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."
Groff said, "He's her husband."
The officer lamely said, "I'm sorry. Very sorry." And then, defensively, "A warning shot was fired. He didn't stop. This area is under full martial law and the sound truck announced it to everybody—" He saw that she wasn't listening, was staring in disbelief. He got out of the jeep and lit a cigarette and waited.