Harvard Has a Homicide

by Timothy Fuller

  “I never thought of suicide,” said Jupiter.

  “Why not?” asked the man whose name seemed to be Rankin.

  “I don’t know; it never occurred to me.”

  “You read too many detective stories,” said Rankin, taking off his coat. “‘Well, we’ll skip that for a minute. I’m Sergeant Rankin and will probably be in charge of this case, at least for the time being, and if you’ll just tell me how you happened to find the body, you can go.”

  Jupiter decided the case was in competent hands. The Sergeant was solidly built and wore a well-fitting suit and good-looking tie. Jupiter had a habit of classifying people by their taste in ties. His eyes were deep-set and it was hard to tell where he was looking. Jupiter thought he might be a trifle cross-eyed. His apparent intelligence and machine-gun type of speech made Jupiter wonder if he had been excessively brilliant in picking up the purse.

  “What’s your name?” asked the Sergeant, to start the ball rolling.

  “Edmund Jones,” he said.

  “Undergraduate?”

  “No, I graduated last year; I’m doing graduate work.”

  “Oh. Where do you live?”

  “Entry B, room eleven, or Winnetka.”

  “It’s right next door,” said Mr. Swayle, who was feeling out of it.

  “It’s in Illinois,” stated one of the fat policemen unexpectedly.

  “I mean his room,” said Mr. Swayle.

  “Quiet!” snapped the Sergeant. “I’ll ask the questions; Jones will answer them. . . . Now, tell me what you did from — say six-thirty.”

  Jupiter was enjoying himself; he liked the scene, he felt that things were going as they should. Especially he liked the fattest of the policemen. He decided to call him “Illinois.” Mr. Swayle was becoming more and more owlish, his head jerking from one to the other and then back to the dead man. Jupiter wouldn’t have been surprised if he had hooted; the life of a House janitor is usually uneventful.

  In a few well-chosen words he told how he had found Professor Singer.

  “I guess that’s about all,” he concluded, “except that I’ve wiped off all the fingerprints and hidden the important clues.”

  “A wise guy,” said Illinois.

  “Thanks,” said Rankin. “How well did you know Singer?”

  Jupiter hesitated. “That’s hard to say. He was my tutor for three years and I’ve worked with him a lot this year.”

  “Your tutor?” asked the Sergeant blankly.

  Jupiter was glad to explain the tutorial system, one of his favorite subjects. “Yes. The unsuspecting sophomore is put in the hands of a tutor in his chosen Field of Concentration — in my case, Fine Arts. The tutor assigns him reading in related subjects that he ordinarily wouldn’t get in his regular courses. He also helps prepare him for divisional exams. The amount of work done by the student depends on the tutor and the student himself. It’s not exactly obligatory, although it’s becoming more so. The tutor and tutee meet once a week or every two weeks, sometimes less if the student can think of enough original excuses for not going. Each tutor has around eight or ten tutees, and — well, the conversation at their meetings isn’t likely to be about their private lives, so the average student knows little or nothing about his tutor, and vice versa.”

  “I see,” said the Sergeant, but he didn’t look it. “You spoke about the ‘average student’; would you call yourself that?”

  “Well, I don’t know. What I meant was that if a student and tutor happen to be congenial, they may have dinner together or go to the theatre; but it seldom gets beyond that.”

  “The death of your tutor hasn’t upset you very much,” observed Rankin.

  “I never cared for the gentleman,” said Jupiter simply.

  “He means he don’t like the guy,” explained Illinois, who seemed to be the spokesman for the boys in blue.

  “All right,” said Rankin, “now tell me something about Singer. What was he a professor of?”

  “He lectured on the architecture, sculpture, and painting of Italy.”

  “Was he considered an authority?”

  Jupiter laughed. “About every professor at Harvard is supposed to be the greatest living authority on something, it doesn’t matter what. In Singer’s case it is Italian Renaissance painting. His best-known course was called ‘Venetian Painting in Relation to Florence and the Central Italians,’ which just about covers everything.”

  “He don’t look like a wop,” said Illinois, looking at Singer carefully.

  The Sergeant was going through the papers on Singer’s desk. They seemed to be in order. He picked up a pad marked “Engagements.” Then he turned to Jupiter.

