Day seven. With a copy of Variety in hand, Babs demanded Guy’s attention.
“Bingo! Finally, someone mentions something about the RMS Queen Mary! There’s talk about drafting the Queen Mary and the RMS Mauretania ocean liner to be put into service as troop carriers. Have you heard of the latter?”
“The Mauretania is a sister ship of the RMS Aquitania and the Lusitania, the famous one the Germans sank, which caused the U.S. involvement in WWI,” he replied.
“Aren’t you worried if our president declares war, you might get drafted?”
“Babs, if the army drafted me and I had no choice about the matter, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to travel on one of those luxury cruise ships.”
She needed a windfall once in a while and treated herself to a second chocolate éclair and a fresh cup of coffee. “Listen up. I think I might’ve found another useful lead. Here’s an article about plans for Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce to do a fundraiser. They’ll perform in a Sherlock Holmes-themed radio show—on the Queen Mary. There’s more. It says William Powell and Myrna Loy will also do a radio drama based on the Thin Man films.”
“They have a recording studio?” Guy asked.
She read the article out loud. “It started out as a music studio with a grand piano near the Observation Bar back in ’36. On the floor are clef signs and music notes inlaid on the customized wood floor. They’ll broadcast these shows at a later date, because it’s not yet capable of producing live radio broadcasts.”
“I guess they don’t want to interfere with the ship’s radio frequencies, but who am I to say? Sounds fancy-dancy to me. Does it mention a date?” Guy asked.
“Looks like it’s happening in five days. The Queen Mary’s usual route is between New York and Southampton, England. They’re docking in Long Beach for repairs and renovations pending its next long journey. Soon, it’s scheduled to sail to Sydney to carry Australian and New Zealand soldiers to Britain.”
She continued to skim through the article. “They’ll be filming a documentary. Their guest list includes cast from Gone With the Wind, Mae West, Bette Davis, and some of The Wizard of Oz crowd.”
“Toto is on our missing canines list,” he said.
“We have to figure out a way to get onboard.”
“Babs, don’t expect to get an invitation from the Rathbones.”
“Are you a detective or not? Contact the Screen Actors Guild. Find out who Nigel Bruce’s agent is and call him.”
“How should we present ourselves?” asked Guy.
She retrieved the press badges from her desk they used for the dog show. “These are generic and should work. We’re journalists working for a new publication—the first issue, but he must keep it a secret and tell no one, since we’ve chosen to interview him before Basil.”
“On what angle?” he asked.
“Somewhere, I read, he’s got royal blood in his lineage, and that’s why he’s got first dibs.”
“What’ll be the name of this publication, Babs?”
“American Sherlock Holmes—ASH, for short. Why not? Their main office will be out of New York, like most magazines, but we’re the local columnists covering the Hollywood beat. Sounds plausible, right? Now go to it!”
Later that afternoon, Guy arranged for them to meet with Nigel Bruce at the Hollywood Cricket Club, an upscale retreat for former members of the British Empire transplanted to Southern California. Lucky for them, Nigel knew that Basil, also a member and cricket player, was otherwise engaged, with no chance of him interrupting their secretive meeting.
He popped a roll of film in his Rolleiflex camera. “Just so you know, I had to promise Mr. Bruce a real photo session, not a faked one.”
“Whatever it takes. Consider yourself a better actor than you’ve given yourself credit,” said Babs. “At least you mentioned it would be in our magazine’s first issue. That would cover our tracks in case he expected us to give him a sample back issue on such short notice.”
Guy was too embarrassed to drive his motorcycle with Babs sitting in his new sidecar, so the two detectives arrived by taxi. The moment the cabbie dropped them off, she spotted Laurence Olivier helping Joan Fontaine get out a Rolls-Royce Wraith.
“Hide your camera,” Babs warned her partner.
“Did you think I was going to ask for their autographs or expect them to pose for our phony publication?” he asked.
