It’s always a man’s world… This played over and over in Babs’ head.
“Rise and Shine.” The warden flashed his gun. “No funny business, you hear?”
Babs rolled over, rubbed her eyes, and reoriented herself. She’d forgotten she slept the night in a jail not used to female prisoners. Her jailer mentioned something about the “hen pen” or the women’s detention facility being under construction, and they had to detain her at a jail designated only for men. Not until she saw her reflection in the cracked wall mirror did she realize she still had the charcoal smears on her face used for camouflage. When she noticed the exposed urinal, she asked if someone could escort her over to an actual ladies’ room.
He led her over to an area set aside for civilian visitors and stood guard outside the door. “Just so you know, there are no windows in case you were considering an escape.”
“If there’s no way to air the place out, it must smell terrible.” Babs realized a snide remark wouldn’t earn her a merit badge. When finished, he brought her back to her cell.
“Any way of getting a cup of coffee around here?” she asked.
“Breakfast will arrive soon,” he said in a monotone. “Looks like you didn’t get any shuteye.”
Babs tried to make sense of her matted hair and felt like she’d woken in the drunk tank.
“My purse?”
“That rucksack didn’t look like a dame’s pocketbook. We confiscated it, along with your mutt.”
“Oh, my poor puppy. Where did you take him?”
“To the pound. We couldn’t risk him peeing on the floor.”
“I had two dogs. What about the Cocker Spaniel?”
“We matched him up with photos on file. Some married couple offered a generous reward to the officers of any Los Angeles or Beverly Hills precinct who could bring him home safe and sound. With that kind of incentive, their case got preferential treatment.”
I bet it did. “Did they come to the station to retrieve him?”
“Nah, one of our guys drove him to their house in a squad car.”
“Do you mind if I call them?” They probably wouldn’t even answer.
“They wanted to remain anonymous and explained why they were hesitant at first to report their missing dog.”
She tried not to flip her wig. “That’s because I was the one who insisted on filing the reports. No point in keeping this secret any longer. The Rathbones were my clients.”
“Lady, I’m a bit confused. First, you tell us you’re a PI. Now, you consider yourself a professional dogcatcher?”
“As a private eye, they paid me to find their dog. Somehow, their Cocker Spaniel found me—long story, but that’s what led to my arrest. I also have reason to believe the person whose property I was on stole their dog.”
“When our boys picked you up for trespassing, you didn’t look like you were trying to rescue any dogs. Not dressed like a cat burglar.”
Her objections went nowhere. Another officer arrived with her breakfast. The coffee—lukewarm and instant. Stale, compressed biscuits passed for toast, and a watery concoction which she suspected were leftover trench rations from the First World War comprised the meal. She scarfed it down and knew her stomach would regret it later.
Babs felt as dingy as a dog that had just rolled in pig slop. Something tickled her chest. She reached into her undergarments and pulled out a wilted sprig of green, realizing she’d forgotten about Wiggins’ lucky shamrock.
“Hey, you never gave me a chance to make a phone call last night. Don’t I get to call a friend…or a lawyer?” she asked.
“Not with possession of illegal spy equipment. We need to bring in a few experts and ask you a few questions first.”
That’s not how the law is supposed to work, she thought, figuring someone wanted to play hardball.
She was about to feel sorry for herself and worried they’d take her private eye license away for bending the rules too far, when her thoughts turned to her K-9 companion. My Irish stew hound. As it was, she’d taken a risk smuggling him in and out of her residential hotel.
She looked at her bare wrist. They swiped her watch, as well. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
“The cock crows at 6:30 a.m.,” her jailer replied with a hard, sardonic smile.
Babs groaned. How did I wind up in this predicament? Wait, this should be no surprise. Illegal trespassing and dressed like I could rob the place. She could go down the list, and it was a long, incriminating one. Not to mention the firearm, which she never had time to register.
“I don’t suppose there’s a way to clean up around here,” Babs said.
