The major came back on the line: “Sir, Dulange said the girl had three little dark moles on the left cheek of her, uh . . . derriere.”
“You could have said ass, Major. And we’re on our way.”
o o o
Corporal Joseph Dulange was a tall, hard-muscled man of twenty-nine, dark-haired, horse-faced, with a pencil-thin mustache. Dressed in olive drab fatigues, he sat across a table from us in the Fort Dix provost marshal’s office, looking incorrigibly mean. A judge advocate captain sat beside him, probably to make sure Russ and I didn’t try the civilian third degree. The eight-hour plane ride had been bumpy; at 4:00 A.M. I was still on LA time, exhausted but keyed-up. On the ride over from the airstrip, the CID major we’d talked to on the phone had briefed us on Dulange. He was a twice-married combat vet, a boozehound, a feared brawler. His statement was incomplete, but buttressed by two hard facts: he flew to LA on January eighth, and was arrested for Plain Drunk in New York City’s Pennsylvania Station on January seventeenth.
Russ kicked it off. “Corporal, my name is Millard, and this is Detective Bleichert. We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department, and if you convince us you killed Elizabeth Short, we’ll arrest you and take you back with us.”
Dulange shifted in his chair and said, “I sliced her,” his voice high and nasal.
Russ sighed. “A lot of other people have told us that.”
“I fucked her, too.”
“Really? You cheat on your wife?”
“I’m a Frenchman.”
I moved into my bad guy role. “I’m a German, so who gives a shit? What’s that have to do with you cheating on your wife?”
Dulange flicked his tongue like a reptile. “I give it the French way. My wife don’t like it like that.”
Russ elbowed me. “Corporal, why did you take your furlough in Los Angeles? What were you interested in?”
“Cunt. Johnnie Red Label. Excitement.”
“You could have found that across the river in Manhattan.”
“Sunshine. Movie stars. Palm trees.”
Russ laughed. “LA’s got all of that. It sounds like your wife gives you a long leash, Joe. You know, furlough all by yourself.”
“She knows I’m a Frenchman. I give it to her good when I’m home. Missionary style, ten inches. She got no complaints.”
“What if she did complain, Joe? What would you do to her?” Deadpan, Dulange said, “One complaint, I use my fists. Two complaints, I slice her in half.”
I broke in: “Are you telling me you flew three thousand miles to eat some pussy?”
“I’m a Frenchman.”
“You look like a homo to me. Gash divers are all repressed fruits, it’s been proven. You got an answer for that, shitbird?”
The soldier-lawyer got up and whispered in Russ’s ear; Russ nudged me under the table. Dulange cracked his deadpan into a big grin. “I got my answer hangin’ ten hard, flatfoot.”
Russ said, “You’ll have to excuse Detective Bleichert, Joe. He’s got a short fuse.”
“He’s got a short pecker. All Krauts do. I’m a Frenchman, I know.”
Russ laughed uproariously, like he’d just heard a real kneeslapper at the Elks Club. “Joe, you’re a pisser.”
Dulange waggled his tongue. “I’m a Frenchman.”
“Joe, you’re a hot sketch, and Major Carroll told me you’re a wife beater. Is that true?”
“Can niggers dance?”
“They certainly can. Do you enjoy hitting women, Joe?”
“When they ask for it.”
“How often does your wife ask for it?”
“She asks for the big tensky every night.”
“No. Asks to get hit, I mean.”
“Every time I’m pallin’ with Johnnie Red and she cracks wise, then she’s askin’ for it.”
“You and Johnnie go back a ways?”
“Johnnie Red’s my best friend.”
“Did Johnnie go with you to LA?”
“In my pocket.”
Sparring with a psycho drunk was wearing me down; I thought of Fritzie and the direct approach. “Are you having the DTs, shitbird? You want a little rap in the cabeza to clear things up for you?”
“Bleichert, enough!”
I shut up. The JA man glared at me; Russ straightened the knot in his necktie–the signal for me to keep it zipped. Dulange cracked the knuckles on his left hand one by one. Russ tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table, the oldest “I’m your pal” ploy in the book.
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