Babs announced their arrival at the front desk. While the concierge went to find Mr. Bruce, Guy peered into their guest book.
“Ah…Boris Karloff, David Niven, Olivia de Havilland, Elsa Lanchester …they’ve all visited. Looks like they’ve had both the Frankenstein monster and his bride as guests.”
The club’s gatekeeper returned, and Guy closed the sign-in register.
“He’s in the garden enjoying afternoon tea and requests you join him there. Said something about it being a conducive backdrop for photographs. Please, follow me.”
The concierge led the detectives behind the clubhouse. Babs braced herself to admit something embarrassing.
“Mr. Bruce, you’ll probably recognize me as the woman from Basil’s party who peeked, by accident, inside your cabana while you were dressing. Once again, I have to apologize for my actions.”
“Please call me Nigel, and for heaven’s sake, I can’t seem to recall the incident, but that’s neither here nor there. I enjoy a surprise once in a while. Breaks up the monotony and predictability of life. Please sit down. Order whatever you like. It’s all on me.” He snapped his fingers for a waiter.
“That’s very gracious of you, sir,” Guy said, making his introduction. “This is the first time I’ve been to the Hollywood Cricket Club. How do you like it?”
“We Brits are birds of a feather, and we like to flock together. We enjoy the same humor, the same food and drink, and often the same pastimes, like cricket and rugby rather than baseball. Although everyone enjoys golf on both sides of the pond.”
He made one of his signature on-screen chuckles to himself. “In a town that’s full of artifice and theatrical hijinks, it’s refreshing to get a taste of home every so often.”
Nigel knocked over his cane by accident. Guy picked it up and handed it back. “For my leg wound from the bloody first war. Just like the fictional Doctor Watson, except it confined me to a wheelchair afterward.”
“You’ve bounced back, however,” Guy said.
“Did so back in 1919, following my discharge. Took ten years after that for my lucky break on Broadway. The theatrical production of Springtime for Henry in ’31 led to reprising the same role on film in ’34. That was my entrée into the lovable, bumbling British fool most people know me for.”
“You did a string of films before partnering with Basil for The Hound of the Baskervilles, correct?” Babs asked.
“Yes, and last year in ’39, don’t forget to mention we did two Sherlock Holmes films, Hound and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, for Fox. However, I’m afraid Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wouldn’t approve of my performance.”
“In what way?” asked Guy.
“His Doctor Watson is a much cleverer individual. I’m afraid he’d be rather upset with my portrayal as more of a comic relief or a companionable sidekick rather than a contributor to solving Holmes’ cases about crime.”
“I wouldn’t put yourself down,” Guy said. “The box office receipts speak for themselves.”
“So true, I guess. I shocked some of my critics when they discovered my family comes from a line of British aristocracy. For my formal education back in England, I attended the Grange School in Stevenage and Abingdon School in Abingdon-on-Thames. By the way, most people don’t know my full name is William Nigel Ernle Bruce. Close friends often call me Willie. If you didn’t know already, despite my gray hair, Basil and I are only three years apart, and he’s the elder.”
Their host enjoyed talking about himself, and as observed by the detectives, he also talked to himself.
“Overall, life has been good, and it has blessed me with a marvelous career, which I hope will continue. Enough about my boring life. How can I help you?”
Guy cleared his throat. “We heard you and Basil will do a radio show on the Queen Mary.”
“Indeed, we will. Not a live broadcast, mind you, but a recording to be aired later on many radio stations all over the States. Maybe in England as well. Soon, the Queen will transport troops to the Land Down Under. This is part publicity and part fundraiser for the Allied war effort and to boost the soldiers’ morale.”
“My partner and I need to get on board the evening of your performance,” Guy said, “But we can’t ask Basil for an invitation.”
“Bear with me if this comes out awkward—” Babs tried to hold her teacup steady, but her hand shook.
