It was nearly midnight when he entered the tiny, perfect (though admittedly dusty) house Charles Stuart had built for his bride and left to his daughter, set in a small square of garden enclosed by a high brick wall. Less than half an hour later he was out in the garden with a spade he’d found in the back entry, shivering in the rain, and praying that he was on a fool’s errand. Before one o’clock he was on the telephone in frantic search for Capt. Dan von Flanagan, of the Homicide Squad. By one-fifteen von Flanagan was there having brought, per Malone’s request, two husky policemen with shovels, the morgue wagon, a basket, and a bottle of gin.

“I thought it was a joke,” Malone said hoarsely, nursing his glass of gin. “I found her diary right where she said it would be.” He nodded toward the little Chippendale desk. “I started to read it.”

“Shame on you, Malone,” von Flanagan said. “Reading a girl’s diary.” The big policeman looked uncomfortable and uneasy, perched on the edge of a delicate brocade chair. “What does it say?”

“It was her idea,” Malone said. “Anyway, I wanted to read her version of those two—suicide attempts. And this paper fell out of it.” He handed it to von Flanagan.

Dig, dig, dig.

Under the willow tree in the garden.

“It sounded like a couple of lines from a couple of popular songs. But I found a spade, and I dug.”

“You must have been drunk,” von Flanagan commented.

“Who, me?” Malone asked indignantly. He gulped the rest of his glass of gin, took out a cigar and lit it with only a slightly trembling hand.

“And don’t be nervous,” von Flanagan said. “You’ve seen skulls before.”

“Who’s nervous?” Malone demanded. He closed his eyes and remembered standing under a tree that dripped cold spring rain, bracing his feet in the mud and digging with a small inadequate shovel into the still half-frozen ground, until suddenly a white and fleshless face leered at him. A nearby door opened, and he jumped.

A policeman in an oilskin slicker and muddy boots said, “We found a’most all of him, ’cept a little bit of his left foot.” He closed the door as he went out, and Malone closed his eyes. He opened the door again and said, “Looks like he was buried with all his clothes on, even his jewelry. Johnson’s cleaning off his watch.” He closed the door again. Malone sneezed.

“I hope you haven’t caught cold,” von Flanagan said solicitously.