by George Baxt
Hazel said sweetly, “For many many years.”
“Aha! Mr. Villon, did you hear her? She is making it clear to me that you are her property and I think she would kill to continue possessing you.”
“Hazel can’t kill. She doesn’t have a strong enough stomach.” Hazel glared at him. arms folded in front of her.
“The stomach is unimportant.” said Nina with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Poison! Good strong poison. Like cadmium.” This was a new one to Villon. “Cadmium?”
“A powdery salt scraped from heavy metal. Such a curious look on your face, Mr. Villon. I told you I was a student of criminology. Cadmium is very popular in Russia. It is easily available. It has been dissolved in many a bowl of borscht served to a husband by an unhappy wife.”
“That bears out what your great Soviet writer Agatha Christie insists. Poison is a woman’s weapon.”
“Mr. Villon, in the Soviet Union, poison is everybody’s weapon.” In another part of the ballroom, Varonsky learned from Mae Frohman that Dr. Romanov was indisposed and had been taken home by his nurse and his valet. Varonsky asked Mae to dance and she literally fell into his arms. She would dine out on this night for the rest of her life.
Hazel Dickson was saying to Gregor Sukov, “You have such a marvelous face, Gregor.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I was wondering. Have you ever acted?”
Gravely he told her, “In the Soviet Union, we are all actors.”
“No kidding.” She could see where Sukov could be a handful. “Are there enough parts to go around?”
“What kind of parts are you talking about?” He was genuinely perplexed. “I do not understand you.”
“Dear Gregor. I’m just pulling your leg.”
“I feel nothing.”
Hazel was beginning to think he could do well as an antidote to insomnia. “Pulling the leg is a colloquialism.”
His face lit up. “Ah! Colloquialism! I have met colloquialism before! In Seattle. This very extraordinary woman for whom I hungered.”
Hazel fluttered her eyelashes. “And did you get fed?”
“But of course. When Sukov hungers, Sukov feeds. What she said she later explained to me was a colloquialism.”
“And what did she say?”
“‘Your place or mine.’“ His eyes were suddenly dreamy with the recollection of his conquest in Seattle.
Hazel was suddenly fascinated. “She teach you any more of our colloquialisms?”
“Oh yes. My favorite. ‘Ride ‘em, cowboy!’“
On the dance floor, Fred and Ginger were enjoying an uncomplicated fox trot. Ginger’s mind was preoccupied with her stricken psychiatrist.
“Snap out of it. Ginger.”
“What?”
“You look like you’re in a trance. The way Ann Miller looks when she’s trying to do a crossword puzzle.”
“I should check on how Dr. Romanov is doing. I have an appointment with him Monday.”
“He’s probably not gotten home yet. It’s a long way from here to Beverly Hills.”
She thought for a moment, and then said, “Fred, does this Baronovitch bunch make you feel as creepy as they do me?”
“Well, not exactly creepy. Frankly, I do get the feeling they’re looking down their noses at me.” He looked around to make sure they were out of earshot of any of the troupe. “And I get the feeling there’s all sorts of intrigue going on between some of them.”
“From my few experiences with ballet dancers, they thrive on innuendo.” She lowered her voice. “I saw Dr. Romanov having a talk with Nina Valgorski.”
“Oh really? Maybe they knew each other from the old country. Mother Russia and all that.”
“I think they did know each other before.”
“You really think so?”
“Romanov didn’t appear to be all that friendly, and I got the feeling Nina was pushing too hard.”
“Well, she’s a very pushy person.”
“She got him a glass of something.”
“Do you suppose it was vintage something?”
Ginger gave him her familiar “drop dead” look. Her mind switched to another avenue of thought. “What about my costumes?”
“We’ll have sketches tomorrow.”
Gingers eyes widened. “What sketches? Who by?”
‘The company designer. The ladies swear by him.”
“Edith Head will design mine.” Fred felt as though the last five words had been nailed to his ear. “I’ll discuss it with Hurok. I’ve already asked Edith if she was available and she said she was sure Paramount wouldn’t object. And what about the score? Tchaikovsky? Borodin? Rimsky-Korsakov?”
