For another ten minutes neither man said a word. A big drop of moisture collected on the cleft in the middle of Ostby's chin. He wished he were certain that he could trust Groves. Groves was an open-faced young man with candor in his blue eyes, and a ready smile that asked for confidence, but somewhere in the man's makeup was a black streak, Ostby reckoned.
All morning Ostby's infallible intuition had throbbed a slow pulse of warning. He knew better than to disregard that warning but when he turned to thieves for help he had no right to expect sterling characters for companions.
Siggen should have enough control over his men to make Groves afraid to double-cross him. And, strangely enough, Ostby trusted Siggen. His intuition told him that Siggen was a man true to his own principles, distorted though they might be.
Ostby had seen another facet of Siggen's character that morning. When he had returned to the house Siggen had introduced him to Groves, and the three of them had gone down into the fat man's basement.
"I want to show you a pretty sight," Siggen said.
Lying on the basement floor was the body of a man. A knife was buried in his throat. The dead mouth that smiled up at Ostby was widened by a long scar.
"What will we do when we get in the Stalls?" Groves interrupted Ostby's reflections.
Ostby did not answer, but turned his head to look at the young man, long and levelly.
"It's none of my business, of course," Groves added hurriedly, "but I won't be much help in case of trouble if I don't even know what you're trying to do."
"If trouble comes we just get out as fast as we can."