Babs needed to warn the others. Crossing portside from bow to stern, she passed the sports deck and gymnasium and made a sudden stop in front of the ship’s dog kennels.
Dog kennels? How come it never showed up on Wiggins’ map? She did a double take and peeked inside, where someone had moved Asta, Toto, and many more celebrity dogs.
Babs took a quick mental inventory. Most had temporary tags dangling from their collars. If not, a handmade sign by their pen or cage. She bent over toward the German Shepherd. His tag said Rin-tin-tin, Jr. Another German Shepherd had a sign, Ace the Wonder Dog. Then she examined a Newfoundland named Cappy. “Oh, my! Humphrey Bogart is your owner.”
More dogs: Owner: Shirley Temple Breed: Pekingese; Owner: Bette Davis, Breed: Scottish Terrier; Name: “Zero” or “Pard,” Breed: Terrier-mix. Babs giggled when she saw two Dachshunds named Stinky and Poopshin, belonging to Joan Crawford. The list went on. Owner: Mae West, Breed: Borzois; two Cocker Spaniels, Owner: Elizabeth Taylor; an Irish Setter of Clark Gable’s, named Lord Reily of Redwood, and a Standard Schnauzer named Arno, belonging the Errol Flynn.
“Imagine the surprise when they find out their missing dogs were right under their noses, or in actuality, the owners are right under the dogs’ noses.”
The animals went berserk the moment the ship’s foghorn blared. Her ears rang, and her whole body vibrated with such severity, she didn’t think she’d ever stop shaking. Afraid the commotion might alert the fifth columnists, she rushed toward the nearest exit.
Babs returned to her friends, perspiring and out of breath. Even though she’d forget half the names of the dogs and their affiliations, she unraveled what happened, but Sir Henry became anxious.
Guy attached a leash to his collar. “He’s trying to tell us something.”
“Maybe he smells their scents on me,” said Babs.
Without warning, Sir Henry bolted, and the threesome engaged in the game of “Follow that Dog.” This time, he dragged them into one of the ship’s propellor rooms. Surrounded by railings, they noticed a dangerous drop into the water below. He circled the area and bayed like a hound, sparked by the sound of approaching footsteps. Guy tried to clamp his mouth shut, but to no avail.
A man with a slight Liverpool accent called out, “Ahoy! No one’s supposed to be here.”
Babs gave Wiggins the nod, figuring he’d look less out of place in his Queen Mary custodial uniform.
“Sir, these young’uns lost their pup, and I volunteered to help them. Can’t figure out why he wanted to come here, but at least we found him.”
The man introduced himself as Jack Stewart, chief engineer of the RMS Queen Mary. Guy continued to make an effort to muzzle Sir Henry with his bare hands. Jack and Wiggins talked shop, with their janitor bluffing through their conversation.
Babs intervened. “Sir, we need to level with you. Despite appearances, Wiggins is assisting my partner and me. I’m Babs Norman. He’s Guy Brandt. We’re private investigators. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer hired us to return two of their most famous animal actors, Toto from the Wizard of Oz and Asta from the Thin Man series. We believed a group of people were hiding them on this ship, but just discovered they’re a bunch of armed militiamen. A few minutes ago, I spied on one of their conversations. They’re on your top deck and have taken your captain and crew hostage. If what they said is true, they plan on hijacking your ship, and holding the onboard celebrities for ransom.”
Jack froze in place, speechless. He loosened his grip on his wrench, which dropped out of his hand and clanged on the floor.
She asked, “Did you or your men have anything to do with smuggling a bunch of dogs on board?”
“Of course—not,” Jack stammered, his hands still shaking.
Babs disclosed she found two groups of dogs in opposite areas of the ship. “They must’ve had helpers. If none of your crew assisted them, who did?”
The engineer still appeared traumatized.
“If I can get Sir Henry to stop barking,” Guy said, “he’s got a talent for tracking scents, but it seems like we’ve reached a dead end.”
Wiggins braced himself against the railing to check his map but dropped it into the water by accident. “Not sure if I could find my way to the top deck without it.”
