“Dinner at Chasen’s?” asked an unidentified man on the other end of the office line.
Is this some kind of joke? “Since when can I afford to eat at one of LA’s most expensive restaurants? Who is this?” asked Babs.
“’Tis Powell, mademoiselle.”
“Pardon me for not recognizing your voice right away.”
“I’m inviting you and your right-hand man to meet me there at eight. My treat, of course. If I were a woman, I’d assume I was pregnant, but I’m having this terrible craving for their famous chili and can’t shake it off.”
He’s such a prankster. “Not that I don’t enjoy a fine meal when offered, but Guy and I are running out of time to recover the stolen dogs. Our plans are far from solidifying.”
“Have you narrowed it down?”
“Can’t say yet.”
“Now I need to make amends,” said Powell.
“For what?”
“Rathbone approached me about joining forces in your dog hunt, but I pulled out for personal reasons. However, I’m the one who suggested he bring you as his date to the Coconut Grove. If I hadn’t made that blunder, the two of you would still be on speaking terms…but you’ve always had Guy to rely on. Correct?”
“Not after my picture wound up in the tabloids. Until he sprang me from jail, I was on my own, and the main reason we’re so behind schedule. Speaking about trust, I’m not so sure about your partner.”
“Not my wife?”
“Myrna…Mrs. Charles… Whatever you want to call her.”
“Babs, didn’t I promise I’d do anything to help?”
“So far, she’s done nothing but push us away, which makes us believe she’s supporting our adversary.”
“Then you need to reach out to her. She sees too much of my ugly mug, both at social events and on-screen. Thus, I require your presence.”
“Maybe I’m saying too much, but all along, I’ve felt she’s been hiding something.”
“All we can do is give it the good old Boy Scout’s try. Girl Scout for you, I guess. I’m the one sticking my neck out and orchestrating this. Will you join us?”
“I don’t know. Guy and I can’t afford to take the night off. If we screw up this operation because we’re unprepared—”
“A gal’s gotta eat, right? How much more persuasive do I have to get?”
“Fair enough.”
“One more thing. Don’t forget; dress snazzy for the occasion.”
Babs still had to run home to change into proper attire when the phone rang again.
“Nigel here. I think I found your solution.”
“Please make it quick.”
“Someone just delivered the script for the Sherlock Holmes radio play. Basil and I will read selections from The Hound of the Baskervilles. Not the entire story, but an excellent choice. We just released the movie and are already familiar with it. Short-sighted, for sure, but no one considered the need for voice actors for the other parts. The producer who adapted this version insisted Basil, and I only read for Holmes and Watson, as expected. He suggested Tyrone Power handle the other younger male parts, such as Sir Henry Baskerville and John Stapleton. For the older male voices like Dr. Mortimer, Barryman, and the coroner, he wanted Groucho Marx. When he wants to, Groucho’s capable of being a serious actor.”
“What about the female roles?” Babs asked.
“That’s where I stepped in and insisted they hire a talented young actress by the name of Eileen Adlon.”
“Who’s she? Sounds almost identical to the Holmes character of Irene Adler.”
“Why you, of course, and yes, I made that up—on purpose.”
“Well, before I moved to Los Angeles, I used to sing jingles for radio commercials. From time to time, they’d ask me to take part in a radio play or allow me to serenade with a live orchestra.”
“Fantastic, then you have radio experience.”
“Why should Sherlock—I mean Basil want to cooperate? After all, I found his dog. He has nothing more at stake and everything to lose by getting involved.”
“He’ll comply because I say so. He can’t play Holmes without his Doctor Watson, and that’s settled. Besides, he’d do nothing so low as to walk out on his obligation. Any anger toward you, even if it appears to come from him, comes from his wife. I’d bet on it. Doll yourself up like a femme fatale, and you’ll fit right in. Besides, my wife said she’d collaborate with Groucho to keep Ouida occupied. You’ll be free to do whatever you need to do.”
“Funny you mentioned a femme fatale. I planned to disguise myself to look like Jean Harlow.”
Guy and Babs took separate cabs to Beverly Hills and met out front under Chasen’s awning.
She gave her partner an inspection. “Don’t you look spiffy this evening?”
“How did you rustle up that très chic get-up on such short notice?” he asked.
“Being a common size can be helpful when modeling but can work to my disadvantage when picking up something last-minute from a secondhand store. Those are the first sizes to disappear. Since I needed something right away, my dry cleaner lent me a dress, which had been in his shop for a while, and no one claimed.”
