Rico was looking into the empty eyes of the skull. They seemed to be draining all the life from his own eyes.

"All you did." Mackendrick echoed him softy and sardonically. "All you did was bury a murdered man and later dig him up and try to dispose of his bones in the sea. Why would you do that if you didn't kill him?"

"Because she told me to."

"Who told you to?"

"Mrs. Chantry."

"She told you to bury her husband's body?"

Mackendrick had risen and stood over Rico, who moved his head from side to side, trying to evade the weight of Mackendrick's shadow.

"It isn't her husband's body."

"Who is it, then?"

"It was just a guy that came to the door one day about twenty-five years ago. He wanted to see Mr. Chantry. I told him that Mr. Chantry was working in his studio and anyway he didn't see people without an appointment. But the guy said Mr. Chantry would see _him_ if I gave him his name."

"What _was_ his name?" Mackendrick said.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember."

"What did he look like?"

"He just looked ordinary. Kind of pale and flabby, not in good shape. The most outstanding thing about him, he didn't talk too good. I mean, he talked like he had a stroke or something. He sounded like an old bum, only he wasn't that old."

"How old was he?"

"Early thirties, maybe. Older than I was, anyway."

"How was he dressed?"

"Not too good. He had on a kind of brown suit that didn't fit too well. I remember thinking at the time, it looked like he got it at the Starvation Army."

"Did you take him in to see Mr. Chantry?"

"She did. They were in the studio talking for quite a while, all three of them."

"What were they talking about?" I said.

"I didn't listen in. They closed the door, and that's a solid oak door about three inches thick. After a while, she brought him out and sent him on his way."

Mackendrick made a contemptuous dry spitting sound. "You just got through telling us that you buried him. Are you withdrawing that statement?"

"No, sir. That was later in the week, when he came back with the woman and the little boy."

"What woman? What little boy?"

"She was a woman around thirty, I'd say. Pretty good figure, otherwise nothing much to look at-kind of a blah brunette. Her little boy was around seven or eight. He was very quiet. He didn't ask questions the way kids usually do. In fact, I didn't hear him say a word the whole time he was there. And no wonder. He must have been right there when it happened."

"What did happen?"

Rico answered slowly, "I don't know for sure. I didn't _see_ it happen. But after it was all over, there was this body in the greenhouse scrunched up in a big old sack. She said he had a stroke and fell and hit his head and died on her. She said she didn't want any trouble, so I should bury him. She said if I would be nice to her and bury him, then she would be nice to me."

"So you've been in her bed for the last twenty-five years," Mackendrick said with distaste. "And this poor bastard has been in the ground feeding her orchids. Isn't that right?"

Rico lowered his head and looked at the scarred floor between his feet. "I guess it is. But I didn't kill him."

"You covered up for whoever did. Who did?"

"I don't know. I didn't see it happen."

"In the course of twenty-five years in her bed, did you ever think of asking her who killed him?"

"No, sir. It wasn't my business."

"It is now. You're all in this together, I guess you know that-you and Mr. Chantry and Mrs. Chantry and the brunette with the little boy." Mackendrick picked up the skull again and held it, like a memento mori, close to Rico's face. "Are you sure this isn't Mr. Chantry?"

"No, sir. I mean yes, sir, I'm sure it isn't."

"What makes you sure? You buried him in a sack."

"She said it was the other man-the man in the brown suit."

"But all you have is her word for it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mrs. Chantry's word for it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mackendrick gave the skull a long sad look, which he transferred to me. "Do you have any questions you want to ask him?"

"Thanks, I do, Captain." I turned back to Rico. "Assuming this skull isn't Richard Chantry's, what do you think happened to Richard Chantry?"

"I always thought he just walked away."

"Why?"

"I don't know why."

"Did you ever see him again, or hear from him?"

"No, sir. He left this letter behind-you've probably seen it in the art museum."

"I've seen it. When did he write it?"

"I don't know."

"Between the time he killed this man and the time he walked away?"

"I don't know when he wrote it. I never saw him or talked to him after that day."

"Did Mrs. Chantry tell you where he went?"

"No, sir. I don't believe she knew."

"Did he take anything with him?"

"Not that I know of. _She_ looked after his things after he left."

"Was Mrs. Chantry unhappy about his leaving?"

"I don't know. She didn't talk to me about it."

"Not even in bed?"

Rico flushed. "No, sir."

"What about the dark-haired woman and the little boy? Did you ever see them again?"

"No, sir. I didn't go out looking for them, either. They were none of my business."

"What is your business, Rico?"

"Looking after the house and the people. I do the best I can."

"There's only one person left in the house, isn't that right?"

"I guess so. Mrs. Chantry."

I turned to Mackendrick. "Do you think she'll answer questions?"

"I'm not ready to ask them," Mackendrick said in a strained voice. "I have to check with the higher-ups on this."

I wanted to go on checking with the lower-downs, but I needed Mackendrick's cooperation. I waited until Rico had been taken out and placed in a holding cell. When Mackendrick and I were alone in his office with the skull and bones, I told him briefly what had happened, or what I thought had happened, to Betty Siddon.

Mackendrick fidgeted at his desk. His face flushed and became obtuse, as if his circuits were getting overloaded.

Finally he broke in: "I can't do anything about the Siddon woman tonight. I wouldn't even if I had the men. Women are always taking off on their own little business. She's a goodlooking piece; she's probably sacked out in her boyfriend's apartment."

I came close to taking a swing at Mackendrick. I sat and contained my rage, which boiled cold in my head like liquid gas. I told myself to watch it. If I let myself go out of control, as I had been threatening to do all evening, I could find myself locked out of the case, or possibly locked into a holding cell, like Rico.

I concentrated on the skull on the desk, reminding myself that men were supposed to calm down as they got older. When I had myself in hand, I said, "I sort of am her boyfriend."

"I thought so. I still don't have the men to go around knocking on doors. You don't have to worry about her, take my word for it. She's a smart girl and this is her town. If she doesn't turn up overnight, we'll reassess the situation in the morning."

He was beginning to talk like a chief of police. I caught myself hoping that he would never make it. But I seemed to have been elected to help him on his way.

"May I make a couple of suggestions, Captain? And a couple of requests?"

He cast an impatient glance at the electric clock on the wall: it registered close to midnight. "You've earned the right to that."

"We should try to pinpoint the date of this man's death. It should coincide with the date of Chantry's disappearance. That date should be checked for other disappearances, here and in the whole Southern California area, particularly the hospitals and asylums. This man sounds like a possible mental patient." I reached out and touched the poor broken skull.

"We do all that as a matter of routine," Mackendrick said.