  “Do you still think he was murdered?” he asked.

  “Unless you’ve found a Suicide Note, I do,” answered Jupiter.

  “So do I,” said the Sergeant grimly. “A guy that makes out a programme like this wouldn’t kill himself. He’s got about every hour taken up for the next two days.”

  “One of his little ways,” said Jupiter, looking at the pad. “Never a dull moment. . . . Can you make out the abbreviations? He abbreviated everything to a kind of shorthand. We called him the Great Abbreviator.”

  “No, but we’ll go over that later; I want another look at that knife.”

  Again Professor Singer was set upright in his chair, while the Sergeant studied the knife hilt. Jupiter noticed that Singer’s healthy color had departed, leaving his face pasty like a plate of cold mashed potatoes. He guessed that Singer was around forty-five, not much more, young to have a full professorship. He had taken pride in the graying hair at his temples, brushing it carefully to get the best effect. He had once tried a moustache and small beard, but they had made him look too much like an effete billy goat and he had shaved them off. Jupiter realized that everything he had done was for effect. He had long slender hands, well manicured, and during a lecture or even in conversation displayed them cleverly, pulling at his chin or letting one finger follow the contour of his lips. His success with women had been unusual, although in some cases not unquestioned.

  “When you get the guy that owns that, you’ll have your killer,” said the nondescript policeman, alluding to the knife.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Jupiter.

  Rankin straightened up. “Why not?”

  “It belonged to Singer; he used it as a paper cutter.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, he kept it on his desk. Picked it up in Italy. He thought it might have been done by Cellini. It dates from about that time.”

  “You might have told me that before,” said the Sergeant, lighting a cigarette a little savagely.

  “You didn’t ask me,” murmured Jupiter, wondering how much the Sergeant would stand. He liked to be sure of his footing.

  Rankin let it pass. He was scratching his chin. “Well, that brings in a different angle.”

  “How’s that, Chief?” asked Illinois.

  “It means that if he was murdered it wasn’t premeditated — probably done in a fit of anger.” He blew out a cloud of smoke.

  The policemen and Mr. Swayle were impressed.

  “Not necessarily, Inspector,” said Jupiter.

  Rankin coughed. “What do you mean?”

  “Plenty of people knew that knife was on Singer’s desk.”

  The Sergeant was shaken; perhaps nettled is the better word. “Maybe you’d like me to go back to the station and let you take charge here,” he said. “And I’m a Sergeant, not an Inspector.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jupiter. He was satisfied now; the scene was complete. The amateur had aroused the professional’s wrath.

  Rankin had picked up the engagement pad again and was studying it without success.

  “Can you translate this thing?” he asked, handing it to Jupiter.

  “I’ll try.” They gathered around him. “Let’s see, we might as well start with Wednesday, as this is Wednesday. . . . Ten o’clock, ‘Vn. Pg., Rdfe.’ That would
be the Venetian Painting course for Radcliffe. . . . Eleven, ‘do. Hvd.,’ ditto for Harvard. . . . You’d think he’d go crazy giving the same lecture right over again, but he liked it like that. . . . Twelve, ‘Off. Hr., Fg.’ Easy. Office hour at the Fogg. That’s the museum where all this takes place. . . . One, ‘Lch. Fac. Cl.’ Lunch at the Faculty Club. Easy, isn’t it?”

  . He looked up and saw nothing but open mouths and bewilderment.

  “You get used to it, and, of course, I know more or less what to expect.” He went on, “Two o’clock, ‘A.S.P. of R.’ Took that one last year. It’s another course, the Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting of Rome. . . . Three, another office hour at the museum. He usually left at four, so the rest would be here. . . . Four-thirty,‘A. Rsn.’ That’s got me. Let’s see, it must be somebody’s name. Oh yes, Rosen, Adam Rosen, one of Singer’s tutees. . . . Five, ‘P. App.’ . . . Well, well, well, Peter Appleton! A dear fellow, a darling boy. You’ll love him, Inspector.”

  “Who’s he?” asked the Sergeant.

  Another tutee, but a honey, a real honey, you’ll see, said Jupiter. “By the way, Inspector, about what time do you think Singer got the business, to be colloquial?”

