Harvard Has a Homicide Read online

  “It comes off easily,” he said. “Now for the test.”

  “This is the longest-shot gamble I’ve ever made,” said Jupiter quietly.

  Chalmers took a fresh piece of waste and dipped it in the alcohol. Betty sucked in her breath. Jupiter held an unlighted cigarette in his hand. The artist flourished the waste over the painting. If anyone had dropped a handful of pins it would have sounded like a thunderstorm.

  Chalmers rubbed the cleared spot quickly and then removed the waste. The spot where he had worked was clear of paint. The base on the canvas showed through clearly.

  “The painting,” said Chalmers unnecessarily, “is not genuine.”

  Betty tittered foolishly.

  Jupiter dried the sweat from the palms of his hands on his coat.

  Chalmers went on, “I should hazard that this picture was painted not more than five years ago.” Jupiter lit a match and said, “I knew it all along.”

  “Like hell you did,” said Betty. “Give me a cigarette.”

  He tossed her one. Chalmers was examining the cloth, covered now with greenish blue paint.

  He said, “There’s not the slightest doubt — I’m quite convinced of that. Lotto worked about four hundred years ago; naturally his pigments would not be soluble in alcohol to-day.”

  Betty said, “Now I think it would be nice if Mr. Jones told us how he happened to know about all this, don’t you, Mr. Chalmers?”

  “Yes, Jones, now that you know the painting is a fake, what are you going to do?”

  Jupiter looked at his watch. “As it’s nearing two, I think I’ll go home to bed.”

  Betty exploded. “Oh, no, you don’t! No, indeed! Here I’ve risked my job and my reputation helping you steal a painting. The least you can do is tell us about it.”

  Jupiter was putting on his coat. “Mr. Chalmers, you’ve been invaluable, but I’m going to ask you to wait until to-morrow morning before I tell you anything. Do you suppose you could be at the Museum at nine-thirty?”

  Chalmers nodded. “I suppose you have your reasons, but I’ll admit I’m engulfed with curiosity. You can count on my being present in the morning. Now I think I shall go out and get a newspaper.” Betty snorted. “Oh, I’m sure he has his reasons and I can tell you what they are. He’s going to collect an audience and solve the great Singer case in front of it. You and I, Mr. Chalmers, are not enough. He wants his dramatic little offering received with ohs and ahs and much hand-clapping.”

  “Such a trusting girl,” said Jupiter, helping her with her coat. “Always eager to see the best in people.”

  They went out together. Jupiter had replaced the painting in its frame and carried it under his arm. They left Chalmers at the car and again started back to Cambridge.

  Betty pestered him for details, but he was uncommunicative. He walked with her to her door.

  “Would you like to know who painted the picture?” he asked.

  “No, of course not; I’m not the least interested.”

  “Fitzgerald painted it.”

  She sat down on the steps. “Is that true, Jupiter?” she asked seriously.

  “Unless I’m wrong about everything else — yes.”

  “Then he killed Singer? Is that what you think?”

  “Bright girl.”

  He got up. She stood up with him.

  “Won’t you tell me about it, please?”

  He kissed her quickly and competently. “Wait until to-morrow.”

  “Aren’t you going to get hold of the Sergeant?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late. There’s no reason to bother him.”

  “You’re a selfish brute and I won’t sleep at all to-night. Good night, Jupiter, I’ve had a lovely time.”

  “Good night.”

  He decided to leave his car outside. He parked near Hallowell House and walked to his room, still carrying the painting. There was no light in his room.

  “Sylvester is getting frugal in his old age,” he said approvingly.

  He’d been locked out of his room so many times because he had forgotten his keys that he had solved the problem by never locking his door. He walked in, set the painting against the wall, and reached for the light.

  He never reached it. Something hard and heavy hit him solidly on the back of his head. He went to his knees, but he didn’t go out. A blazing white light danced crazily in his head. He wondered vaguely why he didn’t see stars.

  “That’s considered illegal in most leagues, you bastard.” He was surprised to find himself speaking.

  He rocked to his feet, holding his arms over his head against another attack. There was none. Dizzily he saw someone open the door and rush out into the hall. He started to follow, but a tidal wave of nausea hit him before he reached the door.

