The Black Dahlia

by James Ellroy

  Martha dabbed at her eyes, saw that they were dry and put a hand on my arm. “The next day a woman came by and picked up the money. And that’s all of it.”

  I took out my wallet snapshot of Kay and showed it to her. Martha said, “Yes. That’s the woman.”

  I stood up, alone for the first time since the triad was formed. Martha said, “Don’t hurt my family anymore. Please.”

  I said, “Get out, Martha. Don’t let them ruin you.”

  I drove to West Hollywood Elementary School, sat in the car and kept an eyeball fix on Kay’s Plymouth in the faculty parking lot. Lee’s ghost buzzed in my head as I waited—bad company for close to two hours. The 3:00 bell rang right on time; Kay exited the building in a swarm of children and teachers a few minutes later. When she was alone by her car, I walked over.

  She was arranging a load of books and papers in the trunk, her back to me. I said, “How much of the hundred grand did Lee let you keep?”

  Kay froze, her hands on a stack of fingerpaintings. “Did Lee tell you about Madeleine Sprague and me back then? Is that why you’ve hated Betty Short all this time?”

  Kay ran her fingers over the kiddie artwork, then turned and faced me. “You are so, so good at some things.”

  It was another compliment I didn’t want to hear. “Answer my questions.”

  Kay slammed the trunk, her eyes dead on mine. “I did not accept a cent of that money, and I didn’t know about you and Madeleine Sprague until those detectives I hired gave me her name. Lee was going to run away no matter what. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, and I wanted him to be comfortable, if such a thing was possible. He didn’t trust himself to deal with Emmett Sprague again, so I picked up the money. Dwight, he knew I was in love with you, and he wanted us to be together. That was one of the reasons he left.”

  I felt like I was sinking in a quicksand of all our old lies. “He didn’t leave, he ran from the Boulevard-Citizens job, from the frame on De Witt, from the trouble he was in with the Depart—”

  “He loved us! Don’t take that away from him!”

  I looked around the parking lot. Teachers were standing by their cars, eyeing the husband and wife spat. They were too far away to hear; I imagined them chalking up the fight to kids or mortgages or cheating. I said, “Kay, Lee knew who killed Elizabeth Short. Did you know that?”

  Kay stared at the ground. “Yes.”

  “He just let it go.”

  “Things got crazy then. Lee went down to Mexico after Bobby, and he said he’d go after the killer when he got back. But he didn’t come back, and I didn’t want you going down there too.”

  I grabbed my wife’s shoulders and squeezed them until she looked at me.

  “And you didn’t tell me later? You didn’t tell anyone?”

  Kay lowered her head again; I jerked it back up with both my hands. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

  In her calmest schoolteacher voice, Kay Lake Bleichert said, “I almost told you. But you started whoring again, collecting her pictures. I just wanted revenge on the woman who ruined the two men I loved.”

  I raised a hand to hit her—but a flash of Georgie Tilden stopped me.

  Thirty-four

  I called in the last of my accumulated sick leave and spent a week killing time at the El Nido. I read and played the jazz stations, trying not to think about my future. I pored over the master file repeatedly, even though I knew the case was closed. Child versions of Martha Sprague and Lee racked my dreams; sometimes Jane Chambers’ slash-mouth clown joined them, hurling taunts, speaking through gaping holes in his face.

  I bought all four LA papers every day, and read them cover to cover. The Hollywood sign hubbub had passed, there was no mention of Emmett Sprague, Grand Jury probes into faulty buildings or the torched house and stiff. I began to get a feeling that something was wrong.

  It took a while—long hours spent staring at the four walls thinking of nothing—but finally I nailed it.

  “It” was a tenuous hunch that Emmett Sprague set Lee and I up to kill Georgie Tilden. With me he was blatant: “Shall I tell you where Georgie can be found?”—perfectly in character for the man—I would have been more suspicious if he had tried a roundabout approach. He sent Lee after Georgie immediately after Lee beat him up. Was he hoping Lee’s anger would peak when he saw the Dahlia killer? Did he know of Georgie’s grave robbery treasure trove—and count on it making us killing mad? Did he count on Georgie to initiate a confrontation—one that would either eliminate him or the greedy/nosy cops who were creating such a nuisance? And why? For what motive? To protect himself?

