For their grand scheme to succeed, Babs and Guy needed to catch the countess in the act tonight and prove to those who hired them they could return the dogs by tomorrow. Thanks to Nigel Bruce, she had carte blanche to mingle with the VIPs. Myrna assured her she’d sneak in her Eileen Adlon outfit and leave it in the cloakroom. She even had the perfect platinum blonde wig left over from last year’s Halloween party.
Abel Wiggins, her janitor, suggested Babs masquerade as a cabin maid to board the ship prior to her radio show. He knew the ropes of the custodial trade and secured a gig for that evening. Since she didn’t own a car and couldn’t have anyone see her arriving with Guy and Ivan, he offered her a ride in his pickup truck. Babs agreed to meet him at the office to avoid leaving her residential hotel while dressed like Tugboat Annie. She added padding around her waist to make herself even more unrecognizable and purchased a jumbo-sized brassiere, stuffing the cups with small bags of birdseed to simulate larger breasts.
On the drive down to Long Beach, Babs made a brief mention that she and her partner suspected the countess’s house servants might’ve had a hand in abducting the dogs.
Abel had his own opinions. “Let the men with the badges handle it. Dig too deep, and you might get in over your head.”
“Don’t forget, I lost my entire team at one point,” said Babs. “Basil? I can’t vouch for what he thinks of me at the moment, but I reckon it’s not too favorable.”
Right after they pulled into their parking space, they commented on how the ship’s maintenance crew had already repainted the Queen Mary for camouflage.
“Enemy ships won’t be able to see her,” Wiggins explained. “She’ll disappear like a gray ghost on the high seas, shrouded by fog.”
Babs spoke her mind and resented having to use the unglamorous service entrance rather than the red-carpeted gangplanks.
“Come on, lassie, I can’t believe you haven’t snuck into events through hotel kitchens and back alleyways before. Be thankful we’re not cutting through a garbage dump.”
He led her to an area full of clean staff uniforms. “We call this the mudroom where you’re supposed to kick off your muddy boots after working the dockyards. Men’s stuff on the left. Women’s on the right. They sort everything according to size. Don’t expect it to make you look sexy, but find something that fits.”
“Change, again? I’m already in disguise.”
“You betcha. Meet me outside the door over yonder when finished. It’s rather common that every venue has its own uniform for its maintenance staff.”
Always fit in. Always look like you belong, Babs thought. A motto that was like a mantra.
To navigate the enormous ship, he pulled out a small utility map and instructed Babs to follow him down a maze of never-ending corridors and blinds.
“Wow! I have to admit, this ship is more majestic than I had ever imagined—masterful woodwork, breathtaking at every turn,” Babs said. “Some people nicknamed her the Ship of Woods, because designers used so many varieties.”
He snatched her by the hand. “Lassie, you can admire the ship all you want after we retrieve the dogs. Time’s a wastin’.”
By the time Wiggins picked the stateroom farthest away and in a dead-end corner, Babs complained about sore feet.
“High heels? Why on God’s earth didn’t you bring more sensible shoes?” he asked.
“Need to make a quick change. It’s too much trouble to slip into new shoes and stockings.”
Babs reached into a bag and dug out a ratty-looking chew toy.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s for scent recognition. Sir Henry must’ve lost the scrap of Toto’s favorite blanket when we tried to escape from the countess’s, but Asta’s toy rabbit remained in my pack. Everyone ignored it when they confiscated my surveillance equipment. A smart dog like Asta should be able to smell it if we’re close by.”
She knocked first. “Anyone home?”
When no one answered, she used her passkey. “Did I hear a bark?” Babs wiped the door handle clean of prints with her dust rag.
The two of them entered. A scruffy little dog sat on top of the bed, saying, “Hello,” in his own special way and wagging his tail.
Babs asked in a sweet doggie-talk voice, “Would you be Toto?”
The dog barked again and turned around in circles.
“I think he’s trying to say yes,” Wiggins said.
Babs set the record straight. “Toto is a she. Her real name is Terry the Terrier.” When she called out, “Terry,” the dog also responded. Then she pointed to a damp spot. “Bingo! Strickling told me she’s a carpet-wetter.”
“Someone left the radio on to keep her company.” Wiggins examined it. “It’s tuned to the in-house station. Sounds like Nick and Nora Charles performing their Thin Man segment.”
“That’ll cue me when I need to head back and change into the guise of Eileen Adlon for our Sherlock Holmes sketch.”
Another pup wiggled from under the bed. He gave a stretch and a yawn, as if he’d woken from a nap.
“Asta!” Babs cried.
“Shush!” Wiggins said. “We’re not supposed to be in here. What if there’s someone in the hallway?”
Without even thinking about how he’d react to a stranger, Babs handed him his rabbit, scooped him up in her arms, and gave him a hug. His little tail wagged like a motorized toy.
“He’s more adorable than I imagined,” she said while he licked her face. “No wonder he’s captured the hearts of so many.”
While she had her hands full with Asta, Wiggins capitalized on affection from Toto.
“I have to give our dognappers credit,” said Babs. “I worried someone might’ve mistreated them. This might not be a luxury suite, but it’s classy and far more comfortable than my place. Of course, they’d pick the stateroom the farthest away.”
“Did you think the crooks would make it easy for us?” Wiggins said in jest.
“We need to find Guy. We can’t sneak both dogs out in your water pail.” Babs heard her thirty-minute warning, cued by certain lines of dialogue on the radio. “Myrna sent a note. She left my other disguise in the cloakroom. I’d better hurry.”
She started for the door but heard the ominous sound of someone else’s key. “We have to hide.” She conveyed this in pantomime and hoped Wiggins could read her lips.