  He made the toilet by inches.

  He was wiping his mouth. “First time since freshman year, and I thought the liquor was improving.”

  It didn’t occur to him that he had a slight concussion.

  Back in the other room, he turned on a light.

  Nothing had been touched. “Jones, old man, you’ve just been the victim of an attempted murder,” he mumbled. He walked shakily to the door and locked it. “If anyone wants to come back and shoot me through the window he’s welcome.”

  The pounding in his head was worse than any hangover — and he’d had some beauties. He undressed with fumbling fingers. Any idea of chasing his assailant was far from his thoughts.

  “The trouble with me is I talk too God-damned much.”

  For the second night he fell into bed.

  CHAPTER XVI

  FOR a while after he had opened his eyes he couldn’t distinguish the ringing in his ears from the telephone bell. Then he rolled out of bed, noting blearily that it was eight-thirty. In the other room he picked up the phone and collapsed with it on the couch.

  “Ungh?” he managed. The little old men were doing double duty with their hammers inside his head.

  “Jones?” It was the Sergeant.

  Jupiter nodded without sound.

  “This is Rankin. Are you awake?”

  “There seems to be some question about it.”

  Well, snap out of it; I’ve got some news for you.”

  He opened his eyes and saw the painting against the wall opposite him. He was awake.

  If you think you have news, Inspector, you ought to hear what I’ve got.”

  “What’s that?” asked Rankin quickly.

  “I’ve solved your murder case,” he said, wishing he could see the Sergeant’s face.

  There was a momentary pause.

  Rankin said, “You have, huh? Who did it?”

  “It’ll take some explaining. Have you seen Fitzgerald this morning, by any chance?” He was enjoying the thought of the Sergeant’s face as he listened to these obscure remarks.

  Then Rankin floored him. “Yes, I’ve seen him,” he said quietly.

  Jupiter swallowed. He hadn’t expected that. “You’ve seen him? What did he say?”

  Rankin took his time. “He didn’t say anything.”

  “What do you mean, he didn’t say anything?”

  “He couldn’t say anything — he was dead.”

  Jupiter reeled mentally. He opened his mouth and shut it again. There was nothing he could say.

  Finally he said weakly, “Tell me about it, Inspector.”

  “I’ve just been up there. Fitzgerald killed himself sometime last night.”

  The Sergeant let that sink in.

  “Killed himself?”

  “Yeah. He’s had the desk at the hotel call him every morning at seven-thirty since he’s been there. They called him this morning and got no answer; finally they investigated and called me. He poured a can of ether onto a handkerchief, slapped it over his face, and lay down on his bed.. He never woke up. Been dead about eight hours when we got there. How does that fit with your theory?”

  Jupiter thought awhile. “He didn’t leave a note or anything? The
y usually do, don’t they?”

  “No. He didn’t leave a thing. Just went to sleep.”

  “You haven’t any reason for his doing it, have you?”

  “No, that’s why I called you. You said you’d solved the case just now. Do you still think so?”

  “Yes, I still think so — I know so. But it spoils the act I was going to put on for you. I wanted Fitzgerald in person. Can you be at the Museum at nine-thirty? I’ll tell you all about it then.”

  I’ll be there. One thing, though; has your idea anything to do with the fingerprints on the .fire door?”

  “Not a thing. Why?”

  Good. Some damn kid from the Crimson sneaked in through Hadley’s room and opened the fire door the night of the murder so he could hear what was going on. I found that out last night after spending hours going over fingerprints.”

  Jupiter laughed. “The spirit of journalism lives on at Harvard! It was a good theory you had, Inspector. I’ll admit that!”

  “Yeah,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll see you at the Museum.”

  They hung up.

  Jupiter got up, walked into the bathroom, and took three aspirins. He felt jittery; the knock on the head had been harder than he’d realized.

  Sylvester came in bearing the morning orange juice. Jupiter sipped it slowly.

  “Yo’ don’ look so good this mornin’, Mr. Jupiter,” said Sylvester with concern.