Jack regained his voice. “Don’t worry. If anyone knows the ins and outs of this place, you’re looking right at him.”
Babs tried to figure where to go next. “When Wiggins and I found Asta and Toto holed up in one of your staterooms, two of their men almost discovered us. Wiggins hid in the closet. I crawled under the bed. Neither of us could see anyone’s faces, but I heard the distinct voices of one German who had the upper hand, and one American, forced into cooperating with him. At one point, the American called him Cig.
“Later, I confirmed he was Siegfried Angermann, the trainer I met at Gale and Henry East’s Hollywood Kennels, but I swore I’d heard the American’s voice before. For the longest time, it drove me crazy, but I think he was Rennie Renfro.
“Guy, I know you thought I was going off on a tangent, but remember when I did all that research on Sherlock Holmes?”
“When you wasted our valuable time,” he replied.
“Not if we use Arthur Conan Doyle’s story, The Adventure of Silver Blaze, as an analogy.”
“You were obsessed about the ‘curious incident of the dog in the nighttime,’” said Guy.
“Correct. The stableboy abducted a stallion named Silver Blaze. Not a simple task. One would think the owner’s watchdog would’ve barked and alerted everyone.
“That said, what if the dogs we’re trying to recover didn’t cause a stink because they knew their abductors, and that’s how they smuggled them onto the Queen Mary? We need to find the animal trainers. They must be here.”
Jack interjected. “Conan Doyle, you say? Interesting how life makes the strangest connections.”
“What do you mean?” asked Babs.
“Not long ago, I befriended a neighbor after some speedster tried to mow him down. He also has an intimate bond with Sherlock Holmes—Basil Rathbone.”
Guy and Babs gave each other guarded glances.
“Regardless,” Jack replied, “your pup could never detect anyone’s smell through all these tons of steel. The Queen is over one thousand feet long and high enough to rival a skyscraper.”
“Let me ask you a question,” said Babs. “Is there a holding area that might serve as a prison?”
Jack stroked his beard. “There’s an Isolation Ward. A quarantine area for those with lice or contagious diseases, which the ship’s medics don’t want spread to other passengers. If someone’s holding others hostage, it makes sense they would detain your people there.”
Wiggins spoke up. “I say we go for it.”
“It’s off-limits to the public with few ways to access it,” said Jack. “There’s a staircase we can use off the First-Class Smoking Room. Should be empty tonight. None of your revelers would be interested since our captain confined the bar service to the Observation Lounge.”
Everyone followed Jack through the covered promenade decks, up several levels, and down a narrow stairwell to the ship’s Isolation Ward, where the lack of windows made the air smell stale and dank. Everyone’s hunches played out. Gagged and secured to permanent fixtures by handcuffs, present and accounted for: Frank Weatherwax, the Easts, Rennie Renfro, and Alice and Carl Spitz. Neither detective had met the Spitzes before, but Babs recognized them from photos she’d seen in Strickling’s office. They had trained Toto for The Wizard of Oz.
The detectives removed their gags. Jack instructed Wiggins where to find the nearest bolt cutter, and he cut off their handcuffs. After a round of questioning, no two opinions were alike. Babs summarized what occurred inside the captain’s quarters and brought up the issue of Ivan.
“He came to our office and claimed the countess stole dogs from movie stars and planned to smuggle them overseas. According to his story, she forced him, along with others, to cooperate. He told us about her plans to ship the dogs to Australia and New Zealand, the Queen Mary’s original route for troop transport. This differs from what I overheard about the ship being diverted to Japan. Between these two accounts, we have a lot of misinformation.”
“A deliberate strategy to confuse you,” Jack added.
Given Babs’ disclosure, only some believed von Rache was the mastermind behind the dognappings and worked with the hostile Nazi sympathizers. Others didn’t.
“Hold on a second,” Babs said. She addressed the entire group but gave a special nod to her partner. He had always believed in the countess’s innocence.
“Most of you admitted involuntary or blind participation with these—fiends, or whatever you want to call them. I also get the impression none of you knew about their affiliations with controversial politics. Don’t think I’m taking sides, but I’m the one who overheard Jäger’s plans. Not once did he mention von Rache’s direct participation in their fascist coalition.”
