Harvard Has a Homicide

by Timothy Fuller

  HE decided to walk up to the Museum and find the Sergeant. On the way he discovered he was running out of cigarettes. He stopped in at Joe’s. It seemed an unbelievably long time since last evening when he had bought his last package there.

  Joe was dithering. It was Jupiter’s first contact with the excitement that the murder had caused.

  “Ah, Mr. Jones!” called Joe. “You finda da bod’, huh?”

  Several customers stared at Jupiter.

  “Camels,” said Jupiter, not wasting words.

  Joe would not be muted. “You know who done da job, huh, Mr. Jones?”

  “No idea,” said Jupiter.

  “Sure, sure, I see. You know, a man come in here las’ night, ask where to fin’ Hallowell House. He say, ‘Where I fin’ Hallowell House?’ Like dat.”

  “Tell it to the police, Joe; they’re collecting people like that.”

  Joe smiled. “You maka da joke, eh?”

  “Yeah,” said Jupiter. “How about my cigarettes?”

  “Sure,” he handed them to him. “He was a little man, so high.”

  Joe made a motion with his hand. Jupiter smiled and went out. Everyone, including Joe, has ideas, he thought; I pity the Inspector.

  Coming around a corner onto Massachusetts Avenue, he practically bumped into Fitzgerald.

  “Small world,” he cliche’d.

  Fitzgerald recognized him. “Good morning, good morning.” He seemed happy. “I don’t believe I remember your name.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Fitzgerald. Jones is the name I struggle along with.”

  “Oh, of course. You discovered the body, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Jupiter. Suddenly he wondered if he was going to go through life known as the man who discovered Singer’s body, like the man who ran the wrong way in the football game.

  “I’ve been trying to think what to do all morning,” continued Fitzgerald. “But I suppose Sergeant Rankin will send for me if he wants to see me.”

  “Doubtless,” said Jupiter pleasantly. “No work to-day?”

  “No, I couldn’t possibly paint a thing to-day and I imagine the President feels the same way.”

  “I didn’t know he painted, too,” murmured Jupiter. He hoped Fitzgerald would get mad. He couldn’t tell why he hoped so.

  “Ha, ha! I meant he probably wouldn’t feel like sitting.’”

  “I’d like to see it when it’s finished. By the way, I can’t remember ever having seen your portrait of Professor Singer. I wonder where he keeps it.”

  “What? Portrait of Singer? Oh, I have no idea where he keeps it. It wasn’t very complimentary. He probably doesn’t hang it.”

  “Well, it looks as though you’d have to wait to get paid for it.”

  “I’ve waited quite some time already,” said Fitzgerald, starting to walk off. “Well, glad to have seen you.”

  He walked away rapidly. That, said Jupiter to himself, is the one person I can’t figure in this case.

  Before he had reached the Museum eight people had stopped him and said in various forms that they had heard he found the body.

  “If many more people tell me that,” said Jupiter to the last one, “someone will find my body under the ice in the Charles.”

  The usual cigarette-smoking group of students was missing from the steps of the Museum. There was not even a harassed Radcliffe girl in sight. Jupiter deduced correctly that classes had been called off for the day in the Fogg..

  Betty Mahan was sitting behind her desk doing nothing.

  She saw him come in, but paid no attention to him. Jupiter, in his own modest way, knew she was trying to keep from showing she was glad to see him.

  When he came up to her desk she said, “You’re wasting your time in here, young man; there’s not a sign of a body. I’ve been all over with my fine-tooth comb. How are you?”

  “I am well,” he said. “I see you are hard at your daily tasks as usual, letting no grass grow under your feet.”

  She waved an arm, taking in the whole Museum. “This place is a madhouse; everyone rushing around trying to look sad when they are all damn glad Singer got what he deserved — Miss Slade, of course, excepted.”

  “How is the good woman, by the way?”

  She grimaced. “A horrider sight I have yet to see. Why do you ask?”

  “And the law? Is it present?”

  “In Singer’s office. I am waiting for your story.”

