard, and so on. Lela was back on track and flailing away “I’m sure you’re not a God-fearing woman and you don’t read the Bible.”
“My dear Lela, among other things, the Bible is famous for its bad weather. I read it as a child in Sunday school and I have loathed Sunday ever since. Ginger, have you read the Bible?”
“Only the racy parts,” said Ginger.
“Ginger!” Lela was bristling.
“Lela,” said Ginger wearily, “why don’t you rustle us up some tea and some cakes.”
“I’ll ring for them,” said Lela, rising.
“There are no servants, Lela. I gave them the day off. Jacques is working and I’m busy with the ball
so I sent them off.”
“Undoubtedly singing ‘Let my people go’” said Edith under her breath.
“Oh very well.” said Lela, “I’ll get them.” sounding as though she had been sentenced to twenty strokes of the lash. She marched out of the room with a petulant look and a sniffle of the nose.
Said Ginger in a tired voice, “Let’s take a break. I’ve been rehearsing for hours with Fred and boy, am I out of shape. Want a cigarette?”
With Lela Rogers in mind. Edith Head was more in the mood for a fly swatter but said, “Do you mind if I smoke my own?” Her bones creaked as she got to her feet with an effort. She was a small woman but always dressed smartly and looked even smarter. Ginger said, “Your purse is on the dressing table in case you’ve forgotten.” Edith had been looking around for the handbag and thanked Ginger. Ginger lit up and stretched out on the chaise longue. Edith lit her cigarette and sat on the bed.
Edith surveyed the beautiful reclining figure and spoke. “Sorry if I can’t take your mother seriously. She reminds me of that mother-in-law in the Edgar Kennedy comedies.”
“Dot Farley.”
“My God. How do you remember her name?”
“Knew her at RKO. Nice lady. If you care to, you get used to Lela. All my husbands did. Even when she’s not angry, Lela sees red.” After a few seconds of silence. Ginger asked, “How do you cope with it?”
“With what?”
“Growing old.”
“Since its inevitable, there’s no use fighting it.”
“I wish I could be like Dietrich. She takes it in her stride.”
“That’s what you think.”
“She seems so nonchalant about it!”
“Honey, she works on her face and her body every day. She watches her diet and her only indulgence is champagne. She consumes bottle after bottle. If she thinks she’s eaten too much, she forces herself to throw up. Dietrich has made a career of eternal youth. But with her it’s a cinch. That magnificent bone structure. A work of art. And the ease with which she floats back and forth to lovers of either sex. You’ve got to hand it to her.”
“You might as well, she’ll take it anyway.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean. I’m being jealous.” Ginger was at the dressing table looking for an ashtray and found several. “Oh God. The mother of five children!”
“Who?”
“Me, for crying out loud. The Czarina!”
“Well, at least you’re royalty.” Edith hopped off the bed and doused her cigarette in an ashtray. “The dumb things actresses do to give the impression they’re ageless. Do you know Norma Shearer turned down Mrs. Miniver!”
“So did I, Edith, so did I.”
“I didn’t know that!”
“You know it now. Are we almost finished?”
“Almost.” Ginger was back on the wooden stool, and Edith was back on her knees with a suppressed groan. “Where does Dr. Romanov stand on this problem of aging?”
“He hasn’t committed himself and that’s because I can’t bring myself to discuss it.”
“Then why pay his exorbitant fee?”
“I find those sessions very comforting. He doesn’t say much but what he does is from the heart. I know it is.”
“You call that hovel a heart?”
“Now really, Edith. That’s no way to talk about the doctor.”
“Ginger, let me let you in on a little secret at the risk of my reputation for keeping very close-mouthed about myself. I was one of Romanov’s first patients. Doris Nolan recommended him to me.”
“But she’s …”
“… Blacklisted. And that’s neither here nor there. 1 was going through a bad patch and I needed help desperately. I was suicidal.”
“Not you!”
“Of course me. That’s who I’m talking about.”
“But to everybody you’ve always been the rock of Gibraltar!”
“Well, this rock was about to topple over. So I went to Dr. Romanov a mess. By the time he got through with me I was a wreck. I went to Palm Springs and had a nervous breakdown.”
“Did Romanov know about it?”
“If he did, I never heard a peep out of him.”
“But he’s considered a paradigm among psychiatrists!”
“A paradigm a dozen.”
Ginger stared down at the top of the designer’s head, the jet black hair neatly combed and held in place by several beautiful black combs. “But he’s helped so many others. It was Gail Patrick who recommended him to me.”
Edith Head said solemnly, “I’m sure he has. Not me. Not Edith Head.”
From the hallway they heard Lela Rogers yelling frantically, “Girls! Girls!”
“She can’t find the tea bags,” said Ginger, shoulders slumped. Lela burst into the bedroom, cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘The most wonderful news! It just came over the radio. Ethel and Julius Rosenberg are guilty! The commie spies are guilty! They’re going to fry!”
