Harvard Has a Homicide

by Timothy Fuller

Jupiter thought he looked a trifle like an old headmaster he had once known.

  The Sergeant closed the door in Singer’s room. “What’s the news, Inspector?”

  Rankin was not inclined to be intimate. “Now listen here, Jones, I’m in charge of this case and I’m supposed to question the witnesses. What’s the idea of talking to Hadley?”

  “So you’ve seen the good pedant?” He was feeling the last drink.

  “You can cut the wisecracks. What did he tell you?”

  “Probably the same thing he told you.”

  Rankin was losing control. “Listen, Jones, this murder may be a lot of fun for you, but it’s my job — get that. I won’t have anyone working against me. As I pointed out before, you can be of some help to me, but you’ve got to work with me, not against me.”

  “I see your point,” said Jupiter. “As a matter of fact, I just happened to bump into Hadley on the street. My curiosity got the better of my usual good judgment and I asked questions. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s better. Now what did he tell you?”

  “I asked him if he’d had dinner at the House; he answered yes. Then I asked him if he remembered his date with Singer for dinner and he said he’d forgotten it. I didn’t talk with him very long.”

  “Is that all?” asked the Sergeant.

  “All,” answered Jupiter.

  “Did he know about the murder when you spoke to him?”

  “No, I broke the news to him; he’d been to the movies.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “I’d swear on any amount of Bibles it was the first he’d heard of it.”

  “Maybe,” said the Sergeant doubtfully. “But forgetting about dinner was a hot one.”

  “If you think Hadley killed Singer you’re crazy.”

  “I’m not thinking who killed him yet; I’m trying to find out the time of his death. As a matter of fact, Professor Sampson was with Hadley until quarter of seven.”

  “You’ve been doing all right,” said Jupiter. He thought he’d sound him on the Fairchild situation. “Well, then, the last person to see Singer was Fitzgerald.”

  Rankin took the bait. “No, I’ve found the person Singer was expecting. Mrs. Fairchild, the wife of the banker, paid him a short visit; left about six-fifteen, she says.”

  Jupiter whistled. He hoped it sounded authentic.

  “It looks bad for the lady,” he suggested.

  “Not necessarily. I tell you I’m just trying to place the time, but their both seeing him to-night needs some explaining. He says he saw him on business and she says she was inviting him to some party she’s throwing.”

  They were both thinking.

  Finally Rankin said, “I’m convinced Singer didn’t have dinner. I’ve checked with the head waitress in the dining hall and she says he never appeared. The dining hall closes at seven, and so if he wasn’t dead before then he would have gone over. How does that strike you?”

  “I’ll admit that had occurred to me, Inspector.”

  “That places it between six-fifteen and seven,” mused Rankin.

  “What’s the story on that dramatic little scene we had here a while ago featuring Miss Slade?” He wanted a change of subject. Any minute the Sergeant might ask him what he knew about the Fairchilds.

  “I had a talk with her about that. She’s still convinced Fitzgerald killed him.’ Says for the last week, ever since he got here, Singer’s been nervous, hardly able to do his work. There may be something in it.”

  “How did that act strike you? I had a feeling it might have been rehearsed.”

  “You mean accusing Fitzgerald? How could it’ve been? She didn’t know he was going to be here.”

  “That’s true, but still I felt it was overdone. Did she give you any more interesting bits of information?”

  Rankin pondered. “No, not much . . . name of his lawyer . . . he didn’t have any relations that she knew anything about . . . have to go over all that in the morning. . . .I’m trying to find out now how many people were seen going in and out of this entry at about half past six.”

  “You’ll have your troubles there, Inspector,” said Jupiter. “Everyone was apt to be in the dining hall, or mooching back and forth in the rain not noticing anything. But still, have a try. Did Slade translate Singer’s little note ‘Con plus Mad’?”

  “No, she couldn’t figure it out. . . . I don’t think it’s important, though — probably something to do with his work. I’ve been through the notes in his desk, but I can’t connect it. . . . You go on back and look after those reporters, but don’t tell them anything, remember that, and if you come across any more witnesses let me talk to them.”

  Rankin was pleasant again. Jupiter figured he was satisfied with the way the case was going.

