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

  Fred said eagerly, “Rasputin”

  “Rasputin? Wasn’t he some crazy monk or something?”

  “He was called the Mad Monk.”

  “Oh yes. I remember the movie with the three Barrymores…” ‘Rasputin and the Empress.’

  “Right. I don’t think it made any money.”

  “That’s not important. Ginger. I’m going to dance Rasputin.”

  “And me?” She took a sip of ginger ale.

  “The Czarina. The wife of Czar Nicholas the Second”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What’s wrong”.

  “Didn’t she have lads?”

  Fred said weakly, “Five.”

  “Five kids? So what has she got to dance about? What kind of five kids?”

  “Four daughters and a son. He was the youngest.” There was a briefcase resting next to him and he opened it and found a photo of the Romanov family. “Here’s a photo of the family taken a year before they were murdered.”

  ‘They were bad dancers?”

  “Come on, Ginger. Be serious.”

  “I am being serious.” She studied the photograph. Her eyes narrowed. “Fred.”

  “Yes?”

  “These four daughters are four very large daughters. They are obviously in their teens.” She leaned across the table and asked practically in a whisper, “You want me to be the mother of these oversized youngsters?”

  “Ginger,” said Fred seriously, “you’ll be brilliant. A sensation. A new Ginger Rogers.”

  “As an old Russian mother.” She put the photograph aside. “The hell with it. I’m no toe dancer and I don’t plan to start practicing now.”

  “But Ginger,” he said eagerly, “that’s the novelty of it. While the others dance on point, we’ll be tap dancing!”

  Ginger sat back. “A tap-dancing empress? A tap-dancing Rasputin? Do you want the number of my psychiatrist?”

  “Why? He can’t dance.”

  “Fred Astaire. You have gone around the bend.”

  Fred said excitedly, “It’s fresh! Its new! It’s innovative! We’ll knock them out of their socks!”

  “I’ve got big news for you, you’re knocking me out of my socks.”

  Fred said seriously, “Ginger, times are changing and we’ve got to change with them. I get older and my leading ladies get younger It’s ludicrous. Audiences aren’t as dumb as we like to think they are.”

  “Go ahead. Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “I’m not the kid I used to be, that’s what.” She lowered her voice. “I’m forty-two, give or take a few hours, and how many parts are there for a woman of a certain age. I know it, Claudette Colbert and Irene Dunne know it”

  “They’ve been playing mothers for years.”

  “They haven’t been dancing for years.” She reached into her handbag and dabbed at her nose with a tissue she pulled out of the bag.

  “That’s right. They haven’t. But they’ve moved gracefully into more mature roles and they’re still stars.”

  “Stop kidding me. The offers have dried up for them. I know. I keep in touch with all the ladies. And damn it, they’re rich. I’m not rich!”

  “You can be by opening up a whole new world for yourself. Ginger, I wasn’t going to tell you, but Hurok wants to line up a grand tour for the ballet and us. We’ll make hundreds of thousands of dollars and attract hundreds of thousands of new fans. For crying out loud. Ginger, he wants to bring us to New York. Think of it! Astaire and Rogers back on Broadway!”

  Ginger sniffled. “In what theater?”

  “The best the Schuberts have to offer, if I know Sol Hurok. Sol Hurok, Ginger. His name is synonymous with prestige, with impeccable good taste. A Sol Hurok presentation. The big time!”

  “You nitwit! What the hell have we been in these past thirty years. The big time! The big time!”

  Fred leaned across and took her hand. “Ginger, this will be the biggest time ever. Please sign your contract.”

  She took a sip of ginger ale and then said with a wicked grin, “I signed it this morning. But my, you do a real hard sell!”

  TWO

  Herb Villon was probably the movie crowd’s most popular detective. He knew just about everybody in films and those who knew him treated him with respect. They also knew they could call on him for help when help was needed and he would offer his services with discretion. He never asked for or expected monetary rewards, he just wanted assistance when assistance was needed, which was frequently. He was a dab hand at covering up scandals, especially when he felt the victim or victims were being set up. He was instrumental, for example, in helping clear Errol Flynn when a couple of teenagers accused him of raping them on his yacht, the incident giving birth to the expression “in like Flynn.” He was particularly helpful to powerful producers, especially when they were on the verge of being rendered powerless by accusations of infidelity.

