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

by George Baxt

  “It was a battle fought a long time ago, unlike the one that’s about to break out at this table,” said Ginger.

  “Now don’t take offense. Ginger” Fred said to the other two, “It’s that Irish temper of hers.”

  Sol said, “Please, people.” He was looking around apprehensively and Mae knew who he was afraid of. She told Hurok, “Parsons and Hopper left. Of course not together.”

  “But the photographers! They don’t give us a minutes peace!”

  Fred said with warmth to Ginger, “Sweetie, I was insinuating nothing. I just want you three to know where I stand as far as Don Magrew and the CIA are concerned. I won’t betray a fellow artist, I couldn’t live with myself.”

  “Well, if I may say so at the risk of my foot landing in my mouth..

  “Or mine,” said Hurok, his eyebrows semaphoring impending danger.

  Mae continued, “I respect Fred and I respect you too. Ginger. What you told Magrew about Romanov and Nina Valgorski strikes me as being innocent enough. I saw Valgorski chatting up any number of people. And also the other members of the company too. Frankly, if they’re all spies, then I find them highly efficient. And frankly, what kind of information can they gather at a bash like tills that could be threatening to our country?”

  “Absolutely right,” said Hurok, “so Mae, you don’t have to worry’ about my foot. Waiter!” He snapped his fingers, “Waiter!”

  “I am not a waiter,” said Franklin Pangborn in a pained voice. Fred introduced the actor to Mae and Hurok. Pangborn grabbed the nearest waiter and indicated the Hurok table. “You’re wanted here. There’s an anxiety complex on the loose.”

  The waiter found a smile, what with being in the presence of Astaire and Rogers. Hurok commanded him to bring champagne and brandy.

  Fred said to Ginger, “Mad at me?”

  Ginger said, “I’m not mad at anybody. I’m sorry I snapped at you, Fred. Maes right.” Mae flashed a triumphant look at Hurok. “There are no secrets to be learned here.” Fred was staring past Mae at Don Magrew conferring with two men who Fred assumed were his confederates.

  Fred was thinking, I don’t like Don Magrew, I don’t trust Don Magrew. I’ll have to do some fancy stepping to avoid him. When he comes to a rehearsal. I’ll see to it I’m too busy to give him any time. He was glad Hurok had ordered brandies for them. He genuinely needed one.

  Hurok might have been reading Freds mind. “Fred, don’t worry about Don Magrew. He can’t cause any trouble. I have very impotent connections in the State Department.”

  “Important,” corrected Mae.

  “Of course they’re important!” insisted Hurok. “Why else would I bother with them. Now you listen, Fred. You have heard of Lavrenti Beria?”

  “Tenor or baritone?”

  “I don’t know if he sang. I never asked him. I wasn’t interested. Lavrenti Beria was a dreadful man. He was the head of the Russian secret police.”

  “Was? He got fired?”

  “He got dead.” Hurok lowered his voice and looked around again. Satisfied there were no eavesdroppers, Hurok continued. “Beria was the most evil man I ever dined with except for Sergei Diaghilev who, I’m sure you know, is also dead. Anyway, Beria told me a few weeks before he died, which was about three months ago, he did a big check on everyone involved with the Baronovitch company and everyone who was to be involved with them.”

  Ginger gasped. “There was a very suspicious man at my wedding! Lela spotted him.”

  Probably the groom, thought Mae, but wisely kept her thought to herself.

  Sol ignored Ginger’s information and said, “Everybody, I’m happy to say, came up to stuff.”

  “Snuff,” corrected Mae.

  “Now likewise, the State Department did the same kind of check.”

  “Don’t tell me they had the same researchers,” said Fred.

  “Don’t be such a wise guy, Freddie,” said Hurok with affection in his voice. “And they could find nothing suspicious about anybody. So 1 assure you, Magrew will give you no trouble. So if you want to, just ignore him. But be nice when he comes around.” The waiter timed his return perfectly, depositing champagne, brandy, and fresh glasses on the table. He removed the dishes and silverware with professional swiftness, then melted away. Fred lifted a glass and said to Hurok, who had commandeered the bottle of brandy, “Please, Sol, and baby, don’t be stingy.”

