Just days after Babs left her temporary encampment and moved into one of the Rathbones’ guest bedrooms, Basil and his wife planned a lavish soirée with a live band. The moment Guy arrived, Babs ushered him past security and spared no time introducing him to their host and new client.
“To be honest,” he said and shook Basil’s hand, “my real name is Gary…Gary Brandt, but there’s a gentleman over at the bar freshening up his martini who has a similar name and is already more established in his acting career than I am.
“That aside, you’ve done up this place to the nines,” Guy said. “Embarrassed to say, but I think my eyes went straight to your master chef’s seafood extravaganza. Those mountains of King crab and lobster tails… You have enough shrimp cocktail to make Poseidon sea-foam green with envy. It must’ve required an architect to squeeze those festive floral arrangements among those mouthwatering food displays. Well, anyway, I’m at a loss for words, but glad I brought my appetite.”
“If you think this is impressive,” Basil said as he reviewed his guest list, “when Rodion, my son from my first marriage, got married, Ouida filled our pool with orchids. Neither he nor his wife appreciated our efforts. All the press photographers cared about was the who’s-who roster of celebrity attendees. They took more pictures of Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. than the bride and groom.”
“Ah, there’s William Powell.” Guy peered through the crowd. “The woman he brought with him seems to be quite—”
Babs wanted to know why he was at a sudden loss for words. She stood up on her tiptoes to catch a better glimpse. “Is she his wife?”
“Heavens, no,” Basil replied. “I’ve never seen her before. He married another actress, Diana Lewis. His third marriage so far. His second wife, Carole Lombard, left him for Clark Gable.”
“Didn’t she die in a horrible plane crash?”
Basil nodded. “After their divorce, he wanted to get married to Jean Harlow.”
“Another tragedy, too,” Babs said.
“Diana is doing a film on location and won’t be here today. Studio executives must’ve pushed him into this. Publicity, you know…it never looks appropriate for a handsome actor to show up alone, but I’ve never seen her before.”
Basil spotted a familiar face and changed the subject. “See the man with the red carnation on his lapel…over by the pool? He’s Asta’s owner and original trainer, Henry East. The lady next to him is his wife, comedienne Gale Henry, who was big in silent pictures. At some point, I’ll have to introduce you.”
Babs wanted them to hire her to find Asta and make this official. Meanwhile, Basil excused himself to tend to the other guests.
Once the two detectives were alone, Babs reacted to Powell’s guest’s excessive use of fur. “How many exotic animals did she murder to make her outfit?”
“Do I sense a hint of jealousy?” Guy asked.
“What’s your first impression of that fur-drenched fiend?”
He snickered. “She reminds me of a cross between Dietrich and Garbo with a hint of jackass, if you want my honest opinion.”
“Guy, you missed your calling with comedy. Why don’t you mingle and circulate? We must find out more about la femme dangereuse.”
Basil headed back toward Babs. “Look, Powell is alone, and your partner seems to be entertaining his strange companion.” He waved and beckoned William Powell to join them. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Our Man, Godfrey.”
Powell raised Babs’ hand to his lips and gave her a gentleman’s kiss worthy of royalty.
He noticed her naked fingers. “How come a stunner like you isn’t wearing a wedding ring? Some lucky gent doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“Somehow, I’m always surrounded by handsome men, but like my present company—they’re all married.”
Both men blushed.
“Flattery will get you everywhere with me, I’m afraid.” Powell chuckled. “Should I assume the gentleman I spotted you with earlier wasn’t your beau?”
“Guy?” Babs laughed. “You thought he was my husband? He’s my business partner, like Fred Astaire to Ginger Rogers.”
“Are you an actress?”
“A former one who’s suffered too many pratfalls and pitfalls and without such sublime dance skills,” she replied.
“Don’t tell me you gave it all up. With a face like yours, the camera’s lens would never crack.”
Basil glossed over the news of the day about Hattie McDaniel’s surprise win at the recent Academy Awards, food rationing in Britain, the Three Stooges’ release of You Nazty Spy! which made fun of a Hitler-like character played by Moe Howard, and the real-life threat where Hitler agreed to bring Mussolini into the war overseas.
Babs stepped aside when Guy returned. “Have anything to report?” she asked.
“She goes by the name of Countess Velma von Rache. Don’t know if the title is real, or if she’s putting us on. She’s German and a newcomer in town.”
“Funny,” Babs replied. “Rache is the German word for revenge and is mentioned in Arthur Conan Doyle’s first Sherlock Holmes story, A Study in Scarlet. Anything else?”
“Her late husband was from Transylvania,” Guy added.
Babs kept her voice low. “Is Bela Lugosi on Basil’s guest list?”
“Dracula? Babs, for heaven’s sake. Give me one solid reason you’re so quick to despise her.”
“Her furs clash,” she said with disdain.
“You’re too cruel. Nothing about her congenial personality?”
“Maybe she is in heat.”
