After all involved returned the missing dogs, publicity hound Howard Strickling planned a gala event on the MGM studio lot, complete with the press. In his words, “Movies are magic, and this is where they’re made.” On the significant guest list, besides Guy, Babs and the Dog of the Day, Sir Henry, also hailed as a hero: Judy Garland to pose with Toto, Myrna Loy and William Powell to take photos with Asta, all the trainers, Basil and Ouida Rathbone, Nigel Bruce and Violet, Abel Wiggins along with his family, Jack Stewart, everyone’s spouses, and the exonerated Countess Velma von Rache.
Also included: the producers and director from The Thin Man, as many as they could gather from the cast of The Wizard of Oz (including a few munchkins—good publicity), the Marx Brothers with the addition of Gummo, so all five brothers were present, and with a brief appearance of Gummo, the monkey, courtesy of Renfro who wanted to introduce him to his namesake. Guy kept a safe distance. He didn’t want to lose another hat.
If it wasn’t for Officer Jefferson Hope and Carlo from the LAPD Canine Training Center, Babs would’ve never had the chance to meet Sir Henry. Also in attendance were Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman, Tyrone Power, and his wife, Annabella. Noticeably absent: Leo the Lion, MGM’s mascot, because too many were afraid of him, and Errol Flynn, who spent the night in jail on a variety of violations, despite recovering his beloved dog, Arno.
Dog owners reveled with their reunited dogs. Even those who didn’t own dogs wanted in on the action. According to a quote from the Los Angeles Examiner, “The dogs had the full run of the MGM lot. People tossed more balls than at a carnival arcade and threw enough sticks to thatch a roof.”
Babs wanted to get down on her hands and knees in front of Countess Velma.
“From the beginning, all signs convinced me you were the guilty party. It’s tough for me to admit I was wrong, but I’m so sorry.”
“Dear child,” the countess confessed, “I had no idea my butler helped coordinate a smuggling ring with members of my staff and others beyond. It’s hard to believe I was too busy and perhaps too ignorant to notice. I’m the one who owes everyone an apology.”
Rathbone had snuck up from behind and stood over Babs’ shoulder. “Quick, open your purse. Make sure no one sees this.”
She noticed a handful of crumpled bills. “Huh? What’s this?”
“The best I could do on such short notice. It’s my wife’s fault the police got the reward when it should’ve gone to you. Ouida needs to thank you for retrieving our cocker. She was rude and now owes you an apology.”
“Basil, please—”
“Once in a while, it wouldn’t hurt her to eat a little humble pie,” he whispered. “On another note, Nigel Bruce deserves some credit. Despite my animosities toward Errol Flynn, he suggested I throw down the gauntlet.”
“Why he…I asked him to inform you what we were up to so your wife wouldn’t spoil our plans. Not to provoke a free-for-all.”
“Hold your horses. It was the perfect distraction. Kept my wife off your tail, so you could bring the real criminals to justice. You took them down, even if you went after the wrong target.
“In a roundabout way, he also clued me into those Friends…or whatever…of New Germany, and their plot to finance their organization from the seizure and sale of animals, along with assets from gambling from their dogfighting matches.”
Babs didn’t dare tell him those so-called “friends” also planned on holding him for ransom.
All of the sudden, a cocker ran toward Basil. He couldn’t resist picking it up.
“That’s not Leo,” Babs said. “Whose dog is it?”
He enjoyed every bit of the dog’s affection. “One of Elizabeth Taylor’s, I believe.”
“Better put him down. Your wife is making a beeline in our direction. All we need is another rampage.”
Basil laughed it off and promised he’d return the pup to its owner. “One last thing. Who do you think won the contest?”
“What?” Babs’ forehead turned into so many furrows, one could’ve mistaken it for a map of the Los Angeles freeways.
“For the better detectives—Sherlock Holmes and Watson, or Nick and Nora Charles.”
“Since when did you have a competition?” she asked, but never received a satisfactory answer. Basil chased after the cocker, and Ouida approached her. Babs sensed her hesitance.
“I’m sorry for any inconveniences I made,” she said in a soft tone and tried to keep it between the two of them.
“Please let me assure you nothing ever happened or will happen between your husband and me. As trite as this sounds, our association was in every respect professional,” Babs explained.
Let’s hope our peace treaty stands, Babs thought.
