He hesitated. The question had not occurred to him for some time. "Go ahead as planned, I guess. Chief Brayer said the Swanscomb place wasn't damaged, and your husband seems to have given up the idea of making a warehouse out of it." She laughed, not maliciously. "I wonder if he remembers that he signed a lease on it," she said. "Lease?" She nodded. "There were a couple of men from Ohio in to see him last week. He drew up a lease on the spot, and they paid him a binder." Groff said, "Hell. Well, that was pretty stupid of him, but if it's a matter of getting--him--in trouble I suppose I could find some other--" "Get Artie in trouble? Small chance, Mickey. He lands on his feet. And if he doesn't, he always has the family money to bail him out--my family, that is. What you really mean is you'd back out in order to do me a favor, isn't it? Don't answer. It wouldn't be a favor, Mickey. I decided a long time ago that I couldn't mother Artie. I had to let him get in his own scrapes and get out by himself, if he could get out. It hasn't made a man of him yet, but there's always the chance it may." She tipped the ash of her cigarette neatly into a thick china saucer. "Stay around, Mickey," she said. "All of us need people like you around here. For much more than business." A quality in her voice touched him, deeper perhaps than she had intended, deeper than he could remember being touched before. Responsibility. That was the word. Someone had to help. And it was something very different from ego that made him think too: Someone has to lead. Dick McCue heaved himself to his feet. His whole head was hurting now, and he was feeling savage. "I'm going to hit up the chief for another trip ticket, Mrs. Goudeket," he announced. "Half an hour's long enough to wait for the b--for Mr. Chesbro." "Why not?" said Mrs. Goudeket. She went with him. Groff could hear the discussion clear from the cloakroom; but they won their point. They came back with another scribbled slip of paper, and the whole party headed for the motor pool--even Sharon, though no one had asked her. There was somebody down by the motor pool. As they drew close another little truck came up, making a convoy of three of them, and the driver of one of them hopped out, heading for the motor pool's Coleman lamp. The driver was a captain, and upset about something; he said to Mr. Cioni, "I understand there's a temporary morgue somewhere around here." "Basement of the Methodist Church," Cioni said, absently walking over to the open jeep. "That's at--" He had leaned over to peer at what was huddled in the back of the jeep. He crossed himself and stared at Mrs. Goudeket. "Here's the guy that got your car, lady!" he called. "Artie!" gasped Polly Chesbro. She sped to the jeep and unbelievingly lifted the head on its stiffening neck, staring into the blank face. The captain, his nerves twanging through his voice, snapped, "Please don't give us any trouble, lady. This is no business of yours."