  “Patience. In due time you shall know all, but I’ve got to see the Sergeant.” He started to walk off.

  “Hey! Come back here!” she called. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  “I’ve left girls in far worse condition than I leave you,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I don’t doubt it, you dirty crook,” she murmured.

  Rankin was looking through papers at Singer’s desk, while Miss Slade, pale and straggly, looked on as if the examination were a personal affront. Jupiter beckoned the Sergeant outside.

  He handed him the invitation. “This was written by Mrs. Sampson, the wife of the House Master. What do you make of it?”

  Rankin whistled. “How did you get on to this?”

  “Elementary,” quoted Jupiter. “As a matter of fact, Sampson telephoned me to come and see him. While I was there I found his wife’s name was Ruth.”

  The Sergeant stared at him sharply. “Are you at it again already?”

  “Not a chance, Inspector. I’ll tell you all.” When Jupiter had completed the Sampson saga, Rankin frowned.

  “Thanks for the information — that’s more like it,” he said; then he muttered, “This case is going to take some delicate handling.”

  “Right,” said Jupiter. “I’ll run out and see if I can find you a velvet glove.”

  The Sergeant grinned. “I’ll need it. I hope I can count on the hand of iron.”

  “My money’s on you, Inspector. Find anything in there?” He pointed to Singer’s cubicle office.

  “Not a thing except piles of notes about a lot of Italians I never heard of.”

  “The old boy knew his stuff, I’ll hand him that,” said Jupiter. “How’s the sinister Slade woman?”

  “Not sinister, just plain nasty,” growled Rankin. “She doesn’t like my going over Singer’s papers. I think she liked him quite a lot. Well, I’m going back to Hallowell House; there’s nothing more to do up here.”

  They walked back through the library together. Several ardent students who had been straining to overhear their conversation looked at Jupiter enviously. Jupiter stopped at Betty’s desk.

  “Sergeant, I’d like you to meet Miss Mahan. She has often made threats on Singer’s life; you might do well to check up on her.”

  The Sergeant was embarrassed. He looked as if he’d never seen an attractive girl before. “How do you do,” he stammered.

  Betty gave him her prettiest smile, the smile that had caused undergraduates to flock to the library. “If this young man is bothering you, Sergeant, I’ll be glad to chain him up.”

  Rankin was floored. He was getting used to Jupiter, but here was a girl who appeared to talk the same way.

  He laughed nervously. “No need of that, I guess. Well, see you later, Jones.”

  After a nod to Betty he stamped out of the Museum.

  “Charming man,” said Betty. “Not much of a line, perhaps, but altogether charming.”

  Jupiter relaxed on the edge of her desk. “And smart, too. Well, I suppose you’re waiting for the gory details?”

  “I have such a hard time concealing my emotions,” she said.

  He gave her a look and proceeded to render an unexpurgated edition of the evening’s events. By the time he had finished, she was gasping.

  “Well, well,” she said, “if Harvard isn’t a pretty little nest of sedition! Are you sure you haven’t left anything out? There must have been a chorus girl or two somewhere in the background. Gosh, I can almost hear the Borgias turning in their graves.”

  “
A delightful tale, the kind of thing the Watch and Ward Society holds meetings over.”

  “About Appleton,” she mused. “I’m young and innocent, but I don’t quite see how it would work out.”

  He frowned. “I can’t figure it, either. The answer must be that he was making what is commonly called a play for Singer. I imagine he was unsuccessful, because, despite his many faults, I don’t believe the professor went in for that kind of ‘thing. Forget about it. How has Singer been acting lately?”

  She pondered prettily, wrinkling her forehead. Miss Mahan’s face had been the subject of many technical discussions by undergraduate experts, who generally conceded that, next to her smile, her expression while musing became her most. She was not unaware of this.

  “I’d say offhand that he’s been his usual smug self. Of course, I only see him darting in and out of his office, but Miss Slade has been acting queerly, if it’s possible to say that she acts at all.”

  “Very good. Now about Father Hadley. Has he been on the scene this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, bright and early. He’s trying unsuccessfully to hide his joy under a mantle of gloom. I’ve often suspected him of harboring illusions of grandeur.”