As corny as it sounded, in this doggone town, she needed more friends than enemies.
Guy knew his partner needed to tie up loose ends. While Babs tended to those matters, he enjoyed chaperoning Sir Henry, and others loved giving him a hero’s welcome. Sir Henry took a fancy to his fellow canines, including a scruffy little mutt close to Toto’s size whom Humphrey Bogart chased after.
“Hey Pard, come here, you cute little fella,” Bogart said. The dog, always beyond an arm’s reach, seemed more interested in Sir Henry than a human.
Rennie Renfro caught up with him. “His real name is Zero, and it was almost bon voyage for this poor little pup. Those Krauts had evil designs on him.”
“Well, ya know…I kinda got used to calling him Pard after filming High Sierra,” Bogie replied.
Guy put the leash back on Sir Henry’s collar and joined their conversation. “He’s in your next film?”
Bogart picked him up, and Zero licked him all over his face. “He steals the show. In the film, he’s supposed to be my bad luck charm, but I guess I shouldn’t give too much away. The studio won’t do a widespread release of the film until the beginning of next year.”
“Is he yours?” Guy asked.
“He’s offered to buy him, but I don’t know,” said Renfro. “If every actor took one of their co-stars home, I’d have nobody left to train.” He turned to Bogart and asked, “Come to think of it, don’t you already own a few dogs?”
“My wife, Mayo, and I own a few. Those dognappers had their hands on my Newfie, Cappy. Thought he’d get too excited around all the people at this party, so I left him at home.”
Guy handed Humphrey Bogart his business card.
Bogart’s eyebrows arched as he did a double take. “You’re a real son of a gun, shamus?”
“An actor, too, but it’s doubtful any casting director would put me in that sort of tough guy role. I can talk the talk, but I’ll never look the part.”
“Everyone wants to typecast you as the patsy or the fall guy, am I right?” Bogart asked.
Guy nodded. “Once in a while, I’ll get roles for a soda jerk or a filling station attendant. Even the dumb idiot. You’d be the dead ringer for an on-screen bird dog. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I dunno. A lot of folks have stereotyped me as a bad apple, if you know what I mean. Well, I’ll keep your card in case another one of my dogs goes missing. Really appreciate you bringing Cappy back home. You’ve become somewhat famous among dog owner circles.”
“This case was unusual. Our agency does more than pet retrieval.”
“Just yanking your chain, bud.” Bogart handed Zero back to his trainer and re-examined Guy’s card before pocketing it. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. There’s always some nut job who wants to extort funds or threaten those with fame. You never know.”
Despite rumors, Clark Gable was still alive. Henry East presented him with Bruno, the bulldog he’d been training, who ran off when Babs first came to visit his kennels. Bruno was one of the lucky ones whom the Germans hadn’t dognapped.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Gable. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the hind or hair of my Irish Setter, Lord Reily, and while filming Strange Cargo, someone gave me a Labrador Retriever. Add those in with the others, and I have my hands full right now.”
Beside himself, East announced, “Anyone want a well-behaved bulldog?”
Babs nudged Wiggins’ children to check him out. Between the kids and the dog, it was love at first sight. They convinced their pop to take him home.
Both Asta and Toto sensed the special scent of “hero” coming from Babs and wanted to show their appreciation. The moment she left the kids with Bruno, the two pups hugged her ankles and prevented her from taking another step.
She called out for help. “Am I being marked or cornered? Not sure if I understand this doggie language.”
Carl Spitz, Toto’s trainer, came to her rescue. “They just want to show you their gratitude.”
“Do I have permission to pick one up?”
Spitz snapped his fingers to get Toto’s attention. He gave her a funny whistle-like command, and she leapt all the way from the ground and into Babs’ arms.
“You should’ve warned me,” said Babs, shaking from the sudden surprise.
“I think she wants you to scratch her behind her ears,” said Carl.
“Don’t you think Asta might get jealous?”
Asta rolled over on his back with his paws in the air. He wanted a belly rub.
“I’ll need an extra set of hands to play with both,” Babs said.
Guy arrived just in time to bail her out.
Despite Babs’ worries, Howard Strickling honored his word. He borrowed a bullhorn and stepped onto a small platform. “Stop your cameras!” he announced to the press. Then he invited the detectives to join him and handed a check to Babs.