  Villon was a veteran of the L.A. police force, having served as a detective since the last days of silent films. With him in his office in his precinct in downtown Los Angeles was his partner, Jim Mallory, a few years Villons junior and most often referred to, especially by actresses and gay actors, as “adorable.” Neither man had ever married and neither Herb nor Jim thought they were missing anything. Herb had a steady girlfriend. Hazel Dickson, who sold gossip to columnists. She was a genius at picking up tips and following up on them. She knew just which items to peddle to the queen of Hollywood gossip, Louella Parsons and the lesser queen, Hedda Hopper. Both were equally vicious, dangerous, and feared. Hazel forgot when she gave up wondering if Herb would ever marry her, because one day she realized it wasn’t important. She didn’t want children, because she had no time to be a mother and she knew Herb had little taste for Little League or Boy Scouts. He didn’t want to take any children to a football, game or to enjoy the rides on Venice Pier. His idea of a good time, besides the occasional roll in the hay with Hazel, was to spend some time in the peace and tranquility of such popular and populated cemeteries as Forest Lawn and Hollywood Cemetery behind Paramount Studios. There he enjoyed the Douglas Fairbanks Lagoon, an impressive waterway constructed to the silent film star’s memory by his son Doug Jr. He liked visiting the mausoleum that held Rudolph Valentino’s ashes and once saw the mysterious lady in black who honored Valentino’s memory with a visit on each anniversary of his death.

  Jim Mallory was wondering if his tuxedo would fit for the big do that night. Sol Hurok was throwing a lavish wingding in the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel, situated in the downtown section on Wilshire Boulevard, and Jim, Herb, and Hazel had invitations. Hazel wangled her own as she usually had to do, but Herb and Jim were invited at the express request of the handsome young man sitting across from Herb Villons desk. He was Don Magrew of the CIA, whom they had met several days earlier in Sol Hurok’s suite at the Ambassador. Magrew, when apprised of Villon and Mallory’s reputation, had asked Hurok to secure their services to which Hurok responded lavishly with “Anything for the CIO.” Magrew learned that just about any mangled English would pop out of Huroks mouth and wasn’t surprised when Hurok asked him at lunch, “How long have you been with the COD?” When Magrew warned Villon that Hurok was a lot like the other mangler of the language, Sam Goldwyn, Villon said they were interchangeable, adding, “And besides, Sam’s press agent writes most of his Goldwynisms for him. Hurok’s are strictly his own.”

  Magrew asked, “You know Hurok?”

  “Oh sure. We’ve crossed trails many times in the past. I helped clear one of his tenors, who was accused, in Sols own words, of moral turpentine.”

  Magrew chuckled. Mallory had heard that one so often the best he could muster was a weak snicker.

  “Anyway,” said Herb, anxious to get on with the purpose of the meeting, “lets get going. Have you any positive makes on suspected spies in the Baronovitch company?”

  “Just about anybody in the Sonet Union is a suspected spy, but not all that many are active. The State
Department doesn’t want anybody in the troupe hauled in, because that could cause a very big stink. If we get anything on anybody, the boys in Washington would prefer we wag a finger under their noses and tell them to lay off or they get sent home pronto. Unless, of course, we catch them red-handed—no pun intended—with a hand in the cookie jar and then we have every right to detain them. They’re useful for exchange.”

  “What kind of exchange?” asked Mallory.

  “We trade spies all the time. You know, we’ll give you such and such for so and so and no questions asked. Of course often ours are returned slightly damaged. Cigarette burns unpleasantly made to nipples and/or genitals, you know, the sort of thing that brings a song to a sadists lips.”

  Mallory was buying none of it. “You trying to tell me we don’t torture theirs?”

  “Never physically. Only subtly. You know, like putting a sex-starved bastard in a room with a couple of naked women, except they’re separated by a thick glass partition.”

  Mallory said, “Yeah, that’s torture.”