“Convenient. He can always clean it again in case it gets soiled.”
“Not all stains come out. Red wine is notorious.”
The maître ‘d led the detectives to where William Powell and Myrna Loy were already enjoying cocktails at a high-backed leather upholstered booth too large for four diners. They scooted toward the middle to hear each other better.
“You’d think whoever made the seating arrangements misjudged how many members are in our party,” Babs said.
“No mistake at all,” said Powell. “I invited a guest who should join us any moment.”
“I hope it wasn’t J. Edgar Hoover,” Guy said. “I thought I recognized him sitting at a table eating Chasen’s famous Hobo Steak.”
Babs shuddered. “Head of the FBI? What’s he doing here? After my arrest, the Feds grilled me like I was a juicy sirloin.”
“Honey, he comes here all the time,” Myrna said. “Maybe he likes to keep Hitchcock under observation. You never know. He might use his movies to cover up real crimes.”
Powell leaned closer to Babs. “Don’t listen to her. Hoover’s here because he enjoys the food. Simple as that, but you know…I should order a bottle of champagne.”
“William,” Myrna said, “Shouldn’t you wait for your guest? Open it now, and it’ll get flat.”
“Well, I’m as dry as Death Valley,” said Powell. “What’s everyone drinking in the meantime?”
Babs thought about her borrowed outfit. “Maybe someone can recommend a Chablis, though not my usual choice.”
“Be more imaginative,” Guy said. “Celebrate the occasion with a cocktail.”
“All right. I’ll go with a sidecar.” Babs gave him a wink, knowing he just purchased a sidecar for his new motorcycle.
Every time a group of notable personalities passed by their table, William Powell lifted his chin and acknowledged their presence with a smile, a nod, or a peculiar glance.
When asked, he explained, “That’s what I call giving them the eye.”
A dazzling woman whom Babs didn’t recognize waltzed across the room. This time, he exaggerated his response, raising his eyebrows up and down and sucking in his lips with all sorts of clownish mimicry.
Babs tried not to laugh too hard. “You look like you’re trying to pick up on someone’s scent. Like a dog.”
Myrna took out her compact and powdered her nose. “William, come on. Who’s your mystery guest?”
“He’ll be here soon enough. If you’re so anxious, why don’t you order another drink?”
“But I don’t want another drink. I’ve had enough already.”
Powell explained to the detectives, “It’s a tough act when the public always expects you to act like Nick and Nora.” He turned to Myrna. “Order one anyway and pretend you’re drinking it.”
William Powell tilted his chin upward and gave that look to signal his surprise guest had arrived. “Babs Norman, Guy Brandt, please have the pleasure of meeting the one…the only…Dashiell Hammett, the visionary genius behind the Thin Man films.”
Hammett kissed Babs’ hand, but surprised everyone when he said, “Are you going to behave? I don’t want a lot of monkey business out of you.”
When Myrna asked what that was supposed to mean, Hammett laughed. “Babs and I have already met. Her partner, too. I wanted to get a kick out of everyone’s reactions. Besides, any chance to kiss a pretty dame’s hand is always welcome.”
“Might as well get started on the liquid libations,” said Powell. “We delayed placing our dinner orders until you got here.”
“If you don’t mind holding off, I’ve also invited a companion,” said Hammett. “That’s why I insisted you reserve a larger booth.”
“Mr. Hammett already knows that a handful of people at MGM hired my partner and me to find Asta,” Babs said.
“Where’s your Sherlock Holmes friend?” asked Hammett.
“Basil Rathbone had agreed to help us, but reconsidered,” she explained.
“To be honest,” Guy said, “we had a falling out because of his wife—”
“Who insisted on wearing the pants in the family,” Babs replied. “It’s unfortunate, but right now, we can’t count on his cooperation.”
“We’re assembling a search and rescue team,” Guy said. “We’d love to have your participation. Dashiell, this could also wind up as a hot topic for your next best-selling novel.”
Myrna pushed one of her untouched martinis toward Hammett and insisted he put his claim on it. He took a sip and said, “I’ve been as bad an influence on American literature as anyone I can think of, but I’m wide open to fresh ideas. Right now, I’ve tired of cranking out the same old detective stuff.”
Myrna’s stomach made such a growl that all eyes turned toward her. She tapped her fingers on the table and toyed with her silverware.
To kill time, Powell made a joke about Claude Rains’ character in the film adaptation of H. G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. He said to Hammett, “Maybe we should order. For all we know, he’s been sitting here the entire time, but we ignored him.”
