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

by George Baxt

  Hurok guffawed. “Look what’s correcting my English!”

  “Finish the story,” said Goldwyn.

  “I’m finishing, I’m finishing,” said Hurok. “The rest is like a patchwork quilt. Little bits and pieces. The parents were found dead soon after Feodor went off. They had been poisoned. There was an investigation, and lo and behold, Nikolai was found dead one morning in the courtyard of the apartment house where Nina Valgorski had a very lavish apartment.”

  Hazel was like a rocket about to shoot off into space. What a story! Perfect for a Sunday feature in every Hearst publication. The Hearst papers thrived on blood and gore. Hazel could see herself in that very expensive Hattie Carnegie suit she’d been admiring in I. Magnin’s window.

  Fred said, “And the question is, did he jump or was he pushed?”

  “Why jump?” asked Ginger. “He’d already murdered his parents, the beast, so they couldn’t give him away, and his brother was off God knows where and didn’t betray him to anyone but his parents, at least I assume, so obviously, he was pushed to his death. Sol, was he wearing clothes or was he naked?”

  “He was wearing a Sulka bathrobe. One of the most expensive ones.”

  “Sulka, eh?” said Fred. “Vanoff sure did have expensive tastes. So what about Nina?”

  “Although he jumped or fell from her apartment, it was proven she had not been home all night.”

  “I’m sure shacked up with someone very powerful.”

  “Indeed.” Sol paused and then smiled. “Lavrenti Beria. The dreaded all-powerful head of the secret police. He also liked me. I got him Betty Grable’s autograph.”

  “Well, really,” said Ginger. “Oh dear. I’m getting palpitations. Maybe I should check into a hospital.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Fred. “Hospitals are enema territory.”

  Ginger ignored him and said, ‘Then Dr. Romanov has got to see me Monday, he’s just got to.”

  Villon said gravely, “Ginger, I’m afraid the doctor won’t be seeing anybody. He’s dead.”

  Ginger screamed. Photographers came on the run, and popping flashbulbs put Goldwyn in mind of a Fourth of July celebration.

  “Dead!” cried Ginger, “He can’t be dead!” She was on her feet addressing Villon. “He was murdered, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?”

  “I think he was, but I won’t know for sure until I get the autopsy report.”

  “Where’s Alida? Does she know? This will destroy her!”

  “She found out from the housekeeper who phoned her here. She’s gone back to the house and Jim and I have got to get there now.”

  “I’m going too. Malke Movitz will need me.”

  “Who?” asked Villon.

  ‘The doctors housekeeper. Eccentric but lovable.”

  “Lovable!” exclaimed Hazel. “Ha!”

  “You know her?” asked Villon.

  “I’ve interviewed Romanov a couple of times, probably more. One story of mine he loathed, especially the title. Head Shrinker or Head Hunter. Terrific, right? The housekeeper was always underfoot.” She shook her head from side to side. “What a weird woman. If ever there was a candidate to win a Wallace Beery look-alike contest.”

  Unwillingly, Fred agreed to drive Ginger to the doctors. He’d had more than enough of her for one night. But now he was nursing a hunch that in the Romanov household there might be found a link to the Vanoff scandal. He was wondering if Villon was wondering if perhaps Romanov was the missing Feodor Vanoff. Crazy thought. The doctor was surely an accredited psychiatrist. How else could he practice? Fred knew there was a breed known as lay analysts, who hadn’t trained as doctors, but nevertheless could hang their shingles.

  Names and faces were racing through Ginger’s head as she and Fred waited for Villon’s spy, Ike, to bring Fred’s car around. Nina Valgorski and the Vanoffs headed the procession.

  “Ginger, you’re talking to yourself,” said Fred.

  “It’s the only time I have an intelligent conversation. Fred, listen to me.” Her voice darkened. There’s skullduggery afoot.”

  “With a line like that, you should be twirling a mustache.”

  “I don’t have a mustache and I hope to God I never develop one like some ladies we both know. But I’ve been developing some suspicions and theories about this company.”

  “Now see here. Ginger. Don’t dislike Nina and Luba because I’ve cast them as your daughters.”

  “Oh of course not, Fred. 1 like Luba. She’s adorable. And I hope she does defect.”

  “And Nina?”

