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.”