Going down the list of those who had close connections with Asta, the detectives needed to branch out into secondary sources. Their next step: investigate Countess Velma von Rache. Anything they had picked up at either the Rathbones’ party or at the Beverly Hills Dog Show proved inconclusive, but that’s where a “so-called Asta” reappeared and vanished again in a flash. Guy accused Babs of being too quick to point a finger. He kept an open mind but was inclined to give the countess credit as a benefactor of the performing arts and champion of animal charities.
For a while, he had put off whether to follow up on Renfro’s tip, a possible conflict of interest. He wondered if she had hidden motives about spying on the Hollywood elite, and locating the dogs would wind up much more complicated. He also heard the Feds paid informants who could give them leads on anyone involved in Un-American activities. Maybe that was the real reason behind Renfro’s interest. Babs insisted they make an appointment to meet at von Rache’s place on the Hollywood side of the hills, on a private drive called the Bay of Wolves Canyon.
“I wish you would’ve allowed me a few extra days to put my car in the shop,” Guy complained as he navigated a sharp curve with his convertible.
With its top down and the wind strong, Babs clutched her hat and wondered if she should’ve worn a scarf.
“Maybe I’m low on steering fluid,” Guy said, grinding his teeth. “Or my wheels need to be realigned, but it’s been getting harder to steer, and I’m dead sure I need my brakes replaced.”
“Sounds like you need a new car.” Feeling queasy from barreling around all those hairpin turns, she worried he’d have to pull over to the side of a road with no shoulder to relieve her car sickness. He mumbled it served her right for always relying on coffee and éclairs instead of eating a more substantial breakfast.
They rolled up to a guardhouse and presented a telegram with their invitation. After the guard opened the gate, Guy drove through and craned his neck to peer off in the distance. “Must be one of those places where you drive a half mile to get to the primary residence.”
He slowed down as a herd of deer crossed their path. His car choked, puffed, and stalled. She offered to put it in gear if he would push.
“I heard Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford own a huge, sprawling estate like this,” she said.
“Twenty-eight acres, if I recall, but I think their place is in Beverly Hills.”
“Golly, property is more expensive there. One day…” Babs mused. “We’ll stake claims in our own pieces of land.”
“If we strike gold…or oil. Babs, as a PI, if you’ve set your sights that high, you picked the wrong profession.”
He pulled up to a circular drive and checked to make sure his beat-up car wasn’t leaking oil. They went up to a pair of daunting front doors almost twelve feet high with brass ring door knockers coming out of the mouths of mythical dog-like demons.
“I already feel welcome,” Babs said with sarcasm. “What are those ghoulish creatures?”
“They resemble nahuals,” Guy said. “Witches who have shape-shifted into enormous dogs. Maybe there’s truth about the countess’s father’s claim that dogs were demonic.”
“How do you know about such things?”
“By feeding my intellect in the library when business is slow. As opposed to you, who goes window shopping for things you can’t afford.” He looked at his watch. “Right on time, just as Renfro warned us.”
“Who’s Renfro, again?” Babs asked.
“The monkey trainer we met at MGM. He’s got some connection with the countess.”
“What’ll happen if we arrive late?”
“They’ll feed us to the wolves,” he joked, but with ominous overtones. “Or toss us into whatever bay or canyon they named this road after.”
A statuesque manservant with a blended Eastern European and German accent opened the door and invited in the detectives, then excused himself to retrieve their hostess.
Babs almost gagged. “This place has the ever so slight smell…of old seafood.”
“You think the countess is a fishy character, is that it?” Guy asked.
One obvious answer stared them in the face. The countess’s striking grand entrance hall, with its two serpentine staircases supported by orange and black marble Grecian columns, became overshadowed by the three-ring circus. Exotic animals roamed free—mostly dogs and all without restraints. The menagerie, smiling and content with intoxication, languished on the cool marble-tiled floor.
At last, he remarked, “Babs, since when have you ever been to a zoo that smelled like a rose garden? Tell me if I’m wrong, but I got the impression when we spoke to her at the dog show she considered getting a dog but didn’t own any at the time. Renfro had conveyed little, but unless she acquired all these animals since then—”
Guy stopped mid-sentence. A female leopard emerged from behind the staircase and sauntered toward Babs. She stopped at her heels, sniffed her hand, and rubbed against her leg like an overgrown house cat, except she made a Great Dane look like a Pekingese. This time, Babs reacted to an unrelated odor. The countess had snuck up from behind, smoking a cigarette.
Dressed in yet another outlandish fur ensemble, she paraded down the left-hand staircase.
“Don’t worry. She’s tame.”
Guy let the big cat give him her sniff of approval. He decided on a traditional handshake with his hostess rather than a formal kiss. Then he introduced Babs. It surprised both that von Rache gave no sign of their previous acquaintance.
“Will we also be meeting with your associate?” Guy asked.