  “She’s too old to defect. Anyway, with her reputation for romantic conquests, my guess is she has something hot on the burner waiting for her back in Mother Russia. I’ll bet she’s rich. Except you’re not supposed to be rich in Russia.”

  Fred snorted. “Don’t believe everything you hear about that place. There’s a lot of rich people in Russia, and I know because I once heard a lecture by Madame Ivy Litvinoff and …”

  “Here’s the car,” said Ginger. Ike got out from behind the wheel. Fred tipped him and got in. Ginger getting in on the other side. Ginger asked Fred, “Do you suppose the ladies have heard that Romanov is dead?”

  They had heard. They were sitting with Hurok. Mae had gone up to her room and Goldwyn had decided to call it a night. “So he is dead,” said Hurok. “and Ginger is abandoned.”

  “Psychiatrists!” scoffed Nina. “People who think they need them must have something wrong with their heads.”

  Luba said. “Psychiatrists hear a great deal. Sometimes they hear things that should have been left unspoken. And sometimes they hear things they do not realize are of a certain importance.”

  “How do you know so much about psychiatrists?” asked Hurok. ‘There aren’t supposed to be any in the Soviet Union.”

  “Oh there are,” said Luba, “but we call them informants. Only the rich in the Soviet Union have psychiatrists, and even they have them in Vienna or Paris or London.”

  “So now Ginger is without her artificial desperation,” said Hurok.

  “Respiration,” corrected Nina, looking terribly pleased with herself.

  From out of left field, Hurok heard himself asking Nina, “Tell me, Nina, are you still in touch with the Vanoff family?”

  Luba settled back in her chair. She had been huddled over her glass of champagne as though in fear someone would snatch it from her. Like Hurok, she waited for Nina’s reply, knowing Nina was still upset by their conversation in the powder room.

  Nina found a cigarette in a tray on the table. There were no matches available so Hurok gallantly reached for his lighter and leaned forward to oblige. Nina looked at Luba as she accepted the light and Luba shrugged dramatically by way of telling Nina it wasn’t she who’d introduced the subject of the Vanoffs to Hurok. Hurok reminded Nina, “I have been to the Soviet Union many times in the past three decades. I was there when Nikolai Vanoff committed suicide.”

  Luba couldn’t resist sticking a pin into Nina. ‘There are those who insist he was pushed.”

  Nina was very cool, very calm, and very collected. “You seem to forget, Luba, I spent that night with Beria.” Nina said to Hurok, “The question of my whereabouts that evening has assumed legendary proportions. I assure you, Mr. Hurok, I was positively with Beria that night.”

  “It was only Beria who provided your alibi,” said Luba, “And now he is dead.”

  “Soooo?”

  Hurok said quickly, for fear of another dustup between them, “I asked a simple question—do you hear from the Vanoffs, Nina—and I had no idea it could lead to a broomhaha.”

  “Brouhaha,” corrected Nina. “But why all of a sudden do you ask about the Vanoffs? They are history. Yesterdays news. Why should I hear from them? They detested me. They once came to see me dancing Swan Lake just for the nasty pleasure of walking out on me.”

  Luba asked maliciously, “Oh? They were also critics?”

  “Ladies, ladies,” said Hurok, “I’m sorr
y I asked about the Vanoffs, I was only making conversation.” He added without thinking, “Ginger asked who they were after overhearing you mention them in the powder room.”

  Nina and Luba exchanged a glance, this one devoid of any underlying hostility. It was Nina who asked Luba lightly, “Oh dear, Luba. Do you suppose Ginger was sent to spy on us?” She said to Hurok, “We spoke mostly in Russian and French. Does Ginger have the languages?” An invisible lightbulb flashed over her head. “But of course. Her husband is a Frenchman, so she probably knows some French.”

  “Not very much,” said Hurok too quickly.

  “But enough to understand we were talking about the Vanoffs,” said Nina. She blew a smoke ring that settled over Lubas head, amusingly enough, like a halo. “I wonder, Mr. Hurok, is Ginger an American spy?” Hurok started to remonstrate. “Please, Mr. Hurok. Don’t be upset. My mind is famous for entertaining suspicions.” Luba nodded her head in corroboration. “After all. Gingers mother is celebrated for her right-wing politics. Is that correct, right wing? Yes, of course it is.”