He said, “Because of their persistence, ingenuity, and hard work, our movie star dogs are back in proper hands. Give these heroes a hearty round of applause.”
Requests came from the audience to hear what they planned with their reward.
Cheered on by his partner, Guy went first. “My car bit the dust in the middle of our investigation. One of the first things I’ll do is to shop around for a new one and trade in my motorcycle. Then maybe I’ll fix up the office. I’d like to dedicate a special corner, complete with a soft bed and chew toys, for our valiant mascot, Sir Henry of the Baskervilles.”
Upon hearing his name, Sir Henry woofed and sat up, begging for attention.
Babs waited for the applause to die down. “Given there’s a Wizard of Oz theme today, and the film’s last line is, ‘There’s no place like home,’ all I can think of is that I need to move out of the residential hotel where I’m staying and settle into something more appropriate.”
“Well, I might have the solution,” William Powell shouted from the audience. He pushed through the crowd with his wife in tow and joined Babs onstage.
“The guy in Oz turned out to be a fraud, but this good old wizard might conjure some real magic.”
He grabbed the bullhorn. “Some of you might know, I recently married this wonderful woman and fantastic actress, Diana Lewis. Before we were a couple, she made a handful of successful films. She purchased a modest house in the Hollywood Hills and paid off its mortgage. We’ve been so busy, we haven’t even had time to take our honeymoon.
“Oh heavens, here I’ve done…how many? Maybe sixty movies or more by now, and I’m still a lousy actor and stumble over my own words.” He turned to his wife. “Honey, why don’t you explain?”
“In honor of bringing back Asta so William can continue making his Thin Man movies, I present to you, Babs Norman, the keys to this sweet little cottage,” said Diana.
Babs almost lost her voice. “I…I don’t know what to say except…thanks.”
“Next week, we’ll put the deed in your name,” Diana explained. “As long as you can pay the property taxes and keep the electricity on, it’s yours.”
Once again, honoring the detectives’ request not to have their pictures taken, Strickling rallied everyone else for a group photo, which included all dog owners who reunited with their pets. Babs took the break to walk over to Wiggins.
“Don’t think I’m leaving you out, but I can’t tear this check into pieces to divide it,” she said. “Give me time to go to the bank. See me in the office on Monday, late afternoon. Have any plans with your share of the money?”
“When I realized the tow and new tires would cost more than I could afford, the Easts bailed me out,” he said. “Need to pay them back. In the meantime, I also have to figure out where I can borrow stuff to clean your building. You were already in your lifeboat, but while I tried to ensure Jack’s escape, I broke the shaft of my mop, and that no-good Hun, Otto Braun, shot a hole in my bucket.”
Babs assured him they could’ve never rescued the dogs without him. He gave her such a bear hug that her feet lifted off the ground.
Babs spotted Myrna and caught her attention. Up close, something looked out of place.
“Are you trying to hide a black eye with makeup?” Babs asked.
“Is it obvious? I thought it faded enough by now.”
“Please don’t tell me you got it in the bar fight,” said Babs.
“Far more embarrassing. Happened when I ruined my dress, and it got caught in a phone booth. I hope the bruise doesn’t show in any publicity photos,” Myrna replied.
“Oh, about your loaner gown… Let’s just say it met its demise in the engine room.”
Myrna shook her head. “Don’t worry. I can no longer squeeze into it.”
“Anyway, I need to redeem myself,” said Babs.
Myrna tried to focus through the haze of alcohol. “For what?”
“For your arrest and a night in jail. Please tell me. In your own words, what happened?”
Myrna threw back her head and laughed. “Police came and raided the joint. Anyone, including Asta’s pup, who wasn’t an employee on the Queen Mary, went into one of their paddy wagons. Our jailers fell in love with him.”
“Myrna, I went into shock when you brought the fake dog into the lounge. I knew he was an imposter because I encountered the genuine Asta earlier in a locked stateroom. You must tell me where you found him.”
“That morning, I went over to the Hollywood Kennels to pick up one of his identical puppies. Instead of finding the Easts, I encountered an ill-tempered guy, a thin man… Can’t think of his name. He resembled that expressive German actor from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, but much shorter. Conrad Veidt, or maybe Max Schreck, but without his Nosferatu makeup. I always mix up the two.”