Edith looked up and said softly, “That’s the one thing I admire about you, Lela. You’re all heart.”
Sam Goldwyn, the eminent producer of numberless brilliant films such as The Little Foxes and The Best Years of Our Lives, sat on the sofa in Sol Hurok’s suite sipping a scotch and water. His wife, the very lovely and very clever former silent-screen star Frances Howard, had elected to skip the gala to play bridge with the “girls.” Truth be told, she couldn’t cope with the thought of being caught in a crossfire of fractured English between her husband and Sol Hurok. Hurok sat in an easy chair with a glass of red wine, rattling off the guest list, which, as always, he had committed to memory. As he neared the end of the recital, Goldwyn interrupted. “I know he’s no longer a star but still he deserved an invitation.”
“Who are you talking about?” Mae Frohman was offering Goldwyn some hors d’oeuvres.
“How could you forget Comrade Nagel?”
“Comrade? A Russian actor here in Hollywood?”
“Mr. Hurok,” offered Mae, “I think he means Conrad Nagel.”
“So that’s what I said. Comrade Nagel. Nice fellow. He acted with Garbo and Shearer.”
“You have his phone number? I’ll call him up.”
“I don’t have his phone number.” He selected an hors d’oeuvre greedily. “Aha! Trifles!”
‘Truffles,” Mae corrected patiently. “If Frances knew what she was missing, she’d make such a fuss.” Mae averted her head as Goldwyn consigned the truffles to his cement mixer of a mouth. She crossed to Hurok who chose a cream cheese and smoked salmon concoction.
After a sip of his drink, Goldwyn asked Hurok, “So what’s wrong, Sol?”
“It shows?”
“How many years do we know each other? Of course it shows. You need money as usual?”
“No, just right now I’m pretty flesh.”
“Flush,” corrected Mae, now sitting on the couch with Goldwyn and wondering why neither of the men had complimented her on her lovely Balmain gown, her very first Balmain gown. “You’re having trouble with Fred?”
“No, he’s a doll.”
“Ginger?”
“No, she’s getting used to being the mother of five children. Fred says not to worry about Ginger, she’ll come through with frying colors.”
“Flying,” corrected Mae.
Sol said solemnly, “A few hours ago, when I was tying to take a nap, the enormity of what I have undertaken finally began to sway heavenly on me.”
“Weigh heavily,” corrected Mae. She was beginning to feel like a judge at a tennis match, her head moving back and forth between both men.
“A ballet company and two screen legends. And the CIA and the Secret Service and OGPU, the Russian secret police.”
“They’re also in the show?” Goldwyn was kidding of course.
“Sam,” said Hurok gravely, “the CIA says the Boronovitch is a hard bed of spies.”
“Hotbed,” corrected Mae as she went to a sideboard for t
he carafe of wine to replenish Hurok s glass. She also poured herself one, though she usually was not much of a drinker. Goldwyn refused another drink, glancing at his pocket watch and thinking it was time Hurok put in an appearance at the ball.
“Did you hear me, Sam?”
“I heard you. Well, it stands to reason the Russians have to protect their citizens and the CIA has to protect ours.”
“I got frightened thinking what would happen if there was trouble and maybe somebody would get killed …”
Goldwyn s eyes were shining. “What a lucky break! Such publicity! Hmm. That could make a good movie. I could maybe bring Vera Zorina back as the Russian ballerina. You know I gave her her first movie, The Goldwyn Follies. George Balanchine was the choreographer. He was married to Zorina then.” He sighed. “It was George Gershwins last songwriting job before the brain tumor killed him.” He shook his head from side to side. “Such an egotist.”
“Worse than you?” asked Hurok. They both laughed. Then Hurok said, “Why do I feel so uneasy? Like something terrible might happen.”
“Nothing terrible will happen,” Mae assured him. She said to Goldwyn, “Mr. Hurok is such a pessimist, he always expects the worst and usually he gets the best.”
Goldwyn said, “Mae, why don’t you come work for me.”
“Again!” stormed Hurok. “Again! Again you’re trying to steal Mae away from me!”
Mae smiled. She was flattered. She had played this scene with them on many previous occasions. She knew she’d never leave Hurok’s employ. He was so good to her, so generous, even though he overworked her shamelessly. Like the summer she went to Paris and the phone in her room rang and it was Hurok saying, “I happened to be in Europe so I thought I’d drop up.”
Sam Goldwyn said generously, “Sol, tonight you’re going to make show business history.” Hurok sat with his hands folded on his lap. For the moment he looked like a schoolboy waiting to be offered a piece of cake, and Goldwyn didn’t disappoint him, he offered him a big slice. “You listen carefully because this is Sam Goldwyn talking, the second-best showman in the business. Of course you’re the first.”
Hurok demurred, “Oh please no, Sam.” Mae looked at her nails. Thank God the two monsters had never done a deal together or the ensuing explosion would have made the atomic bomb look like a tiny puff of smoke.