  “That’s good, too, but don’t let your prose style get out of hand.” He patted her head, getting up. “Where shall I be apt to find him?”

  “He’s showing a Personage around the Museum; you’ll probably find him in the galleries. Thanks so much, Mr. Jones, for your confidences.”

  “Not at all. I think the situation calls for a celebration of some kind. How about dinner tonight regardless of whether the culprit has been apprehended or not?”

  “Love it,” she smiled.

  “Fine. If I don’t see you before, I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. Keep your eye on Miss Slade.”

  The Fogg Museum has a fine collection of paintings. But the small galleries are usually devoid of pedestrians except before exams, when they are filled with anxious undergraduates trying frantically to learn all the pictures by heart on the off chance that they will be questioned about them. Knowledge and appreciation by fear of failure — a pity, but nevertheless inevitable, opined Jupiter.

  He found Hadley in a gallery on the second floor. He was with an exquisite little man with wavy hair. Exquisite little men with wavy hair are not an oddity in the Fogg Museum, or in any museum, for that matter, so Jupiter was not surprised. He must be the Personage. Professor Hadley was discoursing on the merits of a Giotto — the Giotto, to be perfectly frank, thought Jupiter. His reason for hunting up Hadley was to find how that gentleman was taking Singer’s death. It was purely an academic interest. From the hall he watched Hadley’s short gestures as he remarked on the skill of the artist. God, thought Jupiter, you’d never imagine that he’d heard there’d been a murder. When Hadley saw Jupiter his whole expression changed; the memory of the tragedy came back to him. It was like the reverse process of a man awaking from a nightmare.

  “Ah, Jones, good morning. Come in. I was just showing Mr. Renier about the Museum. He has come all the way from Paris to see our collection. He has — er — come, it seems, at a — er — rather unfortunate time.” He was struggling. “Mr. Renier, this is Mr. Jones, who — er — found Professor Singer’s body last evening.”

  There it goes again, groaned Jupiter.

  “Oh yes, I recognize Mr. Jones from the newspaper— the photograph, it was a good likeness.” He spoke with what is often called a charming French accent.

  Jupiter bowed. He could think of nothing to say.

  Hadley filled the gap, “Mr. Renier is an art dealer. His office is in Paris.”

  Suddenly Jupiter remembered where he had heard the man’s name before. He was going to Mrs. Fairchild’s musicale.

  “Oh yes, of course; I’ve heard of you,” said Jupiter. You could lay it on thick with these people; they ate it up. “As a matter of fact, aren’t you going to Mrs. Fairchild’s musicale tonight?”

  Monsieur Renier looked startled. “Ah, oui! I believe Monsieur Burnhart of the Boston Museum asked me to go with him.”

  Hadley broke in: “But Mrs. Fairchild telephoned me this morning and said she was going to cancel it. It is very unfortunate. They are always delightful.”

  This was the first Jupiter had heard of it. Actually he had forgotten about it when he asked Betty to have dinner with him. Perhaps it is better to call it off, he mused, but it would have been an amazing gathering; I’d have given a lot to see the Sampsons, Hadley, Fitzgerald, and the Fairchilds in one room to-night.

  Renier was chattering. “But I cannot understand your American newspapers. In France when one is murdered the press is full of details — his mistresses, his enemies, all are mentioned. But here, pouf! There is nothing!”

  If you only knew, thought Jupiter.

  Renier continued: “He was stabbed, I read. Now to me that would suggest a woman. . . .”

  Somewhere in the back of Jupiter’s mind something clicked. Stabbed! That was the word, the one word that brought back the point he had missed the night before.

  He whooped. The mouths of Hadley and the Frenchman dropped open.

  “Excuse me,” said Jupiter, “but what you’ve just said, Mr. Renier, may help a lot. I can’t tell. Glad to have seen you.”

  He rushed out. They stared after him.

  “That young man is perhaps mad?” Renier asked incredulously.

  Hadley was mute.

