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3 was killed in the Normandy Invasion。 As for Betty's many marriages and engagements； a forty…eight…state capital record check revealed that no marriage licenses had ever been issued to her。
The report went downhill from there。 The license numbers that Lee had glommed from the window of Junior Nash's fuck pad had yielded zero； over three hundred Dahlia sightings a day were flooding LAPD and Sheriff's Department switchboards。 There had been ninety…three phony confessions so far； with four seriously cracked loonies without alibis held at the Hall of Justice Jail； awaiting sanity hearings and probable shipment to Camarillo。 Field interrogations were still going full speed…190 full…time men now on the case。 The only ray of hope was the result of my 1/17 FI questionings： Linda Martin/Lorna Martilkova was spotted in a couple of Encino cocktail lounges； and a big push to grab her was being centered in that area。 I finished up the typing job gut certain that Elizabeth Short's killer was never going to be found； and put money on it…a double sawbuck on 〃Unsolved…pay 2 to 1〃 in the squadroom pool。
* * *
I rang the doorbell of the Sprague mansion at exactly 8：00。 I was dressed in my best outfit…blue blazer； white shirt and gray flannels…and put money on myself as a fool for kowtowing to the surroundings…I'd be taking the clothes off as soon as Madeleine and I got to my place。 The ten hours of phone work stuck with me despite the shower I'd taken at the station； I felt even more out of place than I should have and my left ear still ached from the barrage of Dahlia talk。
Madeleine opened the door； a knockout in a skirt and a tight cashmere sweater。 She once…overed me； took my hand and said； 〃Look； I hate to pull this； but Daddy has heard about you。 He insisted you stay for dinner。 I told him we met at that art exhibit at Stanley Rose's Bookshop； so if you have to pump everybody for my alibi； try to be subtle about it。 All right？〃
I said； 〃Sure；〃 let Madeleine link her arm through mine and lead me inside。 The entrance foyer was as Spanish as the outside of the mansion was Tudor： tapestries and crossed wrought…iron swords on the whitewashed walls； thick Persian carpets over a polished wood floor。 The foyer opened into a giant living room with a men's club atmosphere…green leather chairs arranged around low tables and settees； huge stone fireplace； small Oriental throw rugs； multicolored； placed together at different angles； so that just the right amount of oak floor bordered them。 The walls were cherrywood； and featured framed sepias of the family and their ancestors。
I noticed a stuffed spaniel poised by the fireplace with a yellowed newspaper rolled into its mouth。 Madeleine said； 〃That's Balto。 The paper is the LA Times for August 1； 1926。 That's the day Daddy learned he'd made his first million。 Balto was our pet then。 Daddy's accountant called up and said； 'Emmett； you're a millionaire！' Daddy was cleaning his pistols； and Balto came in with the paper。 Daddy wanted to consecrate the moment； so he shot him。 If you look closely； you can see the bullet hole in his chest。 Hold your breath； lovey。 Here's the family。〃
Slack…jawed； I let Madeleine point me into a small sitting room。 The walls were covered with framed photographs； the floor space was taken up by the three other Spragues in matching easy chairs。 They all looked up； nobody stood up。 Smiling without exposing my teeth； I said； 〃Hello。〃 Madeleine made the introductions while I gawked down at the still…life ensemble。
〃Bucky Bleichert； may I present my family。 My mother； Ramona Cathcart Sprague。 My father； Emmett Sprague。 My sister； Martha McConville Sprague。〃
The ensemble came to life with little nods and smiles。 Then Emmett Sprague beamed； got to his feet and stuck out his hand。 I said； 〃A pleasure； Mr。 Sprague；〃 and shook it； eyeing him while he eyed me。 The patriarch was short and barrel…chested； with a cracked； sun…weathered face and a full head of white hair that had probably once been sandy colored。 I placed his age as somewhere in his fifties； his handshake as the grip of someone who'd done a good deal of physical labor。 His voice was cut…glass Scottish； not the broad burr of Madeleine's imitation： 〃I saw you fight Mondo Sanchez。 You boxed the pants off him。 Another Billy Conn you were。〃
I thought of Sanchez； a built…up middleweight stiff I'd fought because my manager wanted me to get a rep for creaming Mexicans。 〃Thanks； Mr。 Sprague。〃
〃Thank you for giving such a dandy performance。 Mondo was a good boy； too。 What happened to him？〃
〃He died from a heroin overdose。〃
〃God bless him。 Too bad he didn't die in the ring； it would have spared his family a lot of grief。 Speaking of families； please shake hands with the rest of mine。〃
Martha Sprague stood up on mand。 She was short； plump and blonde； with a tenacious resemblance to her father； blue eyes so light that it looked like she sent them out to be bleached and a neck that was acned and raw from scratching。 She looked like a teenaged girl who'd never outgrow her baby fat and mature into beauty。 I shook her firm hand feeling sorry for her； she caught what I was thinking immediately。 Her pale eyes fired up as she yanked her paw away。
Ramona Sprague was the only one of the three who looked like Madeleine； if not for her I would have thought the brass girl was adopted。 She possessed a pushing…fifty version of Madeleine's lustrous dark hair and pale skin； but there was nothing else attractive about her。 She was fat； her face was flaccid； her rouge and lipstick were applied slightly off center； so that her face was weirdly askew。 Taking her hand； she said； 〃Madeleine has said so many nice things about you；〃 with a trace of a slur。 There was no liquor on her breath； I wondered if she was jacked on drugstore stuff。
Madeleine sighed； 〃Daddy； can we eat？ Bucky and I want to catch a nine…thirty show。〃
Emmett Sprague slapped me on the back。 〃I always obey my eldest。 Bucky； will you entertain us with boxing and police anecdotes？〃
〃Between mouthfuls；〃 I said。
Sprague slapped my back again； harder。 〃I can tell you didn't catch too many in the cabeza。 Like Fred Allen you are。 e on； family。 Dinner is served。〃
We filed into a large； wood…paneled dining room。 The table in the middle of it was small； with five place settings already laid down。 A serving cart was stationed by the door； leaking the unmistakable aroma of corned beef and cabbage。 Old Man Sprague said； 〃Hearty fare breeds hearty people； haute cuisine breeds degenerates。 Dig in； lad。 The maid goes to her voodoo revival meetings on Sunday nights； so there's no one here but us white folks。〃
I grabbed a plate and piled it with food。 Martha Sprague poured the wine and Madeleine dished herself out a small portion of each item and sat down at the table； motioning for me to sit beside her。 I did； and Martha announced to the room： 〃I want to sit opposite Mr。 Bleichert so I can draw him。〃
Emmett caught my eye and winked。 〃Bucky； you are in for a cruel caricaturing。 Martha's pencil never flinches。 Nineteen years old she is； and a high…paid mercial artist already。 Maddy's my pretty