  At a table nearby sat Herb Villon, Jim Mallory, and Hazel Dickson, who was tearing a partridge to tatters. “God, I get so hungry at these things. Say, why aren’t you guys eating? This stuffs great”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Jim Mallory, who had finally made contact with Luba Nafka, though she couldn’t tear herself away from her fellow artistes.

  “Likewise,” said Villon. He said to Mallory, “Why don’t you talk to Nina Valgorski—find out if she’s a spy.”

  “You’re being funny, of course.”

  “She’s very talkative. She’s also studied criminology, or so she says. I suspect she also has her finger on the pulse of the company. She seems to know everything that’s going on. For a prima ballerina assoluta she’s very democratic. Say Hazel, is it possible she and Gregor Sukov are having a hot and heavy?”

  “If she is, it’s not exclusive. Like you said, she’s very democratic.”

  Jim Mallory said with a slight touch of smugness, “I finally got to talk with Luba Nafka.”

  “Oh yeah? Learn anything?” asked Villon.

  “Her room number.”

  Hazel paused and lit a cigarette. “I think if there are any candidates for spies in this company, those two are your likely candidates.” She indicated a table where sat Theodore Varonsky and Mikliail Bochno. “Look at them. They never seem to laugh. One or the other is always looking over his shoulder as though they might be being tailed or in danger of being knifed. They always seem to be either scowling or brooding.”

  “Maybe they’re homesick,” suggested Mallory.

  “Hazel.” Villons tone of voice won him her immediate attention. “Ginger said she was going to phone the Romanov place and find out any fresh developments in his health.”

  “You want me to ask her?”

  “It would look better if you did. I’m a cop. I ask and right away they suspect I’ve got some suspicions.”

  “Well you do, don’t you?”

  “Go on, Hazel. Make yourself useful.”

  Hazel stubbed out her cigarette in the partridge’s carcass, shoved her chair back, adjusted her dress, and set out to fulfill her mission. Villon asked Mallory, “Now, what did you get from Nafka?”

  “Somewhere there’s a husband.”

  “Where somewhere?”

  “1 didn’t push it.”

  “What about that valet parker?”

  “Which one?”

  ‘The one who occasionally feeds us some tips. Ike something. I think he parked our car. Go have a look-see.” Villon s eyes settled on a figure standing in the entrance to the terrace. He recognized the valet service parker. “Why, there’s the little devil himself. Whatever he tells you, it’s not worth more than a fiver.” Mallory’ said, “I haven’t got a fiver. I’ve only got some tens.”

  “Oh for crying out loud.” Villon drew his wallet from an inside jacket pocket and handed Mallory a five-dollar bill. Mallory went out to the terrace as Hazel returned from her mission and reported to Villon.

  “The housekeeper told her to phone tomorrow morning when she might know if he’d be seeing patients.”

  Said Villon, “What wouldn’t I give for a legitimate reason to go to Romanov’s place and see for myself.”

  ‘You’ve got a hunch he’s been genuinely poisoned?”

  “Like I got a hunch he and Valgorski were once serious business.”

  Hazel suggested, “Maybe they still are.”

  “After all these years?”

  “Why not? Look at us. We’re still at it after all these years.” She ground down on “after all these years.”
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  “They’ve been separated. Romanov, I think, had a wife. And I’m sure Nina didn’t honor a vow of chastity. It isn’t all that easy to rekindle sparks that died down a long time ago.”

  “If you’re speaking from experience I don’t want to know about it. Where did Mallory’ disappear to?”

  “One of our less important informers is working the party. Valet parking. He’s one of the car parkers. He and Jim are out on the terrace.”

  “Waltzing?”

  Villon ignored the fatuous remark. Jim was already hurrying back to the table. From the look on his face, Villon could tell he’d struck oil. Maybe not a gusher, but surely enough to pique his interest. Mallory sat down and handed Villon the five-dollar bill. Villon was startled. “You mean he gave us a freebie?”

  “No way,” said Mallory. “He said he wanted ten and if I’m any judge of information, what he told me was definitely worth a ten-spot. When Romanov’s nurse sent him to find the doctor’s car, he found more than the car. He found the chauffeur in the front seat having a passionate moment with the woman I no longer love, Luba Nafka.”

  Hazel snapped her fingers. “I wonder which one of my gargoyles would buy that item.”

