Harvard Has a Homicide

by Timothy Fuller

  He paused. It was well-timed. Miss Slade had slumped a little. Hadley gaped openly. Rankin was smiling.

  “As a glance at the catalogue will show, Singer bought the paintings in Paris in the spring and brought them back with him in the fall. It so happened that Fitzgerald was there in Paris also. I don’t know that for a fact, but he must have been. Anyway, Singer persuaded him to get down to work and make forgeries of the paintings. He told Fitzgerald about his plan and it seemed to Fitzgerald too good to pass up. The plan was this: With the copies all made, Singer returns to Cambridge with the originals, and after the experts have gone over them they’ll be hung up. He keeps the copies in storage somewhere until he’s ready to use them. They decide to hold off for a few years until the excitement has died down around the Museum. Time passes. Remember that they were playing for big stakes and time didn’t matter to them. All right, Singer scouts for a dealer in New York, who turns out to be our old friend Mr. Epstein, and it takes on the proportions of a gang. The idea is that Singer will switch the paintings, send the originals to New York, and have them turn up as copies.”

  Betty interrupted, “But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Patience,” said Jupiter. “Singer’s murder knocked the bottom out of the whole thing. It was the one thing that would throw the whole thing off, but he could hardly have foreseen that, could he? Let’s pretend he was never murdered. The paintings turn up in Mr. Epstein’s collection as copies. They are advertised as such and experts come to look at them. Pretty soon someone is going to say, ‘You know, Mr. Epstein, these may be copies, but they’re damn good ones; why don’t you take them to Cambridge and compare them with the originals?’ And that’s what Mr. Epstein does. What does he find? He finds that the Fogg’s paintings are the copies and his are the originals. Everyone’s shocked, terribly shocked, but no one more than Singer. He is dumfounded! He says, This is impossible! I myself and other experts made tests when I bought the originals. How could we have made a mistake?’ There is much talk and excitement, but there’s no getting around the fact that the Fogg has a set of neat but worthless copies. This kind of thing has happened before — I mean museums being fooled by fakes.’ Well, Singer takes the blame; he says, ‘I must have been wrong, but I was so sure . . .’ People are sorry; they say what a marvelous man Singer is to take the blame on his own shoulders. And in due time Mr. Epstein sells his originals at a pretty price either to the Fogg again or to a collector. Epstein, Fitzgerald, and Singer split the cash among them.”

  There was a meaty silence.

  Finally Mrs. Fairchild said, “But that’s so — so fantastic!”

  Sampson said, “It’s impossible, Jones. There would be an investigation and the whole thing would be traced to Singer. He’d never take the chance.” That’s true, sir, said Jupiter. “There certainly would be an investigation. But, you see, Singer’s murder brought the whole thing to light. If he had still been alive, it would have been much different. As I said, I’m merely guessing as to how they went about it, but you can bet fairly safely that Epstein had his answers ready. Look, the first thing an investigator would want to know is where Epstein got his originals in the first place. Remember that this little party had been planned for four years, or even more, for all I know. Well, I should imagine Singer and Epstein would have that worked out. They probably have an Italian count ready to swear that the paintings have been in his family for generations. I think that end would be covered. I don’t see how they could possibly trace it to Singer. Look at the man. He’s a highly respected member of the Harvard faculty, an expert on Italian painting, and he’s taking the blame on himself. He may have been planning to retire in disgrace. You’ve got to keep in mind the point that fake paintings are turning up all the time both in this country and abroad. I’m not saying Singer didn’t take a small chance of being caught, but it was a tiny one against his cut of sixty or seventy thousand dollars.”

  Rankin was still smiling. “Let’s let that go for a while, Jones. I’m interested in finding out about the murder.”