  He had started through the fire door. “I suppose you’ve already done it, Inspector, but how about checking up on Fitzgerald? Find out what time he got back to his hotel?”

  The Sergeant smiled. “Thanks, I’m checking everyone’s alibi, don’t worry about that. I’m going to talk to the students in this entry. Haven’t had a chance yet. Tell the boys I’ll give ’em their story as soon as I can.”

  “The Sergeant,” said Jupiter to himself, “is moaning; every cylinder clicks. I don’t think I’ll hold out on him again.”

  Back in his own room, he found things much as he had left them. Sylvester was still dominating the game. A few more news hounds had wandered in; they wanted information.

  “Sorry, no dice,” said Jupiter. “Rankin has pledged me to silence, but he will appear in person directly.”

  Time passed. Someone brought in the American extra. There wasn’t much to the story an account of Jupiter finding the body, a picture of Singer, and a brief biographical sketch. It was going big outside; students were fighting for copies.

  Rankin came in, but he didn’t soothe the scribes. His outstanding piece of information was the narrowing down of the time of the murder. The reporters began to leave as soon as the whiskey ran out.

  About twelve the Sergeant came back and said he was leaving for the night — he’d be back in the morning. Sylvester and Jupiter were alone.

  Jupiter relaxed. “Quite an evening, Sylvester. How did you fare financially?”

  Sylvester was all smiles. “Ah done fine, Mr. Jupiter. Ah can’t complain.”

  “Good,” said Jupiter. “I’ll try and arrange another murder for you sometime. How about cleaning up here now?”

  Sylvester collected glasses and began washing them in the bathroom. Jupiter never thought of going to bed before one-thirty or two; it was against his principles. Idly, he reviewed the evening’s events. He was convinced that Connie Fairchild was innocent; but if she hadn’t done it, who had? Fitzgerald and Hadley were alibied, and after all the field of possible murderers was fairly limited.

  “I’ll have to wait until the Inspector has done more groundwork, then I can let my master intellect sift the facts,” he thought.

  Puzzles fascinated him. He toyed with Singer’s note, “CON + MAD.” On the rare occasions when he actually studied, he let his thoughts out vocally. This habit had not added to his popularity with other students in libraries. He would be reading a book peacefully enough in the Fogg library and suddenly shout, “Anyone who can seriously make a statement like that is an ass and I didn’t come here to learn from asses!” Then he would slam the book and leave the library, much to everyone’s satisfaction. He would usually time these outbursts to coincide with his resolution to stop studying, but it always left the impression of an outraged intellect. Betty Mahan was the only one who realized this.

  He had scribbled out the note and was studying it.

  “ ‘Con’ — I have a feeling that must be Connie, but I kept that from the Inspector — ‘plus Mad.’ If ‘Mad’ is a woman’s name, it would be what? Madeline — marvelous, Jones, you’re wasting your time at Harvard — Madeline who? I know no Madelines.” He scratched his head. “But if it was Connie and Maddy,
why would he write that down? If a man was trying to make up his mind about two women, why in God’s name would he mark it important and write it out on a scratch pad? The man may have been queer, but not that queer. Forgetting for a minute that there are any women involved, what would Singer be apt to write on a pad. . . . Notes about his work, as the Inspector suggests? Very probably. What kind of work?” Suddenly he sat back in his chair and yelled. Sylvester dropped a glass. “Oh, my God!” Jupiter was laughing. “The boy detective at Harvard! Here I’ve been looking for women’s names and the thing is juvenile.”

  Sylvester stuck his head in the door. “What is it, Mr. Jupiter?”

  “It’s nothing, Sylvester; this murder has gone to my head. I’ve been looking for mysterious messages and I’ve found a reminder of Singer’s about his lecture for to-morrow. The plus sign fooled me. It’s nothing but a cross, just a plain cross — Singer’s own abbreviation for a Crucifixion, some painting he wanted to speak about. I might have known. I’ve seen it enough times. Of course ‘Mad’ stands for Madonna and ‘Con’ could mean a lot of things — Conversazione, Consecration, Condottiere. Hell, after that brain wave I need a drink. How do we stand?”

  “There ain’ no more whiskey, but there’s a bottle of Sawturn.”

  “Of what?”