Guy bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. “Despite any jealousies you might have, she is a major patroness of the arts in the Hollywood theater scene. Her goals include financing and producing films independent of the big studios, along with radio shows, and…drumroll please…she will be sponsoring a huge, prestigious dog show at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
Dogs? Babs’ ears perked up. Before Guy could disclose anything else, Basil raised his hand to capture another party’s attention. “Come, it’s the rest of the Thin Man gang. This is the perfect opportunity to introduce you. Dashiell Hammett was here earlier but seems to have left.”
Basil escorted the detectives over to a close-knit clique comprised of Henry East, his wife, Frank Weatherwax, who was another animal trainer, director W. S. Van Dyke II, who insisted everyone call him by his nickname, One-Take Woody or Woody for short, and producer Hunt Stromberg, wives included. Also present, Myrna Loy, who explained her husband was hobnobbing somewhere on the Rathbone compound unless he had fallen into the pool.
“Babs Norman has diverted her aspirations toward an acting career and has carved a little niche for herself as a private detective,” Basil said. “I was so impressed that I hired her to retrieve my dog, Leo.”
“You’re interested in Asta’s disappearance, as well?” Powell asked.
She looked Asta’s owners and trainers in the eye. “Of course.”
Myrna tested her. “You don’t look like much of a detective to me. Why do you think you’re so qualified?”
Babs stood erect and proud. “Ask Howard Strickling, the VP of Publicity at MGM. My partner and I returned all the stolen pairs of ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz after they disappeared from the MGM Wardrobe Department.”
Powell scratched his head. “How come I never heard anything?”
“Because it never made front-page news. Everyone involved did a spectacular job of keeping quiet,” Guy replied.
Stromberg explained that so far, they had produced The Thin Man, After the Thin Man, and Another Thin Man. “Our next project is Shadow of the Thin Man. We hope to release it next year and expect it to be another box office success.”
Basil interrupted. “Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest you keep an open mind and consider hiring them to find Asta. You won’t be able to start your new film without him.”
Guy handed all the members of their group business cards. Myrna examined hers, but backed away with such a scowl it was hard to dismiss.
Babs viewed everyone’s skeptical faces with a stern eye. “Aren’t you concerned about his welfare?”
“Of course, but…” Stromberg replied.
She started to ask Stromberg if he knew of anyone who would wish him ill, but he excused himself and said he needed to catch a guest before they left. Babs remained fearless and would not let this opportunity get away.
“Do you mind inviting me to your kennels, Mr. East? I’m curious what it takes to train dogs for motion pictures.”
“Just call me East and refer to my wife as Gale. Between my first name being Henry, and her last name, Henry, it’s much easier.”
Babs had already retrieved her appointment book. “How about this Wednesday? Does 2:30 p.m. work for you?”
East tested his memory. “I suppose we can arrange that. If not, either Gale or I will call and reschedule.”
Guy frowned and whispered in her ear. “That’s just swell. I have an audition then.”
“Break a leg. There’s nothing saying I can’t hoof it…or paw it…alone.”
“Don’t you need a ride? If you take a city bus, you won’t enjoy the uphill hike with heels.”
“I’ll take a taxi. We can write it off as a business expense, but thanks for the reminder not to wear my favorite pumps.”
Guy shrugged. “As you wish. Our fate now lies in your hands. Just make sure you give me the skinny on what happens. When you go solo, you have a tendency to keep the fact-finding to yourself.”
Babs suggested that before or after his audition, he should inquire about domestic workers’ employment agencies to investigate the Rathbones’ temporary household staff.
She glanced over at Myrna and changed the subject. “Compared to her, I feel so underdressed.”
“I’m surprised you’ve been more focused on her outfit rather than her cool reception,” Guy said. “To me, she looked rather put off.”
Babs would never satisfy her curiosity if she didn’t find out more about Myrna’s gown, so she put forth her best effort to make a new friend. “Nora, oops! I meant…”
“Please, call me Myrna. How can I be of help?”
Babs looked down at her feet and blushed. “I’m dying to know who designed your dress?”
Myrna threw back her head and laughed. “Heavens! You had me scared for a minute. I would’ve sworn you were about to interrogate me. Dolly Tree designed our Thin Man wardrobe for MGM. Talented, for sure, but I hired Adrian.”
“Whose talents are also impressive,” Babs mused. “He’s the one who came up with the original design for the ruby slippers.”
Myrna toned her voice down to a whisper. “Just between us, I didn’t steal any items from MGM, but you don’t think I’m guilty of making off with Asta?”
Babs gave her the side-eye. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t, at least, try to rule you out.”
“Hrffmph. I guess I’ll just have to prove my innocence in any way possible to get on your good side,” Loy replied.
“So will everyone else.”
Babs escorted Myrna back to her friends. Her next move was to make sure everyone would agree for Guy and her to take on Asta’s case. Who did she need to speak with? Who could sign off on a deal memo, and who could write the check?
On the verge of tears, Basil’s wife, Ouida, interrupted them. “I’m afraid something dreadful has happened. I can’t find our Bull Terrier, Judy.”
“Have you searched the servants’ quarters?” Basil asked. “She loves to give us the slip and hide in there. The washroom is another one of her favorites. Judy loves to play in piles of dirty laundry.”
