Harvard Has a Homicide Page 5

  “God, what a mess!” he murmured. He wanted to say something that would help, but couldn’t think of anything. “How long ago was this?”

  She sat up; she was getting hold of herself. “I don’t know why I told you all that, but I feel better now that you know the truth. It was last week. I hadn’t seen him until to-day.”

  “Does your husband know about it?”

  “Yes, we had it out; I told him the truth.” She had stopped crying. “He was wonderful; said it wasn’t my fault and that we would begin over again.”

  “There must have been a good reason for your going to see Singer this afternoon?”

  “I went to return some things he had given me. I shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m not trying to be inquisitive, Connie; but how did he take all this? I mean you giving him up?”

  She frowned. “He was nice, at first; but this afternoon he was different; said some nasty things I’d rather not repeat. Of course in a way I don’t blame him; he got a bad deal. But then — oh, let’s not talk about it. It’s all over.”

  “It’s not all over, Connie,” said Jupiter seriously. “It’s only beginning. Did you know that Mr. Fairchild saw him this afternoon?”

  “Yes, I knew,” she said wearily. “Albert said some nasty things about that, too — about crawling to my husband. Oh, it was terrible!”

  “You’ve got to face facts now. I’m serious. When the police find out both you and your husband saw Singer just before he was murdered, they’re going to wonder.”

  She put her head in her hands. “Oh, it’s too awful,” she moaned. “The papers will get hold of it and there will be a terrible mess.”

  “Don’t worry about the papers yet. Until they have some definite proof, the police won’t publish any names, I know that.” He was doing some thinking. “I want to talk to Mr. Fairchild.”

  At the door he stopped. “Tell me truthfully, Connie: did you kill him?”

  She stood up. “No, I didn’t, Jupiter. I swear it.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t think so, but I like to make sure. Let’s go down and see Arthur.”

  They went downstairs together. Mr. Fairchild was in his study, a small room decorated chiefly with pictures of racing yachts.

  Jupiter was businesslike. “Connie’s told me everything, Mr. Fairchild.” No one noticed the incongruity of names. “I can’t stay here much longer, and if the police find out I’ve been here at all I’ll get in trouble. Did you know that she saw Singer after you did to-day?”

  Evidently he didn’t. “No, no, I didn’t. Why, Connie, what did you want to see him about?” Jupiter cut in. “Don’t bother about that now. She explained it to me. Did you keep your appointment with him this afternoon?”

  “Yes, I left him a little before six.”

  “All right. Now if you want my advice, Connie, you’d better tell the police you were there this afternoon. It’s better than having them find out themselves later. Make up any excuse you like; tell them you went there to ask Professor Singer to come to your musicale to-morrow night — anything.”

  Mrs. Fairchild gasped, “Heavens! I’d forgotten all about to-morrow night. What shall we do about it?”

  “Call it off, of course,” said Mr. Fairchild.

  “But how can we?” She was bewildered. “It’s been planned for weeks. I’ve engaged those people from the Symphony; everyone’s coming!”

  “Hell!” said Jupiter. “Have your musicale. Why not?”

  “What will people say?” said Mrs. Fairchild. It was important to her.

  “Very bad taste, I’m afraid, Jupiter — very,” added Mr. Fairchild.

  “If the usual crowd is coming, it will be fun,” said Jupiter.

  Mrs. Fairchild looked at him. “Oh, you mean from Harvard. I hadn’t thought of that. Of course Mr. and Mrs. Sampson always come, and Professor Hadley; but the others — Mr. Burnhart from the Boston Museum and, oh dear! that Frenchman from New York — Renier, I think his name is — what shall we do?”

  Jupiter was amazed at her. The musicale seemed more important than the murder.

  “Have you asked Fitzgerald, the painter?”

  “Why yes. Why?”

  “Have your musicale, then,” Jupiter laughed. “Don’t worry; everyone will come. There won’t be much music, but there’ll be plenty of conversation.

  “It might be wiser,” put in Mr. Fairchild.

  A maid appeared at the door. She was wild-eyed.

  “There is a policeman at the door, sir. He wants to see you.”

  “Good God!” said Jupiter. “It’s the Inspector. I’ll go out the back door. Don’t tell him I was here, and remember to tell most of the truth.”

  He slid into the hall and out into the kitchen. Behind him he heard the Sergeant lumbering down the hall. He waited until the maid came back.

  “Much excitement, Mary — much excitement. Oh hell! My hat and coat are in the hall. Sneak out and collect them, will you?”

  Mary’s favorite actor was William Powell. Here was drama right in her own home.

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, departing.

  She was back in a minute, panting. “Here they are; he didn’t see me.”

  “Pretty work, Mary,” said Jupiter, smiling. “What time did Mrs. Fairchild come in this evening?

  She hesitated.

  “Come, tell Uncle Jupiter; it’s all right.”

  “I don’t know as I ought.” She was building up suspense.

  Jupiter had his coat on. “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Good night, Mary.”

  “She came in at half past six, sir.”