  ‘You keep quiet about it,” Villon warned her. “I’m warning you. Hazel, I don’t want anything about the individual dancers in the columns.”

  “I’m not finished,” said Mallory. ‘There’s two items, five dollars apiece.”

  “Go on,” said Villon.

  “The chauffeur drove the car to the side entrance to the ballroom leaving poor Ike to walk back. Luba apparently took off on the double. So Ike took his time getting back where he belonged and the lucky bastard sees a woman coming out from behind a hedge. Alida Rimsky.”

  “The doctors nurse?” said Villon.

  “That’s who it was. And a few seconds later, giving the nurse some time to get back to the doctor, out comes a gentleman.”

  “Who, for crying out loud?”

  “I think it’s him over there.” He pointed and Villon slapped his hand.

  “Don’t point. You want the guy to get suspicious?” Villon looked past Hazel. “Which one of the three do you mean?”

  “Mallory pointed to the one in the middle,” Hazel said. “That’s Theodore Varonsky,” Villon said to Mallory. “A very nice haul for ten bucks.”

  Mallory said, “I suppose I’ll have to disappoint Luba.”

  “That’s right,” said Villon, “and look who’s come back to the party.”

  They saw Alida Rimsky crossing the dance floor.

  “And look who’s standing, so glad to see her,” said Villon. “Our cher maître de ballet, Varonsky.”

  The orchestra was playing “When I Grow Too Old to Dream.” Alida Rimsky and Varonsky met, he whispered something in her ear, and soon they were waltzing.

  At Hurok’s table, the impresario was trying to convince Fred and Ginger to consider joining the ballet company for a six-week engagement in New York City. Neither star showed much enthusiasm. “I’ve been away too long from Broadway. Twenty years. I’m too old to do eight performances a week,” said Fred.

  “Nonsense,” scoffed Hurok, “you are forever young. I had the same problem with Anna Pavlova when I resented her.”

  “Represented her,” said Mae.

  “This time, Mae, you’re wrong. I resented her and I positively mean I resented her. She turned down a tour of America because she said she was too old.” He threw up his hands. “Too old! She could still do superb elevations and entertain lovers. For that she wasn’t too old!”

  Said Ginger, “Look who’s come back to the party. Its Alida Rimsky.” The others followed Gingers gaze.

  Said Mae, “And shes dancing with Varonsky.”

  “Why not?” asked Hurok. “Somebody introduced them before the doctor got sick so now she’s come back to dance with him.”

  Fred said, “Not from the way they’re looking at each other. I think they know each other from way back when.”

  “Way back when what?” asked Ginger.

  “Ginger, don’t be naive.”

  “You mean you think they knew each other back in Russia?”

  “Ginger,” cautioned Fred, “you’re screeching.”

  “Sorry. Is that what you’re thinking? They’re an old item?”

  “Look at Herb Villon. He’s looking at them like they’re a parakeet and he’s a cat about to pounce.”

  “I hope he doesn’t. They look so dreamy,” said Mae.

  Hurok was refilling glasses with brandy. “Mae,” said Hurok in a cautionary voice, “don’t get too sentimental about them. They might be spies.”

  At the same time, Villon was saying to Hazel and Mallory, “Why do I get the feeling we’re watching an old married couple?”

  SEVEN

  Hazel asked Villon wistfully, “Do you suppose we’ll ever be an old married couple?”

  Villon said matter-of-factly, “Well, we’re too old to be a young married couple. Varonsky has a nice style on the dance floor. I wonder if he was ever a dancer?”

  “I’ll find out,” said Hazel.

  “It’s not important,” said Villon. “It’s just that he moves like someone who’s been trained as a dancer.”

  Mallory asked, “Do you suppose there are any Arthur Murray Schools of Dancing in Russia?”

  “Ain’t they got enough troubles?” Villon was watching Nina Valgorski and Luba Nafka going down a passage that led to the Ambassadors rest rooms.

  On the dance floor, Varonsky held Alida closely. Her smile told Varonsky she was in ecstasy. He whispered, “You have grown even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  Her eyes opened. “Say more. It has been so long since I’ve heard flattering remarks.” They danced past the table where Mikhail Bochno sat with one of the company understudies, watching them intently. “Your comrades sit like two of those figurines. See No Evil and Hear No Evil.”

