The brass girl finally composed herself. I repeated, “Here or downtown?” She opened the Packard’s passenger door and got in, sliding over behind the wheel. I joined her, flicking on a dashboard light so I could read her face. The smell of leather upholstery and stale perfume hit me; I said, “Tell me how long you knew Betty Short.”
Madeleine Sprague fidgeted under the light. “How did you know I knew her?”
“You rabbited last night when I was questioning the barmaid. What about Linda Martin? Do you know her?”
Madeleine ran long red fingertips over the wheel. “This is all a fluke. I met Betty and Linda at La Verne’s last fall. Betty said it was her first time there. I think I talked to her one time after that. Linda I talked to several times, just cocktail lounge chitchat.”
“When last fall?”
“November, I think.”
“Did you sleep with either of them?”
Madeleine flinched. “No.”
“Why not? That’s what that dive is all about, right?”
“Not entirely.”
I tapped her green silk shoulder, hard. “Are you lez?”
Madeleine went back to her father’s burr. “Ye might say I take it where I can find it, laddie.”
I smiled, then patted the spot I’d jabbed a moment before. “You’re telling me that your sole contact with Linda Martin and Betty Short was a couple of cocktail bar conversations two months ago, right?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Then why did you take off so fast last night?”
Madeleine rolled her eyes and rolled “Laddie,” Scotch-voiced; I said, “Cut the shit and tell it straight.” The brass girl spat out: “Mister, my father is Emmett Sprague. _The_ Emmett Sprague. He built half of Hollywood and Long Beach, and what he didn’t build he bought. He does not like publicity, and he would not like to see ‘Tycoon’s Daughter Questioned in Black Dahlia Case–Played Footsie with Dead Girl at Lesbian Nightclub’ in the papers. Now do you get the picture?”
I said, “In Technicolor,” and patted Madeleine’s shoulder. She pulled away from me and sighed, “Is my name going into all kinds of police files where all kinds of slimy little policemen and slimy little yellow journalists will see it?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“What do I have to do to keep it out?”
“Convince me of a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as first you give me your impression of Betty and Linda. You’re a bright kid–give me your play on them.”
Madeleine stroked the wheel, then the gleaming oak dashboard. “Well, they weren’t sisters, they were just using the Hideaway to cadge drinks and dinner.”
“How could you tell?”
“I saw them brush off passes.”
I thought of Marjorie Graham’s mannish older woman. “Any passes stand out? You know, rough stuff? Bull daggers getting persistent?”
Madeleine laughed. “No, the passes I saw were very ladylike.”
“Who made them?”
“Street trade I never saw before.”
“Or since?”
“Yes, or since.”
“What did you talk about with them?”
Madeleine laughed again, harder. “Linda talked about the boy she left behind in Hicktown, Nebraska, or wherever it was she came from and Betty talked about the latest issue of Screenworld. On a conversational level, they were right down there with you, only they were better looking.”
I smiled and said, “You’re cute.”
Madeleine smiled and said, “You’re not. Look, I’m tired. Aren’t you going to ask me to prove I didn’t kill Betty? Since I can prove it, won’t that put an end to this farce?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Did Betty ever talk about being in a movie?”
“No, but she was movie-struck in general.”
“Did she ever show you a movie viewfinder? A lens gadget on a chain?”
“No.”
“What about Linda? Did she talk about being in a movie?”
“No, just her hicktown sweetheart.”
“Do you have any idea where she’d go if she was on the lam?”
“Yes. Hicktown, Nebraska.”
“Besides there.”
“No. Can I–”
I touched Madeleine’s shoulder, more of a caress than a pat. “Yeah, tell me your alibi. Where were you and what were you doing from last Monday, January thirteenth, through to Wednesday the fifteenth.”
Madeleine cupped her hands to her mouth and blew a horn fanfare, then rested them on the seat by my knee. “I was at our house in Laguna from Sunday night through Thursday morning. Daddy and Mommy and sister Martha were there with me, and so were our live-in servants. If you want verification, call Daddy. Our number is Webster 4391. But be discreet. Don’t tell him where you met me. Now, do you have any other questions?”
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