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

by George Baxt

  “That’s an easy one,” said Herb. “They used sets of identical twins.”

  “Exactly, but the tour was suddenly canceled and not for lack of business. The CIA soon figured out which twin had the Toni”—an advertising campaign for a popular home permanent—”and deported the whole bunch of them. Along with their cameras, their invisible ink, their sophisticated listening devices, and so on.”

  “Well, they’re not kidding us with the Baronovitch. That’s why Don Magrew has been on their tail, following the tour so closely.”

  “Cute.”

  “Who?”

  “Don Magrew.”

  “Mordecai is getting impatient.”

  “Mordecai?”

  “He’s the next one up at bat. Malke says he’s her sister’s son. I should think Malke’s sister would bear some resemblance to her.”

  “Logical. So?”

  “Malke and Mordecai look about as much alike as Laurel and Hardy.”

  “And they’re nowhere near as funny,” said Hazel.

  “Mordecai is funny,” said Herb.

  “I don’t see it”

  “The Ed Sullivan show bit. I wonder what he’d do if Fred really got Sullivan to give Mordecai a spot.”

  “Sport,” said Hazel, now whimsical. “You know. Herb “ she said with a faraway look in her eyes, “the kid just might knock them dead and surprise us all.”

  “Do you suppose he knocked Romanov dead?”

  “Did you ever see a Dietrich movie called Shanghai Express? Dietrich was a whore named Shanghai Lilly, and she had a great line of dialogue.” Hazel spoke the line in a ghastly imitation of Dietrich, “‘It took more than one man to give me the name Shanghai Lily.’ It took more than one person to put the final nail in Romanov’s coffin.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Search me.”

  “I don’t have to. Nina Valgorski got Romanov a glass of soda water.”

  “You mean she slipped him the fatal mickey?”

  “I think she did.”

  “In a crowded ballroom? But how? That gown she wore was plastered to her body! Oh, of course she might have been hiding a vial in her cleavage.” Hazel gave it some thought. “You could hide a motorcycle in that cleavage. Its a wonder she doesn’t keel over when she pirouettes.”

  “I doubt if she had anything in her cleavage except maybe a dainty handkerchief bordered with lace.”

  “Then for crying out loud, is she a magician?”

  “Did you notice what she was wearing around her neck?”

  “A necklace?”

  Villon rubbed it in. “Not as observant as you claim to be. She wore a chain from which dangled something resembling a whistle. She kept touching it as though she didn’t want to lose it.”

  “Well, knowing Nina it is probably very valuable.”

  “I’m not sure what it might bring in a hock shop, but I think that whistle has a hollow center. And in that center was a dose of poison. Probably cadmium. You know, what Nina was pushing as the most popular poison in Russia That’s how I think they got him. I’m pretty sure he was a goner by then, but that final dose was necessary for the coup de grace. Because maybe Romanov was finally wising up he was being done in and would tell the CIA

  “Like the snatch he had been for years.”

  “Snitch,” corrected Villon. “Snitch, Hazel, rhymes with Witch Hazel.”

  THIRTEEN

  Villon got out of bed and staggered to the kitchen for a glass of water. He was always unsteady on his feet in the morning, whether suffering from a hangover or a guilty conscience. Often he wished he was on the loose like Jim Mallory, unencumbered by an albatross around his neck, playing the field. He gulped the water. What field? Where was there a field for him to play in? He had never been any good at flirting, though he usually recognized when some woman had him in her sights. All what the hell, he’d been attached to Hazel for fifteen years, he was used to her, how would he get along without her—though he often thought of trying.

  Hazel shouted from the bedroom, “What about Luba? Varonsky? Bochno?”

  “They were either not in the country or on tour when Romanov probably started getting the deadly infusions.” He emerged from the kitchen scratching his belly and yawning. Another sleepless night. Another case loaded with crackpots. He wondered if all Russians were as crackers as the bunch he was now dealing with. He was back in the bedroom and at the closet examining his meager wardrobe. When, he tried to remember, had he last bought a new suit? When, he tried to remember, could he last afford to buy a new suit? Why didn’t he get into a more lucrative profession and make some real money? Such as what? he asked himself and received no answer.

