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

by George Baxt

  “Sol, I am jealous.”

  “Oh don’t be silly…”

  “I am not silly. Sam Goldwyn is never silly, and when he is giving it to you straight from the heart. Sam Goldwyn is being very sincere.” Mae was tempted to correct him, “Insincere,” but kept her mouth shut. “I am jealous, because who but you would think of bringing Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers together with the Boronovitch Ballet? Who? Tell me who?” He was lighting a cigar and Mae hoped she wouldn’t get nauseous. She detested cigars and cigar smoke. She wondered if he would be offended if she turned up the air conditioning. “And who but you would con … convince NBC to pick up the tab. Who? Maybe me? Never! What do I know about concerts and television. I mean I make some pretty colossal mistakes.” He shook his head sadly from side to side. “Anna Sten! What I spent to make her a star and she was a damn good actress, but the public stayed away from her pictures in mops.”

  “Mobs,” corrected Mae. She was at the air conditioner and looking out the window, the suite overlooking Wilshire Boulevard and the front of the hotel. There was a crush of people below being held back by a cordon of police. Limousines were drawing up, delivering what Mae assumed were the numerous luminaries Hurok would be thrilled to see assembled in the ballroom. Klieg lights swept die skies and there were newsreel trucks alongside television trucks, and the cameras mounted on the roofs of the trucks were indeed recording and transmitting show business history.

  It seemed Goldwyn was being carried away by his own oratory. “Sol, there should lie a statue of you erectioned”—Mae decided not to correct this one—“in Central Park. In Columbus Circle!”

  “They’ve already got Columbus there,” said Hurok.

  “Remove him! You’ve done more for America than Columbus, and besides, he first landed in Cuba I read someplace.”

  They heard cheers from outside. Mae said from the window, “I think its Fred and Ginger. Oh, how cute of them to arrive together.” She said firmly, “Mr. Hurok, I’m going down to the ballroom. This is so exciting I don’t want to miss a thing!”

  Goldwyn said to Hurok, “Sol, I’d offer you my arm, but there won’t be any cheers when we enter together. Instead, somebody’ll be asking, ‘So what the hell are those two bums up to now?’

  “Bums?” echoed Hurok, following Goldwyn into the hall, “What happened to the statue in Central Park?”

  The ballroom, as Mae would later describe it, was like she always imagined fairyland would be. The cavernous room was sumptuously decorated. The Ambassador Hotel had outdone itself. The ceilings were festooned with twinkling stars, and revolving crystal balls had been installed for the occasion by the management. There were many tables that were groaning boards of carved turkeys, hams, and roast beef, in addition to grouse and Smyrna ducks for a Russian touch. There were iced bowls of caviar, both red and black, accompanied by bowls of sour cream and chopped egg white. Bowls of chopped eggplant decorated with lemon curlicues were cheek by jowl with huge blocks of Russian halvah of varied flavors. There were trays of the sickeningly sweet Russian pastry baklava, and of course a chopped liver sculpture that represented the czar and the czarina. Commented one Hollywood wag, “No equal time for Lenin and Stalin?”

  At the far end of the ballroom Barry Ennis and his sixteen-piece orchestra were bombarding the eardrums with a medley of Astaire and Rogers song hits. The guests danced to and some sang to, ‘Cheek to Cheek,’ ‘Top Hat, White Tie and Tails,’ ‘I’m Putting All My Eggs in One Basket,” and ‘Change Partners,’ and for some dizzying minutes, everybody in the room was an Astaire and Rogers clone.

  Mae Frohman drank it all in, committing as much as possible to memory so she could regale the office staff back in New York with her memories of what she knew would be looked back upon as a historical moment in show business. She heard Goldwyn saying to Hurok, “See, Soli This is a truly memorable, a truly hysterical evening.”

  And Sam Goldwyn said. “My God, I don’t believe it.” Anna Sten was coming at him with arms outstretched. The photographers wandering the floor spotted Sten heading for Goldwyn and flashlights popped like a barrage on a war field. Nobody ever dreamed they would see Anna Sten and Samuel Goldwyn reunited and dancing to “Let’s Face the Music and Dance.” They had faced the music almost two decades earlier, but now they could dance with carefree abandon. “My God, Anna, you make me light on my feet. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were such a good dancer? We could have done a musical!”