Their normal exit wasn’t an option. Neither was squeezing through the porthole window and diving into Long Beach Harbor. They both ran toward the closet and collided. Between Wiggins’ potbelly and the necessity of hiding his mop paraphernalia (a dead giveaway), the two of them couldn’t fit. Babs had no choice but to roll under the bed. She prayed Toto or Asta wouldn’t think she was playing hide-and-seek, otherwise they’d give her away.
Two people entered, both male. One sounded American. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it. The other, a heavy German accent mixed with broken English. From Babs’ vantage point, she couldn’t see much past their knees.
American: “You’re going to a lot of trouble to sell a bunch of dogs. There have to be easier ways to raise cash.”
German: “Supply and demand. Prices as high as I want… Sehr teuer…expensive now since I have Asta and Toto. Our black-market op-er-a-tion has proved quite prof-it-able.”
A pause, followed by the horrible stench of a cigar. The dogs whined. They didn’t like it. She tried not to gag and give herself away. Toto ran over to the closet where Wiggins was hiding. She stood on her hind legs, barked, and pawed at the door, trying to get the men to notice.
No, Toto, no! Don’t give us away. Babs hoped she could telegraph her thoughts.
Toto yelped and tried with all her might to pry open the door.
“Nothing in there for you, girl,” the American said and kicked the door shut. From under her perch, Babs saw his hands pick Toto up. Still couldn’t identify him, but prayed he wouldn’t discover her hiding place. Toto wouldn’t stop whimpering.
The man turned his attention back to his so-called partner.
American: “I resent being roped into this.”
German: “You—no other choice. Do you want to die? Along with your friends?”
American: “Of course not, Cig. Arrgh! You burned me!”
Babs swore she’d heard his voice before. Cig? Siegfried, the animal handler? Henry East chewed him out the day I visited him. Upset, he smoked cigars at his kennels.
German: “Rich people will pay to own a piece of Hol-ly-wood. Imag-ine if you knew you owned something that belonged to Clark Gable or Bette Davis? Almost as good as sou-ve-nir from one of their films.”
American: “Untie me, you thug. Think of the dogs. Let me give them more food and water. They might be stuck here a while.”
German: “Skip both. Hundescheisse…Wie kann ich es sagen? How do I say? They might poop…or piss. All over. No good for bad smells. Ruin our plans.”
Asta shimmied under the bed to check out Babs. Maybe to signal her to come to their rescue. Babs blew on his nose to get him to back off. He crawled out and dropped his toy on the one man’s shoes.
The German picked it up. “Was ist das?”
American: “Looks like a chew toy, but I don’t recall seeing it earlier.”
The German’s voice cracked in panic. “Could someone else come in here?”
“Housekeeping has keys. So does maintenance, but it could’ve been from a previous guest,” said the American.
The German grumbled. “No one is supposed to be in here.”
“Who knows how long it’s been under there? This is not the first time anyone’s brought dogs onboard,” said the American.
Babs heard unintelligible sounds and moaning, as if the German had gagged the American.
German: “Wir müssen gehen. Go! Now!”
The two left, and the door shut. Babs gave it a minute and scooted out from under the bed.
“Psst, Wiggins. All clear. Get out of the closet.”
Now, she’d be cutting it close to make a quick costume change and get to the recording studio on time.
“Find Guy,” she explained, trying to keep her thoughts straight. “Tell him what we know, although it isn’t much. Too bad we don’t understand German, but this guy’s got to be connected to the countess. Tell him to get lost. That’s his signal. Sir Henry will appear to guide him in the wrong direction. In reality, he will sniff out the location of other dogs. Tell him to try this hallway first, although I didn’t hear any other barking, which you’d assume would be a dead-sure indicator. If not, any place, out of the way, where others won’t find them. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”
Who were those guys? Babs’ brain did double duty as she bolted down the endless hallway to the cloakroom.
“A woman left me a parcel. I don’t have her receipt, but it’s under number 221B,” she said, panting.
The attendant eyed her with skepticism after retrieving a pricey fox jacket. “This must be a mistake.”
“Check the hanger. There should also be a smaller item. She might’ve stuffed it inside the sleeve so it wouldn’t fall out.”
The lady pulled out a peachy-pink, silk, envelope-shaped pouch, the kind upscale department stores would use for fancy lingerie from one’s wedding trousseau.
“Mind if I look?” Babs asked.
The woman scoffed and gave her a mistrustful stare.
She’s wondering why a cabin maid would rummage through such finery unless she planned on stealing it. Babs presented her with a cream-colored, unsealed envelope. It contained a handwritten note from Myrna, giving whoever was in charge permission to dispense the parcel.
Inside: a platinum-blonde wig, a luscious, long silk bias-cut slip dress the color of champagne, so alluring that it looked more like suggestive undergarments. Jewelry included a flashy top-quality rhinestone and faux ruby necklace with matching earrings, which would fool anyone except a bona fide gemologist. Also included, essential cosmetics to complete her new glamorous look.
“Goodness, Myrna thought of everything. Glad this is a floor-length gown. My run-of-the-mill shoes will have to do.”
She flagged down the attendant. “Excuse me, do you have a pen I can borrow?”
Babs wrote a quick note on the flip side of the stationery: Rache! She folded the letter the opposite way, placed it back into its original envelope, and licked it sealed. With a single line, she crossed out her name and wrote: Nick and Nora Charles—urgent!
“Sorry to bother you,” she said. “I need one of your stewards to track down Myrna Loy and make sure she gets this right away.”
Once again, the cloakroom gal gave her a leery look. When Babs flashed a fiver in front of her eyes, the lady was more than glad to oblige.