  “Such an awful sigh!” said Hazel. “What’s troubling you, sweetheart?”

  “Hazel, a policeman s lot is not a happy one.”

  “Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Hazel.

  “What about them?”

  ‘They wrote that line. Or at least one of them did.”

  ‘What line?”

  “A policeman’s lot whatever.”

  “My my! So I can quote Gilbert and Sullivan. Now how do I lay my hands on that whistle thing?”

  “Subpoena it”

  “It’s a thought. Yes, it’s a thought.”

  An hour later, freshly bathed and wearing a jaunty blue blazer with a pair of gray slacks. Herb Villon was at the desk of the Ambassador Hotel, asking for an audience with Nina Varonsky. For emphasis, he flashed his badge. The clerk, who bore a slight resemblance to the character actor Hans Conried stared at the badge and asked, “What’s she done?”

  “She hasn’t done anything.” He almost added. “Not anything I can prove,” but decided caution was the watchword—this might be one of the many informants in Hollywood with direct lines to gossip columnists.

  “Then why’d you show me your badge?”

  Villon asked the desk clerk, “Would you rather I flashed something else?”

  “I’ll see if she’s in.” The clerk’s look was deadly but not fatal. In response to Nina’s “Yes?” he told her Detective Villon would like to see her.

  Nina rubbed her cheek and studied her reflection in a wall mirror. Herb Villon. Ah yes. she reminded herself, the taciturn one. Very much the he-man. Yes, he would do just nicely at this hour of the morning. The detective would like to see me indeed. Romanov’s death. Why else? “Ask Detective Villon to come to my suite, and then find out if the breakfast I ordered for half an hour ago is coming by way of Mexico.”

  “I’m sorry, madam. Room service is terribly busy this morning. The hotel is heavily booked with Elks. The/re having a convention here.”

  “Elks? Animals? Indeed, what a strange country.” She slammed down the phone and slipped out of a housecoat and into a very revealing and seductive negligee, a Chanel original. She hurriedly brushed her hair for the fifth time that morning and then struck several poses before deciding which one would appeal to the detective. She did not know Villon was immune to seductive poses. A few minutes later when she opened the door to admit him, she was delighted to see behind him a waiter wheeling a cart on which reposed her breakfast.

  “Ahhhhh! Two most welcome sights! A handsome detective and my breakfast,” Villon stood to one side as the waiter rolled the cart to an area indicated by the ballerina, a table between the sofa and an Eames chair. “Mr. Villon, how nice of you to come calling. May I offer you coffee? A little Danish pastry? Oh do have coffee. There are two cups and two saucers. I ordered my breakfast last night when I thought there would be someone to share it with me. And so there is! You!”

  She signed the waiters chit and he hurried away for fear of asphyxiation from her powerful perfume. She sat in the Eames chair and invited Villon to sit opposite her on the sofa. He asked if she’d mind if he opened a window; the perfume was overpowering. “But of course! Open the window! Let us breathe of your magnificent California air!”

  While he crossed to a window and opened it, she poured two cups of c
offee. “You have come to question me about the unfortunate Romanov?” She laughed at the look on his face while uncovering dishes and greedily sniffing them. “Maybe I told you last night that many years ago when we were teenagers we were lovers and if I haven’t told you, now you know. Milk? Sugar? Pastry?”

  He refused all three. “Black! You drink it black! You are a man’s man!” She sipped her coffee. “What is wrong with you Americans? Coffee needs chicory! Oh well, our coffee is also thicker but then, we don’t have Danish pastries and they are so delightful.” She held up a plate of miniature pastries and again he rejected them. He refused her offer to share her mammoth breakfast of wheat cakes, sausage, bacon, ham, eggs sunnyside up, hominy grits, home fried potatoes, toast, jam, and a slab of unsalted butter. Madame, he thought, undoubtedly dances like a sylph in heat, but eats like a longshoreman.

