They didn’t get too far in trying to question Dashiell Hammett. Par for the course in his profession as a writer of detective novels, whether they were hard-boiled or whimsical like the adventures of Nick and Nora Charles, he was a man of many contradictions. Few understood him beyond the surface. Babs and Guy wanted to believe he was innocent in regard to the missing dogs, but it was too soon to be sure.
Gale East reminded the detectives about the exclusive dog show to be held at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Too many people in that crowd knew Gale and her husband, but she urged Babs and Guy to go, since it might provide a few leads. William Powell pulled a few strings to get their press credentials from MGM’s publicity department, so they could pose as journalists for the studio. He also felt it best not to accompany them because his high profile could blow their cover. Basil felt the same.
On the day of the big event, Guy did his last-minute primping. “We had better solve this case,” he said.
Babs straightened the seams of her stockings. “What if we don’t?”
“If I keep blowing my share of our advance on looking dapper, I’ll wind up in the poorhouse.”
She gave him a quick inspection. “No one pays attention to men’s clothes compared with women’s.”
“I beg to differ. Besides, they made this suit with tropical-weight wool. Much better as we’re heading into warmer weather.”
“Picky, picky.” She loved teasing him, but with good reason.
“If I didn’t pay such attention to fine details, I wouldn’t be a good detective, would I?”
“I hope you pay equal attention to balancing your checkbook,” she said with contempt as she pinned a festive silk gardenia in her hair. “About Basil’s dog…did you ever come across anything useful when you called those domestic employment agencies?”
“I need to learn how to speak German or Russian or whatever,” he replied. “Nothing conclusive. One woman, who sounded like she could’ve been the missing daughter of Tsar Nicholas II, said a pipe burst in her office and ruined all of her recent records. Seemed too convenient.”
He packed his Rolleiflex camera in a carryall and double-checked his inventory of flashbulbs and film. “Even if I pretend to shoot it and not waste expensive film, it’s the perfect accessory.”
She handed him his badge. “Make sure you wear it where officials can see it. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you if it pokes a hole in your lapel or hides your flashy tie.”
After they checked in with hotel security and made a stop at the press table, officials handed them a copy of the program. When asked why MGM had a particular interest in the event, Babs said she and her partner were also scouts for fresh doggy talent.
Guy pored over their brochure. “‘Countess Velma von Rache proudly sponsors this year’s first Beverly Hills Dog Show. Profits from this event will go to the Thespian Development Fund and the ASPCA.’ Babs, she might be eccentric, but she seems to be a legitimate philanthropist.”
“According to this,” Babs said, “the actual competition will be in the ballroom, but not for close to another hour. There’s a special pre-show event—the Parade of the Stars. The animal handlers will strut their pooches around the pool.”
A server passed by, and Guy grabbed two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Babs and took a sip from his. “What are you waiting for?”
Babs frowned. “You, my friend, will be working. Even if you have to fake it.”
With no convenient place to dispose of it, Guy took one last gulp with a burp, and dumped the remaining contents of both glasses into the nearest potted plant. On the way to the pool, he insisted on having a quick look-see of the hotel’s famous Polo Lounge.
“Now that’s the life,” he said, nodding in approval at its posh Deco decadence. “Just imagine all the stars who’ve dined here…the glamorous people, the booze flowing… Hey, I heard their bungalows were going for half a million clams.”
Status-conscious, he pointed toward the relevant pictures on the wall. “Did you know they built this place near actual polo grounds?”
Babs didn’t need a historian. She grabbed her chatterbox partner by his camera strap to ensure they stayed on schedule and ushered him toward the exit. Once they made it outside, she recognized a familiar face shading herself in one of the poolside tents reserved for judges and VIP guests.
Guy got a lump in his throat. “The countess. She’ll recognize me from Basil’s party.”
“You didn’t tell her you were a private detective?” Babs asked. “Or did you?”
“Of course not. I guess I should introduce you…as a reporter.”
Despite the heat, Von Rache wore fur. The detectives kept her under surveillance as she engaged with a couple who had an elegant silver-and-white Borzoi wearing a diamond collar. Babs took charge and led Guy to a closer vantage point where they could listen in.