  Magrew asked Villon, “You’ve got the lists of the guests invited?”

  Villon held up several sheets of paper. “Just about every Russian name in Hollywood. From Mischa Auer to Slavko Vorkapich.”

  Magrew asked, “Who’s Vorkapich?”

  “Hollywood’s most expensive special-effects genius.”

  “I don’t think we did a check on him.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll vouch for him. Chances are he’ll skip the evening. He spends most of his time in his workshop.” He stopped talking while studying Magrew, who was torching a pipeful of tobacco. “You did a check on every guest invited tonight?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Including Jim and me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What have you got on Hazel Dickson?”

  “A very nosy yenta.”

  Villon smiled broadly. “That’s my Hazel!”

  “Now let me fill you in on the Baronovitch troupe.” He had extracted typewritten pages from a briefcase and a pair of glasses from his inside jacket pocket. They were frameless. Very chic, thought Mallory. “Now let me see… You know, of course, Hurok didn’t import the full complement of the company. Just the major stars and some of the muckalucks that run the troupe. The prima ballerina is Nina Valgorski, a very well preserved forty or more.”

  “She in a class with Maya Plisetskaya?”

  Magrew said admiringly, “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  “Jim and I together. The past couple of nights I suspect Jim’s fallen asleep counting ballerinas.” Jim had a silly smirk on his face.

  “Plisetskaya is in a class by herself,” said Magrew, “the top pantheon. Nina’s equivalent in the West would be Alicia Markova, Alicia Alonso, or Nora Kaye.” He stared at the pipe bowl as though expecting to read something important in it.

  Villon asked, ‘Who is Nina’s rival?”

  Magrew laughed. “There’s always a rival. In this case it’s Luba Nafka, though the ladies seem to get along amicably.”

  “You’ve met them before?”

  “Oh yes. We do a constant check up on a gang like this. I saw them in Toronto, Portland, Seattle, etcetera etcetera.”

  “Haven’t they gotten suspicious?”

  “They never knew I was with them. This is the first date in which I’m surfacing. This is the big one.”

  Villon asked, “How many men will you have at the party?”

  “A nice variety. Also ladies. You’ll never guess who they are.”

  Villon responded, “I won’t try unless I have to.”

  “Even if you try and you guess right, I’ll deny everything.” Herb studied the guest list on his desk. “The company’s leading male star is Gregor Sukov?”

  “That’s him. Very very Russian. Practically a stereotype.” Villon beat his chest and Mallory expected to hear a Tarzan yell. Villon said, “Very moody. Dostoevski and Chekhov with a lavish dash of Tolstoi.”

  “You got him. He also dotes on Shirley Temple.”

  “How?” asked Villon. “She hasn’t made a film in years.”

  “Herb, the Soviet Union is years behind in distributing American features. I mean Fred and Ginger are a big deal with the company because their films only reached the Soviet Union about five years ago. I mean there are parts of the country where they go berserk when they hear ‘Flying Down to Rio.’ And let me tell you, it’s no easy chore playing that one on a balalaika. Okay, let’s proceed.” He referred to his wristwatch. “1 haven’t that much time. Got to prepare for the big doings tonight. Now then, there’s Theodore Varonsky, the maître de ballet—the ballet master—and his word is law, he thinks. And last but not least, Mikhail Bochno is the regisseur general, the overseer. Everybody seems to like him.”

  “Any distinguished physical characteristics about any of them?” asked Villon.

  “Varonsky, that’s the ballet master, has a lovely scar on his left cheek. Presumably nicked by a sword.”

  “War wound?”

  “No. He got it in a duel.”

  “Aha! Defending the honor of a beautiful cygnette.”

  “Why no, as a matter of fact,” said Magrew with a twinkle in his voice, “defending the honor of a beautiful cadet. Anyway, that’s Hurok’s explanation, and anything you hear from Hurok you take with a grain of salt.”

  “So Varonsky might have cut himself shaving.”

  “In this case, if he shaved with a saber, and you can’t duel with a saber. Hurok is traveling light this trip. He usually has an entourage, but here he’s only with his assistant, Mae Frohman.”