  She slathered the wheat cakes with butter and maple syrup and Villon hoped he wouldn’t take ill. He sipped some coffee and happily for him, it was excellent. When he replaced the cup on the saucer, he found her looking at him seductively despite her mouthful of food. She said, “You detectives do things so differently from my country. Here you present yourself to the desk clerk, giving me plenty of time to escape down the rear elevator if 1 am so inclined. In my country they kick in the door, grab you by the hair, force you down on your knees, slap your face a few times, and then ask questions.” She reloaded her mouth and smiled. “I prefer your method. You remember I told you I was a student of criminology?” He remembered and wondered if this meeting would end up with her doing all the questioning. “But your only interest in me at the moment is Romanov, and do I in some way relate to his death. They said on the television it was death by slow poisoning. You will explain that, please?” He explained it briefly. “All yes!” She thought for a moment and then pointed her fork at him. “Madeline Smith.”

  “Who was she?”

  “What? You are not familiar with Madeline Smith? Shame on you.” He half expected her to make him stand in the comer. “British. A classic case. She poisoned her little brother. She was acquitted. She had a very smart… How did Dashiell Hammett put it… ?”

  “Sham us.”

  “Yes! Yes! A shamus lawyer! You have read Hammett! Good!”

  She laid waste to ham, eggs, potatoes, and grits washed down with more coffee. Suddenly she said, “Now why do you suppose Romanov was removed?”

  He knew now she knew more about Romanov’s murder than she would ever tell, but he persisted. She was bound to slip up sooner or later; all such self-assured people did. “He was a mole.” She laughed but fortunately did not spray her food. She was obviously determined not to squander any of it. “A mole! Of course! Two spies for the price of one. He spied for both the Soviets and your people. A very dangerous occupation, very dangerous.” She smiled as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “You are here because you suspect 1 too am a spy. Why? Why do you suspect I am a spy? Does Hurok share your suspicion?”

  “I doubt if Hurok knows I’m here with you.”

  “He knows.” Very self-assured. “He tips the staff well and they supply him with tips in return. Everyone is greedy.” Now she was lighting a cigarette. “I only arrived in this city a few days ago. If I poisoned Romanov, it would have to be quick. And I don’t know where he lives, so how could I have gotten to him?”

  “I didn’t say you poisoned him.”

  “Ah? So I have not been understanding you?”

  “You’ve been understanding me,” said Villon. “You’re a very smart ballerina.”

  Again she laughed. They were playing a game and she enjoyed it “Ballerinas are usually very dense, but they know how to make their own costumes. 1 am very smart, how else could I study criminology, but I am a very poor seamstress. So what do you think I had to do with my poor Romanov’s death.” She had moved to the double doors that opened on a balcony and pushed them open. She then struck a pose in the doorway, in which her negligee revealed everything except unexposed film. Villon appreciated what he saw but was not about to be sidetracked. “My poor ill-fated, star-crossed, doomed Romanov. He was such a wonderful lover. He was nineteen, when men are said to be at the height of their sexual power. For women the age is forty. I still have time.” She cleared her throat and waited for a compliment but none was forthcoming. Villon realized time was running out. He wanted to get to the precinct Edgar Rowe was sure to have performed the autopsy and Villon was anxious to read his report. “Last night you wore a very attractive trinket”

  ‘Trinket? I do not wear trinkets.”

  “I used ‘trinket’ for want of a better description.”

  “Ah! You mean my good luck charm. I’ll get it for you, it’s in my jewelry case in the bedroom. Have some more coffee. I assure you it’s not poisoned.” The sound of her laughter trailed her out of the room. Villon studied the remains of her breakfast. This was indeed a woman of ravenous appetites, an appetite for food, for sex, and most assuredly for intrigue. She returned, her closed right fist obviously holding the object of Villons interest.

  She said with remarkable self-assurance, “I will not offer you a ruble for your thoughts for obviously they are much more valuable. And do you know why I know this? Because”—she leaned forward, offering him what she knew to be an exciting view of her fascinating cleavage—”you are thinking of me. I am right? Yes?”

  “I am thinking you seem to take a special delight in playing games.”