“I have no associates,” she replied with Garbo-esque intonations. “I prefer to work alone.”
“Then who’s Rennie Renfro?” he asked, confused.
“Oh, him.” She made a low octave laugh. “He’s just an occasional hired hand.”
She made a quick call on an in-house line and explained she rang her butler to take Baby away.
While she dialed another extension, Babs whispered to Guy, “I wonder if this is the same cat from Bringing Up Baby, the film with Katharine Hepburn and—”
“Cary Grant,” Guy said. “Who knows? Maybe she’s her owner.”
Countess Velma seemed eager to usher her guests outside and opened the French doors leading to her backyard garden. To the left: gated tennis courts. The stone steps on the right led down the hillside to the pool area.
“Once we head down below, it’ll become clearer, but the architects had to get skillful with the property’s uneven terrain.” She pointed to her expansive view of other hillside estates in the distance.
“One could have a lot of fun with a telescope around here,” Guy said.
The countess made a shameless confession. “I love spying on my neighbors when they’re sunbathing naked.”
She led them toward the tennis courts. “Despite lessons, I’m a pathetic player.”
“Then why go to the trouble?” Guy asked.
“You’ll see,” she hinted with a tease. She opened the gates and welcomed them inside to find more dogs having free rein. She grabbed a racquet and a bucket of balls and served them over the net. The dogs, eager for a game of fetch, had a field day running after flying tennis balls.
When Countess Velma announced she was tired of tennis, she locked the gate and insisted on taking them to her pool. Babs couldn’t comprehend how that woman walked with ease while her own heels caught and scraped against the rough and uneven surfaces. Making a brief detour, their hostess pointed out how stilts supported her tennis courts from underneath to accommodate the steep drop of the landscape.
“Wasted space, in my opinion, and the downside of the property, but the surveyors and architects told me otherwise. Drunken guests could lose their balance and tumble into the canyon. Animals have surer footing. Guess that’s why I do most of my human entertaining in my garden.”
Babs refrained from bringing up earthquakes with a suspended tennis deck and couldn’t understand why there wasn’t any protective fencing. She leaned over as far as she could to view its treacherous and steep drop.
Countess Velma escorted them to the pool area, explaining how she turned her resort-like pool into a canine country club.
“Voila! This attraction appeals to my swimmers.”
Any dog unafraid of the water frolicked with glee after she tossed toys into the water. She claimed it was the best playground in the world.
Babs changed the subject. Her intention: information gathering. “I bet some of these places have gigantic walk-in closets, bigger than my entire residence.”
Guy played along. “No one would own that many shoes or clothes. I’d like just one person to show me and prove me wrong.”
They milked their mock argument like a rehearsed script, but to no avail. If their hostess had anything of the sort, they’d never find out. She took what seemed to be a circuitous route and led the detectives to her roof deck patio, which had its own garden of potted plants, including pygmy palms, in geometrical patterns encircling a Spanish stone fountain. To provide shade, a canvas open-air tent housed an intimate array of white wrought-iron chairs set around a table.
Von Rache insisted her guests take a seat. Using another extension of her telephone-like, in-house intercom, she ordered refreshments.
“Aren’t you worried the vicious Santa Annas will upend your tent?” Babs asked, referring to the relentless winds that roared through Southern California. “High, exposed areas like this are vulnerable. This shelter could fly around the world in less than eighty days.”
Countess Velma failed to respond except to her butler, who arrived with cocktails.
Resolved it was pointless to fight nature’s fury, Babs unpinned her hat and held it tight in her lap.
“Mint juleps. I hope you like them,” said the countess.
Babs worried the alcohol would go straight to her head. Drinks and socializing. They went hand in hand, but often were her weakness.
“I’m assuming you don’t invite many children up here to play,” Guy stared at the low, hazardous open railing. “You’re not concerned about your pets?”
She seemed more interested in reveling in the ocean breeze than answering questions. Sunset crept over the Pacific like a rash of German Expressionism with explosive, rebellious colors. Velma approached the roof’s dangerous edge and gestured for her guests to join her for the breathtaking view.
Babs tripped when her heel broke off her shoe. Guy caught her by the arm and helped her hop back to her seat. He plucked her drink from her jittery hand.
Velma phoned her butler and demanded someone fix her shoe right away. Babs suggested they should be going. Velma insisted they wait in the first-floor garden.
Babs excused herself to go to the restroom before their drive home.
“This place is rather large,” the countess said. “Do you need help to find the closest one?”
“I have a pretty good sense of direction,” she replied. On her return, Babs took an alternate route and stopped. Did I just hear whimpering dogs? She put her ear to several doors, but the noises seemed too far away. Then she heard footsteps. Her heart pounded.
Guy’s voice echoed, “Babs, did you get lost?”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
He instructed her to meet him at the top of the stairs and handed back both shoes.
“Hurry, I’d like to get home before the sun disappears. Almost no streetlights up here, and I don’t like the way my car is handling.”