THE BLACK DAHLIA by James Ellroy

Or back-door justice.

I drove to Hancock Park. Ramona’s Cadillac and Martha’s Lincoln were gone from the circular driveway; Emmett’s Chrysler and Madeleine’s Packard remained. I parked my lackluster Chevy crossways next to them, the rear tires sunk into the gardener’s rose bush border. The front door looked impregnable, but a side window was open. I hoisted myself up and into the living room.

Balto the stuffed dog was there by the fireplace, guarding a score of packing crates lined up on the floor. I checked them out; they were filled to the top with clothes, silverware and ritzy bone china. A cardbox box at the end of the row was overflowing with cheap cocktail dresses–a weird anomaly. A sketch pad, the top sheet covered with drawings of women’s faces, was wedged into one corner. I thought of commerical artist Martha, then heard voices upstairs.

I went to them, my .45 out, the silencer screwed on tight. They were coming from the master bedroom: Emmett’s burr, Madeleine’s pout. I pressed myself to the hallway wall, eased down to the doorway and listened.

“. . . besides, one of my foremen said the goddamn pipes are spewing gas. There’ll be hell to pay, lassie. Health and safety code violations at the very least. It’s time for me to show the three of you Scotland, and let our Jew friend Mickey C. utilize his talent for public relations. He’ll put the onus on old Mack or the pinkos or some convenient stiff, trust me he will. And when things are kosher again, we’ll come home.”

“But I don’t _want_ to go to Europe, Daddy. Oh God, _Scotland_. You’ve never been able to talk about it without saying how dreadful and provincial it is.”

“Is it your toothy chum you think you’ll be missing? Ahh, I suspect it is. Well, let me put your heart to rest. Aberdeen’s got strapping plowboys who’ll put that piss-poor excuse for a man to shame. Less inquisitive, lads who know their place. You’ll not lack for sturdy cocksmen, let me assure you. Bleichert served his purpose to us a long time ago, and it’s just the danger-loving part of you that took him back in. An injudicious part, I might add.”

“Oh Daddy, I don’t–”

I wheeled and stepped into the bedroom. Emmett and Madeleine were lying on the big canopied bed, clothed, her head on his lap, his rough carpenter’s hands massaging her shoulders. The father-lover noticed me first; Madeleine pouted when Daddy’s caresses stopped. My shadow hit the bed; she screamed.

Emmett silenced her, a whip-fast hand glinting with gemstones over her mouth. He said, “This isn’t a cuckold, lad. It’s just affection, and we’ve a dispensation for it.”

The man’s reflexes and dinner table tone were pure style. I aped his calm: “Georgie Tilden killed Elizabeth Short. She called here on January twelfth, and one of you fixed her up with Georgie. She took the Wilshire bus out here to meet him. Now you fill the rest of it in.”

Madeleine, eyes wide, trembled under her father’s hand. Emmett looked at the none too steady gun aimed at him. “I don’t dispute that statement and I don’t dispute your somewhat belated desire to see justice done. Shall I tell you where George can be found?”

“No. First you tell me about you two, then you tell me about your dispensation.”

“It’s not germane, lad. I’ll congratulate you on your detective work and tell you where Georgie can be found, and we’ll leave it at that. Neither of us wants to see Maddy hurt, and discussing dour old family matters would affect her adversely.”

As if to underline paternal concern, Emmett released his hand. Madeleine wiped smeared lipstick off her cheeks and murmured, “Daddy, make him stop.”

I said, “Did Daddy tell you to fuck me? Did Daddy tell you to invite me to dinner so I wouldn’t check your alibi? Did you all figure that a little hospitality and some cunt would brazen things out for you? Did you–”

“_Daddy make him stop!_”

Emmett’s whip hand flashed again; Madeleine buried her face in it. The Scotchman made the next logical move. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, lad. Put the Sprague family history out of your mind. What do you want?”