Babs shuddered. Kommandant Walter Jäger.
“He gave me the toughest time, even when I insisted I’d give the dog back. I think he planned on selling the false dog, too. He’d pocket the money for his wretched organization and assume no one would know the difference.”
“When the countess saw you bringing him into the lounge, I thought she would croak.” You don’t even want to know my response.
“Despite everything, Myrna, for the longest time, I imagined you were behind Asta’s abduction. When you appeared with the look-alike at the Beverly Hills Dog Show, you convinced me you were up to no good. Well, I was wrong. Please set aside any hard feelings.”
“Babs, think nothing of it. Contrary to what you’d think, William and I had a blast spending the night in jail. We recited lines from our films and entertained everyone. Even the drunks. We were more intoxicated than they were.”
She couldn’t understand Myrna’s logic, but at last, Babs unloaded the burden she had kept inside.
“It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t acknowledge your involvement,” Babs said to Nigel Bruce and his wife Violet, in private.
Violet gave Babs a hug. “Sweetheart, I had the time of my life.”
Nigel chuckled like Old St. Nick. “Little lady, I have a confession to make.”
Babs’ eyes grew in size. “No, don’t tell me—”
“Trust me. It’s not what you think. I figured you needed a distraction. Can’t vouch for Basil’s display of bravado, but yours truly spilled his drink in Flynn’s lap to help spark the fire.”
Babs covered her mouth to avoid looking too unladylike in case she bellowed out loud.
“Getting me a role in the radio play was ingenious and far more fun than sneaking around as a cabin maid.”
“My dear lady, your methods were unconventional and seemed far from logical,” said Nigel. “In my book, you and your partner turned out to be smarter detectives than Holmes or Watson.”
Now, since Babs and Guy wrapped this case, they needed to discuss their plans going forward. Should they share custody of Sir Henry, now, since Babs would be a new homeowner? Would she buy a car and relieve Guy of being her chauffeur? Two unlikely celebrants, however, cut short their conversation, FBI Special Agents Sherman Lockwood and William Wright. They congratulated the detectives for their return of the canine stars and for winning the reward.
“For a moment,” Babs said, “the thought occurred to me that the Nazis might’ve wanted to collect the bounty for themselves—from the studios—for Asta and Toto.”
“After we interrogated Jäger,” said Wright, “He said the Japanese would pay far more at auction.”
“Well, Ivan had everyone fooled,” said Guy. “He and his cronies made everyone think von Rache was the guilty party.”
“Speaking about Ivan,” Babs said. “Is it true what Jäger said about the Nazis and the Japanese taking advantage of slackened security along the California coastline?”
The agents confirmed. The lack of protection allowed them the opportunity to exchange money, intelligence, and weapons. In their specific case, also for trading dogs.
“I guess now we know why Ivan always gave us the impression he had spent time by the water,” Guy said. “He must’ve done his illicit business by the docks when he wasn’t working for von Rache.”
“My partner kept believing in the countess’s innocence. I felt the opposite,” said Babs. What I can’t understand is how all their activity got past her.”
“Her property has lots of acreage,” said Lockwood. “One of our prisoners admitted he handed off dogs to whoever manned the guardhouse by her front gates. She would’ve never known what happened. That was one of many ways they pulled it off.”
“If the Germans planned on turning over the Queen Mary to the Japanese, the dogs and the celebrities would be of value. What plans did they have in store for the trainers?” asked Guy.
“They planned on confining the celebrities to their staterooms. Given the size of this ship, they could’ve kept the trainers in the Isolation Ward. That’s, of course, before you released them. They planned on turning over the trainers to the Japanese as POWs to dispose of however they saw fit. I doubt if either the Germans or the Japanese could trust them to keep quiet,” explained Wright.
Babs shuddered to think about a worst-case scenario.
“Their timing was uncanny,” said Lockwood. “The Germans had prearranged to meet the Japanese fisherman to exchange their fighter dogs, but running into your group stealing back their celebrity dogs—that was never part of their plans.”
“You were fortunate they launched their lifeboats closest to where they held the captain hostage, and you got a jump-start, using the ones on the far end, by the stern and under the cover of darkness,” Wright said.
“We also had the ship’s engineer on our side,” said Guy. “How did they expect to hijack an ocean liner with limited personnel?”
