Ever since Basil moved from Los Feliz to Bel Air, he assumed he needn’t worry about dangerous traffic. Bellagio Road was a sedate, residential street and, one would think, with respectable citizens, but he proved himself wrong. One day, while he was out for a smoke and walking his dogs, a motorist driving a sports car rampaged down the road and knocked him into a neighbor’s rosebushes. Judy, his skittish Bull Terrier, ran off, spooked by the speeding car.
Basil unleashed his German Shepherd. “Get help!” he shouted and hoped she understood those commands.
The property’s owner, prompted by Basil’s screams, rushed to the rescue. Judy was on the loose—wandering and scared.
A tall, sturdy stranger gripped Basil’s hand. Like a sportsman to his fallen opponent, he braced Basil and allowed him to regain his balance. “Need an ambulance?” he asked.
Basil inspected his snagged pullover sweater and soiled trousers. “Do I have a fellow Englishman for my neighbor? Which locality?”
“From Liverpool. My family co-owned a shipbuilding enterprise, but enough about me. Should I ring for help?”
“Thanks, I’ll manage.” Basil’s tobacco pipe had flown out of his mouth and shattered on the ground. “Nothing is sprained or broken, except my meerschaum.”
“Did you catch this daredevil’s license plates?” the man asked.
“A madman with a fancy Mercedes. A stunt driver, I imagine,” said Basil.
“I’ve heard complaints about some imbecile with plates of TRNR99. Must be some kind of trainer. Of what? I don’t know.”
The man’s gardener caught and returned Basil’s Bull Terrier. “What would I do if I lost you, too, with Leo still missing?” Basil said, scolding her.
“Are you the one who put up signs?” his neighbor asked.
“City officials kept taking them down,” Basil explained. “They’ve threatened me with violating a ridiculous beautification ordinance.”
“By the way, my name is Jack Stewart, but I hate formalities. Call me Jack.”
“Ah, one of my best friends was a man named Jack,” Basil said, reflecting on brighter times. “In fact, the dog pictured in those signs used to be his dog.”
“You look familiar, like a famous actor, but I’m too stupid to put a name to a face.”
“Rathbone,” Basil replied.
“Oh yes, Robin Hood and Captain Blood. I loved watching those films. I used to be on the fencing team back in college.”
Sherlock Holmes wasn’t on the tip of his tongue, surprising. Such immediate recognition followed him around like an unwanted shadow.
“I’m flattered,” said Basil. “Even more since I had a supporting role in those films and played a villain. Have you kept it up?”
“Fencing? In fact, I have. Keeps me fit and on my toes. I’ve hired an instructor to come over twice a week for private lessons. One of those fancy choreographers who trains actors in the movies. He does this during his off hours.”
“Fantastic! If you don’t mind giving me his number, maybe I should hire him. I have a film, The Californian, with Tyrone Power, slated to start soon. The studio warned me I’ll need lots of practice beforehand.”
“Why don’t you consider practicing together? Please, join me in my garden for lemonade, or something stronger if that’s your pleasure?”
“I’m afraid I’m not too presentable at the moment. Of all times, I had to dress in a white tennis outfit,” said Basil, somewhat self-conscious.
“Nonsense. After what you just went through, it’s understandable. Come. Your dogs are more than welcome. I have a Scottish Terrier out back named Toby. If my gardener hadn’t been able to retrieve your pup, Toby would’ve. His nose would be a fair match for any foxhound or beagle, although he would look odd with his short legs on an official hunt. Nevertheless, he would love to have a few playmates.”
With his anxious dogs taking the lead, Basil followed his new acquaintance down the driveway and into his backyard, where he let his dogs off their leashes to play with Stewart’s Scotty.
Jack explained he had nothing to do with acting or the entertainment business.
“Then what attracted you to Bel Air?” Basil asked.
“Business down at the shipyards in Long Beach. Often as a consulting engineer. The RMS Queen Mary just pulled into port. Part of my job is to ensure she’s in top-notch condition for her upcoming journey to the South Seas. Mind you, not her normal route. Did you know she’s bigger than the Titanic?”
“Let’s hope she’s also a sturdier ship,” Basil said with a sigh.
“Also, takes a smarter captain. He should’ve never underestimated those North Atlantic icebergs.”
After Stewart gave him his instructor’s phone number, Basil put his dogs back on their leashes and headed home. Along the way, a memorable scene from After the Thin Man got stuck in his head. Asta came home to see Mrs. Asta, who was in a pen surrounded by a group of pups. A lone black one stood out from the others. Confused at first, Asta spotted a male Scottish Terrier poking his head from under a fence. Suspecting the Scotty had something to do with being the father of the darker pup, Asta barked and chased after the culprit. Basil, thinking it odd this came up all of the sudden, laughed it off as nonsense.
Yet, when he and his dogs slipped in through his back door, his irate wife confronted him. “You’re filthy, and you’ve been gone a long time. What have you been up to?”
He told her about his close call and how it led him to a propitious encounter with one of their neighbors. He also mentioned the lead on his fencing instructor.
“Anyone call?” he asked.
“William Powell left a message.”
“Anyone else?”
Ouida shook her head. “You’re not seeing that girl on the side, I hope.”
“What girl?”
“The nosy detective I kicked out of our house.”
“How did she come up all of the sudden?” He wondered if Babs had someone call on her behalf while he stepped out. Maybe his wife was withholding information.
Getting run off the road was traumatic enough, much less this. To get his nagging wife off his back, Basil excused himself to shower.