by George Baxt
Ginger snapped, “I can think of half a dozen actresses and as many leading men, with equal time for as many directors.”
“Ginger,” Fred reminded her, “they are none of them in this company.”
“Just don’t share your thoughts with anyone in the company,” advised Villon, “and you’ll make it past New Year’s Eve.”
‘Thanks a bunch,” said Ginger morosely. “So Fred and I are the only ones who know the autopsy result.”
“Right,” said Villon.
“Would it bother you if I told you I don’t feel privileged?” She borrowed Villons container of coffee and took a much needed swig. “Awful! No sugar!”
“But plenty of Ginger!” exclaimed Mallory, who was chagrined by the moans with which he was rewarded.
Ginger patted his hand. “It’s okay, cutie, I get it all the time.” She asked Villon, ‘Will the autopsy results be published?”
“Not unless you don’t lower your voice,” said Fred. Hazel was headed toward them. She wore no hat and her hair was back to its natural brown color. Only Villon noticed the absence of gray hair.
“Now you look like Hazel Dickson,” said Villon.
Hazel said swiftly, ‘The four of you look like you just partook of a mouse. Okay, Herb, what’s being kept from me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Edgar Rowe confirmed your suspicions. I knew it!”
“You know nothing,” said Villon, not attempting to hide the threat in his voice. “I don’t want to see a line about it in the papers, you get me?”
“Why not?”
“Because 1 say so.”
Ginger leaned forward conspiratorially and said to Hazel, “You don’t want to give the game away, do you?”
“What game?”
Fred said, ‘The four killers shouldn’t guess Herb knows who they are and what they did.”
Ginger added, “Or Herb might blow the whistle on you!” They probably didn’t get it because there was no applause. Glumly she asked Fred, “Shouldn’t we be rehearsing?”
Fred actually wore a whistle around his neck as did Hermes Pan. Whistles were necessary at rehearsals, especially for a group as large as this one. They were plain, ordinary, five-and-dime-store whistles of the kind worn by gym instructors. The company rallied at Freds signal and stood in varying poses and positions, waiting for Freds words.
He said in Russian, “Welcome, my comrades!’’ Sol Hurok beamed. He had taught the words to Fred earlier, and the company exploded in laughter and applause.
“Showoff,” said Ginger under her breath.
“I don’t have as much time with you as I would like,*’ said Fred, “but were going to make the most of what w’eve got. This gentleman”—he put his arm around Hermes—”is my partner and if I’m not available, he will help you. His name is Hermes Pan.”
“Pan?” Nina Valgorski asked Theodore Varonsky. who arrived late because Alida’s instructions to get him to the rehearsal were secondhand from Mordecai. “Pan?” repeated Nina, “that is all? Wliat a terribly strange country with terribly strange names.” She was a vision in imitation leopardskin leotards even while eating a tunafish salad sandwich. She explained to Mikhail Bochno, the régisseur général, “I had very little breakfast.”
Fred said to the eager company, “We’re going to have a lot of fun with Rasputin.”
Gregor Sukov said gloomily, “There was nothing funny about Rasputin.”
“There is now,” said Fred with determination, “because I see him as funny. I’m sure they have this expression in the Soviet Union, ‘One man’s meat is another man’s poison,*’” and from the look on Villons face, he wished he hadn’t said it “Fred, I have this gut feeling that Rasputin is going to be one of the most delightful ballets ever.” Ginger hoped Fred appreciated her support. The ballet dancers weren’t exactly madly enthusiastic. They stood staring at Fred, Ginger, and Hermes Pan as though they were candidates for a firing squad.
A nervous Sol Hurok said to Mae Frohman, “What did Shakespeare write about the quality of moishie?”
“Mercy,” corrected Mae.
Nina asked Fred, “You will dress like Rasputin dressed? Unclean, unwashed, unappetizing?”
Fred felt a surge of impatience. He sensed the hostility of the troupe toward an American upstart daring to choreograph for Russian dancers, famous movie star or no famous movie star. He decided to grab the bull by the horns. “Now, look, let’s get one thing straight. I was asked by Mr. Hurok to choreograph this ballet and dance in it with Miss Rogers. You see, there’s an institution in this country known as Box Office. On your tour to date your box office was better than expected because you had no competition from other ballet companies. Am I right, Sol?”