  The theory had one huge hole: namely, the incredible, almost suicidal audacity of Emmett, not the suicidal type.

  And with Georgie Tilden—the Black Dahlia killer pure and clean—nailed—there was no logical reason to pursue it. But “It” was backstopped by a tenuous loose end:

  When I first coupled with Madeleine in ‘47, she mentioned leaving notes for Betty Short at various bars: “Your lookalike would like to meet you.” I told her the act might come back to haunt her; she said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  The most likely one to have “taken care of it” was a policeman—and I refused to. And, chronologically, Madeleine spoke those words right around the time Lee Blanchard made his initial blackmail demand.

  It was tenuous, circumstantial and theoretical, probably just another lie or half truth or thread of useless information. A loose end unraveled by a coming-from-hunger cop whose life was built on a foundation of lies. Which was the only good reason I could think of to pursue the ghost of a chance. Without the case, I had nothing.

  I borrowed Harry Sears’ civilian car and ran rolling stakeouts on the Spragues for three days and nights. Martha drove to work and back home; Ramona stayed in; Emmett and Madeleine shopped and did other daytime errands. All four stuck to the manse on evenings one and two; on the third night Madeleine prowled as the Dahlia.

  I tailed her to the 8th Street bar strip, to the Zimba Room, to a cadre of sailors and flyboys and ultimately the 9th and Irolo fuck pad with a navy ensign. I felt no jealously, no sex pull this time. I listened outside room twelve and heard KMPC; the venetian blinds were down, no visual access. The only departure from Madeleine’s previous MO was when she ditched her paramour at 2:00 A.M. and drove home—the light going on in Emmett’s bedroom a few moments after she walked in the door.

  I gave day four a pass, and returned to my surveillance spot on Muirfield Road shortly after dark that night. I was getting out of the car to give my cramped legs a breather when I heard, “Bucky? Is that you?”

  It was Jane Chambers, walking a brown and white spaniel. I felt like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “Hello, Jane.”

  “Hello, yourself. What are you doing? Spying? Torching for Madeleine?”

  I remembered our conversation on the Spragues, “Enjoying the crisp night air. How’s that sound?”

  “Like a lie. Want to enjoy a crisp drink at my place?”

  I looked over at the Tudor fortress; Jane said, “Boy, have you got a bee in your bonnet with that family.”

  I laughed—and felt little aches in my bite wounds. “Boy, have you got my number. Let’s go get that drink.”

  We walked around the corner to June Street. Jane unhooked the dog’s leash; he trotted ahead of us, down the sidewalk and up the steps to the front door of the Chambers’ colonial. We caught up with him a moment later; Jane opened the door. And there was my nightmare buddy—the scar mouth clown.

  I shuddered. “That goddamn thing.”

  Jane smiled. “Shall I wrap it up for you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You know, after that first time we talked about it, I looked into its history. I’ve been getting rid of a lot of Eldridge’s things, and I was thinking about giving it to charity. It’s too valuable to give away, though. It’s a Frederick Yannantuono original, and it’s inspired by an old classic novel—The Man Who Laughs by Vi
ctor Hugo. The book is about—”

  There was a copy of The Man Who Laughs in the shack where Betty Short was killed. I was buzzing so hard I could hardly hear what Jane was saying.

  “—a group of Spaniards back in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They were called the Comprachicos, and they kidnapped and tortured children, then mutilated them and sold them to the aristocracy so that they could be used as court jesters. Isn’t that hideous? The clown in the painting is the book’s main character, Gwynplain. When he was a child he had his mouth slashed ear to ear. Bucky, are you all right?”

  MOUTH SLASHED EAR TO EAR.

  I shuddered, then forced a smile. “I’m fine. The book just reminded me of something. Old stuff, just a coincidence.”

  Jane scrutinized me. “You don’t look fine, and you want to hear another coincidence? I thought Eldridge wasn’t on speaking terms with any of the family, but I found the receipt. It was Ramona Sprague who sold him the painting.”

  For a split second I thought Gwynplain was spitting blood at me. Jane grabbed my arms. “Bucky, what is it?”

  I found my voice. “You told me your husband bought that picture for your birthday two years ago. Right?”

  “Yes. What—”

  “In ‘47?”

  “Yes. Buck—”

  “What is your birthday?”