  “Sawturn.”

  “Oh, Sauterne. Good God, no! Where did that come from?”

  “Ah think you brung it home from a debutante party, Mr. Jones.”

  “Impossible, Sylvester.” He vaguely remembered the party. “I haven’t been to a deb party for years, and besides I don’t steal liquor.”

  “No, sir,” said Sylvester, unconvinced.

  “If you’ve finished, you’d better go home. Come in early and bring all the papers.”

  Sylvester departed happily. He was in twenty-three dollars.

  Jupiter commenced his first step toward going to bed. He took off his coat, tie, and shirt. At this point he would usually read for a while, but to-night he was restless. He went through his liquor closet carefully, but without success.

  While he was trying to convince himself that he didn’t need a drink at all someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he called, not getting up.

  It was Peter Appleton. Jupiter would have been less surprised if it had been a green-faced man with flapping ears. Appleton was a sophomore and Jupiter was a graduate; furthermore Jupiter had told Peter on occasion what he thought of him and his little group of tea drinkers.

  “Can I talk with you for a moment, Jones?” He seemed terrified.

  “Certainly, little man. Did you come for fatherly advice or are you just lonely?”

  Appleton came into the room, but he didn’t sit down.

  “I want some help,” said Appleton.

  “I’ll make him marry you,” said Jupiter. “Sit down — you make me nervous.”

  He sat on the edge of a chair. “Can you get into Professor Singer’s room through the fire door?” Jupiter frowned. “Why?”

  Appleton looked at the floor. “There are some things of mine I want to get before the police find them — if they haven’t already.”

  “Things, Peter? Be explicit.”

  “That’s none of your business. I’ll get them myself.”

  “Oh, no,” said Jupiter. “I am working with the police — hand in glove. It would be cheating. Tell me your story.”

  Appleton started to go. “It doesn’t matter. I knew I shouldn’t have come to see you.”

  “Wait a minute. If I tell the police you were here trying to sneak into Singer’s room in the dead of night they’ll want to know all about it. What do you want?”

  Peter stopped. “I might as well tell you, I suppose. You’ll find out anyway. He has some of my poems.”

  He said it as if it were a major crime.

  Jupiter snorted. “Poems! What are you babbling about?”

  “I gave Professor Singer some of my poems and I don’t want a lot of unintelligent policemen reading them. . . . I — I dedicated them to him.”

  Jupiter was stunned, but he saw the light. He smiled. “Well, well, well, if this isn’t just too cute! What is this, a girls’ school? Do we have a crush on teacher? However, I see your point.”

  He got up, got a knife from his bedroom, and started to fix the lock on his side of the door.

  He said, “Did you notice if there was anyone on duty outside guarding this room?”

  Appleton shook his head.

  “Well, there probably is. Snap out the light, so it won’t shine through when I open the door.”

  Appleton turned off the light.

  “I hope you realize I’m risking my already shaky reputation with the law by doing this for you,” said Jupiter.

  He went into Singer’s room, and with the light from the street lamp and a couple of matches he found the poems in the bedroom bureau. He also remembered the quart of whiskey in the cabinet and brought that back with him. Appleton hadn’t gone into the room.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Jupiter, holding up the bottle. “Have one?”

  “No, I’ll go along. Thanks a lot, Jones.”

  He reached for the poems.

  “Oh, you can’t go yet, Peter.” He put the poems in his pocket and mixed himself a drink. “We will have an author’s reading. You know, it’s not every day that I get a chance to examine the work of a coming poet.”

  He relaxed in a chair and sipped his drink.

  “Read me one or two and I may be able to give you a few suggestions.”

  Appleton blushed and reached for the poems.

  “No? Well, after all I guess it might be wiser if I read them myself. Hearing them read aloud by someone else may give you a better perspective. One is apt to be overcome by the power and the beauty of one’s own work. Let’s see.”

  He picked one out and read it aloud. Appleton listened in horror.

  “ ‘Melancholia,’ by Peter Appleton, for Albert Singer. Now that’s very nice. Not the pleasantest choice of subject, perhaps, but we can’t have everything. ‘She stood alone, distant, wondering — like stardust on a heathering heath — ’ ”

  He squinted at Appleton.