“Positively!” cried Hurok.
Fred continued, “On television, it’s quite another story. Television viewers in this country have a choice of several channels. The other channels might have opposite us a baseball game, or a popular comedy series or a drama. Well, it’s up to us to draw as big an audience as possible. On its own, I can easily predict the Baronovitch Ballet will be a big loser.” Now the company was uneasy. “That’s why Mr. Hurok enticed Ginger and myself into appearing with you. We draw big audiences, we are Mr. Hurok’s insurance that you will have a very big percentage of viewers. Face it. You are not known in this country and we are a very big country. But after one successful appearance on television, the name Baronovitch will be on everyone’s lips. And I don’t think you will find anywhere in the world audiences as enthusiastic as you will find in this country!”
Carried away, Esther Pincus began playing “Anchors Aweigh.” Fred hushed her.
He asked the company, “Do I have your cooperation?” There was a smattering of applause. “And if you want to know what we’ll all be wearing, there’s a display of the costumes we’ll be wearing on that table.” He made a vague gesture to the right of him. He then began with renewed enthusiasm to reel off what he hoped would be the highlights of the thirty-minute ballet which would close the program, forcing viewers to hang in past highlights from such ballet warhorses as Firebird, Swan Lake, and Coppelia. He knew Hurok preferred the finale to be a song and dance number by Fred and Ginger, and if he and Ginger agreed, Fred thought of using one of his own songs, “I Need a Shoulder to Cry On.”
“Of course everybody in Russia knows Rasputin was a sexual pervert, but Americans know very little about him so we’ll have to treat his perverted side delicately.”
“Why?” asked Nina.
“Well you see, Nina, we are very puritanical. I mean, we can’t depict Rasputin raping women and seducing young men.”
“So show him seducing old men!” said Nina, which drew her a laugh.
“Miss Valgorski, why do I get the feeling you’d prefer not to participate in my ballet?”
She took a few steps toward him with her hands on her hips. “Who says 1 will not participate?”
“Your very weak little jokes tell me you are hostile toward me.” Mae Frohman beamed with approval. Hurok mopped his brow. Hazel Dickson had already decided she’d sell this slight contretemps to Hedda Hopper, who wanted the show to be a loser.
From the sound of Fred’s voice and the look on his face, Nina knew he was prepared to take her on and she also knew he would have to be victorious or the ballet was in jeopardy, and no Fred and Ginger, there would be no NBC. The project had been widely publicized in the USSR, where it was promised a television showing by way of a kinescope. “Forgive my very weak little jokes. Weak little jokes are one of my very little weaknesses.” Her voice encompassed the company. “Forgive me, comrades. I offer our dear Fred Astaire my complete cooperation, and I expect the same from everyone in the company. But it is a historical fact that Rasputin was a filthy slob!”
“Don’t worry, Nina. I’m cleaning him up.” Fred blew his whistle hard. Ginger expected him to announce a football formation. The whistle was Hermes Pan’s cue to move the dancers into position for the grand procession which would ope
n the ballet. Nobody had seen her change into it, but Luba Nafka suddenly pirouetted into their midst wearing a white tutu. She halted with practiced precision in front of Fred.
“You like it?” she asked coquettishly.
“Tutu divine, now get into a leotard and make it snappy.” Luba slunk away.
Sol Hurok shook his head and clucked his tongue. “What has gotten into them today!”
Mae said by way of explanation, “Mr. Hurok, you’ve been around ballet companies long enough to recognize they’re testing the authority of the fledgling choreographer.”
‘They wouldn’t dare do this to Balanchine!”
“I don’t think Balanchine would consider a ballet about Rasputin. I’ll get us coffee.” She marched across the room toward a table near the piano where the coffee urn had been placed. Hermes Pan had joined Esther Pincus at the piano and was making notations in her score as ordered by Fred.
While Mae filled two cardboard containers with coffee, she overheard Hermes Pan ask Esther, “What’s the matter, Esther, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” He expected her to cross herself from the weird look on her face, but then remembered she was Jewish.