  Though she was smiling for the benefit of him and the cameramen, she said seriously, “Sam. There are Russian secret-service men all over the place. I recognize some from when 1 was a young girl in Russia.”

  “I know dear, I know. It’s nothing to concern yourself with. There’s also an equal number of our secret service and the CIA.” They both waved at acquaintances, both personal and business, and off to one side Louella Parsons gushed to no one in particular, “Oh my dears its Goldwyn and Sten together again after all these years. Where’s Sam’s wife? If she sees this she’ll have a hemhorrage.”

  Hazel Dicksons flaming hennaed hair was, as Herb Villon predicted it would be, a conversation piece. “Looks like she rinsed it in blood,” said Hedda Hopper to her escort, Franklin Pangborn, one of filmdom’s most popular and perennial character actors.

  Mae was in front of the bandstand, swaying slightly to the music while admiring the two staircases surrounding the orchestra shell. It was obvious some grand entrances would be made on them.

  The Hollywood Russians were beginning to arrive. Actor-director Gregory Ratoff was with his occasional wife (as he called her), actress Eugenie Leontovich who had created the role of Grusinskaya in the 1930 Broadway production of Grand Hotel; Akim Tamiroff made an entrance with his wife, Tamara Shayne; Ivan Lebedeff was with his beautiful Wera Engels; also on hand with wives or lovers were Mischa Auer, Leonid Kinskey, and Adnia Kouznetzoff, and there was a huge burst of applause when one of the baby ballerinas, Tamara Toumanova, arrived with her husband, Casey Robinson. She seemed more beautiful and glamorous than ever. Later Ginger commented, “Why shouldn’t she be more beautiful and glamorous than ever? She’s only thirty-five!”

  Mike Romanoff the restaurateur, was overdoing the hand kissing while Humphrey Bogart took a moment to ask him, “Who’s minding the store?”

  Herb Villon spotted Don Magrew and nodded to him. Magrew winked. Jim Mallory asked, “He winking at you or me?”

  Villon chose to ignore the fatuous question. “Jesus,” he said, “a monocle. I thought those went out with Erich von Stroheim.”

  “Who’s the monocle?” asked Mallory. “You know him?”

  Hazel had joined them in time to hear Mallory’s question and supply the answer. “That’s Romanov the shrink. The dish with him is his nurse, Alida Rimsky. I wonder if they’re having it off after office hours.” She said to Villon, “You haven’t told me how gorgeous I look.”

  Villon said glumly, “You look gorgeous.”

  Hazel was staring at a section of a buffet table where Louella Pardons was dipping her fingers into a dip. “Uh-oh,” said Hazel, “Louellas got her fingers in what looks like a clam dip. Don’t touch it. You don’t know where those fingers have been. With any luck she’ll pass out early. Well, it’s quite a turnout. Hurok has outdone himself. There’s only one thing missing.’’

  “What?” asked Villon.

  “The Baronovitch Ballet.”

  FOUR

  The ballroom reverberated with thunderous applause when Fred and Ginger entered, an entrance delayed by reporters and cameramen who besieged the two stars. Ginger loved the attention, which she felt was due a queen, let alone a czarina, while Fred amiably shared the spotlight, wishing his wife was there. In the ballroom, Hedda put her arm around Ginger while Louella commandeered Fred.

  “My my,” my-myed Ginger, wondering how to rid herself of the arm around her shoulder. Like a good soldier under fire Fred gave Louella a peck on her chubby cheek and was rewarded with the celebrated Parsons gurgle, which
sounded like the water in an emptying bathtub. As the guests moved in on Fred and Ginger and their captor columnists Ginger commented airily, “Everybody s here except Garbo!”

  Fred said, “You never can tell, she might be using the facility. Ah! Forgive me, Louella. There’s Sol!” He pulled away from Louella, who almost fell over, having been using Fred as ballast. She was caught by Franklin Pangborn, who quipped, “Still falling for me, Louella?” She glared at him and said, “I only fall for men.” Pangborn released his grip on her arm and with the haughty sniff associated with the effeminate characters in which he specialized, went in search of a drink.

  Fred said to Hurok, “I’ll introduce the stars of the ballet before Ginger and I do our number. By the way, where are they? Have you seen them?”

  Mae answered for Hurok. “They’re backstage bickering over who gets the first introduction.”

