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and fiddling with both tie and glasses.
    Wolfe observed the vellications with a frown and poured his second beer. “Mr. Goodwin has reported your conversation to me, and I have a number of questions. Before I begin, however, I want to stress that I have not yet accepted this.” He picked up the check and tapped it. “Until I do, and there is no guarantee whatever of that occurrence, you are not a client.”
    “I understand,” Cortland said, swallowing and bobbing his head.
    “Very well. Am I correct in stating you are morally certain that Hale Markham’s fall into that gorge at Prescott three weeks ago was not accidental?”
    “Yes, I am. Furthermore—”
    Wolfe held up a palm. “Please, if I may continue. Your turn will come. I know what you told Mr. Goodwin, but I will ask at least one of his questions again: Why do you believe your colleague was murdered?”
    Cortland took a deep breath. “Mr. Wolfe, Hale Markham was not the incautious type—in anything he did. And with his hiking and climbing expertise and experience, he certainly would not have slipped into the Gash.”
    “You misunderstand me, sir. At least for purposes of this discussion, I am not questioning whether Mr. Markham was forced over the edge, but why .”
    “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you I’ve ruminated on that at length,” Cortland said, rubbing his hands together nervously. My own hands were getting damp just watching him. “As I related to Mr. Goodwin in our interlocution, Hale had his share of…calumniators.”
    Wolfe winced at this verbiage and I hid a smile behind my hand. “Tell me about them,” he said dryly.
    We were treated to another show of squirming, leg crossing, and throat clearing. Cortland then repeated, in more or less the same words, what he had told me about Keith Potter and Leander Bach. Wolfe watched him through narrowed eyes, pausing twice to drink beer. “It’s patently obvious how you feel about Mr. Potter,” he said when Cortland had finished. “How well do you know him?”
    “Well enough.” Cortland shrugged. “Or perhaps I should say, ‘As well as I want to.’”
    “That says nothing, sir. Try again.”
    Cortland sat up straight, twitched his shoulders, and sighed to indicate his irritation. “Keith Potter is an opportunist above all else. That was apparent from the day he stepped onto the Prescott campus. He was all smiles and glad-handing, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s all he’s ever been in the three years since he assumed the presidency.”
    “Then you observe him in action a great deal?”
    Another sigh. “Enough. Mostly at receptions and, er, assemblies and faculty meetings. A congressional candidate would do well to take lessons from him. I realize that university presidents have to be diplomatic and personable—it comes with the territory. After all, one of their major duties is to importune wealthy alumni and irascible tycoons like Leander Bach. I don’t quarrel with that. But as far as I can discern, that’s about all Potter is good at—coaxing contributions out of nabobs.”
    “Is he capable of killing someone?” Wolfe almost purred.
    “I’ve thought about that, of course,” Cortland said, setting his jaw. “I don’t like him one minim, as you have indeed observed, but I scarcely conceive Keith Potter would have the audacity to do such a thing, even if eliminating Hale would almost surely clear the way for a munificent bequest from Bach.”
    “And with Mr. Markham’s death, is that bequest now forthcoming?”
    “Nothing has been said officially, and I have heard no talk around campus. I suspect Potter will get Bach to come around now, but he’s waiting what he considers a decent interval after Hale’s demise to make the announcement. I say we can do very nicely without the largess of Leander Bach.”
    Wolfe rang for more beer, then readjusted his bulk. “How did others at Prescott feel about Mr. Markham?”
    Cortland put his palms together and closed