Esther replied to his question in a strained voice. “I think I have.”
SIXTEEN
Hazel said to Herb Villon, “Are you deliberately ignoring Don Magrew?”
“Magrew? Where is he?”
“Yonder,” she indicated with a toss of her head. Villon saw Magrew standing beyond Hermes Pan and Esther Pincus and crossed to greet him. They shook hands and Magrew led Villon to a spot where he felt they’d be out of earshot of anyone.
“Your precinct told me where I could find you.”
“Something urgent?”
“Herb, it’s like this. Romanov’s poisoning poses some problems.”
“Oh yes?” asked Herb.
“Look, I’m leveling with you because I have to now. I kept some information from you because we didn’t think it necessary to let the police know too much.”
“Magrew, I never can know too much. But I know a lot more than I did yesterday. And there’s a hell of a lot more I need to know and intend to find out, with or without your cooperation. You want spies and I want killers. Damn this noise!” The opening procession featured a lot of foot stomping accompanied by Fred and Hermes Pan imitating the blaring of trumpets. Esther Pincus pounded the piano ferociously while Sol Hurok was beginning to feel optimistic. He could envision the majesty of the great entrance once the company was in full regalia, and bemoaned to Mae Frohman how sad it was that color television was years away from being perfected.
Villon and Magrew had moved to the hallway where they still could hear the sounds of the rehearsal, although they were now somewhat deadened. Villon told Magrew, “Let me tell you what I’ve deduced so far and then I’ll give you equal time to pump me.”
Magrew nodded. The inevitable pipe was in his mouth and he applied a match to the tobacco in the bowl. Villon hated pipes as much as he hated cigars. He wondered if Magrew had left it in his will that he was to be buried with his pipe in his mouth. Magrew asked, “So? What have you deduced?”
“Romanov was a Russian agent. You guys caught on and rather than put him behind bars you kept him in front of them, bending elbows with Hollywood’s best when he had the time away from his very busy practice. If he thought he learned anything useful from a patient, he turned it over to the reds for dissemination.”
Magrew continued, “We fed Romanov what he fed the reds. They got suspicious and therefore he was a very likely candidate for the slow death.”
“Why didn’t you guys warn him?”
“We did.”
“And he did nothing to save himself?”
Magrew was finally content with the glow in the pipe bowl. “He only had a short time left anyway. Bone marrow disease. Something like that.”
“No options for the poor bastard. I kind of feel sorry for him.” It was obvious to Villon that Magrew didn’t. Cold-hearted buggers, the CIA. “The small doses were fed by his household staff. The housekeeper, her nephew, and the nurse.” He waited. Magrew didn’t comment. His face was neutral. No mention of Nina Valgorski. Odd.
“And you haven’t sufficient evidence to bag the three.”
“That’s right. I’ll get them in time.”
“I admire your confidence.” Villon would politely admire some of his but Magrew didn’t seem to be confidant of anything special, and Villon knew he was holding back. Sneaky devil.
Villon said, “You know the nurse Alida is married to Theodore Varoasky?”
“We sure do. She’s been busting a gut trying to get him out from behind the iron curtain. We finally got Hurok to make a bid for Baronovitch so we could get him here.”
“Hurok is a tool of the CIA?” Villon couldn’t see the impresario wearing a cloak or wielding a dagger, but apparently he did and quite deftly.
“It’s been highly profitable for Hurok. He’s amazed the company’s been doing so well at the box office. And we’re delighted because the deal is that Uncle Sammy covers his losses. Then of course up popped NBC with their offer and so now were home free.”
“Varonsky doesn’t have to return to die Soviet when the company does?”
“He’s defecting, along with Luba Nafka and Gregor Sukov. Nafka and Sukov are planning a company of their own along with Mordecai Pfenov. They all share the big dream of easy capitalistic money. They’re so innocent, they just might make it big.”
“Malke Movitz,” said Villon.
“What about her?”
“She’s the real head of the ring here.”
“You think?” asked Magrew.
“Haven’t you guys considered it?”
“Not really. We’ve actually had no reason to.”
“Now don’t shit me, Magrew.”
“I swear!”