“Didn’t he become insane because of a serum he took to make him disappear?” Myrna asked.
“We’re waiting for a she, not a he,” Hammett replied, “and she’s being tardy just to make us sweat.”
Babs tried to read into that as she nursed her drink. Guy was already on his second.
William Powell dramatized lines from the film while his friends bided their time. “An invisible man can rule the world. Nobody will see him come, nobody will see him go. He can hear every secret. He can rob, and wreck, and kill!”
“Ah, there she is.” Hammett got up to greet his guest and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Meet my partner-in-crime, Lillian Hellman, who just came in from New York. She’s one of the biggest playwrights on Broadway.”
“For The Children’s Hour and The Little Foxes,” Guy said.
“With many more masterpieces to come,” Hammett said with pride.
Lillian gave everyone her greetings and scooted next to him. “I’ve never met a real lady private detective. I’ve always pictured gumshoes like the ones Dash makes up.”
Babs secured her napkin. “Well, you’ve met one now.”
Powell insisted on sharing a large platter of Chasen’s spare ribs. He wouldn’t hear anything of it when Babs refused on the grounds they were too messy. After he persuaded her to try them, she got sticky sauce on her borrowed dress and broke down into hysterics.
“Soda water lifts stains,” said Myrna. “There’ll be no short supply from our bartender. It’s always worked when I’ve spilled stuff on carpets.”
She hailed a waiter who fetched a glass. Babs took the miracle solution and headed to the powder room. Her tears caused her makeup to smudge, and she worried that her dress was beyond salvaging. Along the way, someone asked her an outlandish question.
“Ah, a beautiful woman… Will you marry me? Do you have any money? Answer the second question first.”
“Well, I—” Without the exaggerated eyebrows and mustache, it took Babs a few seconds to recognize him. “You’re Groucho…Groucho Marx.”
“Looks like you’ve been crying. Cheer up. If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, I would be happy to do it for you.”
Babs did her best, but the stain refused to come out. She held her napkin in front of her dress to hide the huge wet spot and ran into Groucho again on the way back.
“Next time I see you,” he said, “remind me not to talk to you.”
Powell made a declaration. “Tonight, we’re going to show Holmes and Watson, who are the better detectives. We’ll all get to play Nick and Nora Charles, along with the writer who created them.”
“I’m game,” said Guy. “As long as Babs and I don’t have to get married, and Babs, it would do you good to loosen up once in a while.” He ordered her another sidecar and insisted she drink it. When she complained about getting drunk, he reminded her who was driving.
“Unlike Nick and Nora,” Babs said, “we butt heads more often, rather than glossing over marital trifles.”
The detectives needed to ferret out any notions that Myrna was cooperating with the top dog behind the dognappings. If she wasn’t, would she agree to take part in taking the thieves down? They had to keep their cards close until one hundred percent certain. They also had to assume any disclosures would be first-time news for Lillian Hellman and, mostly, for Dashiell Hammett.
Halfway through dinner, Babs said, “We’re running out of time, and I’m running out of ideas. Has anyone come up with any new leads on finding Asta?”
Myrna languished over her martini olive. “Not yet.”
Powell, who was having difficulty not making sewage out of his chili, said, “Soon, our producers will have to make a tough decision.”
“Like what?” Lillian asked.
“The studio execs are postponing the next Thin Man movie,” Myrna said. “They’ve already prepared a substitute project.”
Powell added, “Attempts at finding a replacement have come to naught.”
Lillian lit her cigarette. “I’ve never understood who’s in charge if an animal disappears. Is it the police or the city pound?”
“When Basil lost his dog,” Guy said, “he hired us because he didn’t care for how the city handled those things. My partner found his dog, but—”
“But not using a normal or recommended procedure,” Babs said. “Dash, you have a Pinkerton background. Be our mentor. I’d love to hear your input.”
Amused, he put his arm around his girlfriend. “So you want to put me to work, and that’s why you invited me here? Or am I still being considered as a person of interest?”
Guy shrugged and feigned surprise. “Why would you believe that?”
“Because the movie dog wasn’t a Schnauzer like the one in my original novel? You know how bitter authors can get when Hollywood butchers their original creations. Why don’t we ask my detective characters for their opinions?”
“Nick and Nora Charles?” Lillian first glanced at her lover and then around the table at the others. “Looks like I came a bit late to the party. Sounds intriguing, but you’re going to have to fill me in on this new film project you’re planning.”
