Six days until the radio show, and everything would need to go like clockwork. Blueprints for the Queen Mary lay on Babs’ desk. Guy’s cluttered work area now included dog toys, since Sir Henry was their new unofficial partner. Even Wiggins, their janitor, fell in love with their mascot and made a point of bringing him extra knuckle bones from his butcher.
Everyone was on edge, including their mutt, who moped about the office as the detectives were running in their own circles. Basil’s on-screen partner and long-time friend, Nigel Bruce, promised the detectives he’d get them on the guest list. They could only hope he and his wife, Violet, would devise the perfect plan to distract Mrs. Rathbone. Babs still had to figure out how to make a truce with Basil. Meanwhile, the detectives needed to decide what guises to assume in order to operate incognito.
Guy groomed his furry friend. “I want to bring Sir Henry.”
“Here, we are worried about getting in, and you want to sneak an enormous dog onboard?” Babs asked.
“You said he could track scents better than a K-9 police dog.”
“True, but—”
“The Queen Mary is a colossal ship. It will be crowded with partygoers and who knows how many crew members, and we’ll be hunting for other dogs.”
“How do you expect to pull it off?” she asked.
“What if I posed as a blind man, and Sir Henry was my seeing-eye dog?”
Babs tried not to burst out laughing. “Sounds farfetched. Aren’t most seeing eye dogs German Shepherds? Not mixed breeds like our lovable mutt.”
Sir Henry lowered his head and whimpered.
Guy reassured him with a pat on the head. “I’ll make up some kind of excuse. Like he scored higher on their obedience tests than any of the others. He seemed more suited for search and rescue than Officer Hope’s dog.”
“Woof!” Sir Henry agreed. He rolled over and begged for a vigorous rubdown.
“If I wear a pair of dark-tinted welder goggles that wrap around on the sides, no one will know my eyes are open, and I can still see like a normal person,” Guy explained. “Then I’ll carry a cane and do a few practice runs with Sir Henry, but I’ll need a credible profession. Nothing that’ll depend on sight, but posing as someone who has a keen sense of hearing.”
“Like a music critic for our fictitious American Sherlock Holmes magazine? After all, whoever’s sponsoring the event will promote a radio show.”
Guy grabbed a sheet of paper and sketched the idea forming in his head. “Add a bit of gray to make me older—”
He arranged excess dog hair from Sir Henry’s wire comb on his drawing to create a fake goatee and glued it down before showing the illustration to Babs.
“Can’t grow this type of facial hair to save my life, but I think we’ll wind up with a distinguished gentleman who looks nothing like me.”
Sir Henry gave him another “woof” of approval, and Babs laughed. “All right, you’ve got your disguise. How about I pull off a slick Jean Harlow number?”
“With a platinum blonde wig and a slinky, sexy dress?” Guy asked. “You don’t plan on plucking your eyebrows, or do you?”
“I’ll have to make do with what I was born with. We’ll just have to forewarn Nigel and his wife in case my disguise is too convincing. Not the best getup to hide a weapon, but there’s always my purse if it’s large enough.”
“Since when do you need—”
Sir Henry barked a warning before Guy could finish his sentence. No clever disguise would save Babs from the one person she hoped to avoid at all costs—Troy Ulsterman, who walked through their front door unannounced.
Babs needed to appear brave on the outside, even if her stomach was doing flip-flops.
“I told you to get lost!” she shouted.
Guy came to her defense, but with a clumsy delivery. “You’re not wanted here, ever. Go back from wherever you came—Oakland, or Monkey Island at the San Francisco Zoo—the gorilla cage, you big ape! So quit swinging on vines on Hollywood and Vine. You’re no Tarzan, and she’s no Jane.”
Troy stepped forward and forced their door shut. “What you need is to have some sense talked into you,” he said, addressing Babs.
She was defiant. “Don’t you suppose it should be the other way around?”
“A wife is supposed to obey her husband.”
Guy stepped between Babs and the beast. “What kind of malarky is that?”
Single-handedly, Troy flung him aside. Guy fell on the floor, slamming his head against her desk.
“I’m not your wife anymore and have divorce papers to prove it!” Babs yelled. “Now, scram!”
Guy rubbed his head and struggled to sit upright. “Our mutt has more sense than this cad. He understands our commands.”
Babs took her handgun from her desk drawer and pointed it at Troy.
“Guy, quick! Call the cops on your phone.”
Troy ridiculed her. “Hardy-har-har… You don’t have the guts to fire that weapon. I’ve seen how you are with animals. You couldn’t hurt a tick—or a flea—or whatever’s the saying.”
“You wanna bet?” She fired a hole into the trashcan holding the roses that William Powell had given her. Water poured out, and a puddle formed on the floor.
Troy lunged for Babs and tried to seize her gun.
“Do something!” she shouted to her partner.
Guy scooted toward the door. “Come on, boy. Attack!”
Sir Henry sprang forth and gripped Troy’s leg between his teeth.
Wiggins overheard the commotion and stormed in from cleaning the hallway. Seeing the brute wrestling with Sir Henry on the floor, he planted his boot on Troy’s back and pinned his head in place with his wet, soapy mop.
The police arrived, cuffed Troy, and hauled him to jail.