  “I don’t know exactly. We’ll find out when the examiner gets here, but I guess between six and seven.”

  “Well, we’re getting warmer. . . . Five-thirty, ‘Mr. Arthur Fairchild.’ ” Jupiter stopped. The purse in his pocket felt much larger.

  “I wonder why that isn’t abbreviated?” mused Rankin. “Do you know Fairchild?”

  “Yes,” said Jupiter. The truth never hurt anyone, he thought — much. “He’s a banker, friend of Singer’s. You’ve probably heard of his wife. They live in Cambridge.”

  “She’s the Society one,” explained Illinois to everyone’s surprise.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of her, but what about Fairchild? What did he want to see Singer about?”

  “I can’t answer all the questions, Inspector; it’s your turn,” said Jupiter, figuring it would get him out of a hole. It did.

  “I’ll find out, all right. . . . Let me see that thing.” He took the pad from Jupiter. “Six o’clock, ‘Fitz.’. . . Let’s see. Fitz. Fitz. Fitzmaurice?”

  “Fitzpatrick?” said Illinois.

  “Fitzgibbons?” tried another officer.

  “Fitzsimmons?” hazarded Mr. Swayle.

  “May I play?” asked Jupiter meekly.

  “Well?” It was the Sergeant.

  “Fitzgerald,” he said definitely.

  Rankin sighed. “Do you know him too?”

  “Not personally, but by reputation. He’s a portrait painter, quite famous. He’s doing the President now.”

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Illinois.

  “The President of Harvard,” explained Jupiter softly. He didn’t like to hurt the man’s feelings. Illinois was not bright, but he was willing.

  “You’d better do this; it’ll save time,” said Rankin, handing the pad back to Jupiter.

  Jupiter took it without comment. The next entry was for six-thirty — ‘Dr. with Hdly.’

  “That’s funny,” said Jupiter. “This must mean ‘Dinner with Hadley,’ but if he was killed between six and seven, he couldn’t have had dinner with Hadley very well.”

  “Who’s this Hadley?” asked the Sergeant, hot on the trail.

  “He’s a professor, an assistant professor, actually; he lives right across the hall. Let’s go see him,” said Jupiter.

  “He’s not there; I didn’t see a light as I came past the door,” said Mr. Swayle.

  “He’ll keep,” said the Sergeant.

  Someone knocked heavily on the door and the Sergeant went over and opened it. There was quite a mill going on in the hall. Rankin gave a few orders to someone outside and then led a small procession into the room. Jupiter found a chair in a corner and sat down to watch the festivities.

  A man, obviously the medical examiner, began to do professional things to Singer. Two cops started to set up a stretcher at the other end of the room, while another man with a camera fiddled with flash bulbs. A big shot in a uniform covered with gold stripes walked around the room with Rankin, finally disappearing into Singer’s bedroom. Someone was taking fingerprints from the desk. Jupiter realized that this was the first high-class murder the Cambridge police had had in years. Mr. Swayle came over.

  “You know, Mr. Jones, I think someone ought to tell Professor Sampson about this.”

  “Do you think he’d like it, too?” asked Jupiter; then, “I guess you’re right, although he probably knows already. Ask the Inspector before you go. He may have ideas.”

  Mr. Swayle met Rankin coming out of the bedroom and after a few words rushed out of the room as if he were bringing the good news from Ghent to Aix. Jupiter suspected the janitor of wanting an excuse to be the first to tell somebody of the horrible event. The Sergeant walked over with the man in gold braid. ‘

  “Lieutenant, this is Mr. Jones; he found the body.”

  “Clever of me, wasn’t it?” said Jupiter softly, getting to his feet with an effort.

  Rankin went on, “We were just going over Singer’s appointment memorandum when you came in. Mr. Jones was very helpful; in fact, I’m going to ask him to stick around for a while and help me some more, if he doesn’t mind.” Then turning to Jupiter, “You see, in the usual murder case, such as a gang killing, the police have a definite method of procedure which goes on without the help of anyone outside, but here we really need someone closer to the actual facts.”

  The Lieutenant tossed his head and said, “H’m, yes.