  “I can imagine,” he answered. “It’s a wonder I’m alive — and there’s truth in that statement, my dusky friend.”

  Sylvester eyed the painting skeptically.

  Jupiter said, “Don’t worry; it wasn’t a scavenger hunt. All will be explained in due course.”

  He finished the orange juice reluctantly and settled back on the couch. Fitzgerald was dead. Perhaps it’s better, he thought, but I was planning a dramatic scene for this morning. He wondered why Rankin hadn’t been more aroused by his announcement of the solution of the case. You’d think the Inspector would be fuming for news, he told himself, but then, he probably doesn’t believe I’m right.

  “Why shouldn’t he believe I’m right?” he said aloud.

  “Wassat, Mr. Jupiter?” asked Sylvester.

  “Run out and get some coffee, Sylvester. My head needs clearing.”

  Sylvester went out.

  Jupiter picked up the phone book and began dialing numbers.

  He was making his last call when Sylvester returned.

  CHAPTER XVII

  JUPITER walked into the Museum a little after nine-thirty and found his audience waiting. Sylvester, carrying the painting, followed him. They created quite a stir.

  A few students, a pair of instructors, and several policemen stood outside the main assembly gaping. Sergeant Rankin, Hadley, Sampson, Betty, Miss Slade, Chalmers, and Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were gathered in a curious and nervous group. Mrs. Sampson was the only one missing.

  Jupiter said, “Good morning, everyone; shall we go upstairs?”

  He tried to sound like a professor greeting a class. He succeeded.

  They trooped upstairs. Rankin gave orders to keep outsiders out. Betty walked beside Jupiter.

  She whispered, “It looks like the final scene in a musical comedy.”

  “It’ll than that,” said Jupiter.

  They be better walked into the central gallery. Jupiter took the painting from Sylvester and hung it in its place.

  Hadley started to sputter when he saw the ruined corner.

  Rankin stopped him. “I don’t know any more about this than the rest of you. Please let Mr. Jones do the talking.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said Jupiter. “If you will bear with me for a few minutes I think I can clear up the murder of Professor Singer.”

  The air was tense. Better than Jupiter had hoped. Everyone had heard of Fitzgerald’s suicide. They waited breathlessly. Betty stood back against the wall, smiling faintly.

  Jupiter continued, “It’s hard to know where to begin. As the Sergeant will tell you, I had no idea of all this yesterday afternoon. Miss Miahan stumbled on one point that seemed to connect a few things that I had thought of myself.”

  Betty glared at him.

  “You will remember, Sergeant, when Mr. Fitzgerald came to Singer’s room the night of the murder and Miss Slade accused him of the murder, he said that he was owed money for a portrait he had done of Singer. Well, I’d never seen the portrait myself, which, after all, isn’t unusual, but I asked Miss Slade and Miss Mahan if they had ever seen it. They hadn’t. Have you ever seen it or heard about it, Professor Hadley?”

  Hadley’s head jerked up. “Me? Portrait? No, I — er — that is, no, I’ve never seen it.”

  “Professor Sampson?”

  “No, I’ve never seen it.”

  “Anyone?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads. “Then I’m forced to believe that Fitzgerald never painted it.”

  “Marvelous,” whispered Betty.

  “All right,” he said, ignoring her. “You’ll also remember, Inspector, the memorandum Singer left on his desk. It was marked ‘important’ and read ‘Con plus Mad.’ After a good deal of effort I translated it. I thought at the time it was a lecture note, the plus sign being Singer’s abbreviation for a Crucifixion, the ‘Mad’ for Madonna, and the ‘Con’ for Condottiere. I was right about the abbreviations, but they weren’t lecture notes. Yesterday I had lunch with a student who is taking, or was taking, both Singer’s courses. Inadvertently he informed me that in neither course was Singer talking about painting. Nothing clicked at that time, but later when I found this,” — he took out the clipping, — “with the help of Miss Mahan, I decided that Singer’s memorandum was not a lecture note.”

  He stopped. Miss Slade had paled noticeably when he had taken out the clipping.