More sure of himself, Guy took over. “Look, I called your agent to arrange this meeting. I must confess, we weren’t entirely upfront about being journalists.”
Nigel appeared upset and sat up straight.
“Please hear us out,” Guy said.
Babs could see by the look on Nigel’s face, this situation needed a feminine touch. “Nigel, we’re private investigators. Basil had hired us to recover Leo, and that’s why you saw us at his party.”
“Who I heard someone found,” Nigel said.
“Thanks to Babs’ bravery and substantial risk,” Guy said.
“Along with a night in jail,” she added. “No matter whose version of the story you heard, Basil’s wife has been at my throat. He and I are no longer on speaking terms.”
“This isn’t the first instance where she gave an alluring young lady a hard time,” Nigel said.
“Gee, thanks,” said Babs. “All the same, we can’t pose as journalists as long as Basil and his wife are present. Ouida will make sure we get the boot.”
Nigel took a pause. “What are you planning to do?”
“We think someone will commit a crime, behind the scenes, while everyone else is celebrating,” Guy said.
“Who’s hiring you?”
“Quite a few people connected with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,” Babs replied.
Guy cut in. “Babs, we might as well come clean with Mr. Bruce and tell him we also suspect the people behind this are the ones who stole Basil’s dog. Although we recovered his Cocker Spaniel, two other high-profile dogs we know of are missing: Asta from the Thin Man films, and Toto from The Wizard of Oz. There might be even more.”
“Oh my,” Nigel exclaimed. “That’s awful. But let me get this straight. Are you asking Basil and I to play Holmes and Watson upfront to the public while you assume their roles, or your roles as detectives behind the scenes?”
Babs cracked a cunning smile. “Could be one way of looking at it, but I need a buffer or distraction, so Ouida doesn’t find out.”
“I guess I can have my wife keep her occupied. There must be a spa or a pool or bowling alley onboard. I’ll check into it if you like.”
“Making sure she has a few strong drinks wouldn’t hurt either,” Babs said.
“Meanwhile, my partner and I will figure out what to do on our end,” said Guy. “If you can get us on the invite list, even if we have to go under assumed names and physical disguises to get past security, at least we’ll get onboard.”
“Do you mind me giving you my opinion as, uh hum…Doctor Watson?” Nigel asked.
Guy and Babs looked at each other.
She answered, “Why not?”
“Have you considered since no one demanded a ransom or other compensation, whoever is behind these abductions has no intentions of returning the dogs? Basil’s dog knows how to sit and stay, but he’s not trained in the same capacity as Asta. How are they comparable?”
“Leo is a top-notch purebred dog, and he’s owned by a well-known actor,” said Guy.
Nigel nodded, and Babs continued. “Maybe the dognappers plan on selling them to the highest bidder? I can’t believe none of us, not even the police, have come up with that possibility until now.”
“What would they do? Hide the stolen dogs in their house?” Nigel asked. “You’d think their neighbors would turn them in. After all, there’s a hefty reward.”
“I agree,” Babs said. “What if they smuggled them out of town? The dogs would be impossible to track, and I bet there are plenty of wealthy buyers who’d love to own a piece of Hollywood, even if they can’t be upfront and brag about it. A dog star from the movies? Another purebred owned by a popular star? There could be a significant demand.”
She needed to think of something fast. “Are you a dog lover, Mr. Bruce?”
“Why, of course, I adore dogs. In fact, my agent handed me a script where I’ll play a rich baronet who shows dogs. The character is heartless but makes a turnaround in the end. Quite the opposite of the sort of fellow I am in real life, but the script looks like it might be a winner.”
Nigel gave a sigh of relief. “We might be on to something.” He pulled a whiskey flask out of his jacket and poured some into his tea. Without even bothering to ask, he poured a generous amount into Guy’s and Babs’.
The booze rushed to her head. “Pretty please? For the love of dogs?”
Raising his cup, Nigel made a toast. “By George, for the love of dogs!”