  Hurok said firmly, “First should come Luba Nafka, then should come Gregor Sukov, and last should be Nina Valgorski, because she’s the biggest star of the three. But first you introduce Theodore and Mikhail. Nobody will know who they are or give a damn about them, but we must do it as a courtesy.”

  Behind the orchestra shell, separated from the ballroom by a huge white curtain on which was artfully painted the names of all the participants in the television special, the imperious Nina Valgorski stood with one hand on a shapely hip and the other holding a glass of champagne. Gregor Sukov leaned against a wall, arms folded in front of him and a Gauloises cigarette dangling from his lips, thinking of all the places he’d rather be than the one where he was standing now. He had enjoyed almost all the cities of the tour but Los Angeles was not to his taste. Los Angeles had much bigger and more famous stars than he was and he missed the adulation that he knew was his due. He missed the women falling all over him in the rush to give him their phone numbers. But he also realized he must be patient. Los Angeles had not yet seen him perform; Hurok had guaranteed the telecast would be seen by millions of viewers after which, Hurok assured him, “You will be a household name! Like Brillo!” For weeks Sukov wondered who was this celebrated Brillo and would not ask anyone for elucidation as he was loath to display what would certainly be considered his ignorance.

  Luba Nalka was admiring herself in a floor-length mirror wisely installed by the hotel manager who was familiar with the egos of ballet stars. “If necessary, they’d look for their images in a toilet bowl,” he explained to his assistant. Luba wore a simple outfit of a black skirt and white blouse with a wide black belt and a single strand of pearls. She knew better than to attempt to compete with the soignee Nina, who, being the older of the two and a prima ballerina for more than twenty years, wore around her neck a very classy-looking silver whistle, which Luba assumed contained an emergency jigger of vodka. Luba listened to the orchestra, which had segued from Astaire and Rogers to jazzed-up versions of Russian perennials.

  “Bordjamoj!” exclaimed Nina, “is that ‘The Volga Boatman’?”

  “Seasick,” said Sukov. He ground his cigarette under his heel and wondered aloud in Russian, “What is going on? How long do we remain sequestered here?”

  Hurok and Fred Astaire appeared with Mae Frohman. “Well, my children, are we ready?” asked Hurok.

  “Ready? Ready?” asked Nina. “We are weary, that’s what we are, we are weary. How much longer do you plan to keep us in this isolation?”

  “This, my dear Nina, is showmanship! Keep the people waiting! They will thirst for your appearance!”

  “I thirst for more champagne,” said Nina coldly, “which. I’m sad to see, is domestic California.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Sukov. “It is past nine o’clock. I always eat by seven.”

  “There’s plenty to eat, plenty,” Hurok assured them. “Like a Jewish wedding. Wait till you see the famous celebrities that have come to pay homage to my three great stars!”

  “They come to, how you say, freeload,” said the wise and worldly Nina.

  Fred interjected, “Love that thing around your neck.”

  “Oh yes?” said Nina with a smile that took an effort. “A gift from an old admirer. My father.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who is that person who spies on us?” She pointed to a chunky gentleman whose ill-fitting suit identified him as Russian. He was clicking away with his camera; then before they knew it, he had disappeared out a side door.

  “Looks like one of your secret police,” said Fred, “Anyway, we have more important matters to discuss, such as how I plan to introduce you three sublime artists.” Hurok had told him to pour it on, be lavish with admiration for the Russians, and the usually subtle dancer laid it on with a heavy hand. The three dancers seemed to be flattered and Hurok beamed with pleasure.

  Out front. Ginger buttonholed Dr. Romanov. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here tonight?”

  “Does it give you a problem to socialize with me?” Ginger thought he wasn’t looking well.

  “Hell no. I’m delighted to see you. I see Alida over there chinning with the maître de ballet. They act as though they might be old friends.” What she really meant was old lovers, but she was quick to edit herself in case behind the scenes the doctor and his nurse were a possible item.

  Romanov said suavely, “It is Varonsky and I who are the old friends. He invited us. I entertained Varonsky and his associates at dinner a few nights ago.”

  Ginger sparkled as she said, “See? Didn’t I say you might find some old friends with the company? And I hope I’ve found some new friends. The only ballet dancer I’ve had truck with was Harriet Hoctor.” Romanov had never heard of the former Ziegfeld star. “She was in Shall We Dance? with Fred and myself. Hate to say it but I’ll say it anyway—she was very old hat, but a sweet disposition.”