Guy expressed his concern about the dogs prepared for sport fighting.
“Were there pit bulls?” Renfro asked.
“Looked like it, why?” replied Guy.
“Thinkin’ about Petey from the Little Rascals. He’s a pit bull. Haven’t worked with him since you saw me on the studio lot. Hope someone hasn’t messed him up in this racket. He wouldn’t survive ten minutes if thrown in the ring.”
“Their network is far greater than we’ve imagined,” said Weatherwax. “Whoever is behind this, they’ve kept us in the dark, on purpose.”
Babs addressed Henry East. “Think back to when I visited your kennel. Remember when I got knocked down by a Rottweiler?”
“I haven’t been able to figure out how those belligerent dogs got past my watch,” he explained. “Somehow, they came and went, but never stuck around for long. Not sure why, but now, since this is out in the open, I think someone funneled them through us. Then on to someone affiliated with the countess.”
Weatherwax added, “The German handlers you encountered have those answers.”
“Are you also aware that von Rache hires a German household staff?” asked Renfro.
“Rennie, when we spoke at MGM,” said Guy, “I’d like to know how you knew the countess wanted to acquire dogs?”
Renfro shrugged. “Word of mouth. Look, I’m innocent and on your side. Stumped like the rest of you.”
The Rathbones had a provisional staff who was also German, thought Babs. They could’ve been behind Leo’s abduction.
Jack asked her where she spotted the problematic dogs.
“Some sort of control room, but this ship seems to be full of them. Neither my partner nor I had ever seen them before. We sought the ones housed in the top deck kennels. If those trigger-happy fascists are still up there—”
“Too dangerous,” said Jack, who began counting. “We’ve got eleven on our end. Babs, would you say that’s an even match?”
“No idea. They might’ve stationed more of their men throughout the ship.”
“Or they might bring in reinforcements,” Jack said, “Because they can’t sail this ship with the skeleton crew I hired for tonight’s event. A smart move. This party is the perfect distraction, allowing them to work behind the scenes.”
“Jack, you know this vessel better than anyone else,” Guy said. “What do you suggest?”
He picked up the nearest in-house phone, but all those lines were dead. “I hope those Krauts didn’t tamper with the outside ones.”
Errol Flynn’s roaming eyes would soon get him into hot water. Powell, who also lost all sense of propriety, egged on Flynn, starting with who could come up with the most poignant insults. With no sober bystanders as witnesses, no one was sure who threw the first punch. Rathbone accused Flynn of being a pompous ass and no longer cared whether his wife resurfaced and discovered his inappropriate behavior.
Quite plastered, Basil was in one of those wicked moods and wanted to match his machismo against a worthy opponent. He feasted his eyes on Captain Irving’s collection of royal swords. “Tyrone, how fresh is your memory of that last scene we practiced for the Mark of Zorro?”
Power dodged a roundhouse punch, which almost grazed his cheek. “Fresh as Flynn’s mouth, why?”
“We’ve kept tight lips on the highlights of our upcoming project, but there’s always a chance he’d best me if I reprised scenes from either Robin Hood or Captain Blood.”
Tyrone said, “Don’t underestimate him. He’s had recent practice filming The Sea Hawk.”
“Ah… I forgot. Are you game for taking him on and teaching him a lesson? He wouldn’t be familiar with our choreography from Zorro.”
“Sounds like fun to me.” Tyrone clicked his tongue with smug anticipation.
Basil plucked three of the captain’s Spanish swords off the wall and tossed one over to Tyrone, who stretched and lunged to prepare for their big showdown. Then, the two of them marched over toward Errol Flynn’s direction.
“Perhaps we should settle this like gentlemen,” said Tyrone Power.
Basil recited his line from the Zorro script. “You wouldn’t care to translate that feeling into action, would you?” He tossed the third weapon to Flynn, who licked his lips and grinned at the beckoning challenge.
Flynn tested the feel of his sword and warmed up while the crowd spread out.
Basil, also getting up to speed, slashed at a bouquet of roses and separated a few buds from their stems, witnessed by an awe-stricken audience.
