"That was a real dogfight those two had." Kintyre shook his head admiringly.
"Never mind that now. Have you any information on Bruce's later movements?"
"Why, Friday he and I were both working hard. Saturday too he must have been. Yes, Friday afternoon was the last time I saw Bruce alive. We only said hello in passing. Margery Towne tells me he was home that evening and Saturday afternoon, otherwise apparently at the University."
"And that's all we can find out?" Clayton grimaced. "Not a hell of a lot, is it? Unless Miss Towne can tell—"
"One more thing," said Kintyre. "It may not be relevant. But her apartment was burgled last night."
The cigar dropped from Clayton's mouth. He bent over to pick it up, jerkily. His movements smoothed as Kintyre watched; when he raised himself and ground out the butt, his craggy face was under control.
"Surprised?" murmured Kintyre.
"Yes. Of course. What happened? What was taken?"
"That's the odd part. Nothing she knew of. Someone had broken in and made a hooraw's nest; but he, she, or it hadn't taken any silverware or jewelry, nothing."
"Uh." Clayton looked at his hands, folded in his lap, then back again, sharply. "How about papers?"