Basil insisted going to the pound was a waste of time. Babs refused to believe him. On the day after their party, she taxied over there to find out for herself. As he predicted, the city employees made her a laughingstock and asked why Sherlock Holmes would hire someone else to locate his missing Cocker Spaniel. Jokes ranged from, “Why? Wasn’t Watson available to solve the crime?” to one smarty-pants worker who quoted from one of Conan Doyle’s stories: “No man (or woman, in your case) burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so.”
The only person who offered anything useful suggested she might make inquiries at the upcoming Beverly Hills Dog Show, convincing her this was an event she shouldn’t miss. Other than that, Babs became fed up with the wisecracks which weren’t solving her case.
Despite the Rathbones’ housekeeping staff doing their best to deodorize Babs’ room, whoever stayed there would have to make use of the shower across the hall. When Ouida caught Babs with her bathrobe half-open by accident, she was up in arms. She ordered one of her housemaids to transfer her to another room with its own bathroom.
Babs tried to do anything she could afterward to cozy up to Ouida. Her household staff was less than cordial. Basil was correct. There seemed to be unknown faces all the time. Under normal circumstances, they had three maids, a cook, and a Japanese houseboy. Ouida had given them time off and replaced them with temporaries. Gretchen filled in for their head housekeeper, who turned out to be a never-ending source of contention. If she didn’t remind Babs of Mrs. Danvers from Alfred Hitchcock’s film Rebecca, then she’d revive memories of the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz.
Wednesday barreled around the corner. Babs stopped by her office before her appointment at the Easts’ kennels.
“Please don’t tell me you’re taking public transit,” Guy said, relieved she wore sensible flats but still concerned. “It’s too bad you couldn’t convince Basil’s driver to take you there.”
“Right now, I need to earn my merit badge with his wife, so I didn’t have the heart to ask. And no, don’t ask me to elaborate. We don’t have the time, and I don’t need a headache. One of these days, after we win this case and collect the full reward, I’ll buy a car,” she said.
“Does this place have a particular name?” Guy asked.
“Henry East owns a few acres up in the hills. I think it’s just called the Hollywood Kennels. Why?”
“Nothing cleverer like the Hollywood Hound, or the Hollywood Dog Bowl…you know, like the Hollywood Bowl, the music venue, or the Hound of the Hollywoodland-villes?”
“Like The Hound of the Baskervilles?” Babs said, making last-minute touch-ups on her lipstick. She wished Guy the best of luck on his audition and assured him she’d call a cab.
East came out to greet her with an affectionate collie in tow. He gave a brief introduction and insisted the dog welcome Babs by shaking her hand.
“Otto, I need help,” he shouted, opening a gate and shutting it behind.
A massive, snarling Rottweiler hurtled toward them, dragging his poor handler. Not the response East expected. He yanked Babs out of danger. She tumbled backward. He tightened his grip on the collie.
“Cig? I wasn’t expecting you. Where’s Otto Braun? Weren’t you supposed to be training Bruno?”
“Bruno mit Otto,” he replied in guttural German.
“With Otto? He’s Walter Jäger’s responsibility. Get this vicious dog out of here. Tell Otto to come at once.”
East apologized and helped Babs to her feet. “Cig?” Babs asked. “A chain smoker?”
“Short for Siegfried. Puffs on too many stogies around the animals.”
“Wow, that was a close call,” Babs said. “Has Cig been here a while?”
“He’s a new hire, and I don’t recall ever seeing this dog before. Maybe he forgot who is the boss. No new animal is supposed to get past me.”
East helped Babs brush grass clippings from her skirt. “Seems like I’ve gotten a lot of calls from German, Austrian, and Eastern European animal handlers willing to shovel shit around here.” He realized his gaffe and apologized for the use of his language around a lady.
Otto came and took the frightened collie back to his pen. As soon as the handler was out of earshot, Babs remarked, “If I were a casting director, I’d have no trouble putting any of your assistants in an anti-war propaganda film, or as dress extras in a Wagnerian opera if they had suitable voices.”
East was already steps ahead. “Now, let’s talk about Asta, whose real name is Skippy.” He raised his voice so Babs could hear him above the din of barking. “He was a young pup when he made his first appearance in a Three Stooges film. Among his many projects, he’s starred in The Thin Man, After the Thin Man, The Awful Truth, Bringing Up Baby with Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant, and he played Mr. Atlas in Topper Takes a Trip with Frank Weatherwax as his trainer. Of course, there’s a lot more.”
“Weren’t you nervous about having him around a leopard in Bringing Up Baby?”
“Of course. He could’ve wound up as the big cat’s lunch, but he was a real sport, acted like a pro, and never antagonized the feline. I’m sure someone fed the leopard before every scene where they performed together. However, if you read Dashiell Hammett’s original book, The Thin Man, rather than just watching the movie, Asta was a Schnauzer. When it came time for casting, there wasn’t a single Schnauzer in Hollywood well-trained enough to fit the bill. Everyone fell in love with Asta, who’s a wire-haired Fox Terrier.”
Babs made a quick visual scan toward the hills. “You seem to own a lot of land. Is this a lucrative business?”
“Asta is the highest-paid animal star in the business, earning two hundred and fifty dollars per week. He’s MGM’s top dog.”
“You don’t say.”