Flynn gave him a shameless sneer. Always one to show off, he performed the technique of sabrage and opened a bottle of champagne with his sword. “This might not bode well for you, my friend. Did you forget I killed you in both Robin Hood and Captain Blood?”
Confident that Power was in his corner, Basil thrust his chin up and said, “Looks like we have a ménage à trois de guerre, and we outnumber you.”
The theatrics began, although a threesome was not their normal way of practicing. Basil struggled to recall how a fight would play out if they were rehearsing a scene for The Three Musketeers. Dueling shadows projected as dancers on the lounge walls, adding to the ominous ambiance of impending doom.
Often, the fighting cavaliers got dangerously close to their onlookers. At one point, Tyrone Power missed a chance to skewer Flynn. Instead, he made a huge slash across Powell’s suit and ruined it beyond repair.
Basil and Flynn closed in and locked hilts, head-to-head and eye-to-eye.
“It’s curtains for you, Rathbone,” Flynn called out, punctuating his sentence with an embarrassing hiccough.
Tensions escalated the moment Violet, Ouida, and the countess returned to the bar while their chaperones tried to outdo each other. Basil tried to take no notice, only to encounter more mayhem. An errant wire-haired Fox Terrier, on the run from Myrna and drawn by the scent of food, catapulted onto a wheeled serving cart and knocked it over. Ouida tried to rush in between the dueling trio but skidded on a fallen chocolate cream pie.
Flynn plowed into Clark Gable, causing him to tumble backward. Gable hit his head on the hard floor.
“He’s dead!” The countess went into hysterics and called out for a doctor.
Basil overheard Flynn say to the countess, “Let’s make a run for my car. The gossip columnists love to get creative with their headlines and might give a whole new meaning to my film, Captain Blood, if I really killed him.”
The brawlers barricaded Basil from chasing after Flynn as he dropped his sword and abandoned their battle of wits and wills. Flynn grabbed von Rache by the arm and used the chaos as camouflage as the two of them high-tailed it out of there. In the meantime, the lounge lizards and the barflies ignored Gable. They carried on with their name-calling while the slugfest continued, producing far better entertainment than the live musicians.
Hellman hopped off her barstool, informing Hammett she’d find the nearest payphone and call the police. She scorned Basil on the way out.
“How about some free advice?” she said. “From a familiar story, The Thin Man. ‘The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two.’ Rathbone, there’s a jail cell waiting—with your name on it.”
Babs let Jack Stewart take charge, given he knew the layout of the Queen Mary better than anyone else. She asked, “How can we smuggle the dogs off the boat without being noticed?”
“What about lowering them in the lifeboats?” Guy suggested. “Isn’t that how people got off the Titanic?”
“Unlike the ill-prepared Titanic, the Queen should have twenty-five motor-driven steel lifeboats, most at thirty-six feet long,” said Jack. “All unsinkable and with the capacity of carrying four busloads. Since Wiggins is a handyman, he and I will know the nuts and bolts of operating heavy machinery. I guess it’ll be up to us to launch them, since we’ll probably need to do it manually and not rely upon doing it from the Captain’s Bridge.”
Henry East said he felt confident enough to find the kennels on the top deck without their help and volunteered to lead the rest up there.
Guy tossed aside his blind man’s cane.
Jack picked it up and claimed it as his own. “This might seem like a burden to you, but I’d never discard something I might need to beat off an angry mob—human, dog, or otherwise.”
“I gave this lassie’s ex-husband his just desserts by using my mop and pail,” Wiggins said, referring to Babs. “You never know when an everyday object can come in handy.”
Jack found a chalkboard and drew a rough diagram. “Here’s the rundown. The dogs you want are in the kennels. Now, the bad news. They’re near where those blackguards held the captain, and I’m sure they’ve left men on continuous watch. Therefore, we need to board the ones furthest away from trouble. Each lifeboat has a radio telephone, which I’ll use to call for help. Give me a show of hands. Who knows how to operate a small motorboat?”
Jack frowned. “Not many. All I can say is once you rescue all the dogs, try to pair up the best you can.”
