“What is that?”
“Number one. The big boss. The sheriff, pohanko, or whatever you call him.”
“I’m no wiser,” she said, genuinely puzzled.
“The man who runs this town. The leading citizen.”
“Make it a little clearer,” she suggested, trying hard to help him. “Who or what should this citizen be leading?”
“You and Seth and everyone else.” He waved a hand to encompass the entire burg.
Frowning, she said, “Leading us where?”
“Wherever you’re going.”
She gave up, beaten, and signed the white-coated waiter to come to her assistance.
“Matt, are we going any place?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, ask Seth then.”
He went away, came back with, “Seth says he’s going home at six o’clock and what’s it to you?”
“Anyone leading him there?” she inquired.
“Don’t be daft,” Matt advised. “He knows his own way and he’s cold sober.”
Harrison chipped in with, “Look, I don’t see why there should be so much difficulty about this. Just tell me where I can find an official, any official!—the police chief, the city treasurer, the mortuary keeper or even a mere justice of the peace.”
“What’s an official?” asked Matt, openly puzzled.
“What’s a justice of the peace?” added the brunette.
His mind side-slipped and did a couple of spins. It took him quite a while to reassemble his thoughts and try another tack.
“Supposing,” he said to Matt, “this joint catches fire. What would you do?”
“Fan it to keep it going,” responded Matt, fed up and making no effort to conceal the fact. He returned to the counter with the air of one who has no time to waste on half-wits.
“He’d put it out,” informed the brunette. “What else would you expect him to do?”
“Supposing he couldn’t?”
“He’d call in others to help him.”
“And would they?”
“Of course,” she assured, surveying him with pity. “They’d be planting a nice crop of strong obs, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, I guess so.” He began to feel stalled, but made a last shot at the problem. “What if the fire were too big and fast for passers-by to tackle?”
“Seth would summon the fire squad.”
Defeat receded. A touch of triumph replaced it.
“Ah, so there is a fire squad! That’s what I meant by something official. That’s what I’ve been after all along. Quick; tell me where I can find the depot.”
“Bottom end of Twelfth. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” He got up in a hurry. “See you again sometime.” Going out fast, he grabbed his bicycle, shoved off from the curb.
The fire depot was a big place holding four telescopic ladders, a spray tower and two multiple pumps, all motorized on the usual array of fat rubber balls. Inside, Harrison came face to face with a small man wearing immense plus fours.
“Looking for someone?” asked the small man.
“The fire chief,” said Harrison.
“Who’s he?”
By this time prepared for that sort of thing, Harrison spoke as one would to a child. “See here, mister, this is a fire-fighting outfit. Somebody bosses it. Somebody organizes the shebang, fills forms, presses buttons, recommends promotions, kicks the shiftless, takes all the credit, transfers all the blame and generally lords it around. He’s the most important guy in the bunch and everybody knows it.” His forefinger tapped the other’s chest. “And he’s the fella I’m going to talk to if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Nobody’s any more important than anyone else. How can they be? I think you’re crazy.”
“You’re welcome to think what you like, but I’m telling you that—”
A shrill bell clamored, cutting off the sentence. Twenty men appeared as if by magic, boarded a ladder and a multi-pump, roared into the street.