“Oooh, I just adore furry little things. I hear Mae West has two of these.” The countess spoke perfect English, like someone who had a command of the language, but with an obvious accent.
She outraged Babs by grooming the Borzoi’s silky hair with her elongated, blood-red fingernails. “Try picturing her affectionate with an American Hairless.”
Guy grabbed her wrist and pulled her aside. “Shut up. Just because you’re jealous, you don’t have to—”
“Criticize her?” Babs pulled out her compact and reapplied the powder. “Maybe she needs a little dressing down.”
“Grrrr… Whenever anyone wears an expensive outfit you can’t afford…” Guy was ready to tear his hair out, but stopped, took a breath, and smoothed it back. “Well, guess what? In this town, there’ll always be someone richer than you, no matter how successful you become.”
The two detectives continued to quarrel. When they raised their voices to a dangerous level to hear each other over the live band, he suggested they split up.
Babs inched closer and pretended to skim through her notes. From what she could gather, the countess desired her own dog. Sponsoring this prestigious show was the perfect opportunity to compare various breeds in order to decide which one would be the right choice.
Guy returned after wandering around taking pictures. “Look, here’s our chance. She’s alone.”
He took the countess’s hand and offered a kiss, reminding her they’d met at the Rathbones’ recent party.
“Dahling…who’s your cute little friend?” she asked.
Guy made a brief introduction. The countess gave Babs a kiss on each cheek and ignored her afterward.
“How come you weren’t taking photos at Basil’s party?” she asked.
He explained the Rathbones invited him as a guest. “Please refresh my memory. What was your interest in coming to sunny Southern California?”
The countess, who was smoking a cigarette in a long, black-lacquered holder, exhaled and replied with a throaty laugh. “The movie industry, of course, but now, with the Fascist Party taking over in Germany, people are more interested in making propaganda films. Even Fritz Lang, one of our national treasures, has fled and come to Hollywood.”
“You’re an actress?” Babs asked.
“Doesn’t everyone want to make a dramatic entrance?” the countess replied.
Babs was at a loss for a clever comeback. Instead, she asked, “What prompted you to sponsor this dog show?”
“For years, I’ve always wanted to own a dog. Lots of dogs. More than you could imagine, but my father forbid it. Once, I found a stray and snuck it home, but he beat me senseless. Said dogs were demonic, or something absurd like that. He locked me in my room with a pitcher of water, and I had nothing to eat for two days.”
“How awful,” Babs said, not believing a word of it. “Are you telling us you’ve never had a dog since you’ve been an adult?”
“Aber nein,” she sighed.
Not allowing herself to get caught up in the woman’s act, Babs played along anyway. “Do you have any idea what kind of dog you’d like to get?”
“I’m drawn to ones with exotic coats.” Her head whipped around as a handler walked by with a striking Irish Setter. “The larger, the better. If you have any particular breeders you recommend, I’d love to hear all about it.”
A roly-poly little man, whom Babs suspected had more hair on his back than on his head, came into the pool area, pinging a silver triangle musical instrument to get everyone’s attention and to make an announcement. “The main event will start in forty-five minutes.”
Babs realized she hadn’t brought the proper business cards and came up with a white lie, saying she had given out her last one. She thanked the countess for her time and excused herself and her partner.
“Come, let’s head over to the prep area,” she said to Guy as they crossed through the lobby. A security guard stopped them as they tried to go backstage, but the detectives flashed their press credentials. Once inside, she fished out her stenographer’s pad, while Guy snapped away, giving the contenders plenty of winks and smiles. The two of them passed one man who was fawning over his pooch with baby talk. Guy bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.
“If we had recordings of these conversations, we’d have a hit radio show,” Babs remarked as they passed by another dog owner, who might as well have been wooing his Weimaraner with love songs.
They kept walking and noticed a woman wearing a large-brimmed straw hat who was fussing over her toy Chihuahua.
Babs gave her an envious sneer. “I saw this hat in the window of I. Magnin’s and thought it would look perfect with my navy crepe sailor dress.”
“Why didn’t you buy it?” Guy asked.
“Do I have to remind you about my eviction? Well, maybe I was foolish, but after we received our retainer, I went back to the store, but it was gone. She was probably the one who bought it, and look, it doesn’t even fit her.” The oversized hat slipped over the woman’s eyes. “Her damned hat is bigger than her dog.”