“What about the portable cages?” Weatherwax asked. “That’ll be the easiest way to transport the dogs in a hurry.”
“Release them right before boarding,” Jack said. “Choppy waters tonight. If anything happens and they go overboard, you don’t want them trapped in a cage where they’ll sink and drown. Find the flotation devices. Once we lower your lifeboat, put yours on first. The children’s sizes should fit most of your medium to larger dogs. You might have to get inventive with the smallest ones. There will be quite a drop from the top deck to the water’s surface, and they’re liable to get excited.”
“What do we do once we’re on the water?” asked Babs.
“Wait for me,” said Jack. “I know how to navigate these dark shores toward San Pedro, so you’ll stay close and follow unless we run into snags.”
“What about my truck?” Wiggins said. “I can’t leave it here.”
“He has a point. We need to coordinate what to do when we get to San Pedro,” said East. “Babs, Guy, what were your original plans?”
“We had no idea the rescue would involve so many people,” said Guy. “Even worse, now with one driver and vehicle—Wiggins’ pickup truck. All of us can’t fit.”
“Ivan had volunteered to use the limo he borrowed from the countess,” said Babs, “before we knew he’d turn traitor.”
“What did you plan afterward?” asked Weatherwax.
“Put the dogs into both cars and take them straight to the pound until placed with their owners,” said Babs.
“Except for Toto and Asta,” Guy said. “We figured Sir Henry could babysit for them overnight at our office. Then we’d give them door-to-door service at MGM tomorrow.”
East offered a better solution. “We’ll make room for them at my place. Have you ever been to the city pound?”
“Just to file a report for the Rathbones. Why?” Babs asked.
“There is no actual shelter. Lots of talk about building one, but they’ll just process the dogs and ship them out to the nearest humane society. Depending on space in those facilities, they might continue to break up the pack and disperse the dogs all over the county. Getting past all the red tape to return them to their rightful owners could get way too complicated. Boarding them at our kennels, even if temporary, will be a better choice.”
“To be clear,” Gale added, “We’ll keep the celebrity dogs, not the fighters.”
Everyone knew their orders. They synchronized their watches and aimed for success.
Jack wiped his brow and said, “Godspeed and God Save the Queen.”
Everyone on the rescue team clambered to the top deck. In nothing short of a miracle, they retrieved the dogs without attracting attention. Jack and Wiggins shuttled the detectives and the trainers with their dogs into the lifeboats, with Carl Spitz being the last one to launch.
When Spitz was ready to board, trouble surfaced. Otto Angermann headed toward them, wrangling a group of bloodthirsty attack dogs. Giving them a command in German, he unfastened their leashes, and the dogs charged toward Jack, Wiggins, and Spitz.
“Forget about us. Get in the boat!” Jack demanded of Spitz.
Spitz shoved a small bag into Jack’s hand. “Take these. They’re dog treats. Throw them as far as you can in the opposite direction—to distract them.”
Spitz scrambled into the lifeboat. Wiggins engaged its descent. When the attack dogs got within range, Jack pitched the kibble like trying to win the World Series. The dogs turned tail and went after the scattered treats, even harder to find in the dark. This bought valuable time for Wiggins to ready the final lifeboat for Jack, but his clumsy janitorial supplies kept getting in the way.
“Why do you insist on dragging those things around like they’re prized possessions?” asked Jack. “You can always replace them.”
Wiggins gave his reasons. “You saw value in Guy’s cane.”
Unable to use his dogs as weapons, Otto drew a pistol and charged forward. “Halt! How dare you steal our dogs!”
Wiggins swung his mop at Otto, but struck his shoulder, which caused its wooden shaft to snap. “I thought my mop would last me ’til Kingdom Come.”
The German fired his last bullet, shooting a hole through Wiggins’ pail, now useless.
This gave Jack the opportunity to put his fencing skills to use. Before Otto had time to reload, Jack lunged, and using Guy’s cane, he knocked Otto’s gun out of his hand. He pinned him against the railing by thrusting the cane into his chest. On that cue, Wiggins picked up his bucket and whacked Otto in the head, who passed out on the deck. Jack retrieved the gun and Otto’s extra ammunition. Then he got back to his lifeboat, which Wiggins deployed.
