At eight days and counting, the detectives needed to brainstorm. Babs felt more confident now that she wasn’t solving this case alone.
“Take out your notepad. What do we know so far?” Thoughts popped into her head. “The basics: she—the countess—loves showing off. She’s obsessed with fur, that’s clear from her wardrobe. Regarding Renfro… Guy, did you ever hear from him?”
“Bumped into him at MGM. Gave me that lead about von Rache, but she laughed him off. According to the information I found at the library, he’s much more established than he claimed.”
Babs continued. “Velma’s love of animals appeared genuine, but she evaded our questions.”
“Yet, she showed sympathy by fixing your broken shoe,” Guy added. “Maybe this was just a chance to size us up. Wouldn’t you think she had enough for a dame who said she didn’t own a dog?”
“She acquired a lot in a brief span of time,” said Babs.
“Let’s suppose whoever has been stealing dogs has no connection with the countess,” Guy said. “As a hopeful actor, I want to give her credit for all the charitable things she’s done in the film and theatrical community.”
Babs: “Have you forgotten all about my arrest and interrogation by the FBI? They’ve also had her under surveillance.”
Guy: “Sounds like they’ve got tabs on everybody in town with a questionable accent.”
Babs: “If von Rache is so innocent, how would that explain finding Leo on her property?”
Guy: “I’m not so sure Myrna Loy is off the hook. She’s been less than cooperative since we met her.”
Babs: “Unless William Powell’s excessive friendliness is hiding a deception, neither the Easts, Weatherwax, nor Strickling has been able to clue me in to any pertinent information about what happened on the days their star-studded mascots vanished.”
Babs took the newspaper and got comfortable on her couch. Ever since Sir Henry entered their lives, Guy got into the habit of bringing him to the office every day. The loyal mutt rested his head on Babs’ lap while she paged through the Times.
“Sir Henry,” she said while scratching his head. “Did you know the price of gas is up to eleven cents a gallon?”
He just panted and slobbered. Guy replied instead. “Glad I don’t have to refill my tank as often with a motorcycle. When are you going to consider getting your own car?”
She opened the paper to the page with expensive automobile ads, shook her head, and closed it right away. “When we get our reward and don’t have to worry about giving anything back if we don’t make our deadline.”
An unexpected visitor appeared at B. Norman Investigations. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” William Powell said.
He entered with his hat and coat in one hand and a dozen pink roses in the other. “I’d hate for these posies to wilt long before their shelf life. With such a pretty lady on the premises, I suppose you receive flowers all the time and must have an appropriate vase.”
At such a taxing time, Babs needed to hear a few kind words. In the private eye business, surprises meant guns or knives. Not the gift a suitor would present as a token of affection, or one a satisfied client would deliver with a thank-you note. She tucked into her office and reemerged, improvising with her emptied trash can, the contents of which she stuffed inside her desk drawers.
“Silly me, I broke the one I had…from Tiffany’s,” she said, concocting a story. “This’ll have to make do. Please excuse me while I fill it with water.”
Babs took the roses out of their wrapping and did her best to arrange them with finesse.
“Shouldn’t you be doing more rehearsals this afternoon?”
Powell tried to explain. “A dog swap on such short notice was nothing shy of a disaster. MGM muckety-mucks, who had the final say-so on production, put a halt on our project. Until we can find a better solution, they decided Myrna’s and my next film will be I Love You Again instead of Shadow of the Thin Man.
“The problem is…I love that pup. Almost consider him like a son. You know both Myrna and I have fought over buying him from his owners.”
“They told us several times,” said Babs.
“Let me assure you I didn’t steal him because I wanted him for myself.” He reached for his wallet, counted out a stack of bills in a neat pile on Guy’s desk. “It’s not just money. Anything, within reason, of course, I can do to assist you in his recovery.”
He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Guy. “Please call me. Any time.” Powell headed out the door.
“Wait! Before you go,” Babs shouted. “I have to ask you a question.”
“What’s that, my lovely?”
“You’re plugged into Hollywood stuff, which we outsiders don’t always know about. Any secrets you’re hiding about the Queen Mary?”
Powell delivered a quick comeback. “Was I supposed to be having an affair with her? If so, nobody told me about it.”
It took everything Babs had not to laugh out loud. “The RMS Queen Mary. The famous ocean liner… Do you know anything…anything at all kept from the public?”
Powell shrugged. “I’m one of the last fools to be kept in the loop. Why don’t you call them and find out? Look, I must be going. Bring back Asta and put the cash to better use than blowing it at the racetrack.”
The glass in their front door rattled as he slammed it behind. The detectives were at an impasse. Babs gave it her best shot to beautify her bouquet, even in her wastepaper basket.
“Babs,” Guy called to her attention, “I hope you haven’t overlooked the obvious.”
“About making phone calls?” She groaned. “More than I care to admit. Including the newspapers. If there’s something happening, everyone’s buried it far away in Poughkeepsie. Perhaps you should try.”
Puzzled at first, it took a second for Guy to catch on. “You’ve always had a more seductive phone manner. When prying for information, strangers are more likely to cooperate with you, not with me.”
“Maybe the FBI circulated a memorandum, and I’m on some kind of watch list, ’cause whatever I’ve been doing, it’s not working, and Guy… What’s this about a racetrack? You almost quit for good because I kept secrets from you. Is there something you’re not telling me?”