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please —”
    Barney pushed. The door flew open, catapulting the youth back into the room. He tripped on a rug and fell, his dressing gown up around scrawny thighs.
    â€œYou can’t … you can’t …”
    Barney motioned Ed inside and shut the door. “Now where is she?”
    The youth rose, drawing his gown tightly about him. He said sullenly, “I don’t know. I went to work one morning and found the studio locked.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œAbout two weeks ago.”
    â€œExactly when?”
    The boy wet his red lips. “A week ago last Thursday. Twelve days ago.”
    Barney scowled. That would have been the day before the Sheriff got his phone call from the woman in the pay station in Kansas City asking about the Barton couple.
    â€œDid you call the police?”
    â€œCertainly not . Why should I? Miss English is thirty years old and quite capable of coming and going as she chooses.”
    Barney took the Barton accident photo from his pocket and thrust it under the youth’s nose. He took one look at it, gulped, and turned quickly away. “What are you, a sadist or something? Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
    â€œYour boss-lady knew these people. They were murdered. We’re looking for the men who did it.”
    â€œI don’t know anything about murdered people. Anyway, what do you expect me to do about it?”
    â€œYou can open the studio for us.”
    â€œOh, no, I couldn’t do that. Miss English would—”
    â€œThen we’ll have to call in the police. Ever see a place after the cops make a search? They’ll throw stuff all over the place, negatives, unexposed film, chemicals …”
    The young man pouted. “Oh, all right . You’re a peach, you are. Wait outside till I dress.”
    The boy fumbled with the key, then pushed the studio door open. They caught a whiff of death and decay.
    The boy drew back as if he had just encountered a snake. “Oh, my God .”
    He tried to backpedal into the hall. Barney gripped his arm. “Where’s the darkroom?”
    The youth pointed himself in the right direction, Barney’s muscle supplying the motive power. He opened the door of the darkroom and the stench billowed out in waves. Barney heard Ed throwing up behind him; the girlish assistant fainted. Barney dropped him and, trying not to breathe, opened a storage closet. Blood was clotted on the walls and on stacks of photographic paper. A balloon of a man was slumped in the fetal position on the closet floor, so swollen that the seams of his dark blue uniform had split open. Barney tried to drag the body out; it was too heavy.
    â€œGive me a hand, Ed.”
    Together they got the hulk out on the floor of the darkroom. Barney found a finger-sized hole in the back of the head; the face was a red-black crater. The stains in the closet told him that the man had been shot at close range while standing in the closet.
    Gingerly, Barney drew a wallet from the inside pocket. The chauffeur’s license confirmed his guess: Elbert Kiddoo, San Antonio, Texas. Barney studied the body, estimating the rate of decay in the stuffy closet: less than a week, more than three days. And Claire English had pulled out twelve days ago.
    â€œLet’s get some air in here,” he said.
    He covered the tour driver with a photographer’s black cloth and began opening windows. Then they carried the assistant into the bathroom. Ed threw cold water on the unconscious youth’s face.
    â€œWhat made you think of the darkroom, Barney?”
    â€œIt seemed the logical first place to look.”
    The assistant came to, sputtering. Barney leaned over him. “You. What’s your name?”
    â€œArt—Arthur.”
    â€œWell, Arthur girl, somebody hauled a man all the way up here from Texas and killed him in your boss-lady’s darkroom.”
    â€œI don’t understand