  “January fifteenth.”

  “Let me see the receipt.”

  Jane, spooky eyed, fumbled at some papers on the end table across the hall. I stared at Gwynplain, transposing 39th and Norton glossies against his face. Then: “Here. Now will you tell me what’s going on?”

  I took the piece of paper. It was purple stationery, covered with incongruously masculine block printing: “Received from Eldridge Chambers, $3500.00 for the sale of the Frederick Yannantuono painting ‘The Man Who Laughs.’ This receipt constitutes Mr. Chambers’ proof of ownership. Ramona Cathcart Sprague, January 15, 1947.”

  The printing was identical to the script in the torture diary I read just before I killed Georgie Tilden.

  Ramona Sprague murdered Elizabeth Short.

  I grabbed Jane in a hard bear hug, then took off while she stood there looking stunned. I went back to the car, decided it was a single-o play, watched lights go on and off in the big house and sweated through a long night of reconstructions: Ramona and Georgie torturing together, separately, bisecting, divvying up the spare parts, running a two-car caravan to Leimert Park. I played every kind of variation imaginable; I ran riffs on how the thing ignited. I thought of everything but what I was going to do when I got Ramona Sprague alone.

  At 8:19 Martha walked out the front door carrying an art portfolio, and drove east in her Chrysler.

  At 10:37, Madeleine, valise in hand, got into her Packard and headed north on Muirfield. Emmett waved from the doorway; I decided to give him an hour or so to leave—or take him down along with his wife. Shortly after noon, he played into my hand—tooling off, his car radio humming light opera.

  My month of playing house with Madeleine had taught me the servants’ routine: today, Thursday, the housekeeper and gardener were off; the cook showed up at 4:30 to prepare dinner. Madeleine’s valise implied some time away; Martha wouldn’t return from work until 6:00. Emmett was the only wild card.

  I walked across the street and reconnoitered. The front door was locked, the side windows were bolted. It was either ring the bell or B&E.

  Then I heard tapping on the other side of the glass and saw a blurry white shape moving back into the living room. A few seconds later the sound of the front door opening echoed down the driveway. I walked around to meet the woman head on.

  Ramona was standing in the doorway, spectral in a shapeless silk dressing gown. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her face was blotchy red and puffed up—probably from tears and sleep. Her dark brown eyes—identical in color to mine—were scary alert. She pulled a ladylike automatic from the folds of her gown and pointed it at me. She said, “You told Martha to leave me.”

  I slapped the gun out of her hand; it hit a straw welcome mat emblazoned with THE SPRAGUE FAMILY Ramona gnawed at her lips; her eyes lost their focus. I said, “Martha deserves better than a murderer.”

  Ramona smoothed her gown and patted at her hair. I pegged the reaction as the class of a well-bred hophead. Her voice was pure cold Sprague: “You didn’t tell, did you?”

  I picked up the gun and put it in my pocket, then looked at the woman. She had to be jacked on a twenty-year residue of drugstore hop, but her eyes were so dark that I couldn’t tell if they were pinned or not. “Are you telling me Martha doesn’t know what you did?”

  Ramona stood aside and bid me to enter. She said, “Emmett told me it was safe now. He said that you’d taken care of Georgie and you had too much to lose by coming back. Martha told Emmett you wouldn’t hurt us, and he said you wouldn’t. I believed him. He was always so accurate about business matters.”

  I walked inside. Except for the packing crates on the floor, the living room looked like business as usual. “Emmett sent me after Georgie, and Martha doesn’t know you killed Betty Short?”

  Ramona shut the door. “Yes. Emmett counted on you to take care of Georgie. He was confident that he wouldn’t implicate me—the man was quite insane. Emmett is a physical coward, you see. He didn’t have the courage to do it, so he sent an underling. And my God, do you honestly think I’d let Martha know what I’m capable of?”

  The torture murderess was genuinely aghast that I’d impugned her as a mother. “She’ll find out sooner or later. And I know she was here that night. She saw Georgie and Betty leave together.”

  “Martha left to visit a chum in Palm Springs an hour or so later. She was gone for the next week. Emmett and Maddy know. Martha doesn’t. And my dear God, she mustn’t.”