“Tikhon N. Khrennikov.” Ginger seemed about to lose her balance and Fred tightened his grip on her. “Steady, Ginger”
“What was that name again?”
Fred both repeated it and spelled it “Aren’t you proud of me? I can both pronounce and spell it. It’s a cinch once you get the hang of it. Hurok’s nuts about him.”
“Hurok’s nuts, period.” She was beginning to nurse fresh doubts about the project.
“Now get that ‘I hate Rita Hayworth’ look off your face.”
Ginger said through clenched teeth. “I do not hate Rita Hayworth. I feel sorry for her. Those awful men she married.”
“Aha. The pot calling the kettle black.” She wisely chose not to challenge his statement. “Khrennikov is hot stuff back in the Soviet. He was Stalin’s favorite.”
“Big deal. Stalin’s dead.”
“Ginger, I’ve heard the man’s music. He’s damn good. Stunning melodies. I’ve already worked out our duet, our big one. Where Rasputin convinces the czarina he can cure the czarevitch of his hemophilia. Hemophiliacs, in case you didn’t know, are bleeders.”
“Charming.”
“Well, Rasputin did seem to cast a spell over the entire court. Though very uncouth he was very seductive. But he wasn’t too selective. He not only seduced women, but he had it off with men too.”
Ginger said dully, “A latent choir boy.”
“He laid everything but carpets.” He saw Hurok, who was trying to get his and Ginger’s attention. “Hurok wants us. He’s with Mae Frohman and some guy I think we’ve already been introduced to. Come on, let’s see what he wants.”
A few seconds later, Hurok introduced them again to Don Magrew, who suggested rather mysteriously that they go out on the terrace. Ginger was grateful for the suggestion because she had been feeling the need for fresh air. Mae Frohman again gushed encomiums about their “Valparaiso” number with Don Magrew adding his praise. He reminded Ginger of Howard Hughes, who had pursued her romantically for years and might have been successful had he bathed at least occasionally.
Herb Villon and Jim Mallory were waiting for them by prearrangement with Magrew. Just about everyone in the business liked Herb Villon and Fred was no exception. They greeted each other warmly and Mallory said effusively, “Hiya!”
Magrew wasted no time and got right to the point. He told them flat out he was a CIA operative and his assignment was the Baronovitch Ballet. Ginger and Fred exchanged a quick glance.
“You think they’re all spies?” asked Ginger eagerly. “I unmasked spies in Once Upon a Honeymoon with Cary Grant. It didn’t make money.”
“We aren’t sure who is or isn’t involved in espionage but whoever is will certainly be making contact with their American counterparts. You’ll be in a position to know who these contacts are. I know you’re planning a heavy rehearsal schedule so it would be up to you to let us know who visits the company. Anything you overhear might be of value to us.”
Fred asked, “Even if they’re exchanging recipes?”
“Fred,” said Hurok, “it’s not like you’re being asked to be a snatch.”
“Snitch,” corrected Mae.
“Sounds to me that’s exactly what Mr. Magrew is asking us to do. There’s always a lot of people hanging around rehearsals. Especially mothers
.”
“Our company left their mothers behind because I wouldn’t pay the passage,” said Hurok.
“You know a lot of perfectly innocent people will be wandering in and out. Stagehands, electricians …”
“Fred,” said Ginger, “it’s our patriotic duty to cooperate with Mr. Magrew.”
“I’ll tell you what. Ginger, you get your mother to hang around rehearsals and I’m sure she can do the job for both of us.”
“Now don’t be mean, Fred. You leave my mother out of this.”
“Happily. Look, Mr. Magrew, I don’t see this as a matter of patriotism at all. I’m no good at this sort of thing. I never know if I’m hearing anything suspicious unless it’s my wife asking me to increase the housekeeping money. Say, Herb. You and Jim Mallory would probably be great at this sort of thing. And Hazel! She’s perfect!”
Herb said, “Fred, we’ll be around from time to time, but we also have too many other fish to fry. And as for Hazel, you involve her at your own risk.”