  Hurok rose to Gingers defense. “I can assure you this is not a case of like mother, like daughter. You must remember Ginger was once married to the actor Lew Ayres, who during the war was a conscientious objector.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Nina, unfamiliar with the term. “Meaning he objected to participating in the mindless slaughter of other human beings.”

  Luba said in Russian, “Highly commendable. I applaud him. I applaud Ginger for standing by her man.”

  Hurok was beaten. He explained in a small voice, “Not exactly. At the time they had long been divorced.”

  Nina laughed and clutched the whistle that dangled from the chain around her neck. “I wonder if 1 will ever understand Americans.”

  Hurok was thinking, I wonder if Americans will ever understand Russians. And I1 wonder if I’ll ever know if Nina hears from the Vanoffs and have the Vanoffs ever heard from their absent son, Feodor.

  Nina said, and Hurok wondered if she was a licensed mind reader, “In answer to your question about the Vanoffs …”

  Don Magrew had suddenly materialized and Hurok indicated he take a chair, which he did. Nina continued, “The Vanoffs no more try to contact me than I try to contact them. I told you they walked out on my Swan Lake, one of my greatest triumphs. Ask Mr. Magrew, he applauded me in Seattle.”

  “Oh I did?” asked Magrew. “I didn’t know you knew I was there.”

  Luba said slyly, “Sometimes Nina is clairvoyant. Or sometimes Nina sees a handsome gentleman like yourself and does not rest until she learns your identity. Is that not so, Nina?”

  In gutter Russian Nina told her to do something that is physically impossible. Lubas cheeks flared and Hurok clucked his tongue and Magrew laughed. Hurok said in amazement, “Why, Mr. Magrew, you speak Russian?”

  “Most of us in the CIA do,” said Magrew, nonchalantly lighting his pipe.

  “You are not investigating Dr. Romanov’s death?” asked Luba.

  “That’s not my job. It’s Herb Villon’s territory, which he guards zealously.”

  Hurok said, “Sam Goldwyn says Villon is quite a very good detective. Sam was involved back in 1929 in a case in which Villon was in charge of the investigation. Villon told Sam he thinks Romanov was poisoned.” Nina made a noise that sounded like a scoff. Hurok looked directly at Nina, “And Sam says if Villon thinks Romanov was poisoned, then Romanov was poisoned.”

  NINE

  Jim Mallory, as usual, was at the wheel of the unmarked police car with Hazel wedged between him and Herb Villon. Up ahead he could see Fred’s taillights. At least he hoped that was Fred and Ginger up ahead as Hazel was somewhat vague as to the directions to Romanov’s house. Hazel said, “You’re very quiet. Herb. Rounding up the unusual suspects? I admit I haven’t a clue as to who might have rung the curtain down on the doctor. It’s obvious Nina knew him back in the old country and she also got him a glass of something…”

  “Soda water,” said Villon.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But how could she have doctored it if she did doctor it? That was an awfully tight gown she was wearing and it didn’t have pockets.”

  Mallory suggested, “She could have hidden something in her cleavage.”

  Hazel feigned shock. “Why, Mr. Mallory!”

  Mallory was not to be sidetracked. “Don’t women usually keep a handkerchief there?”

  “Most women do and I do too.” corroborated Hazel. “As a matter of fact, once on a drive to Santa Ana with a very well-endowed girlfriend, I said I was famished and from that very vicinity she produced a ham on rye with a gherkin very neatly wrapped in wax paper.”

  Villon kept staring ahead through the windshield while Mallory brought the conversation back to the Baronovitch company. “I think there’s an awful lot of undercurrents with that gang of dancers. Lots of intrigue. Jealousy. Enmity.”

  “Leaving on track nine,” quipped Hazel. “Jim, they’re Russians, they are not the Elks. Herb Villon, you’re too damn quiet. Come on, Herb, who’ve you got cornered in your mind? Who do you suspect are the spies?” She knew he’d tell her nothing, but badgering Herb Villon was one of her favorite sports. Herb wouldn’t tell her anything because her nose would pick up the scent of a telephone and she’d be on the wire with either Hedda or Louella or other gossip columnists he knew she serviced, such as Sidney Skolsky, Jimmy Fidler, Sheliah Graham, Harrison Carroll, and an Israeli writer who went by the pseudonym Dear Abie.