  “I’ll read it,” he said and did. -‘“You see, Singer’s memorandum meant those three paintings. The Madonna was the Lotto. The Crucifixion was the Perugino, and Tiepolo’s portrait of a soldier must be ‘Con/ the Condottiere — a Condottiere being a mercenary soldier, Miss Mahan.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Oh, really? Thank you; I didn’t know that.”

  Jupiter went on, “All this doesn’t make sense to you now probably, but I’ll try to explain. This is more or less the way I reasoned. First, Singer made a special note of those three paintings and marked it important. Second, a dealer in New York had copies of those three paintings which he himself said were excellent. Third, as some of you may not know, Singer had been planning to retire at the end of this year. You all know him, and none of you will believe, I think, that he would retire without sufficient money to be comfortable. I personally don’t think he had enough to be comfortable without the salary he was getting here at Harvard. Fourth, you’ll have to excuse me if I sound like a lawyer summing up a case, but it’s the only way I can think of to get the facts across. Let’s see — fourth, Fitzgerald never painted Singer’s portrait — yet he was owed enough money to make him burst out in front of Miss Slade. And, last, Miss Slade must have known something was going on when she tore up this clipping yesterday afternoon.”

  He had expected her to pass out or scream, but she did neither. She pressed her lips tighter together and clenched her long, bony hands in front of her.

  Everyone stared at her, but she didn’t speak.

  Jupiter coughed and continued, “Bearing all this in mind, I decided something was rotten in the Fogg Museum. Others have had the same sentiments, but not, I should imagine, with as much basis as myself. I telephoned Mr. Epstein in New York. Why I did still remains a mystery to me. He added nothing to what I knew, merely saying that his pictures were copies and that they had come from Italy. Mr. Epstein made one slip which I think is causing him a slight amount of worry to-day. He didn’t seem at all confused by the fact that he was being called in connection with the Singer case. By that time I was adding two and two together so fast I was getting a total in two figures. Miss Mahan and I negotia
ted a small robbery out here. I chose the Lotto from the others because it was the first one of the three that I found. Mr. Chalmers, will you please step forward.” ‘

  Mr. Chalmers stepped forward. He was wearing his best suit and he looked unusually clean.

  Jupiter took him by the arm. “Mr. Chalmers is an artist, an excellent artist — some of you may have heard of him. Now, Mr. Chalmers, will you please tell us about this painting.”

  Chalmers cleared his throat and bowed. “Mr. Jones brought me this painting last evening. He persuaded me to make a few tests to determine whether it was an original. I have had some experience in this kind of work, but unfortunately I have a very limited laboratory in which to carry on this work. However, I made one test which would prove beyond all conceivable doubt whether the painting was a forgery. This test showed that the painting was a clever and skillful work, but nevertheless a copy from the original.”

  He bowed again and went back to the others.

  There was a general intake of breath.

  Hadley stuttered, “Why — why — that’s impossible — really, I mean . . .”

  Fairchild said, “I’ll be damned!”

  Rankin growled, “Go ahead, Jones.”

  “And that,” said Jupiter impressively, “brings us to the end of what might be called the Prologue of our little drama.” Things were going better than he had expected. “By now, some of you have probably guessed who painted this ‘Lotto’; and the person who painted that also painted the Perugino ‘Crucifixion’ and the Tiepolo ‘Condottiere.’ It’s really too bad Mr. Fitzgerald isn’t here to claim the honor and let us compliment him on his dexterity. However — from now on I am guessing. I may not be right on the details, but I think a checkup will prove that I’m not far off. Miss Slade, if you care to add any bits of information I should be delighted to hear them.”

  Miss Slade maintained her stony silence.

  “These paintings were purchased by the Museum five years ago. Is that correct, Professor Hadley?

  “Five years ago? Er, no, Mr. Jones — four, I believe. Yes, that’s it — four.”

  Jupiter nodded. “Four years ago. Professor Singer supervised the purchase, and the original pictures — not these that we have here now — were duly hung amid the proper ceremony. Invitations were sent out, tea was drunk, and everything went beautifully. Critics raved about the marvelous new paintings in the Fogg Museum and rightly so, because they were the originals. But before all this happened Singer had hatched as pretty a plan for gypping the Museum out of a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars as you’d like to see.”