  She straightened up and extended the right fist to Villon. She opened her hand and Villon saw what he was after. “Take it,” she said, “it will not harm you. It is very expensive.” He took it and examined it. “It is modeled after a whistle. It is made of platinum. It was a gift from Stalin himself. It was made by a grand duke for his grand duchess. They are both dead. Stalin adored me. He had pictures of me but he could not display them because his wife, the cow, was very jealous.” Her laugh tinkled. “And let me tell you she had every reason to be. When Valgorski plays, she plays to win.” Villon had no reason to doubt her and he was busy deciphering the whistle. “Yes,” she said, “it is hollow. It is an object the Borgias would have appreciated.”

  “And what does it usually hold?”

  “Slivovitz.” She folded her arms. “You know Slivovitz?”

  “Not intimately.”

  “It is a strong and very delicious liqueur. It is the most popular drink in Russia among the upper classes.”

  “I thought Russia was a classless society.”

  “Propaganda. Don’t believe everything you read about Russia. We are a very complex people.”

  Silently, Villon agreed with her. He had not solved how to open it She told him, “Lightly press the tip. The top will pop open.” She was right. He sniffed it. “You will smell nothing. I have washed it. I always wash it after I have used it or else there will be a very unpleasant stale smell.”

  He popped the whistle shut. “You carry slivovitz all the time?”

  “No, because I do not wear it all the time. Only special occasions when I think I will require a few drops to refresh me.”

  “And last night you required a few drops. And I was under the impression last night champagne was your favorite tipple.”

  “Such an amusing drink, champagne. Did you know the British call it champers? But then, they call lamb patties faggots, which I positively do not understand. At several points last night I sipped some slivovitz. Now I am sorry I rinsed it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can see you are disappointed.”

  “I didn’t know it showed.”

  “You were thinking perhaps I carried poison.” The laugh tinkled again. He wondered if she guffawed at funerals. “And why not. I was seen carrying a glass of soda water to Romanov. I could see he was burning with fever and was parched, which was why I volunteered to fetch him the soda water.” She paused and then said, “I poured some slivovitz into the glass, because we Russians feel it has medicinal powers. Actually, Romanov looke
d a little better for having drunk it.”

  “He didn’t comment on the taste?”

  “He said he wanted to go home. His nurse and chauffeur were rallied and they took him home. You are thinking 1 have covered myself well by telling you I poured the liqueur into the soda water, in case I was seen doing it.” She shrugged. “Has anyone come forward to accuse me of doctoring the drink?”

  “Nobody. But you covered yourself.” He stood up. He handed her back the whistle.

  “You aren’t confiscating it?”

  ‘There’s no reason. It’s clean. It will tell my forensics people nothing. Why waste their time?”

  “You are going?” She looked like a stricken fawn. She had a wide variety of poses and attitudes, all exaggerated and overwrought from Villon’s observations. He couldn’t wait to tell Hazel, who had vociferously warned him Nina was more dangerous than a man-eating tiger and would use every wile in her book to lure him into bed.

  “I have to get to the precinct and read the coroner’s report. Romanov might have been poisoned by cyanide. But I also told the coroner to watch for traces of cadmium.”

  A hand flew to her bosom. She said archly, “Cadmium. My cadmium.”

  “That’s right. I suggested he look for traces of your cadmium. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Thank you for giving me this time. And for letting me examine your whistle.” And he was out the door.

  Nina went back to the bedroom, sat on the unmade bed, and asked the operator to connect her to another room in the hotel. Her party responded and Nina spoke rapidly in Russian. “He is very clever, this Villon, very, very clever. Of course he was here, he just left. He goes to his coroner to find out if there was a trace of cadmium in Romanov’s body.” She listened and then said, “Last night I didn’t think before I spoke. I mentioned cadmium was a very popular poison in the Soviet Union. Don’t ask me why. it came up in a conversation. Don’t scold me, damn you, don’t scold me! You devised the method of Romanov’s death!” She listened. “You are boring me! I must go to the theater and make faces. The company is to be photographed and that’s all I can tell you. I must hurry or I will be late.” She slammed the phone down. She lit a cigarette. She walked to the dressing table where she had left the whistle. She stared at the whistle. She castigated it in a stream of gutter Russian. Then she spoke to her reflection in the mirror.