  Herb decided to throw her a bone in the hope she might shoot her mouth off in the direction of any number of suspects and thereby wrack their nerves, which just might cause somebody to make a mistake. “Seems to me the likely candidate among several likely candidates is Dr. Igor Romanov.”

  Mallory said eagerly, “So help me God, Herb, that’s just what I’ve been thinking.”

  “So why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was afraid of being intimidated.”

  “By who?”

  “By you! You’re always squelching me!”

  “That’s a load of bullshit. I keep telling you to speak up when you think you’ve got something. Even if it isn’t right it could sometimes lead to something else.”

  “Well, I think Romanov bargained his way out of Russia!”

  “Go on, go on, so far we’re on the same radar.”

  “He escaped from that there goulash …”

  “Gulag,” corrected Herb.

  “But then getting out of the country itself wasn’t all that good. So he took a gamble and offered himself up as a spy. He spoke English, he was a concert pianist…”

  “And he was also a medical student for a while,” said Hazel. “I got that out of him during an interview. Why, Jim Mallory, fancy you having a scientific mind!”

  “Why not? You know I read a lot of science fiction.”

  “Hot damn!” exclaimed Hazel. “So they decide to take Romanov up on his offer and train him in psychiatry, get him started in Beverly Hills, and Bob s your uncle.”

  “I don’t have an uncle Bob,” said Mallory.

  Hazel explained patiently, ‘That’s a British expression. George Sanders uses it all the time. In fact I had tea with George yesterday at the Beverly Hilton and—”

  “Enough!” cried Herb. Hazel, amazingly enough, shut up. “Okay. So he’s now getting established in Hollywood. So who started feeding him poison and why? Don’t strain yourself, Jim, there’s only one answer to that one. He was forced to become a mole.”

  Hazel complained, “You’re talking over my head.”

  “A mole. A two-headed spy. He was not only working for the old country, he was also working for us.”

  “Why the conniving son of a bitch,” said Hazel.

  “Here I’m on Romanov’s side. He was probably forced into it by some sharpy in our secret service who spotted Romanov as a clay pigeon.”

  “Poor bastard.” Hazel came t
o a realization, “He couldn’t have been working on his own.” She looked at Herb. “How about his nurse, Alida. Or the housekeeper, Malke Movitz. When you see her you will understand it is rumored that several alcoholics on meeting her took the pledge. And the chauffeur. I think Malke said he was her nephew. But then, those Russians say an awful lot of things, all to be taken with a grain of salt.”

  “Try listening between the lines,” said Villon.

  * * *

  Ahead of them, Fred was pulling into Romanov’s driveway. He braked to a sudden halt and Ginger shouted, “Hey! Take it easy!” Fred tried to keep himself from panicking. “Look what’s at Romanov’ss front door.”

  “Oh my oh my oh my,” said Ginger. She saw two patrol cars, a police ambulance, reporters, and photographers who were all eager to see who was in the car that had just braked to a halt.

  “Here they come,” agonized Fred, who was a very shy and very private person. When his sister was his partner he let her do all the talking for the two of them and happily stayed behind the scenes, out of the limelight. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I should have gone home.”

  Ginger said dryly, “My hero.” She could see he was genuinely frightened. “Let me handle this. I’m good at treading where angels fear.” Headlights from the bar behind them were almost blinding, and then were quickly turned off. Ginger looked out the rear window. “Oh good. Herb Villon and his partner and of course Hazel the fearless. Now Fred, take several deep breaths.” She opened the passenger door and stood facing the onslaught of journalists. “Why, gentleman! What brings you here? What a surprise!”

  “Hey, Ginger,” shouted a photographer, “What brings you here?”

  “Mr. Astaire and his car brought me here. Why hello. Herb! Hello, Mr. Mallory! And why hello, Hazel!”

  Hazel said in an aside to Fred who had timorously emerged from the car and stood behind Ginger, a timid warrior with his formidable shield, “She must be ill.”

  “She isn’t,” Fred assured her, “thank God.” The gentlemen and some ladies of the press turned their attention to Villon. “Hey, Herb!” demanded one reporter, “what’s going on?”