Another officer entered, holding folded clothes, a towel, and a bar of soap. “I’ll escort you back to the restroom. Wash up. Change clothes. We’ll bag up your dirty ones.”
“This looks like a prison uniform,” she said upon closer examination.
“What do you expect? Coco Chanel?” He laughed so hard that he coughed up phlegm and spat it on the floor.
Several hours later, a different officer unlocked her cell. He handcuffed Babs and led her to an interrogation room. Two men in suits instructed her to sit on the opposite side of the table. Armed guards stood by the door. Expedient introductions revealed they were special agents from the FBI.
“I don’t understand,” Babs said. “Why the Feds?”
“We’ll ask the questions. You give us the answers,” said the man with glasses and thinning red hair. He flashed his ID, Special Agent William Wright. The other man presented his badge, Special Agent Sherman Lockwood.
“Why were you in possession of German spy equipment?” Wright asked.
“Bought it from a gun dealer in Culver City, assuming it was a castoff from the last war and fair game. You should ask him where he got it and why he had it.”
Wright: “Are you a Nazi sympathizer?”
Babs: “Heavens no.”
Lockwood: “Where were you born?”
Babs: “In San Francisco. I’m as American as apple pie and major league baseball.” She felt smug and smart, but it didn’t seem to amount to much in their book.
Wright: “No Germans or Russians in your family tree?”
Babs: “My parents told me we’re distant relatives to an impoverished British earl, impressive in title only. Why are you so worried about Russians?”
Wright lit a cigarette and blew it in her face. “Are you a member of the Communist Party?”
Lockwood interrupted. “I wonder if she rubs elbows with that Russian Nazimova?”
She coughed and tried to swish their smoke in another direction. “Madame Alla Nazimova from the Garden of Allah?”
Lockwood: “Yeah, from that den of debauchery near Crescent Heights off the Sunset Strip. I hear it’s one of Errol Flynn’s favorite haunts. Police are always putting the collar on doped-up deviants over there.”
Babs: “Shame on you! I can’t believe you’re pairing me up with that crowd, but now, I’m confused. Are you interested in Fascists or Communists?”
Lockwood: “They’re all enemies of the United States. So, are you?”
Babs: “Am I what?”
Lockwood: “Sympathetic to either cause.”
Babs: “Of course not, and I’m glad it looks like FDR will go for an unprecedented third term.”
The two G-men continued to put the screws to her until they realized further queries on her personal background and affiliations were useless.
Finally, she brought up the countess. Babs uttered a lie with no proof of her outrageous statement. “What if I told you I’m an animal lover and contribute to animal charities, and Velma von Rache is beating and torturing poor creatures on her property?”
Lockwood laughed. “We’re not the ASPCA.”
“We’d say you made that up to get out of jail,” said Agent Wright.
Drat, he saw right through me. “If you’d be so kind as to retrieve my backpack, I have a recording you might find useful.”
“Nothing was salvageable from that hunk of junk,” said Wright.
I can’t believe they were already on it.
“We can’t use any German spy devices to present evidence in court,” Lockwood said.
Even worse, she’d seen moving shadows with her binoculars, unsure whose conversation she actually overheard.
Babs sighed. “Please tell me this. Do you know of anything big about the Queen Mary?”
Lockwood turned her inquest into a mockery. “Outside of her being the mother of the current sovereign of England? Big? Does our British bigwig need to go on a diet? Too much tea and crumpets, eh?”
Babs thought she’d burst. “The ocean liner—the one bigger than the Titanic and sturdier, I hope. It’s docked at Long Beach Harbor.”
“There are unsecured sections of the harbor where we suspect Fascist sympathizers have been smuggling money and weapons and exchanging information about our military installations,” Wright said.
Her words seemed to bounce off the walls. “The person I was spying on mentioned something about the Queen Mary, and authorities were powerless…to do something before my equipment went kaput. Maybe she could smuggle what you’re looking for onboard the ship.”