  “Right,” said Jupiter, leaning back against the wall. Elis head was still pounding. “We’ll consider that I’m right in my theory about the paintings. Let’s go back a little. The originals have been hanging here in the Museum for four years. Singer and Fitzgerald are stalling, waiting for an appropriate time to shift the paintings. Singer gets to thinking; he says to himself, ‘Why should I split this cash three ways? I’ll have to let a dealer in anyway, there’s no getting around that. But what about Fitzgerald? Can’t I cut him out? Certainly I can.’ In other words, he decides to put the double cross on Brother Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald had made the forgeries, old wood, old canvas — good fakes; he was in deep. If Singer cuts him out with a paltry ten thousand dollars he can’t say anything to anyone without getting involved himself. So Singer goes ahead without him. A month ago he switches the paintings and sends the originals down to New York. There is no hue and cry around the Museum, as no one recognizes the copies as copies. All right. Epstein comes out with his statement in the paper and right here there’s a small question in my mind. Fitzgerald was in Cambridge at the time the clipping appeared, and I don’t know whether he saw it or not. It was near the back page and there’s a chance he didn’t. I think he didn’t. Anyway, we’ll suppose he didn’t; it doesn’t matter much one way or the other. The day of the murder he’s in the Museum and he looks at the three pictures which he supposes are still the originals, and to his amazement he finds they’re his own copies. He rushes downstairs to find Singer. He finds him in his office and he says, ‘What the hell goes on here, anyway? I want an explanation and I want a good one!’ Miss Slade overhears the conversation. How much, I don’t know.”

  Miss Slade opened her mouth, shut it, and then said, “Yes, yes, that is right. He said something like that; then Professor Singer said, ‘We can’t talk here; come to my room at six to-night.’ That was the first I knew about it.”

  Rankin looked at her queerly. “Go ahead, Jones.”

  “Right. Fitzgerald went to Singer’s room at six, but Singer told him he was sorry, but he was expecting someone else and for him to come back at eight-thirty.”

  Mrs. Fairchild blushed slightly and took a deep breath.

  Jupiter continued, “Fitzgerald went up to the Square and thought the thing over while he drank a couple of beers. He realized something was wrong and he even suspected that Singer was putting the screws on him. He decided the hell with waiting, and hurried through his last drink. He went back and found Singer alone. The conversation probably went something like this. Fitzgerald: ‘What’s the idea of going ahead without me?’ Singer: ‘Why shouldn’t I go ahead without you? All you did was paint the copies; I’m taking the responsibility. I’m giving you ten thousand dollars and you’re lucky to get that.’ Fitzgerald: ‘Not enough. We went into this thing together.’ Singer: ‘We went in together, but now you’re out, my friend, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ Fitzgerald lost his head, saw the knife on the desk, and picked it up. He said, ‘Oh yes, there’s something I can do about it!’ And he stabbed Singer neatly through the heart.”

  It seemed as if a high-tension wire connected everyone in the room. Rankin was the only one not affected by it. He was still grinning.

  “Then what?” asked the Sergeant.

  “Fitzgerald went back to his room in a daze. He began to think the whole thing over and realized he’d made a bad mistake, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was pretty sure no one had seen him go in or come out of Singer’s room, so he decided to appear on the scene at the time when he was supposed to meet Singer. He went down there and found you, Sergeant, and everything was going nicely until Miss Slade came in and accused him of the murder. He had a bad moment, because he didn’t know how much she knew. He passed it off with the story of the portrait and you let him go. As long as the plot of the fake paintings didn’t turn up, he was all right. He thought about it and figured he could get in touch with Epste
in and work things out. They couldn’t trace the copies to him, anyway. He was sitting pretty. I mean he was until I telephoned him and made some cracks about Lotto’s ‘Madonna’ and how much did Singer owe him. Then he knew he was on the spot, because I was onto something. I shouldn’t have called him at all, but at the time I didn’t know very much and hoped to frighten him into saying something. Well, I frightened him into committing suicide.

  The Fairchilds were murmuring. Sampson was talking to Hadley. Everyone was relaxed.

  Betty said, “Jupiter, my boy, I congratulate you.” Jupiter held up his hands for silence. It was an elaborate gesture. He waited for complete quiet.

  “My friends, I think you’ll all agree that my theory is sound,” he said. He was weighing his words carefully. ‘ But there’s just one little point that I have left out. Some people might say it was a major point. And that point is that Fitzgerald didn’t kill Singer and he didn’t kill himself.”

