"Just to accommodate you, I'll change my sex. But right now, there's a man to see you." "Tell him to go to hell but don't offend him." "I think you ought to see him. He's got an official paper of some kind. You didn't steal a car or anything, did you?" "I parked in the middle of an intersection, but I didn't think they'd mind." Brent Taber sighed. "All right. Send him in." The man was small, ingrown and, as Brent Taber learned, somewhat stubborn. "My name is Charles Blackwell," he said. "My brother has been lost for over two months now." "I'm sorry," Brent said politely. "My brother was a source of concern to us--" "Who is _us_?" "Why, the family. Who else? We all worried about Charlie. He had fits of depression. Kind of a maniac-depressive." "_Manic_-depressive," Taber corrected gently. "Yeah, that kind, ah--kind of. Well anyhow, he hides from us sometimes and we worry." "Who sent you to me?" Charles Blackwell waved a vague hand, "Oh, they told me you were the man to see." "Tell me their names," Brent said politely. "I'd like to thank them personally." "Oh that won't be necessary--not necessary at all. You see the thing is, my brother Jack has accidents sometimes and so we figured he might have broken a leg or something, maybe, and it seems you--well, you kind of turned out to be the man to see about it." Charles Blackwell waved the paper. "With this." _Good lord_, Taber groaned inwardly. _This thing is turning into a comic opera--plain slapstick._ "And why am I the man to see?" "Because they said you knew about a man with a broken leg who got killed or something." "They said that?" "Uh-huh, and if you'd just let me see the man, I could tell in a jiffy whether he's Jack or not." It had been a pretty long speech and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to get it off his chest. He felt he'd earned a cigarette so he lit one. Brent Taber watched the match go out and then said, "You're the Goddamnedest phony I've met this week." "They said you'd say that, but all I want is to see the man and then I'll know. I'll tell you in a jiffy if he's my brother." "All right." Charles Blackwell gulped a throatful of smoke in disbelief. Evidently they'd told him it wouldn't be as easy as this. They must have told him it would be as hard as hell, because he stared at Brent as though the latter hadn't played fair. Brent reached into a drawer and took out a glossy photo. He pushed it across the desk. Charles Blackwell craned his neck, looked, and saw what appeared to be a man lying naked on a marble slab with his throat cut. Blackwell swallowed hard and nodded and said, "Yeah, that's Jack, all right." "How do you know?" "I can tell." "You can?" Charles Blackwell got a little indignant. "Of course, I can. Don't you think a man knows his own brother?" "That depends on which man and what brother." "I want the body of my relative," Charles Blackwell said.