Guy dodged a handler with his Rhodesian Ridgeback. “You’re one to talk, after putting me down earlier for my fashion foppishness.”
Babs scurried over to one judge with questions. “Sir, I’m by no means an expert, but how does a dog qualify to enter a show like this?”
“As long as the canine contestant is a healthy, purebred pup—has a tail at one end and a bark at the other—he is eligible for a prize.”
“Would you say this is the premier show in the States?”
“The Beverly Hills Dog Show is the first of its kind. America’s largest show is the Morris and Essex Dog Show in Madison, New Jersey. Over 5,000 dogs!” he replied.
“Let’s suppose I’d like to buy a pedigreed dog and enter him in shows. Would you say many of these breeds are valuable?”
“Show dogs can cost their owners up to the thousands, and that doesn’t even consider the extra investments made in grooming and training. Plus, the handlers need to get paid. Everything adds up.”
Calculating her inquiries toward her ultimate aim of locating Asta, she asked, “Do many of these dog owners hope to feature them in films?”
The chatty judge, who seemed eager to get as much attention as the contestants, went off on a tangent. “Quite an interesting history behind the Morris and Essex Show. I’d be glad to tell you more if you like.”
Babs explained her assignment had to focus on this show only.
Guy bailed her out. “Come, I see a party of puppy pointers, perkily posed for a perfect picture—a photo opportunity only a puerile plebeian would pass up on purpose.”
She tried not to laugh as they left. “Those poor dogs…getting their hair brushed and curled. It reminds me of the torture when my mother insisted I get a permanent wave for my high school graduation. The beautician hooked me up to a machine, which made me feel like a prisoner going to the electric chair.”
The egg-headed emcee with the silver triangle emerged again. “Contestants and their handlers report to the holding area,” he shouted. “Guests, your ticket shows the number of your reserved seat.”
“They should’ve given him a gong or a pair of cymbals,” Guy joked as he gathered his equipment for transport. “I barely heard him over the commotion.”
The grand ballroom transformed into a show arena. As a photographer, Guy had the full run of the place and could come and go as he pleased.
“Don’t worry, I won’t abandon you,” he said to Babs, who realized she’d be sitting alone. “Make a few friends. Who knows? They may turn into clients.” He went in search of last-minute closeups of the dogs and their handlers before they went onstage.
The announcer emerged using a bullhorn, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the debut of the Beverly Hills Hotel Dog Show and, we hope, one of many fine events to come. First up will be the Hounds. Our judges will give points for carriage, gait, and ring temperament, and each breed has its own special standard for scoring.”
Handlers came out one by one, holding their dogs’ heads high. The judges made their slow and deliberate inspections of the dogs’ teeth, eyes, ears, gums, gait, and movement. Trainers in the various groups presented their dogs to be narrowed down to the semi-finalists. A rust-colored Dachshund won as best contestant in the Hound Group.
Babs recognized the same woman with whom she was so envious earlier. This time, her fancy hat lay beside her on an empty adjacent seat. “Aren’t you entering your dog in the Toy category? I think they’re up next.”
The Hat Lady looked around the adjacent seats and went into hysterics. “My Boopsie! My little Chikiboom. My Chihuahua…” The woman said her dog was right here, but he had vanished. “Please, someone…everyone…help me find him!”
Babs tried to concentrate on the show, but this dog owner’s antics kept vying for her attention. “Isn’t he with his handler?”
Her reply, sharp and bitter. “He snapped at one judge—who disqualified him!”
Surprised no one else offered help, she felt compelled to be the Good Samaritan. In a crowded ballroom, the tiny dog could get trampled.
“My baby, Boopsie, and I traveled all the way from Orange County,” she explained. “I’d rather die than face the wrath of my husband if I return home empty-handed.”
Babs was unsure if her dog’s name was Boopsie, Chikiboom, Chilidog, or Checkbook, which wouldn’t have been far from the mark. Prize money was at stake, and it cost a “countess’s ransom” for the dog owners to be here. After hearing all its nicknames, she asked those seated nearby, but with no luck. She forced herself, despite personal prejudices, to be sympathetic and insisted the dog’s owner stay calm.
