Basil and the two detectives went down the list of party guests. One of the most elusive attendees was Dashiell Hammett, the author of the book The Thin Man, on which the films were based. The consensus was he hadn’t been well and had left their party earlier than most.
Guy sweet-talked one secretary at MGM into giving him Hammett’s temporary address, which turned out to be a lavish penthouse apartment at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He and Babs greeted Basil in the lobby to go up as a team.
“No Inverness cape?” Babs looked at their famous friend with disappointment.
“A more subtle choice, don’t you agree? Minus the passé hat, cape, and walking stick, I’m sporting my paisley silk ascot and the smart double-breasted herringbone suit, the one I wore on the moors in Hound. Are you sure you saw my film?”
Babs buttoned her lip as they entered the elevator.
Hammett greeted them upon arrival, shrouded in cigarette smoke almost as thick as the San Francisco fog he wrote about. He insisted his visitors join him for a round of Scotch.
While he prepared everyone’s drinks at his private bar, Babs shouted, “Extra soda in mine, please.” Then she whispered to her partner, “If I don’t water this down, I’m a goner.”
“If you’re going to remain in this business,” Guy said, “you’ll have to be better at holding your liquor.”
Fidgety, Babs looked around, as if expecting some sort of surprise.
“Are you still having a problem with fleas?” Guy asked.
“Heavens no.” She straightened the hem of her skirt. “This place reminds me so much of the upscale place where Nick and Nora Charles stayed in The Thin Man. I keep imagining Asta will poke his head around the corner.”
Hammett laughed. “Often, I’ve wondered if someone had that in mind and selected this room for me, on purpose.”
Basil cracked a smile. “Perhaps its raison d’être was to get you in the mood to write your next Thin Man installment, or to quote Oscar Wilde, ‘Where art imitates life.’”
“Maybe to get past my writer’s block,” Hammett said and took a sip of his drink. “Everyone’s waving money in front of me for more detective stories, but I can’t seem to churn them out anymore. Now, how can I help?”
Basil started the inquiry. “We might as well be upfront from the get-go. I hired Babs Norman and her partner, Guy Brandt, to find my missing red cocker, Leo.”
“Are they detectives or dogcatchers?” Hammett made an all-out effort to keep a straight face.
“Private investigators and, so far, fine ones at that,” Basil replied. “After you left my party, I introduced them to the director and producer on the Thin Man films, who chipped in to hire them to find their missing mascot.”
“I’m afraid my role is rather insignificant,” replied Hammett.
“Although I’m sure it’s safe to say you’re not involved with the disappearance of my dog, anyone affiliated with Asta, unless ruled out one hundred percent—”
Babs cut in. “Sir, we’re looking for a solid motive why someone would steal Asta.”
“You don’t have to tell that to a former Pinkerton detective,” said Hammett.
“We also can’t dismiss you’re the author of Sam Spade,” Guy said.
“Whom I’m often compared to, although that’s unfair. Like Nick Charles, I am also retired,” Hammett replied.
“To be honest, we wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we overlooked a possibility,” said Babs.
Hammett appeared uncomfortable. When he had a violent coughing fit, he pulled out his handkerchief and spit out blood. When it wouldn’t abate, he excused himself to go to the bathroom.
“I heard about his chronic health issues,” Guy said. “I wonder if that’s why his hair turned white since he’s not old—only forty-six.”
“Amazing, only two years younger than I,” Basil said.
Hammett apologized for his brief absence. “Sorry, the Great War took its toll.”
“Where did you serve?” Basil asked.
“Enlisted in the United States Army Ambulance Corps in 1918, but never made it out of our camp in Baltimore,” he replied. “Came down with the damned Spanish flu, which developed into tuberculosis. About as much action I ever saw, and you?”
“Second Lieutenant in the 2/10 Battalion King’s Liverpool Regiment with B Company in the trenches near Bois-Grenier,” Basil replied. “My brother served, too, but didn’t make it out alive.”
Hammett coughed again but cleared his throat. “Sorry for your loss. War is god-awful, no matter how you look at it. Getting back to the purpose of your visit, you’re wasting your time if you think I might’ve had something to do with Asta’s disappearance.”
“Mr. Hammett, isn’t it true in your book that Asta was a Schnauzer?” Babs asked.
“You are correct, but people make adjustments all the time.”
“Do you think someone, perhaps a breeder of champion Schnauzers, could’ve been upset with the switch?” Guy asked.
Hammett stroked his chin. “I’m not buying it. If you want to know, including Asta in my original story was because of a private joke I played on a screenwriter friend in New York, Sid Perelman, a great humorist who wrote several scripts for the Marx Brothers. One day, I arranged for a stripper to surprise him at his apartment and timed the practical joke so his wife Laura would discover them. Ironically, I wound up having an affair with Laura, and she owned a dog named Asta. When I wrote in a pet for Nick and Nora Charles, I stole the name of her dog.”
“Could there have been anything else from your novel that might’ve upset a crazed fan—someone who insisted the films follow the books to the letter?” Basil asked.
“The screen adaptation of The Thin Man was pretty true to the original. That was the only book I wrote, and it never turned into a series in the literary sense. The screenwriters hired by MGM concocted the ideas for sequels. Not my doing at all, except as an advisor on the initial characters. They have the power and artistic license to rewrite a Schnauzer into future scripts, or they can always come up with the excuse the Charleses gave Asta to a relative and replaced him with a wise-cracking, foul-mouthed myna bird, if the director demanded it.”
“Is there anything related to your background or view on politics, on the war, or about Hollywood, which might’ve prompted someone to take Asta?” asked Babs.
“Now you’re coming across as a journalist. Are you sure you aren’t a reporter in disguise?”
Guy answered for her. “Detective work, as you know, involves a lot of the same talents.”
Hammett nodded and offered another round of drinks.
“There’s been talk of postponing the next Thin Man film,” Basil said. “Although Myrna Loy and William Powell are under contract, the studio might need to assign them to another project. As you can imagine, the investors are nervous.”