  “ ‘Like stardust on a heathering heath,’ ” repeated Jupiter in an awed voice. “That’s rather beautiful, Peter, it is indeed. What is stardust, by the way? I’ve often wondered. And ‘a heathering heath’? Do heaths heather? Was she ‘wondering like stardust, or does that mean she looked that way? Those are little points that bear watching.”

  “Give me those, please, Jones.” Peter was near tears.

  Jupiter held up his hand. “You are overmodest, Peter. You will have to learn to take the bad along with the good. Perhaps if you took notes on what I’m telling you it would help. Oftentimes some minor point will be forgotten in these little chats of ours which would help you in your work.”

  Appleton looked as if he were either going to cry or jump at Jupiter. Jupiter was wondering which it would be when someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” yelled Jupiter cheerfully. The evening was picking up again.

  Mr. McFeathers, a “Yard Cop,” was at the door. He was an intimate friend of Jupiter.

  “Good evening, Mr. McFeathers,” said Jupiter, getting up. “Come in!”

  He shuffled into the room. “This is a garstly thing, Mr. Jones, a garstly thing.”

  “It is,” said Jupiter. “Have a drink.”

  He cocked his head. “Well, it is a mite cold to-night. . . .”

  It was the same old ritual. Jupiter knew it well. He poured some whiskey in a tumbler and handed it to Mr. McFeathers, who tossed it off straight. Appleton didn’t say anything.

  “Ah!” said Mr. McFeathers. “I hear ye found the body, son. And that Sergeant Rankin is handling the case. I know him well — only a Sergeant, but a smart man at that.”

  “He seems to be,” said Jupiter.

  Appleton said, “I think I’ll run along, Jones, if you don’t mind. It’s . .
. it’s getting late.”

  Mr. McFeathers waved him aside. “Don’t go, son, I just dropped in to see how things were going. I’m on dooty, y’ know.”

  “Really, I think I ought . . .” said Appleton. Jupiter was thumbing through the poems. Among them he found a letter that was obviously in a different handwriting. He held it up. “This yours, Peter?”

  Appleton looked at it. “No, it’s not.”

  Jupiter handed him the poems. “Well, if you must go you must. I should have liked to read more. You know, Mr. McFeathers, you ought to get Mr. Appleton to read you some of his poems. I think he has a future, a definite future.”

  Mr. McFeathers and Appleton left together. Jupiter read the letter. The last part was interesting: “I refuse to go on this way, Albert; you must believe me. I am a woman, not a schoolgirl, and I refuse to be treated like one. After all that has happened you must see the sense in this. We have got to come to a decision soon, I can’t stand it. Please be fair about this. You know that I would do anything in the world for you, but if I found that you were not serious about this, I do not dare to think what I would do. Believe this! Don’t come to see me, but write soon. All my love, Ruth.”

  When he had finished it he mixed himself another drink.

  “This is too much,” he moaned. “The mind staggers. Whoever Ruth is, she didn’t know when she was well out of it. I suppose I had better put the letter back. After all, I have to leave the Inspector something to go on. I wonder if he’s seen the poems already? If he has, there’ll be hell to pay, but we’ll have to risk it.”

  After he had replaced the letter in Singer’s room he began to undress.

  “Well, Jones, you’ve spent many interesting and diversified evenings in your brief but hectic career, but nevertheless and notwithstanding, you must admit for sheer entertainment this leads by a furlong. Also, young man, you’ve got yourself very pleasantly intoxicated.”

  He fell into bed.

  CHAPTER VIII

  OVER the dubious aroma of twenty-five hundred coffee cups floated the remarks of Harvard undergraduates and professors discussing the murder. No one talked of anything else, naturally. Total strangers spoke to one another. The murder had become a giant leveler. In every dining hall there was buzzing. Most were shocked, some were amused, none were indifferent. Hallowell House alone was subdued; people whispered, the maids moved softly; this was the centre — it had happened to them. Every face turned toward the door when someone entered; they were looking for celebrities. Things had leaked out; Hadley had been questioned; Sampson had spoken to the police; and Jones . . . No one came but Mr. Swayle, who kept appearing importantly in the hall and looking around. They were tired of him. Everywhere the talk went on: —