“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.
o o o
I borrowed Harry Sears’ civilian car and ran rolling skateouts 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 Victor Hugo. The book is about–“