  “Mrs. Sprague, do you know what you’ve—”

  “I’m not Mrs. Sprague, I’m Ramona Upshaw Cathcart! You can’t tell Martha what I did or she’ll leave me! She said she wants to get her own apartment, and I haven’t that much more time left!”

  I turned my back on the spectacle and walked around the living room, wondering what to do. I looked at the pictures on the walls: generations of kilt-clad Spragues, Cathcarts cutting the ribbons in front of orange groves and vacant lots ripe for development. There was a fat little girl Ramona wearing a corset that must have strictured her bloody. Emmett holding a dark-haired child, beaming. Glassy-eyed Ramona poising Martha’s brush hand over a toy easel. Mack Sennett and Emmett giving each other the cuckold’s horns. At the back of an Edendale group shot I thought I could see a young Georgie Tilden—handsome, no scars on his face.

  I felt Ramona behind me, trembling. I said, “Tell me all of it. Tell me why.”

  Ramona sat down on a divan and spoke for three hours, her tone sometimes angry, sometimes sad, sometimes brutally detached from what she was saying. There was a table covered with tiny ceramic figurines beside her; her hands played with them constantly. I circled the walls, looking at the family pictures, feeling them meld into her story.

  She met Emmett and Georgie in 1921, when they were Scottish immigrant boys on the make in Hollywood. She hated Emmett for treating Georgie like a lackey—and she hated herself for not speaking up about it. She didn’t speak up because Emmett wanted to marry her—for her father’s money, she knew—and she was a homely woman with slender husband prospects.

  Emmett proposed. She accepted and settled into married life with the ruthless young contractor and budding real estate tycoon. Who she gradually grew to hate. Who she passively fought by gathering information.

  Georgie lived in the apartment above the garage the first years they were married. She learned that he liked to touch dead things, and that Emmett reviled him for it. She took to poisoning the stray cats who trampled her garden, leaving them on Georgie’s doorstep. When Emmett spurned her desire for him to give her a child, she went to Georgie and seduced him—exulting that she had the power to excite him with something aliv
e—the fat body that Emmett derided and only plundered at odd times.

  Their affair was brief, but resulted in a child—Madeleine. She lived in terror of a resemblance to Georgie asserting itself, and took to doctor-prescribed opiates. Two years later Martha was born of Emmett. This felt like a betrayal of Georgie—and she went back to poisoning stray animals for him. Emmett caught her in the act one day; he beat her for taking part in “Georgie’s perversion.”

  When she told Georgie of the beating, he told her of saving the coward Emmett’s life in the war—putting the lie to Emmett’s version of the story: that he saved Georgie. She started planning her pageants then—how she would get back at Emmett symbolically in ways so subtle that he would never know he was being thrashed.

  Madeleine cleaved to Emmett. She was the lovely child, and he doted on her. Martha became her mother’s little girl—even though she was Emmett’s spitting image. Emmett and Madeleine disdained Martha as a fatso and a crybaby; Ramona protected her, teaching her to draw, putting her to bed each night with admonishings not to hate her sister and father—even though she did. Protecting Martha and instructing her in the love of art became her reason for living, her strength in the intolerable marriage.

  When Maddy was eleven, Emmett noted her resemblance to Georgie, and slashed her real father’s face beyond recognition. Ramona fell in love with Georgie; he was now even more physically bereft than she—and she felt a parity had been achieved between them.

  Georgie rebuffed her persistent advances. She came across Hugo’s The Man Who Laughs then, and was moved by both the Comprachicos and their disfigured victims. She bought the Yannantuono painting and kept it hidden, staring at it as a memento of Georgie in her private hours.

  When Maddy hit her teens she became promiscuous, sharing the details with Emmett, cuddling on the bed with him. Martha drew obscene pictures of the sister she hated; Ramona forced her to draw pastoral landscapes to keep her anger from going haywire. To get back at Emmett she staged her long-planned pageants; they spoke obliquely of his greed and cowardice. Toy houses falling down signified Emmett’s jerry-built shacks crashing in the ‘33 earthquake; children hiding under store mannequins dressed in ersatz German uniforms portrayed Emmett the yellow. A number of parents found the pageants disturbing, and forbade their children to play with the Sprague girls. Around that time Georgie drifted out of their lives, doing his yard work and rubbish hauling, living in Emmett’s abandoned houses.