"So would I. Naturally." He accepted the drink she offered and took a long swallow. It was heavy on the whisky and light on the soda. "And yet he was a scholar of unusual gifts. He even (he, my student) changed my opinions about some aspects of Machiavelli's thought--emphasized the idealism--he would, of course. I remember him quoting at me, '... _the best fortress is to be found in the love of the people_.' Isn't that exactly the sort of thing which would stick in Bruce's mind?" "'The best fortress.'" She stared into her glass. "It didn't help him much, did it?" Kintyre groped for another cigarette. He was smoking too much, he thought; he'd have a tongue like a fried shoe sole tomorrow. "How much do you know?" he asked. "Only a little." The eyes she raised to him from the couch were desperate. "Bob, what happened? Who did it to him?" "I can't imagine," he said tonelessly. "But--could it have been an accident, Bob? Maybe by mistake for someone else--could it have been?" "Perhaps." _I lie in my flapping front teeth. You don't use pliers on a man without getting his name straight._ "What was in the paper?" he asked. "I haven't seen." "I don't know. I've been sitting here, ever since the policemen came. They asked me if I could guess--God!" She emptied her glass in three gulps. "Could you?" he murmured. "I find it hard to conceive of anyone who might hate Bruce." "There was Gene Michaelis," she said. "I've been thinking and thinking about him. He and his father. I met them once." "Yes. I'd forgotten that. But Michaelis is a cripple now, remember? He couldn't--" "Bruce was called over to San Francisco. Someone called him on the phone. Don't forget that. I can't forget it. I sat here while he talked! He didn't say what it was about, he just left. Took the train. He seemed excited, happy. Said he'd be out late and--" Margery's breath snapped into her lungs. "Bob! Gene Michaelis, sitting there and waiting for Bruce to come in--and those great ugly hands of his!" Kintyre got up and went over to the couch. He sat down on its arm, next to her. She felt blindly for his fingers; her own were cold. "The police think Bruce was killed by professional criminals," he said. "Can you imagine any reason why?"