  As Jupiter tore down the stairs he laughed at his own stupidity.

  “To think,” he muttered, “that a light-weight Frenchman would be the one to make me remember this! Of course, things happened pretty swiftly last night, but I bet the Inspector would have had it in a second if he’d been in my place.”

  When he was outside he slowed down. He was doing some rapid thinking. “There’s no mistake about it, I’m sure of that, but I wonder if I ought to hold out on the Inspector again. No, it will be wiser to tell him, although I hate to.”

  Mr. Fairchild had telephoned just after the radio report had come on, but in the dispatch there had been no mention of stabbing. It had merely said that Singer was murdered, but when Jupiter had arrived at the Fairchilds’, some ten minutes later, Mr. Fairchild had met him at the door and mentioned casually that he had heard that Singer was stabbed.

  “There’s only one way he could have found that out,” said Jupiter grimly.

  CHAPTER X

  RANKIN was back in Singer’s room telling reporters he had nothing to say. Jupiter recognized some of them when he came in. The Sergeant took one look at Jupiter’s face and then told the reporters to clear out.

  When they had gone he said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “Plenty,” said Jupiter, with feeling. “But first tell me if you’ve checked on Mr. Fairchild’s alibi.”

  “Sure I have. What’s the trouble?”

  “What time did he get home?”

  Rankin frowned. “I don’t see what you’re getting at, but he got home a little after seven. He said he had stopped in at his club here in Cambridge for a cocktail after seeing Singer. I saw the steward at his club this morning. He told me he thought Fairchild left about quarter of seven after coming in just after six. Does that sound all right?”

  “It sounds all right,” nodded Jupiter. “But listen to this.”

  For a while after he had finished, Rankin was silent.

  “You don’t think there can be any mistake about it?” demanded the Sergeant.

  “I don’t see how,” answered Jupiter, “unless he was lying when he said he had heard the news over the radio and I can’t see any reason why he should if he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Do you suppose he went to his office this morning?”

  “I’ll find out,” said Jupiter, dialing a number.

  “Wait a minute,” yelled the Sergeant. “Don’t tell him I want to see him.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jupiter. “Hello? Is Mr. Fairchild there? . . . He is? Thank you.

&n
bsp; He hung up.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  “My God, you work fast, don’t you?” smiled Rankin. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take you along. Come on.”

  Rankin found Illinois and they piled into a car.

  “This is my first trip in a police car as a noncombatant,” Jupiter told the Sergeant.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Misunderstandings on the part of the police.

  Illinois turned around wearily. “Where are we going, Chief?”

  “State Street National,” said Jupiter.

  “Where’s that?” asked Illinois.

  “On State Street, oddly enough,” said Jupiter, smiling.

  “Oh, in Boston.”

  “Yes, the little town you see across the river from Cambridge.”

  Illinois ground the gears.

  Jupiter sat back comfortably as they drove along the Charles.

  Rankin turned to him. “You know, Jones, you may have solved this murder.”

  “It looks that way. I think Singer deserved to be killed and I kind of hate to see anyone caught for doing it. Fairchild may be a stuffed shirt, but I like him.”

  “You think he did it?”

  Jupiter stared at the Sergeant. “Hell! Don’t you?”

  “We have no proof of it. Just because he knew that Singer was stabbed doesn’t mean he killed him.”

  “Is there any other explanation?”

  “There’s a very good explanation,” said Rankin, “which you have overlooked entirely. To me it’s the obvious one. Look here. Fairchild left his club at quarter of seven and was home just after seven; that doesn’t leave him much time to kill a man, but I’ll admit that if everything broke right for him he could have done it. Now the obvious thing seems to me that if he didn’t do it someone told him Singer was stabbed.”

  “Who could have?”

  “His wife,” said Rankin simply.

  “My God!” said Jupiter. That had never entered his head — he’d been so convinced that she was innocent. (Fairchild must have killed Singer: how else did he know that he had been stabbed?)

  “We’ll wait and see,” he said.

  “Right, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Fairchild broke down and confessed,” said the Sergeant contradictorily.