  “And I.” said Theodore, “am Speak No Evil. Have you had a chance to talk with Gregor Sukov?”

  “Earlier. 1 think he and Luba Nafka are planning something. I thought he was spoken for by Nina.”

  “My darling, Nina is terribly versatile. She speaks for many men.”

  “Has she spoken for you?”

  “Not even in a whisper.”

  In the ladies’ room, Nina and Luba sat at adjoining dressing tables busily indulging in repair work, freshening their faces. They were oblivious to the constant flow of traffic, the flushing of toilets; wherever they were, like all ballet dancers, they created and inhabited a world of their own. Many civilians tried to penetrate this world, though only a very small percentage succeeded. Which is why the denizens of the dance world for the most part married each other.

  Nina, while rouging her cheeks, said to Luba, “I know what’s going on.”

  Luba, while darkening her thinly plucked eyebrows in hopes of emulating Marlene Dietrich, asked innocently, “Going on where?” They conversed in Russian, occasionally lapsing into English and every so often throwing in a soupçon of French, which was the second language of upper-class Russians. French governesses were in great demand in the Soviet Union, though of late their ranks were thinning due to the unfavorable rate of monetary exchange.

  “I know what you are up to,” said Nina. “Don’t play the innocent. You should know I am not easily fooled.”

  “But of course, Ninavitch. You are a goddess descended from Mount Olympus. So at what am I not easily fooling you?”

  “You are conspiring with Gregor.”

  “Conspiring? Conspiring? To do what, overthrow the government? Be a goddess, Ninavitch, but don’t be a fool. Gregor is in love with you, is he not?” Nina didn’t answer Luba. She didn’t give a ruble if Sukov was in love with her. Love was an emotion that Nina had put on the back burner way back in her teens after her third botched abortion. “So why should Gregor conspire with me? And what is this conspiring we are supposed to be doing?”

  “I suspect you are
planning to defect.” That was a low blow for Luba, who managed not to bat an eyelash, inasmuch as she was now applying mascara.

  Luba emitted a small, mocking laugh. “You are being very ridiculous. On second thought, you are a prima ballerina assoluta”

  “So?”

  “All prim as are ridiculous.”

  Nina bristled. “I shall slap your face!”

  “So then I shall slap yours!”

  They didn’t notice that Ginger was at the dressing table on the other side of Nina. The dancers were now speaking in French, which delighted Ginger since she had been taking French lessons for months in preparation for her marriage to Jacques Bergerac. Once married, Bergerac dismayed her slightly by saying her French was more fluid than fluent, but still she persevered despite the fact her mother kept yelling, “Speak American!” Ginger was patting her face with powder front a stunning Tiffany case she had given herself as a wedding present. She was completely absorbed in the now heated conversation between Nina and Luba. As far as she was concerned she wasn’t spying, she was eavesdropping, and in Hollywood eavesdropping had supplanted prostitution as the second-oldest profession.

  “Watch your step, Nina. Be very very careful. You spread the rumor Gregor and I are planning to defect and I’ll reveal the truth of your part in the Vanoff affair.”

  Ginger heard a sharp intake of breath. It was obviously Nina. Vanoff affair, thought Ginger, fingertips tingling. Intuitively she felt she was about to strike a very rich lode. She heard Nina saying in a voice that seemed strangely not the ballerina’s, strained and almost hoarse, “And what was my part in the Vanoff affair?”

  Her voice cleared and it was now challenging. “Are you intimating I was instrumental in helping Nikolai Vanoff poison his mother and father and then kill himself?” As she spoke, she clutched the whistle that dangled from the chain around her neck, as though it could comfort her. Ginger was now applying lip rouge she didn’t need. She’d already completed that repair job at the table after dining.

  Now Nina sounded conciliatory, but Ginger recognized the insincerity in her voice. She was sure Luba did too, or at least she hoped so. She liked Luba, her youthful enthusiasm, her expressive eyes, and the dainty movements of her hands. She put Ginger in mind of those automatic porcelain dolls that danced when wound up, which were always a feature of Sotheby auctions. “Luba Luba Luba,” said Nina, “Nikolai told me everything before he killed his parents and then himself. You were Nikolai’s friend and yet you learned nothing? Didn’t you know at the time I was his mistress?’’