  “Aha!” said Villon.

  “You can scrub the aha.’ Maes been with him for over thirty years. Very very loyal.”

  “And knows where all the bodies are buried,” said Villon.

  “Probably helped bury them,” said Magrew. ‘To simplify matters, they’re all booked into the Ambassador.”

  “Which explains the Ambassador ballroom tonight,” said Villon.

  “It’s a package deal. The rooms, the ballroom, three meals a day for everyone. Hurok strikes a hard bargain but hotels are always glad to give him a break. He’s a good, steady customer, even when he’s broke.”

  “Is he broke now?”

  “Let me put it to you this way, he maneuvered the network to pick up the tab. Well, my friends, that will have to cover it for now. I’ve got to report to our office and then get to the hotel and dress. I’m also at the Ambassador, by the way. I need to have a word with Astaire and Rogers, but that’ll wait until tonight.”

  Villon said, “I wonder if they know what they might be letting themselves in for?”

  “They’re letting themselves in for some hefty fees, some heavy publicity, and lots of hot borscht with heavy dollops of sour cream.” After shaking hands, and as Magrew was crossing to the door, Villon suddenly asked, “Do we know you?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Magrew.

  “At the party. Should people know you’re CIA?”

  “Herb, I can assure you. The press will know the ball will be crawling with CIA and the Russian secret police …”

  “And Hazel Dickson, who will put them all to shame.”

  “Ciao” said Magrew and was gone.

  “Well,” said Mallory, back in the chair he had deserted, his feet on Villon s desk. “He seems like a nice enough guy. Not what you’d imagine a CIA operative to be like.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret. The chief says on a little assignment in Central America, Magrew personally oversaw the slaughter of a couple of dozen rebels.”

  Mallory digested the information rapidly. “If ever there was an example of don’t judge a book by its cover….”

  Villon was studying the guest list. “Varonsky, Bochno, Nina Valgorski..

  “Luba Nafka,” interjected Mallory.

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “So did you. The film of Coppelia. She danced the doll.” He sighe
d, “What a doll.”

  There was a tap at the door. It opened and Hazel Dickson stuck her head in. “Got any coffee?”

  Villon and Mallory were dazzled. Villon finally asked, ‘What the hell have you done to your hair?”

  She smiled lavishly. “You like it? It’s special for tonight. Mr. Eloise outdid himself.”

  “If he isn’t dying from henna poisoning.”

  Hazel looked as though her head had been torched. Her hair was a bizarre shade of henna, an indescribable flaming red. “And he didn’t charge me! On the house!”

  “On your head,” grumbled Villon.

  Hazel s hands flew to her hips after depositing her handbag on the desk and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Ominously, she said, “You don’t like it.”

  Villon stormed, “It’s certainly not you!”

  ‘Well, if it’s not me, who is it?”

  Mallory said, “Looks like Rita Hayworth.”

  ‘There you go!” said Hazel, hand outstretched to pinch Mallory’s cheek. “And wait till she sees me tonight. She’ll piss!” Villon knew better than to suggest that Hazel was hardly competition to the glorious Hayworth. “It’ll grow on me,” he mumbled. “Why aren’t you home getting dressed? You’ve only got five hours until the party.” He was familiar with the length of time it usually took Hazel to prepare her toilette, especially for an occasion like tonights.

  “I need advice,” she said glumly, lowering herself into the chair Magrew had occupied while Mallory poured her a cup of coffee from the thermos that he always kept handy for himself and Villon. Malloiy put the coffee on the desk within easy reach of Hazel, who suddenly whipped open her handbag and extracted a small mirror.

  “What’s the advice you need?” asked Villon, wishing she’d leave him to study the guest list and not distract him with that insane dye job.

  ‘What do I do about Louella and Hedda tonight? I mean having them together under the same roof, they’ll be driving me nuts expecting me to dance attendance on both of them. Jim, you’ll help me, won’t you, like get Louella her drinks and light Hedda’s cigarettes and bring their food from the buffet.”

  Villon answered for Mallory. “He can’t. He’s on duty.”