  It was hard to describe. Faces fell as if some giant hand had passed over them, leaving eyes bulging and mouths gaping.

  Mrs. Fairchild dropped her pocketbook and it hit the floor like an explosion in a mine.

  Rankin’s smile evaporated. He was the first to speak.

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  JUPITER’S mouth dropped open. That made it unanimous. He stared at the Sergeant.

  “Do you mean to say you knew Fitzgerald didn’t do it?” asked Jupiter incredulously.

  “I want to know how you knew he didn’t,” demanded the Sergeant.

  “But you said Fitzgerald had killed himself, said Jupiter vaguely. His head was bothering him some more.

  Rankin said, “How did you know he didn’t?”

  Betty said, “Why don’t you boys stop asking each other questions and tell us about it?”

  Sampson wiped his forehead. “Yes. Just who did kill him?”

  “The guy who killed Singer and Fitzgerald is about halfway to New York by this time, if he’s not there already,” said Jupiter.

  “No, he’s not,” said Rankin.

  “Oh, my God!” said Betty faintly.

  Rankin walked out into the hall. He wasn’t gone long. When he came back he was with Illinois. Illinois was holding an exquisite little man with wavy hair by the arm. It was Renier.

  “Here’s your murderer,” said Rankin.

  Hadley looked as if he were going to faint.

  Jupiter thought he was going to himself.

  Miss Slade did.

  For first-class confusion it ranked high. Renier was now the calmest person in the room. His clothes were rumpled and he looked as if he hadn’t slept, but he watched them without blinking.

  Jupiter leaned on Sylvester. Chalmers was making motions with his hands, but not saying anything. Mrs. Fairchild was bending over Miss Slade. No one else paid any attention to her.

  Hadley said, “How — why — what?”

  Betty said, “That’s just it, Professor. How? Why? What?”

  Rankin said, “Tell me how you knew about it, Jones.”

  “I don’t see how you did it, Inspector, but I’ll tell you what I know. Up until this morning I thought Fitzgerald really had done it, but when you telephoned and told me he had killed himself and had been dead eight hours I didn’t know what to think. You see, someone was waiting up for me when I got back to my room last night and tried to put me on the spot. I thought it was Fitzgerald come to put me out of the way after my talk with him on the phone. But it couldn’t have been, because he was dead at the time. Dumfounded is inadequate to express my feelings. Who could have whacked me? I knew it must have been someone who knew that I was getting hot on the trail, but who? Epstein knew I was, but he was in New York, and as a matter of fact he doesn’t even know who I am. Fitzgerald was dead. Then I had a brain wave. As brain waves go, it was a honey. I thought of Renier. I had talked with him in the Ritz earlier in the evening; he was an art dealer from Paris; Singer had bought the paintings in Paris; he was on the scene. As a matter of fact, I even knew he asked how to get to Hallowell House on the night of the murder. Joe, the Italian who runs the cigar store, tried to describe him to me. He had tried to copy Renier’s accent for me, which I missed because a French accent by an Italian is a tough thing to see. Well, I telephoned the Ritz this morning on a hunch and found that Renier had checked out at eleven-thirty last night. He had told me he was spending the night at the hotel. The whole thing was sewed up when I gave Joe his description this morning and he remembered him as the man who had asked how to get to Hallowell House at about six-fifteen the night of the murder.”

  Rankin whistled.

  Renier said, “You are very clever, my young friend.”

  “How did you know Fitzgerald hadn’t committed suicide?” asked the Sergeant.

  Jupiter smiled. “I didn’t. I was just gambling on that. It seemed too much of a coincidence, that’s all. I don’t believe Singer ever made up that plan to ream the Museum. It was Renier’s brain child. Singer just got the idea of double-crossing both Fitzgerald and Renier. He almost succeeded because Renier could never say anything about the plot without exposing himself as a crook. He was in the same boat as Fitzgerald. They were left holding the bag — and it was a good-sized bag.”