Lockwood explained, “From what we’ve gathered, they had a trained crew ready to board the next day when everyone was sleeping off their hangovers. After all, the Queen Mary is a luxury hotel with plenty of staterooms. They had a backup plan to drug the guests to make sure they wouldn’t be going anywhere.”
Without warning, Guy flinched. Babs, embarrassed to mention it earlier, pointed out he had rubbed his arms throughout their entire conversation. Then she felt her skin prickle. The FBI agents also appeared to twitch and chafe with similar symptoms.
“Looks like our case has gone full circle,” Guy said. He laughed, despite his obvious suffering. “We started out with a chance celebrity encounter at a veterinarian’s office. Babs found a box of stray kittens in the alley behind our office building. She also rescued an adult, who she thought was their mother.”
“I named her Miss Marple after Agatha Christie’s character,” Babs said, interrupting.
Guy tried to downplay the itching, but it only got worse. “Turned out the adult had fleas. Not much different from the Nazis spreading their insidious influence across Los Angeles.”
Lockwood cracked a reluctant smile. “An interesting analogy.”
Wright didn’t get it and asked for an explanation.
“Think of it,” Babs said. “They’re great at hiding. Yet they make their host uncomfortable. When they infest the place, they’re hard as the devil to get rid of.”
“I’d say that’s a close comparison,” said Guy.
“Makes me never want to bring home a stray dog or cat,” said Lockwood. “A good scare tactic to dissuade the kids.”
“Guy, consider giving Sir Henry a flea bath after you return home,” said Babs. “I think someone’s pet brought along a few unwanted party crashers.”
Wright concluded, “Despite our initial arrest of the wrong person, on behalf of the FBI, we’d like to acknowledge the two of you for your bravery and for helping solve this complicated but vital case for our national security. If J. Edgar Hoover was here, he’d thank you personally.”
After the special agents departed, Babs realized neither she nor her partner received praise from the Los Angeles police. An ongoing problem ever since they started their agency. Guy gave her a kiss on the cheek for a job well done and headed in a separate direction.
When Babs went over to speak with William Powell and his wife, she didn’t realize she’d have company. Nor did she expect to bear witness to an argument. Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman also desired a word. Hammett gave Powell one of those no excuses looks. Powell scratched his head. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His wife, Diana, held tight onto his arm.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Hammett stopped to light his cigarette. Each passing second ramped up the tension. “Didn’t you propose a wager the other night at the Observation Bar?”
“If you knew how much I had to drink, you’d consider it a slip of the tongue and call it a day,” said Powell.
Hammett stood there with his hands in his pockets and stared at him in silence.
“What valuable contribution did you offer in recovering those stolen dogs?” asked Powell. “Every time I turned around, the two of you were at the bar with drinks in your hands and holding your own private party.”
“You don’t consider starting a fight to distract people from discovering the rescue operation a valuable contribution?” Hammett asked.
“You did that on purpose? So, are you taking credit for throwing the first punch?”
Lillian smirked. “No, I am.”
Powell’s eyes grew wide. In slow motion, the corners of his mouth turned into a disbelieving smile.
Myrna broke the stalemate. She surprised everyone by appearing to switch sides. “I like broads when they prove they’re tough, but wasn’t part of the wager about coming up with the best detective story?”
“Game’s over,” said Powell. “The countess is no longer the guilty party.”
Myrna was in her cups. “I don’t care. Show me your stuff. I’m in the mood to be entertained.”
A flush bloomed all over Hammett’s cheeks. Even his ears turned red. “Well, my lady and I didn’t write any…”
“Too much of the free hooch gave you writer’s block?” asked Powell. “That was some shindig on that fancy ship. All bets are off.”
“‘Tomorrow I’ll buy you a whole lot of detective stories, but don’t worry your pretty little head over mysteries tonight.’ Well…this afternoon rather than tonight, if you want to be exact.” Hammett quoted himself from The Thin Man with a slight hiccough.
“If there’s any prize to be given, our real detectives deserve it—Babs Norman and Guy Brandt,” said Powell.
Hammett took a drag and blew his cigarette smoke out in Powell’s direction. “If you have another one of those houses you’re giving away, I’ll take that as a substitute.”
“If I was more sober, I’d consider that a threat. Maybe I should hold you accountable for replacing my suit after a swarthy young swashbuckler sliced it like ham and fed it to the dogs.”