“Well, guess what? His trainers get only sixty per week. I started out as a motion picture prop master but wound up doing this full-time. Maybe it pays to go to the dogs.”
“I bet William Powell or Myrna Loy offered to buy him.”
“Countless times. Myrna loved to tease and flirt with me right in front of my wife and refused to take no for an answer, but Asta was never for sale. He is so much brighter than the average dog, and I’d venture to say, but don’t repeat this: he’s smarter than any of the actors he’s worked with. He can hide his head, play hide-and-seek. Even play dead…”
East got misty-eyed. “I need to remain hopeful.” He made a sharp right through his maze of animal pens. “One of our little animal stars will show you the stuff he’s made of, and we’ll give you a demonstration.”
“Can’t wait.” Babs removed a piece of gravel from her shoe and tried to catch up.
East led her over to an open corral. He returned, escorting a French bulldog.
“Dogs have their own language,” he explained. “They can interact with their eyes and their tongues and have also displayed a sense of humor. Figuring this out is like trying to understand another person who speaks a foreign language. Let’s put this little pup to the test, and Babs, one more thing…”
“What’s that?”
He pointed to his baggy pants. “Stuffing an ample supply of dog treats in your pockets will do wonders. Meet Ripley. We named him after the Ripley’s Believe it or Not!
“Ripley, sit down. Good boy. Now, hold it…h-o-l-d it…”
The dog seemed to strain under the pressure.
“All right.” East rewarded him with some kibble. “Remember to praise him for his good work.”
East asked Ripley to crouch, crawl on his stomach, and climb a ladder.
“I loved the scene in The Awful Truth,” Babs said, “where Asta retrieved a man’s hat, hidden behind a mirror. Then, when he perched on top of it with the hat in his mouth, it toppled over.”
“If it makes you feel better, a Foley sound effects team did the sound of shattering glass after the filming.”
“I wondered about that.”
“Babs, we make sure none of our valuable stunt animals get harmed.”
“Besides Asta, are any of these dogs your favorite?”
“Shush! They might gang up and go after me if they thought I liked one over another.”
“Would they attack?”
“Nah, but I might get licked to death, or buried like a bone in my backyard.”
Babs needed to be less star-struck and more of a sleuth. “East, when did Asta disappear, and who was with him at the time?”
“We were in the middle of a rehearsal on the studio lot with a large cast and crew. It was impossible to keep track of everyone around him.”
“Isn’t his trainer responsible?”
“Well, uh…yes, but often actors and directors and even producers won’t listen. They think they’re above everyone else, and the rules don’t apply. Seasoned professionals like Myrna Loy and William Powell can be the worst. They think they know everything about proper behavior on set.”
“This is a serious issue, Mr. East. Aren’t you concerned there’ll be another dognapping?”
“Babs, I’m a bit confused. Are you interested in what it takes to train a dog, or are you interrogating me?”
“Who says I can’t do both?” She gave him a crafty smile. “You shouldn’t be concerned unless you’re the guilty party, am I right?”
Even if it was in jest, she could tell by the look on his face he took offense, and it was time to change the subject. “You kidded me about dogs burying you in the backyard, but could you teach a dog to dig for bones of dead animals?”
“That’s a search and rescue specialty, usually reserved for police dogs. Some of what we do here overlaps with that kind of training. Our major focus is on entertainment and what looks good for the camera. Consider contacting the K-9 unit of the Los Angeles Police Department for more insight.”
He led Babs inside his onsite office and pointed to his collection of animal celebrity portraits on the walls. “In these frames are testimonials from proud clients—Al Christie, the president of the Christie Film Company, Mack Sennett Comedies. Even Marie Dressler said her animal actor acted like an old trooper.”
“If I got a dog, what breed would you suggest?” she asked.
“Ask others who own the breed you’ve been considering. It’s not much different from deciding what model of car to buy, except you’re factoring in temperament and personality. Do you live in a tiny apartment or in a large house with a yard? Some dogs need constant play and exercise. You might prefer a more docile pet like a Maltese or a toy Pomeranian.”
Babs frowned. An intruder could kick one of those across the room. She hesitated to admit she’d taken temporary residence at the Rathbones. The norm was a smallish space because that was all she could afford.
“All I can say is a Fox Terrier, like Asta, cooped up in an apartment, would drive you berserk. Same with a sheepdog who’s used to having his run of the ranch.”
“What about a guard dog, considering my line of work?”
East looked like he was about to offer suggestions when another assistant burst through the door and looked distressed.
“We have…situation. Into the hills—Bruno. Dog… Ran off.”
East rubbed his forehead and muttered, “Coyotes,” under his breath. “Where’s Walter?”
The handler shrugged.
“Clark Gable wanted to buy him. Beweg dein Hintern!”
“German?” she asked.
“Bits and pieces I pick up from the movies, but with a lousy accent. Means, ‘Move your ass.’ Sorry, we’ll have to cut this short. We’ll have to form a search party.”
East called a taxi and said one would arrive in five minutes. While she waited for the car, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a check.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A retainer…to find Asta. When you bring him home, safe and sound, you’ll receive the balance.”
The down payment was much more than she expected.
“The sum came from a group of us—our producer, Hunt Stromberg, our director, and Weatherwax, who will be the next trainer on Shadow of the Thin Man, the next Thin Man movie. We’ll send a signed agreement to your office.”