Getting to safety proved to be another challenge, and one that would involve quick thinking. As soon as Jack’s lifeboat reached the water’s surface, the Germans mobilized at lightning speed. They launched their own lifeboats and followed. The pistol, which Jack lifted from Otto, was almost useless since it was a short-range weapon, and the fog made visibility difficult. The fascists also outnumbered them with both men and firepower.
Jack radioed for law enforcement while rough swells rocked his lifeboat. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Chief Engineer Jack Stewart in a lifeboat launched off the RMS Queen Mary. Mayday! Armed men, holding the ship’s captain hostage. Lifeboats deployed. Heading from Long Beach to San Pedro. We’re being followed by Germans with weapons. Also in lifeboats.”
All of the sudden, he realized he’d need to distinguish their boats from their enemies’. “Shooters wearing Nazi military uniforms. Our boats all contain dogs, except mine. I will signal using semaphore. Will also use signal flares and pneumatic air whistles for identification. Urgent! Need immediate assistance.”
The Germans’ boats drew closer, and much to Jack’s surprise, they also contained dogs, but fighter dogs, so he had to radio once again to clarify. Even worse, as they headed toward safety in San Pedro, Jack noticed the Germans positioned their boats to trap the canine rescue team between them and their Japanese fishing boat connections.
He called again and asked to alert the Coast Guard. In turn, they must’ve received additional help from the fire department. When all the boats got close enough to shore, the local firemen turned on their high-pressure fire hoses to keep the German and Japanese boats at bay. This allowed valuable time to dock and for the rescue team to escape.
The doggy gang came ashore and met up with Wiggins waiting by his truck, accompanied by the police. After they settled a few of their immediate concerns, Babs scooted into the front seat of the pickup with Wiggins. Guy and Sir Henry sat in his cargo bed with Renfro and two German Shepherds. Since Ivan’s limo was no longer at their disposal, the cops offered to pile the rest of them into the backseats of their squad cars. A motorcade of black and whites prepared to escort everyone up to Hollywood, with their red and blue lights flashing. Jack Stewart stayed behind with the Coast Guard to deal with the crisis on the Queen Mary.
Once Babs and Wiggins hit the road, she became anxious. “Fill me in on what I missed.”
“After I launched the last lifeboat containing the engineer,” he explained, “I made a mad dash down several levels to the gangplank to retrieve my truck. That’s when I spotted Errol Flynn and the countess making a quick getaway. Police cars swarmed the place, but they managed to take off.
“I waited a few minutes so as not to look suspicious, but overheard on police band radios that a bar fight broke out. The cops had orders to haul everyone, save the ship’s employees, down to the station. Thank my lucky stars, I still had on my custodian’s uniform and hadn’t had time to change.”
“What about William Powell, Myrna, poor Nigel Bruce, and his wife, Violet? They didn’t deserve this.” Realizing Ouida Rathbone would also spend the night behind bars, Babs kept the humor to herself. Of all people, she felt the woman had dished out enough punishment that she deserved it to boomerang back.
“They’ll prove their innocence soon enough,” Wiggins said. “You worry too much.”
“Let’s hope the police will distract everyone from discovering the dogs are missing,” she said.
A few miles later, Wiggins complained about his steering. “We passed a lot of construction back there. I could’ve run over a nail, and we have a way to go.”
“Don’t you have a spare?” asked Babs.
“That tire was my spare. I tossed the bald one after I distracted the security guard on the night you snuck into the place in the Hollywood Hills.”
By the time they chugged into the Easts’ kennels, Wiggins was riding on one of his rims. San Pedro police had already radioed the local Hollywood precinct. They came out to examine the dogs, took statements from the trainers, and put in a request for a search warrant for the countess’s residence. The detectives decided it was best to keep Toto and Asta under the Easts’ care until they could make the proper arrangements for a personal delivery.