  Mae Frohman descended on them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Fred wants you backstage, Ginger.”

  “Oh dear, now I’m a bundle of nerves. I haven’t appeared in person since my wedding.”

  May refrained from asking, “Which one?” Instead she said, “I know you and Fred are going to be marvelous. I can hardly wait.”

  “Really? Well, point me in the right direction.” May took the hand Ginger proffered and guided her backstage. Gingers fingers were ice cold but May made no comment. She really was nervous. The life of a celebrity, Mae had decided years ago, was not to be envied. For example, she remembered opera star Lily Pons saying to Hurok with a tear in her voice, “I haven’t had sex in over four months and that’s not good for my voice.”

  Mikhail Bochno had joined Dr. Romanov, saying, “How sad Maria Ouspenskaya is not here.” Romanov was suffering some intestinal discomfort but said nothing.

  “You were a fan of hers?”

  “She’s an old friend of my mother’s. They acted together with the Moscow Art Theatre.”

  “Didn’t word reach Russia when she died?”

  “Ouspenskaya is dead?” Bochno’s eyes were wide with disbelief.

  “Over four years ago.”

  “But how?”

  “She smoked in bed. She was consumed by flames.”

  “How awful! Varonsky!” he called out to the maître de ballet, who miraculously heard him over the din. Varonsky and Alida Rimsky joined Bochno and the doctor. “Ouspenskaya is dead! Did you know this?”

  Varonsky looked from Bochno to Romanov and finally to Alida Rimsky, who could see by the tiny beads of perspiration on his head that the doctor was in a state of discomfort. “Who was this Ouspenskaya?”

  Bochno couldn’t believe his ears. “She was a great actress! The Moscow Art Theatre. The Cherry Orchards Alida said, “Also The Wolf Man for Universal Pictures.”

  There was a fanfare from the orchestra. Barry Ennis, the leader, spoke into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! Your host, Mr. Sol Hurok.”

  A spotlight found Hurok at the top of the staircase to the left of the orchestra. The applause that greeted him was music to his egotistical ears. For many in attendance, this was the first and probably th
e last time they would ever see him in the flesh. With a warm smile he slowly descended the staircase and Mae Frohman prayed he wouldn’t trip and break his neck. The orchestra accompanied his descent with a slightly ragged “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Mae was grateful they hadn’t chosen “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”

  Hurok reached the microphone, which Ennis adjusted to his height, and Hurok clutched it nervously. The orchestra and the applause subsided while too many heard Hedda Hoppers nasty comment, “Commie lover!” Herb Villon flashed her a look which fortunately the columnist did not see. She might have fallen dead.

  Hurok greeted his guests profusely and thanked them for coming to the gala to honor not only Fred and Ginger but the three Russian stars. He thanked them for helping launch the TV spectacular for MBC. Out front Mae corrected him, “NBC,” but he didn’t hear her. Some NBC executives, who of course were present, flinched and one removed his hand from an actress’s backside to cover his eyes. “You shall now meet the stars of the Baronovitch Ballet,” Ballet emerging from his mouth as ‘belly.’

  “And our wonderful Fred and Ginger will introduce them!”

  The orchestra struck up ‘Cheek to Cheek’ as Fred appeared at the top of the stairs on the right and Ginger appeared at the top of the stairs to the left. So great was the applause that Fred and Ginger were overcome with emotion. Fred gulped back his tears but Ginger let them gush. “Oh God!” thought Mae Frohman. “Her mascara!” But Ginger was prepared. She held a beautiful blue handkerchief bordered with Chantilly lace and dabbed gracefully and gratefully at her eyes as she came down the stairs where Fred met her. With an arm around her he took her to the microphone. Ginger was thinking. Oh Lela, what you’re missing! Fred and Ginger were greeted by Hurok, who shook Fred’s hand and kissed Ginger’s cheek and then departed the spotlight.

  Fred said, “I’d like you to meet two people very important to the Baronovitch Ballet!” He called for Varonsky and Bochno, who hurried to the stage. Hedda Hopper commented to Hazel Dickson, “They look like a couple of Marx Brothers, but I doubt if they’re half as funny.”