“That’s the first place I looked,” Ouida said, still shaky.
“You don’t suppose someone here at the party tried to steal her?” Babs asked.
Mimicking Sherlock Holmes, regardless of whether on purpose, Basil paused to light his pipe. “The thought crossed my mind.”
Babs’ brain switched into detection mode. “Have you asked your hired help?”
His wife pleaded, “There are so many unfamiliar faces here today for the party since I gave our regulars time off. I wouldn’t know where to start. Please, help me look for her.”
Basil insisted someone needed to remain poolside and entertain their guests, but Ouida wanted to hear nothing of it. Powell volunteered.
“Ouida, why don’t you ask if anyone wants a tour of our new house? It won’t be obvious, but I’ll be on the lookout for signs of Judy. How does that sound?”
“What a brilliant idea,” Powell said. Others agreed.
A server swished by, and Basil placed his half-finished drink glass on his tray. “Then it’s settled. Rally the troops, my bride, and I’ll be glad to oblige.”
While Basil gave his tour, Guy suggested he and Babs split up, and he would scout out other suspects. They both couldn’t believe there might be a second dognapping. Babs searched the rented cabanas. She opened one, still occupied, with Nigel Bruce, Basil’s on-screen Doctor Watson. Embarrassed she caught him changing, she hoped she wouldn’t have to ask him for any future favors.
Next stop: the Rathbones’ laundry room, where she discovered a tattered, unusable leash, which she stuffed inside her purse. After that, she slipped into the gardening shed, the garage, and the pool house.
She was just about to call it quits when she realized she’d forgotten to look under the Rathbones’ hedges and examine every square inch of landscaping big enough for a medium-to-large-sized dog to hide. Then she had thoughts about how Leo could have wiggled through or dug a hole and escaped. Their property had no actual fences, walls, or gates. Only typical California shrubbery. Their errant Bull Terrier was close to the same size, or even smaller than Leo.
Against her better judgment, she bent over and heard a telltale rip in the seam of her pristine silk chiffon dress.
“Goodbye, dear friend,” Babs said with a sigh. Between the rip getting larger and grass stains impossible to get out, with one last look, she hiked up her skirt before she got down on her hands and knees. The moment she saw Guy heading her way, she dipped her dirty hands in the swimming pool, shoved a handful of hors d’oeuvres into her mouth which tasted like chlorine, and caught up with him.
“Any more news on the countess?” she asked.
“I felt guilty spying on her when everyone else was on a dog hunt.”
Before he said more, Basil, who finished his tour, came over holding three flutes of champagne. “So, what or who were you talking about?”
“Powell’s so-called companion,” said Guy.
Basil took a quick look over his shoulder, which turned into a subtle scowl. “Someone else is also a piece of work,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t have invited him if my publicist hadn’t insisted on his social importance.”
“Who? Errol Flynn?” Babs asked.
“Look at him! Surrounded by six infatuated women. Don’t think I’m jealous; it’s disgusting. I bet you he’ll take every single one of them to bed with him this evening.”
In between sips of champagne, Babs kept a watch on Flynn.
“Any luck?” Basil asked.
“I looked for signs of both Leo and Judy,” she said.
“Good show; anything noteworthy?”
“No signs of Judy anywhere, but I found this when I entered your house through the back door.” Babs opened her purse and handed him the ripped leash. “Behold, Exhibit A. Could Leo have broken away? Maybe he’s loose somewhere in the neighborhood.”
“Or someone could’ve cut the leash and set him free,” Guy added.
Basil shook his head. “We always used that leash for another dog, not the Bull Terrier or Leo, but it’s useless. I swore I’d thrown it out.”
“Anything show up on your tour?” Guy asked.
“We had a delightful time until I cracked open the door to Babs’ room and came upon an offensive odor. My maid had to fetch smelling salts when one woman fainted.”
Babs gasped. “It didn’t smell bad the last time I was in there.”
“When was that?” Basil asked.
“When I dressed for your party, but I haven’t been back since. Maybe I knocked over a bottle of perfume.”
“This was no bottle of Paris’s finest. Perhaps toilet water, and I mean the other, vile kind you flush down the loo.” Basil checked his watch. “The stench will remain long after our guests have left, but that sums up my awkward adventure for the afternoon.”
At the close of the party, the Rathbones continued to panic; their Bull Terrier, still absent. They were quick to point fingers at Powell, East, his wife, Weatherwax… Even the band members and Nigel Bruce. No one, however, had the chance to interrogate Dashiell Hammett or the countess before they left. Basil and Ouida gathered their house servants who were on-call that afternoon for questioning. Guy and Babs, the only others remaining, joined them for an all-out search of the grounds before giving up and calling the pound.
Exhausted and without answers, Guy drove home. When Babs returned to her room, she forgot about Basil’s earlier comments. Something smelled so terrible that her nose rebelled. Given away by the sound of sad whimpering, she found the Rathbones’ Bull Terrier under her bed, probably terrified of the crowd and the music from the live band. Locked in and with nowhere to go, the dog had a minor accident.