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suggesting Mr. Schmidt as a suspect, one driven by overwhelming professional jealousies?”
    “Not necessarily,” Cortland squawked defensively, jerking upright again with all the coordination of a marionette. “But he did resent Hale, maybe more than anyone else on campus. And the piece Hale did on his FDR book didn’t help any.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    Cortland hunched his shoulders. “Even I thought Hale was astray on that one. He wrote a satirical little article about Orville’s book for a small conservative journal. It was well-written, of course—everything Hale ever did was. And it was humorous, in a devastating way. Orville was absolutely livid. He thought the piece held both him and his book up to ridicule.”
    “Did it?” Wolfe asked.
    “You’d have to say so. Granted, the book didn’t have a lot to recommend it, but this article, which Hale later claimed was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, was pretty mordacious. Hale told me that Orville telephoned him at home in an absolutely uncontrollable rage, accusing him of taking a cheap shot at a colleague.”
    “And Mr. Markham’s response?”
    “Hale said he told Orville to loosen up, that the thing was intended as a joke, but that seemed to serve only to infuriate Orville further. The result was that the two were even more antagonistic to each other than they had been heretofore. Or rather, Orville was more antagonistic. I think Hale was indifferent and didn’t care one way or the other what Orville thought. He seemed to relish tweaking people. That’s part of the reason he made enemies.”
    “There were others?”
    “Oh, yes. Again, at the risk of repetition, when someone on a university faculty is successful, particularly outside the academic world, as Hale indeed was with his books and newspaper columns and television appearances, the envy very quickly becomes palpable among his colleagues. And this is especially true when the successful person is a conservative. It drives the Jacobins crazy.” Cortland’s voice was somber, but the smug look on his face gave him away—the kind that probably made his liberal colleagues itch to punch him out.
    Wolfe looked grumpy. I knew he was thinking about lunch—at that precise moment Fritz probably was sautéing the veal cutlets, which we were having along with endive salad. And although we occasionally invite clients to join us in the dining room, I could tell Wolfe was in no way about to add our present guest to that privileged group. “Mr. Cortland,” he said, “so far, you’ve mentioned two purported enemies, at least philosophical ones, of your late colleague—three, if you count Leander Bach. Based on what you’ve told us, hardly a bumper crop. Can you add to it?”
    Cortland’s cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry. I guess I haven’t been a great deal of assistance, have I? It has been excessively frustrating for me, too: I know beyond question that Hale’s death was no accident, but I feel uncomfortable singling someone out and suggesting there is even a small chance he might harbor enough ill will against Hale to contemplate murder.”
    “You came here seeking help,” Wolfe growled, turning a palm up and looking disgusted. “Mr. Goodwin felt your concern was justified and your conviction warranted. Through a device not worthy of mention, he inveigled me into seeing you. At this moment, you are in peril of losing my attention, however.” Wolfe reached into his vest and pulled out the platinum pocket watch he almost never consults, setting it deliberately on the desk blotter. “You have two minutes to regain that attention.”
    Cortland went into an accelerated version of the squirming routine again before settling down. “Well…people who didn’t like Hale. All right, another one was Ted Greenbaum—he’s also in the Political Science Department.
    “For that matter, Hale didn’t like him either. Ted’s in line to be the next chairman of the department—at least that’s how it