Babs jumped to her feet. “Look! It’s doing its own Mexican hat dance.”
The frantic woman stared open-mouthed as the hat continued to circle to the left and right on its own. On the final counterclockwise turn, two itty bitty paws poked out from underneath. Guy, who returned from taking his last photographs, lifted the hat and revealed the woman’s missing pup. They both laughed out loud. The woman showered her precious little prize with kisses and couldn’t thank the two of them enough.
“Is there anything I could do?” the woman asked. “A reward, perhaps? You don’t know how frightened I was.”
You can offer me your handsome hat. Babs kept the thought to herself. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure you would’ve done the same for me.”
A miniature Doberman won in the Toy category. “They don’t look so tough when they’re tiny,” Babs said to the Hat Lady. The woman raised her chin and snorted. Babs figured she was upset her dog could no longer compete.
Next up, judging for the Herding Group and a German Shepherd took the prize for the best in its category. When a Boxer won for the Working Dogs Group, the Hat Lady grumbled again. “Seems like the German dogs are in favor today.”
“Isn’t a Boxer an English breed?” asked Babs.
The haughty Hat Lady flaunted her expertise. “The breed originated in Germany. I don’t know where its name came from.”
Despite everything, if this dog show were a three-course meal, the Chihuahua calamity was the appetizer, and the main course was about to begin.
The master of ceremonies announced, “Before we have our contestants compete in the Terriers’ round, I’d like to introduce three special guests.”
Myrna Loy slipped through a curtain, dressed in a flowing, floor-length silk crepe designer gown, trimmed with ostrich feathers, and holding—Asta! More often than not, he exemplified the best of canine behavior. In front of this audience, he barked and was uncooperative. Joining her onstage was the countess, who remained quiet in the background.
Myrna fought hard to keep Asta secure in her arms as she stepped over to the mike.
“Good afternoon, on behalf of MGM and the Thin Man films. We’d like to endorse goodwill toward dogs worldwide. As your spokesperson du jour, I wanted to show our appreciation for the ASPCA and all the animal charities of Los Angeles.
“The ASPCA is a volunteer, non-profit organization, not to be confused with the City Pound. First founded in the late nineteenth century to fight against cruelty to carriage horses, they also helped eliminate rabies during our recent scare in Los Angeles.”
She continued her pitch, but Asta refused to stay calm. When he broke free from her arms, stagehands and show officials scrambled after him while the judge escorted the women offstage.
The master of ceremonies tried to restore order. “Ladies and gentlemen, everyone is in safe hands. We shall return to our scheduled programming in five minutes.”
Babs scanned the crowd. It took enormous restraint not to rush backstage.
Why was Myrna here and with Asta? Since when did someone find him and not tell me? Maybe that wasn’t him—but a look-alike.
Five minutes later, over the loudspeaker system: “Attention. Because of an unfortunate incident, we’ll have to suspend our show. Please, do not panic.”
I don’t like it when someone says don’t panic. She climbed up on her seat to get a better view. When she lost her balance, she quickly sat back down.
Guy returned, clutching his camera equipment so it wouldn’t fly off his shoulder. Both of them spotted a flurry of security guards trying to control the chaotic crowd.
Another announcement: “We need to evacuate the ballroom. Please obey our hotel staff. They will usher you over to several holding areas for questioning.”
“Guy, why won’t they tell us what’s going on? It’s something to do with Asta. I just know it.”
“From what I could overhear, he escaped somewhere backstage, and some of the other canine contestants are now missing. This is an enormous place, and it might be as simple as a few dogs running away from their handlers. You know how excited dogs can get when they’re around other dogs, but security is trying to lock down the hotel until the cops arrive.”
“What a perfect opportunity if someone wanted to steal them. I can imagine the headlines of Variety now: Doggone-It! Famous Thin Man Pup Lost Again.”
“Babs, don’t get yourself into a tizzy. We might slip out of here if we make for the parking lot and hold up our press badges where everyone can see them.”
Cops from the Beverly Hills Police Department barreled into the ballroom. Babs wanted to rush over with questions.
Guy grabbed her by the arm and gave her the evil eye. “We’re supposed to be working undercover. Do you want to get out of here, or do you want to be stuck here until midnight?”