“Sad, but true, it’s the real deal,” said Guy, who turned to Myrna for answers. “Suppose you were Nora Charles. What would you do to track down Asta?”
She protested. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a real detective.”
“Use your imagination. As an actress who’s starred in many roles, how would your on-screen persona react?”
Myrna gave a telltale upward glance to the ceiling. “My first guess would be to narrow it down to anyone who was nuts about dogs. What about the recent dog show at the Beverly Hills Hotel? That would be the first place I’d start.”
“Sounds right on the money,” said Powell.
“Get a list of all the attendees,” Myrna said. “Smart idea, right?”
“I heard there were hundreds in attendance between the contestants and the spectators,” Powell said. “Quite a task to narrow down.”
“Ha!” Guy laughed. “We should’ve hired her at our agency. We couldn’t even make a dent in that list.”
Babs looked Myrna straight in the eye. “I was at the studio the other day when the animal trainers tried an unsuccessful test on another dog. Where did you get the terrier you took to the dog show?”
Myna cowered. “Were you there?”
“Far enough away in the audience where you would’ve never noticed.”
“I’m sure the Easts told you their favorite star fathered a bunch of puppies.”
“None of them were up to their papa’s skill level,” Babs said.
“Many of them are hard to tell apart. I borrowed one for a publicity stunt, and if you need to know, the little runt peed all over me afterward. Thank heavens that wasn’t captured by any of the press photographers.”
Guy tried to hide a sheepish grin. He posed as one of those photographers but never shot a frame of film.
Myrna wrinkled her brow. “Besides Asta’s charm and intelligence? I can’t think of any other quality a dog would have where someone would go out of their way to steal it. Their fur, perhaps? You don’t suppose someone would desire them for their distinctive coats, do you?” Myrna shuddered. “God, no! Forget I ever mentioned that.”
Once everybody resettled, Babs called for their attention. “Get wise. I’m convinced something big will take place during the big celebration onboard the Queen Mary. I wish I could disclose more, but I seem to learn new things every day. Something to do with smuggling those stolen dogs.”
“How come I never heard of that?” Hammett asked.
Guy cut in. “You knew all about the stolen dogs from our visit at the Beverly Wilshire.”
“Not that,” Hammett said, “I meant the party on the Queen Mary. Neither Lillian nor I received an invitation.”
Lillian added. “If the drinks are on the house, I’m all for crashing a party.”
Powell offered to pull a few strings. “How can I not do a favor for the man who made my career?”
Myrna didn’t quite get the point. “You were doing films long before The Thin Man.”
“So were you. Flash back to the years when you hardly wore a stitch of clothing. What about the scene you did in The Barbarian?”
“Where I bathed naked in a bath of rose petals?” Myrna asked, blushing.
Powell snapped his fingers and danced in place. “Va-va-va-voom!”
“Sweetheart, why did you bring that up and embarrass me around company?”
“Of course, we made movies. Plenty of movies,” Powell explained, “But most people identify us as Nick and Nora Charles. What about you, Babs? Guy? Do you need my help?”
“Nigel Bruce promised he’d get us in,” said Guy.
Then Babs leaned in and whispered to Powell, “I hope you don’t mind, but I was thinking along the lines of a Jean Harlow-like disguise. Considering the calamity at the Coconut Grove, I can’t have Basil or Ouida recognize me. I’m sorry if that’ll remind you of the time when you lost the love of your life.”
He bowed his head. “You do what you have to do. I’m married to a wonderful woman now.”
“Honey,” Myrna said to Babs, “I have an elegant silver fox mid-length jacket. I’ve been dying to wear it, but my husband thinks it makes me look like a fuzzy barrel. It’s large enough where I could stuff inside an evening gown, a wig, and costume jewelry.”
She’s being supportive. A good sign. “That’s kind of you to offer,” said Babs.
Everyone insisted on making their opinion known—pro or con.
In winding up, Powell told Babs, “You know what I do when I can’t settle an argument?”
“What’s that?”
“I punch the man in the nose. That shuts him up for a while.”
“If you’re trying to settle a score with a woman, what do you do then?” she asked.
“I’ll kiss her on the lips, ask her to marry me, and if she won’t—”
Myrna intervened. “All right, where’s the punchline?”
Powell said, “If she refuses matrimony, then I tell her she’s missing out on the best time of her life, excuse myself, and say, ‘Sorry, but I’m going to be late to my own wedding.’”
Myrna said to Babs, “Isn’t he just a fool? That was straight from our film Manhattan Melodrama…and the martini talking.”