Lockwood added, “There could be Nazi spies right under our noses living in Hollywood. While we had the countess under surveillance, our men also spotted you sneaking around her property.”
They’ve also considered her a person of interest.
After an hour of wasted time and much frustration, the Feds let Babs off the hook but warned her they’d still be monitoring her.
“Say hello to J. Edgar for me,” Babs said as they started to leave.
“How do we know your PI license isn’t a fake?” Agent Wright asked. “I’ve never even heard of a female private eye.”
Agent Lockwood reexamined her credentials. “Either she’s employed an excellent forger, or this is the real McCoy, but I wouldn’t consider a private dick on par with any member of the law enforcement community.”
Babs replied, “Better to be on your side than the wrong side, don’t you fellows agree?”
As the Feds exited, she overheard Lockwood calling her a damned dame, and Wright called her a bitchy broad.
Next came her police interrogation. Not much different from what she just went through with the FBI, save the accusations about being a political dissident. Once it was all over, they advised her never to sneak onto someone’s private property without permission again, unless she wanted to risk the suspension of her PI license. When they asked if she had a husband or a local family member able to take responsibility for her good behavior, she reluctantly gave them her ex-partner’s phone number.
“His real name is Gary Brandt, but he goes by the name of Guy for obvious reasons not to be confused with Cary Grant.”
Her captors, dismissive. For all they cared, she could’ve recited the theory of relativity to an orangutan.
She hated reminders of how much she distrusted the male establishment. When she was a youngster, they promised to help find her father’s killer. They didn’t. Now, they thought she was a criminal, but she wasn’t, and they’re still treating her like she needed to grow up.
An hour later, Guy arrived with bail. They returned her watch and rucksack, minus the contraband Mickey Mouse ears and recording apparatus. She pleaded with Guy to present his ID and investigator’s license and vouch that he was (and still is) her business partner. After he signed off on the paperwork, they let him take responsibility for her handgun. Babs figured their leniency had something to do with the fact he was male, and they wouldn’t have been so cooperative if she had requested it on her own.
“I’m always at odds with bureaucracy,” Babs mumbled.
“The cops or the Feds?” Guy asked.
Babs gave him a look like he shouldn’t have asked.
“You and me, both. As a queer, every cold-hearted person in power yearns for the chance to ridicule or arrest people like me for no particular reason.”
She put her hand on Guy’s shoulder. “Why?”
He grimaced. “Because they know they can get away with it.”
Together, they headed outside and into the visitors’ parking lot. “Does this mean we’re back as a team?” she asked. “I hope you understand…you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Guy grumbled and didn’t seem to be in the mood for further discussion. He walked toward a motorcycle, straddled it, and put his key into the ignition.
“What’s with that?” she asked.
“The old wreck kept breaking down, and the longer I postponed the inevitable, I was lucky not to wind up in an accident. I traded it in, but a motorcycle was all I could afford. You had all of our retainer funds in your bank account.”
“How are you going to take me home?”
“Hop on the back.”
“What about Sir Henry?” By now, Babs was in tears. “My dog! Who’s going to rescue him from the pound? If he remains too long and we don’t claim him, they’ll put him down.”
“Our dog now, I guess, with no choice but to bring him over to my place. They don’t allow pets at yours. How did you sneak him in and out?”
“Made a deal with the freight elevator operator, but after spending a night in jail, I can’t risk any more trouble. Sir Henry’s liable to bark and alert a neighbor. How do you expect to get him home?”
“Guess I’ll drive down there, fill out the paperwork for his release, and stall for time. Maybe I’ll pick up a sidecar, even if I have to rent one. Either that, or spring for a cab. Aren’t you glad there are now two brains working on this case?”
Babs gave him a hug and thanked him, once again, for bailing her out.
“Guy, you’re the only G-Man I’ll ever need. Don’t you forget it.”