Villon didn’t believe him, but didn’t tell him. Instead he chose a different path, the long way around. “She seemed to have little difficulty escaping the Soviet Union to Paris and her quaint little cafe. Seems to me she was given the same route as Romanov. Stands to reason they were set up to operate as a pair. I learned long ago that’s the way the reds operate. In pairs.”
“1 have to admit that’s a very sound observation.”
“You going to let the three stay if they defect?”
“Oh, they’ll definitely defect. Gregor Sukov and Luba Nafka are harmless. She’s in love with Movitzs nephew; Sukov is still continuing his undying romance with himself. Varonsky will get special treatment. We suspect he knows a hell of a lot about the locations of Russian nuclear stations and warheads, privileged information that’s come his way over the years. Once we get it out of him and where he can do us no harm, we’ll give him a hot dog stand in Coney Island where undoubtedly he will thrive.”
“Magrew, why do you suppose I keep nursing this cockamamie idea that somewhere in this country there’s somebody who’s really calling the shots for the Russians?”
“Herb, that’s always a possibility. Look at the Rosenbergs.”
“I have. Expendables. Small fry. Not worth spending the money to jail and fry them. They ought to free them and set them up with a chicken farm in New Jersey.”
“They won’t.” He thought for a moment and then asked Herb. “This theory of yours that there’s an X factor secretly running the espionage ring—got any suspicions?”
“I haven’t gotten that deeply into it.”
“When you do, let an old buddy in on it, okay?”
“Why sure, old buddy. I’m enjoying this game of give and take.”
“I’m going to let you in on something else. I don’t know what it will mean to you, but on the other hand, you never can tell.” The light in his pipe bowl was dimming and he applied a match to the bowl. As he sucked on the stem of the pipe, he told Villon, “Romanov accumulated quite a fortune.”
“Yes? All from his practice?”
“And some shrewdness on h
is own part. Stocks, bonds, real estate, you name it. He left it equally to Alida Rimsky, Malke Movitz, and her nephew.”
Now Villon was astonished. “He’s not dead twenty-four hours and you know this for a fact?”
“His lawyer was a help.” He winked.
“So now Varonsky has every reason to defect and if he has to, live off his wife and you know what you can do with your hot dog stand.” Villon was quiet for a moment. “There’s no more noise from in there.” He led the way back into the rehearsal hall. As they walked, “I suppose the contents of the will are top secret for now.”
“I’m sure the heirs prefer it that way. The KGB is notorious for attempting to confiscate what they consider ill-gotten assets. After all, they trained Romanov. They set him up here. Without them, he might be playing piano in some Moscow cocktail bar. Except you won’t find many cocktail bars in Russia. He might be a rehearsal pianist like the lady over there.” He was referring, of course, to Esther Pincus.
Villon asked Hazel, “What’s going on?”
The entire company was sitting on the floor, each in the lotus position, arms folded across their chests, eyes shut. Hazel said with a note of whimsicality, ‘They’re meditating.”
“Meditating?”
“Yes, Herb. Meditating. It’s to relieve tension. Fred thought they were all too tense. Look, even Hurok’s joined in.”
Hurok whispered to Mae meditating next to him, “Do I look like the god. Butter?”
“Buddha,” corrected Mae, “and you’re not meditating.”
“Meditating! What kind of mishagoss is meditating?”
“It’s good for the soul,” whispered Mae.
Hurok’s eyes flew open. “Better it should be good for the show.” Esther Pincus sat on the piano seat. No sitting on the floor for her, not with her arthritis. She was tired of meditating. She was thinking of old ghosts, ghosts she had tried to lay to rest for many years. She thought again of Paris because she would always think of Paris. So much of her past was there. She opened her eyes. She reached for her container of coffee, and sipped. It was cold. She went to the table that held the coffee and the containers and poured herself a fresh cup. She carried it back to the piano on tiptoe, as she usually set up a clatter with her heels when she walked. She saw Villon and Hazel with Don Magrew. She sipped her coffee. She tried to remember a name. She played the alphabet game with herself. A for Aronoff, B for Beauregard, C for Colman, hoping to remember a name for which she was probing about in her brain. She had chatted briefly earlier with Hazel Dickson and now considered her an old friend.