Magrew said to Fred and Ginger, “Give it some thought. I don’t expect you to be wired with tape recorders or walking around with a pad and pen in your hands. Instead, if something strikes you as odd or peculiar, keep it in mind and let us know. We’ll be around. We’ll be in touch.”
‘That’s comforting,” said Fred under his breath, though everybody heard it.
Ginger was about to say something. In fact, she opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it.
Fred commented, “That’s right. Ginger. Think before you speak.”
To herself, Mae Frohman applauded Fred. She approved of his reluctance to be a CIA tool as much as she found Gingers willingness to cooperate deplorable. Several years ago when Sol Hurok invited her to join him on the horn of one of his dilemmas, to spy for the Soviet Union inasmuch as they were so generous in releasing some of their great concert stars to his management, Mae had told him in no uncertain terms that if he cooperated with them he could find somebody else to mend his broken English.
Ginger had decided to speak up. She told Magrew about seeing Dr. Romanov chatting with Nina Valgorski and that it seemed to Ginger they had known each other in the past. She told them how Nina had gotten the doctor something to drink. Ginger added, “He was perspiring and dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. He didn’t look well at all. I’m glad his nurse and his chauffeur took him home. Damn, I better check and see if he’ll be able to see patients Monday. I have an appointment.” Ginger brightened. “Well, Mr. Magrew, was what I told you of any importance to you?”
“It could be. I wonder if the doctor was feeling ill before he got here.”
Mae said, “It sounds to me like he’s got the flu. There’s a lot of it going around now.”
Said Villon, “Sounds to me like he might have been poisoned.”
SIX
“Poisoned!” said Fred. “But where? How? It couldn’t have been in the food or just about everyone in the ballroom would be dead by now. And I’ve been thinking about fixing myself a plate. I’m famished.”
Villon told them, “Not all poisons work instantly. Some can be administered in small doses over a period of time before they take fatal effect. There have been some classic cases involving cyanide administered over a period of time before the victim finally died. Ginger, you’re familiar with the doctors household. How many does he have in help?”
“There’s just two in help who live on the premises. There’s his housekeeper, who’s also the cook, a big bear of a woman. Her name is Malke Movitz. The other one is her nephew, Mordecai Pfenov. He doubles as chauffeur and Romanov’s valet.”
“What about the nurse?” asked Villon.
“Alida doesn’t live there. She has a place of her own in West Hollywood. It’s on the way to the RKO and Paramount studios. On occasion when I was going to either studio I gave her a lift home.”
Fred said, “Hey now, hold on a minute here, folks. You’re talking about murder, and all because a guy wasn’t feeling well, he perspired, and his skin was sallow. I mean, like Mae said, it could be the flu.”
“Or indigestion,” suggested Ginger. ‘The food on that buffet is awfully rich. And stop talking as though he was dead!”
“I should serve food that’s awfully poor?” asked Hurok huffily, stung by Gingers criticism.
“Now really, Sol, 1 was just making an observation.”
Fred said, “Well, rich or poor. I’m off to get myself some. Ginger?”
“Maybe some salad” She said to the others, “I’m also going to phone the doctors house.”
In Dr. Romanov’s bedroom, Mordecai Pfenov and Alida Rimsky were helping the doctor undress. Alida could see that the doctor’s condition had worsened. Malke Movitz, the housekeeper, came into the room bearing a tray with a glass of hot tea heavily laced with brandy, Russian style. They managed to get the doctor into his pajamas. Alida said, “He’s trembling. Perhaps we should call a doctor.”
Malke said authoritatively, “The doctor is a doctor, he would tell us if he needed help.” She set the tray on the night table next to the bed. She sat on the bed and, with her beefy right hand under the doctor, raised him effortlessly. She held the glass of tea to his mouth and said in Russian, “Take a few sips, doctor. You will feel better.” He obeyed the familiar and trusted voice. Malke Movitz was indeed a huge bear of a woman, solidly built. Ginger had commented once that the woman belonged on the seat of a tractor—or else lifting one.
Alida whispered, “I don’t like how he looks. His skin is so clammy.”