The following morning, the police stormed the von Rache estate, along with immigration agents and the FBI. Zoo officials seized the countess’s leopard, along with any other exotic animals. Handlers took the house cats and promised to keep close tabs on them. Authorities warned Babs to keep her distance, as the frenzied countess hurled marble and bronze statuettes at her captors.
“Why are they destroying my house and taking my babies?” she shrieked in a feverish pitch.
At least nobody had to fire a weapon before they wrangled the irrational woman into handcuffs. Making a clean sweep of the property, the police apprehended her, along with her entire household staff, including Ivan.
Their shocking revelation came when Carl Spitz supervised a team of trainers and their assistants and rounded up the remaining dogs for identification. He summoned the detectives, since they were the ones who had been to the compound before.
He pointed to a group of cages. “These don’t look like the fancy purebreds you described.”
Babs’ mouth got dry. “They’re…a bunch of plain old mutts.”
Guy confirmed they weren’t the animals they witnessed earlier.
Weatherwax added, “None are mine. They look like strays.”
“Like Sir Henry,” Babs murmured. “Without the talent.”
Spitz mentioned the countess might’ve found them wandering the nearby hills and wanted to rescue them from predators like hawks, bobcats, and coyotes.
Babs signaled her team to stop and excused herself to speak to the officer in charge. “Sir, my trainers just called to my attention. These dogs aren’t the ones we’re after. Woman to woman,” she said, “Do you mind if I have a word with the countess—alone?”
Hesitant at first, he granted her request and explained his prisoner would remain handcuffed. Babs could have relative privacy while still under their watchful eye. She pulled the countess aside, and they sat under a shade tree.
“What is happening? Why are you arresting me?” Von Rache was almost nonsensical and wheezed from overbreathing. “I had nothing to do with the fight on the Queen Mary. Flynn might be guilty. Everyone was drunk, but I was just his date for the evening. I never even threw a punch.”
Babs forced herself to remain calm and focused.
The countess choked out her question. “Oh my God, Clark Gable! Did he die?”
How come no one informed me? Babs had to pretend this was already old news rather than a sudden eye-opener. She took a deep breath, swore to herself not to react, and redirected her inquiry. “This is about another matter. When you…invited my partner and me over for the first time…dogs swam in your pool, and you served balls to dogs like Golden and Labrador Retrievers on your tennis court. These looked like show-quality dogs. Where are they now?”
“From day to day, it’s impossible to keep track of them. I never noticed which was which.”
Babs didn’t buy it. “Have you hidden them? Were you tipped off? I’d suggest being upfront if you expect to prove your innocence.”
“New animals came and went all the time.”
“Why?” Babs asked.
“Because of my deal with clearing the animal shelters. To me, this was just a dog paradise. Since I knew I’d be giving them away, I never became too attached or gave them names, except Baby, my leopard. My only exception.”
Shelters? Babs bit her lip and tried to read into that.
The hysterical woman continued to babble. “When we spoke at the dog show, I told the truth about not owning a dog. I loved dogs so much that I rescued a bunch of these mutts and swore to find them happy homes.”
Nonplused, all that came out of Babs’ mouth was, “You’re a pound raider?”
Teary-eyed, the countess nodded.
Well, doggone it… “What did Ivan… Were you in alliance with those self-righteous fascists?”
“Dahling, what are you talking about?” Von Rache’s eyes were bloodshot. Her makeup streaked. “When I moved to America, I escaped the Nazis. Are you telling me they’re hiding here in Los Angeles?”
The countess pleaded her case. “I planned on teaming up with Bette Davis. She’s the president of the Tailwaggers Society of Southern California. Two summers ago, she threw a party to raise money for an animal hospital and training programs for guide dogs. We discussed ideas for a garden party, which I planned to host right here in the next few months.
“If you ask her, Bette will explain that they held a raffle as part of their fundraising efforts. She’ll also brag about how Howard Hughes purchased almost all the raffle tickets for a chance to have a date with her, which, by the way, never happened. Wallace Ford had the lucky ticket and won the prize.”
Babs was still stunned but had a gut feeling the woman was telling the truth.