“Oh poo,” said Powell’s wife, “There are enough suits in your closet for you to open your own haberdashery.”
Hellman and Hammett aggravated Powell and backed him against the trunk of a spikey palm tree.
“Here’s an idea,” Hammett said. “How about a future installment of the Thin Man series? I’ll give it to you right here, and right now.”
“I’m all ears,” Myrna said. “Go right ahead.”
Hammett gulped down his drink and cleared his throat. “Provisional title: Beware of the Thin Man.”
“Oooh…” Myrna kicked up her heels. “Tell me more.”
He rubbed his hands together, eager to move forward. “All right, Nick and Nora attempt to lead normal lives. As parents of Nicky, Jr., they soon realize a so-called idyllic life of Boy Scouts and kids’ softball games could still welcome danger at their doorsteps.
“One day, at a school picnic, Nick and Nora notice others paying too much attention to their son. Distracted by the music, the food, and let’s not forget the drinks, someone kidnaps little Nicky, Jr., and…” He stopped and patted down his forehead with his handkerchief. “Sorry, I’m making this up on the fly.”
To prove a point, Lillian let her head flop to the side and pretended to snore. “Dull as dishwater, Dash. You just won the grand prize for hackneyed prose.”
Babs tried to suppress her giggles amid the standoff.
“Let me take over,” Lillian said, “And to quote my boyfriend, ‘If you have a story that seems worth telling, and you think you can tell it worthily, then the thing for you to do is tell it, regardless of whether it has to do with sex, sailors, or mounted policeman.’”
Powell bit his lip. She had recited another one of Nick Charles’ lines from The Thin Man.
She snuffed her cigarette on the thick tree bark. “Picking up where Dash left off, their son’s abductors served jail time. Incriminating evidence tied to the mob—an old case of Nick’s. One of them kidnaps their son and demands a ransom, because Nora’s rich, and she can afford it, and that’s his way of getting revenge.
“In the end, Nick and Nora give credit to Asta. He leads them to their boy. By the scent of one of his toys, and you know what?” She looked at the gang. “If you gave me some time behind my typewriter, I could polish this up a lot better. Being sober would also be preferable.”
Hammett clapped his hands in mock applause. “You think that was any better?”
Powell tossed the last of his drink on the grass. “Maybe I’m not the best judge. Dashiell’s ideas have paid for my country club memberships and fancy automobiles, and all of us just went through this ordeal recovering Asta. Babs, you have no vested interest in who wins and who doesn’t. Why don’t you decide?”
He’s trying to pass the buck. “They’re a couple. What’s the point? Aren’t they going to split the winnings?” She flashed one last look at Powell and expected him to have the last word.
He decided, “Let’s say we toss on it.”
“A coin toss?” Hammett howled; his cigarette fell out of his mouth. “I haven’t laughed so much over anything since hogs ate my kid brother.”
Only Babs caught the joke. His line from his 1929 novel Red Harvest went over everyone else’s heads.
Powell reached into his wallet, but all he found was paper currency. “Babs, got any spare change?”
She searched inside her billfold and held up a fifty-cent piece.
Lillian laughed. “I can’t believe it’s come down to this.”
Babs figured a lot of clams were at stake, and this duo looked like a couple of bookies trying to rein in an overdue debt.
Powell asked Hammett, “What’s your pick?”
“Heads. Guess you got dog tails,” he said to Lillian.
Babs flipped the coin high into the air. With impeccable timing, Asta ran across the lawn, followed by Sir Henry and Toto. He jumped into the air, caught the coin between his teeth, and scurried off to dig a hole and bury it beside a tree.
“Just like when he hid Cary Grant’s dinosaur bone in Bringing Up Baby,” Babs said, although no one was listening.
All concerned chased after Asta to retrieve the coin, but Sir Henry and Toto stood guard and growled at anyone who dared to get too close.
Lillian laughed so hard she swallowed her ice cube whole. Clearing her throat, she said, “Guess we’ll never know who won the coin toss now.”
Relieved the ordeal was over, Powell looked daggers at Hammett and Hellman and took Myrna by one arm and Babs by another, who clutched Diana by the crook of hers.
“Come, let’s rejoin the rest of the party. There’s a martini waiting with my name already on it.”