Malke pressed her cheek against the doctor’s forehead. “He has a fever. It’s the flu. I can handle this. We don’t need to call a doctor. I don’t like American doctors. They look like morticians.” She got Romanov to sip more of the tea and brandy. She asked him, “Good, no?” He closed his eyes and she carefully lowered him until his head rested on a pillow.
Alida asked, “Do you think I ought to stay? He may need me.”
“He won’t need you,” said Malke firmly. “Mordecai will take you back to the party.” The idea delighted Mordecai. “Go. I will stay here with Romanov.” The doctor was wheezing and breathing heavily. Alida watched from the doorway as Malke mopped the doctors brow with a tissue. She heard Mordecai speak her name and the urgency in his voice made her wonder why he was so anxious to get back to the Ambassador Hotel. Who, she wondered as she followed him down the stairs, might he know in the ballet company?
As they were leaving the house, Alida heard the phone ring. She hurried back to the hall where there was an extension. She picked up the receiver. “Dr. Romanov.”
“Alida? Its Ginger. Hows the doctor?”
“He’s resting. The housekeeper is with him.” The housekeeper was also listening to them on the phone in the doctors bedroom.
Ginger, hoping she didn’t sound too selfish, asked, “Will he be in any condition to see patients Monday?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. Why don’t you call in the morning—around nine.”
“Nine? Nine I get my massage. Hows about ten?”
“Just as good. I’m on my way back to the party. I’ll see you soon.”
“Oh fine. It’s really swinging here.” Ginger hung up and gave herself a few minutes to gather her thoughts. Alida’s coming back to the party. She wouldn’t leave Romanov if his condition seemed serious. Then she thought. Why come back to the party at all?
A few seconds later she asked Fred the question. Fred responded quickly, “She’s footloose and fancy-free. She wants to have a good time.” Ginger and Fred were sharing a table with Sol Hurok and Mae Frohman, both of whom were attacking their plates of food as though they might have been warned of an impending famine.
“Fred, I know you have in mind who will dance the daughters Tatyana and Olga. So who do you have in mind for Anaesthesia?” asked Hurok.
“Anastasia,” corrected Mae.
Fred was paying no attention to Hurok. His mind dwelled on Don Magrew and on the stric
ken doctor and he was having second thoughts about his commitment to choreograph the ballet. Politics did not interest him and international intrigue did so even less. He was toying with his food, staring down at the plate and wishing Phyllis, his wife, or his sister Adele were at his side to advise him what to do about the situation. He heard Ginger say, “Fred, Sols talking to you.”
“What?” said Fred. “Oh Sol, oh sure, the foods delicious.”
“That isn’t what I want to know.”
Mae spoke for Hurok, who had speared a piece of tomato and consigned it to his mouth. She repeated Hurok’s question, to which Fred responded, “We’ll have to promote two dancers from the corps de ballet. I’m sure they’re all splendid.”
Hurok beamed. “Each and every one is a jewel. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. Won’t he, Mae?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve never seen this bunch dance.” Sol gave her a deadly look that promised impending immolation. Mae hastily amended her statement. “Their reviews have been terrific. All the dancers are splendid. None of that ‘one two three kick’ with this gang.”
Sol heard Fred asking, “Tell me about Don Magrew. How long have you known him?”
Aha, said Hurok to himself, so it’s like I suspected. He’s bothered by Don Magrew. “Now Fred, please. Don’t trouble yourself with Don Magrew.”
‘Why not? He presented Ginger and me with a request I happen not to like. I’m no stool pigeon. I don’t spy on people and I don’t rat on them either.”
Ginger’s silverware fell from her hands onto the table. Her voice went up a few octaves. “Insinuating that I do?”
“I’m not insinuating anything,’’ replied Fred, trying to keep his voice under control. “Now control that temper, Miss McMath.” He tried to add a light touch to what he knew might escalate into a very touchy situation. He explained to Hurok and Mae, “McMath is Gingers real name, in case you didn’t know. She’s one of the Texas McMaths. Famous for none of them perishing at the Alamo.”
Sol was confused. “Perishing at the Alamo? A hotel fire?”