“Your name alone threw me. Why Rache? Why revenge? Arthur Conan Doyle used it as a clue in one of his Sherlock Holmes stories, but I guess it wouldn’t mean a thing if you’ve never read them. How did you get your unusual name?”
The countess tried to laugh through her tears. “You can thank my great-great-great-great-grandfather for that. He vowed for the destruction of his enemies over a territorial dispute. Nobility nonsense. Now, it follows me like a curse.”
Babs needed to avoid self-incrimination. “Then tell me this. Someone…in your neighborhood recovered Basil Rathbone’s Cocker Spaniel roaming on your property. His home is in Bel Air, which makes it doubtful he got to the Hollywood Hills on his own. The person who found him reported it to the police, and they returned him to his owners. Are you saying that you had nothing to do with his disappearance?”
“I don’t recall any Cocker Spaniels around here. Ivan, or one of my house servants, must’ve been behind it.” The countess was so panic-stricken, she started shaking. “I’m sorry this happened.”
Wait ’til I have a word with my partner, she thought. He was the one who had such a good feeling about trusting Ivan.
Babs gave the cops the go-ahead to take von Rache back into custody. She continued asking questions of the officer in charge.
“Looks like we’ve cornered the wrong person. I suspect Walter Jäger set her up as his decoy. She claims she has no notion of what was happening, and I’m inclined to believe her.”
He went by the book. “That’s for us and the Feds to find out.”
“To be fair, I think she deserves some leniency. I’d bet that the gang coerced some of our trainers into stealing those animals and used her Bay of Wolves Canyon residence as a clearinghouse to re-distribute them elsewhere. Or the Nazis could have also done it behind their backs or used a combination of these methods. Who knows? She was so involved with her philanthropy, it appears their activities buzzed right past her.”
Not everyone has the brains to match their bank account, Babs thought, but she kept those opinions to herself.
Before she left the premises, Babs wanted a word with Special Agent William Wright and Special Agent Sherman Lockwood, the FBI agents who gave her the third degree when she got arrested for trespassing. Compared to the Los Angeles police, they were less than cordial.
Babs returned to the Easts’ by taxi. Since Wiggins left his broken-down pickup at the kennels, he wedged himself into Guy’s sidecar, and they rode together on his motorcycle. City officials joined everyone at the kennels after their blitz at the countess’s.
During a rare moment of calm, Babs contacted her studio rep at MGM.
“Operator, this is Babs Norman. I’d like to speak with Howard Strickling. Tell him it’s a high-priority matter.”
Three secretaries transferred her call before he picked up.
“Strickling here. Oh, Babs…the lady detective. Any luck?”
“Today’s your deadline.”
“I bet you felt like poor Dorothy, trapped in the witch’s castle and watching the sand running out in the hourglass.”
“We found both of your dogs and many more.”
“I guess you’re calling about the reward money.”
Babs felt shy. “Well, that, and…my partner and I need to avoid publicity.”
“This story is sensational! We have to post this in the LA Times and the trades.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind, please keep our names out of it. No photos, either. Just like you handled everything when we returned your stolen pairs of ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz. As private investigators, it could undermine other cases in the future. We’re the exception in this town. Everyone else wants to bask in the limelight.”
“Gotcha. Where’s everyone now?”
“For the time being, we’ve penned the dogs at the Hollywood Kennels. Long story—but the crooks behind the operation threatened many of the entertainment industry’s top dog trainers into assisting them.”
“You don’t say? This calls for some kind of celebration. Let me arrange something for tomorrow.”
“Too soon. We should honor our heroes after we return the missing pets. We also recovered the missing contestants from the Beverly Hills Dog Show. At any rate, we’ll need to orchestrate a combined effort between pre-filed police reports, incidents filed at the city pound, and the ASPCA. Oh, yes…and the zoo.”
“Why don’t I ask my secretary to organize that? Producers from both The Thin Man and The Wizard of Oz should be able to lend some of their staff to help. It’ll be great publicity for MGM to contribute back to the community. I’ll invite the Mayor of Los Angeles, the Chief of Police, reporters, a few other muckety mucks, and all of those who reunited with their lost pets. This’ll be the biggest blowout in town.”