  Betty sighed. “This is too complicated for me. Let’s hear about Fitzgerald. Did Renier kill him, too?”

  Everyone was surprised when Renier started to speak. His voice was high and thin, his accent more pronounced. He glared at Jupiter.

  “Monsieur Jones is clever, very clever. He is right about your Professor Singer. He was a dog. I kill him! I will tell you.”

  Suddenly Jupiter felt sorry for him. He couldn’t tell why — after all, the man had tried to kill him.

  Rankin said, “You don’t have to talk, Renier. You’re entitled to a lawyer.”

  The Frenchman snarled, “A lawyer! He could not assist me very much, I believe. Eh bien, it is as the young man say. It is my plot, the plot of the pictures. Monsieur Fitzgerald painted the copies — masterpieces each one. A clever man. I have everything ready, nothing can go wrong. The plan is perfect. But Singer, ah!” Illinois took a firmer grip on his arm. “He was greedy. He — what is the word — the double cross? Yes, that is it — the double cross. He wanted all the money. I am in Paris two weeks ago; I pick up the paper and read the announcement. A man, a Mr. Epstein, of whom I have never heard, has the copies. What do I think? I think Professor Singer is up to something, as you say, so I come to America.”

  “Did you see the paintings in New York?” asked Jupiter.

  “Oui, I see them. They are the originals. I come to Cambridge to talk with Singer. He does not expect me until yesterday. I go to his house. He tells me I am not to get any of the money. He says he has made the arrangements. I am not to get any money!”

  His voice was raised to a scream. One arm was waving in the air. The people near him drew back.

  “I have planned for four years to get that money. Four years I have waited! And now I am to get nothing! Nothing! I am enraged. I see there is nothing I can do to stop Singer. I can say nothing. I — I kill him with the knife on his desk. Merde! Death is too good for your Professor Singer!”

  Renier was holding his audience. His famous wavy hair was down over his face. He looked the way anarchists are supposed to look after they have thrown a bomb.

  Rankin said, “Then what?”

  “I go away from there. I go back to the hotel; I wait. I read the newspapers — there is no mention of a man like myself. I am expected at the Museum; I must be calm. I come to Cambridge and I learn that the man Fitzgerald is in Cambridge also. I am frightened; I think that he may give away the plot when he learns I am here. There is nothing to do but wait. The evening papers say that Fitzgerald has been questioned, but they do not say what he has told them.”

  He stopped, shaking his head slowly. Jupiter could understand the agony of suspense he must have suffered.

  “I
decide to wait until morning before I go back to New York. In the evening, this young man Jones meets me and asks me questions about paintings. I know he is trying to solve the crime. He must have a reason to ask me these things. I am horrified. I say to myself Fitzgerald will say something soon and I will be found out. I must act. I go to my room and try to think what to do.”

  By now, everyone knew what he was going to decide to do. It was like a flash-back in a moving picture. They were so stunned by his story that it did not seem fantastic that a man should be telling them how he had planned to kill another in cold blood.

  “I tell myself that Fitzgerald must die. He must die in such a way that it appears he has killed himself. He will be blamed for the murder of Singer! It is a good idea. I telephone him and say I am coming to see him. I find the number of his room. I buy a can of ether at the druggist. You see, I do not know what poison I can purchase — I know so little about your American laws.”

  He looked at Rankin. He seemed to apologize for the use of ether.

  He continued, “I go to Fitzgerald’s hotel. I take the elevator to the fifth floor and I walk down to the third — no one must know I have been to see him. It is a clever plot. We talk for a little time.” His voice was getting weaker. It was little better than a whisper. “I must act. I must kill him. I—”

  He collapsed on Illinois’s arm. The policeman pulled him to his feet, but he was limp, his face gray.

  Rankin said, “I think I can finish his story. He hit Fitzgerald over the head with a candlestick. I don’t know how he did it, but there was a mark on his head when we found him. I guess he just meant to knock him out easy and not leave a mark. Well, then he took Fitzgerald’s handkerchief and poured ether over it until he was dead. He put him on the bed and straightened out the room. Then he left.”