  Jupiter wondered how many gang murders the Cambridge police had on their hands in a year, but decided not to ask.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said, trying not to sound like a boy scout about to lay down his life for his country.

  The doctor had finished prodding and was packing things in his bag.

  “Can you tell when he was killed?” asked the Sergeant.

  “Can I tell when he was killed?” sneered the doctor. “Why, certainly. He was found at about eight, I hear. Well, then, he was killed between eight and five. That’s three hours. Even with a post-mortem, I don’t believe I could get much closer; it depends on too many things. You ought to know that, Sergeant.”

  One-word description, thought Jupiter — waspish.

  “Well, we’ll want a post-mortem, anyway. I want to know if he had any supper, too,” said Rankin. It was hard to ruffle the man.

  Jupiter figured he could think of an easier way of discovering if Singer had had dinner, but again he practised self-control.

  “All right, Jenkins, take your pictures. They won’t be much use, since he wasn’t shot, but we’ll need them for the records.”

  Jenkins adjusted his camera towards the desk and raised a flash bulb. Instinctively Jupiter straightened his tie. Professor Singer was shot from several angles and Jupiter felt how much the Professor would have disliked his last photographs being taken with his head on a desk. He had been proud of his face.

  After the pictures, two policemen laid out the stretcher and Singer was lifted onto it. It was an inartistic sight. A little blood had dried on the man’s chin, making his mouth seem elongated, almost shapeless. There was a strange silence in the room as a sheet was pulled over the body, covering the face. Even Jupiter was affected by it; it seemed as if for the first time everyone was conscious that a man had actually died.

  The telephone ringing cut the silence to shreds. Jupiter could almost feel the vacuum left by indrawn breaths. The bell rang three times before anyone moved. It is surprising the shock a telephone can give even in the calmest surroundings.

  “I’ll take it,” said Rankin, going to the desk. The spell was broken; policemen were policemen again. The receiver came up. “Yes? . . . No, he’s not. . . . No. . . . Who is this, please? . . . Miss Slade? . . . Could you come down here? . . . Yes, right away. . . . Yes, it is. . . . Very important. . . . All right; thank you.” He t
urned to the room. “Singer’s secretary. She’s coming over.”

  “Time marches on,” murmured Jupiter.

  Singer’s body was carried out. With it went the doctor, the lieutenant, the photographer, and three policemen. Jupiter walked over to the window; a ‘ damp but undaunted gathering of undergraduates saw the stretcher placed in the ambulance. He turned to Rankin.

  “What’s next, Inspector?”

  “Let’s finish with that engagement pad,” Rankin answered, picking it up. “I’ll want to get hold of all the people listed here and talk with them. I’ve sent the janitor to tell the man in charge of this House the news. I guess he’ll inform the proper authorities and then I’ll have to see him. . . . The last thing was ‘dinner with Hadley,’ wasn’t it? I think Hadley’s the man we want to see. Well, there’s only one more entry, that’s eight o’clock. ‘J.J.’ Is that you?”

  “Yes, the J is for Jupiter, a nickname.”

  “O. K. Let’s see what we’ve got. From four-thirty on at half-hour intervals we have Adam Rosen and Peter Appleton, students; Mr. Arthur Fairchild, banker; Fitzgerald, the artist; Professor Hadley, and finally you.”

  “But not least,” muttered Jupiter.

  The door opened and Illinois’s red face appeared. Jupiter had missed him.

  “Hey, Chief, these reporters out here want to see you. They’re trying to break down the door.” Tell em to wait a minute. I’ll see them as soon as I can.”

  Illinois disappeared in a roar from the hall.

  The Sergeant turned back to the desk. “I haven’t a legal right to go through Singer’s papers yet; have to wait and see his lawyer. What I want to find out is his financial standing, relatives, insurance, and so forth. He was thinking out loud. “I suppose Miss Slade, his secretary, can help when she gets here. This kind of case will either take a couple of hours or it may drag on for a year. That’s the trouble: you never know and you’ve got to be careful not to step on anyone’s toes. You can’t very well take a Harvard professor down to the station and give him the works the way you can some second-rate gunman.”

  “True,” said Jupiter, “but I know of a few who would like the publicity. Have you done anything about finding Hadley?”