"'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."