  “Thanks,” he said, going out.

  His car was parked at the side of the house in the driveway. There was a police car on Brattle Street, directly opposite. He couldn’t tell if there was anyone in it.

  “Thank God this driveway has a back entrance,” he murmured. “See you later, Inspector.”

  He drove out. On the way back to Hallowell House he reviewed his talk with Mrs. Fairchild. As much as he liked her, he couldn’t help thinking she was in a tough spot and that it was her fault she was there. He could understand her feeling about the papers. One word of scandal, the kind of scandal connected with a murder trial, and she would have to move away from Boston. He was not a native of Boston, but he knew something about the town — enough. Rankin would undoubtedly connect the two visits to Singer, — he couldn’t miss it, — but so far he had nothing to go on. The time of Singer’s death hadn’t been established, although Jupiter was convinced that he never got any dinner. That would put the time between six-fifteen and seven, at the latest.

  “Well,” he mused, “if some good clean-living citizen doesn’t come forward and say he saw Singer alive after six-fifteen, Connie is going to have to answer a lot of questions and they won’t be asked by Sergeant Rankin.”

  There was a line of cars parked near Hallowell House. He had to hunt around for a space. He was just climbing out when he saw the familiar figure of Professor Hadley approaching in the rain.

  “I will have a word with the gentleman,” he muttered. “I’ll have two words, in fact.”

  Professor Hadley was that extremely rare character, an absent-minded professor. All the hackneyed jokes ever made about absent-minded professors could be applied to him and nobody would be surprised. In the field of Fine Arts at Harvard he was at home.

  “Good evening, Professor Hadley,” said Jupiter quietly.

  He was startled. “Oh — ah, good evening, sir. Oh, it’s you, Jones. Excuse me.”

  Coming from anyone else, this would be a crack. “Yes,” said Jupiter.

  “I’ve just seen a most lovely girl, Jones — most lovely. Something Botticelli about her, hard to define, and an extremely good actress.” He was excited. .

  Jupiter guessed his secret. “You’ve been to the movies?”

  “Yes, — er, yes, at the University. As I was saying, this girl, her name was Bette Davis, I think — yes, that was her name, Bette Davis —
Oh, but you’ve probably seen her.”

  Jupiter treated him like a child. “Yes, I’ve seen her.”

  “Well, then, of course you know what she’s like. I mean—”

  It was like taking candy. “Professor Singer’s been murdered.”

  Nothing registered. “Murdered? Oh well, as I say, there was one scene, a scene in a field — What was that you said? Professor Singer? I think I misunderstood you.”

  “Professor Singer was murdered sometime between six and eight, this evening.”

  Jupiter could almost see his mind working.

  “Murdered? There must be some mistake, Jones. That’s impossible—really. Murdered? Oh no!”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, sir. I found him, and the police are there now.”

  Hadley had accepted the fact. Jupiter was startled by the change in him. He had somehow expected him to go to pieces, but the little man seemed to grow stronger. He drew his coat tighter around his neck and started off toward his room. Jupiter went with him.

  “Of course, Jones, this is a horrible thing for the University.” He spoke definitely; most of his stuttering and groping for words had gone. “Professor Singer and I were friends — co-workers, you know. I shall miss him. Yes, I shall miss him. You have probably not been unaware of the animosity between Singer and myself, but that was inevitable. A few years ago — but I shan’t mention that.

  Jupiter couldn’t figure it; it didn’t add up. Here was old Professor Hadley, the timid rabbit, talking about a man who had been murdered three hours ago as if the whole thing had happened years before. There was no explanation. Or was there? Suppose Hadley had hoped for something like this — something that would remove the brilliant Singer from his field, make him the recognized leader in his work at Harvard. It sounded impossible, but, hell! professors must have some ambition; they couldn’t go on instilling the same old facts into unreceptive students unless they had something to look forward to. Jupiter had always thought Hadley must be reconciled to mediocrity. He was a dull lecturer, one of the dullest; he seemed happy enough pottering around the Museum, collecting slides for his next class. Do you suppose he hoped for the time when students would whisper, “There goes Hadley. You’ll have to take his course on sculpture; it’s the only one given, but God help you!” Funny how little you know about your professors, thought Jupiter.

  Hadley was still talking. “The police are there, you say? I dare say they will find the guilty person. I have no idea how they go about it — not the slightest. Well, this will be a blow to the department. Yes, a distinct blow. I wonder who will take over his courses?”

  There it is, thought Jupiter; he’s thinking about it already.

  “The police will want to talk to you,” said Jupiter. He thought he’d break it gently.

  “Talk to me? Oh yes, of course. They will want to know if I heard the shot or something. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help them much.”

  Rankin will kill me for this, he thought, but then I’m far enough in it now. “Did you have dinner at the House, sir?”

  “Why, yes. Veal cutlets, I believe.” He looked at Jupiter sharply. “Why did you ask that?”

  “When did you last see Professor Singer?”

  “Now just a minute, Jones. I think the police had better ask those questions.”

  “They will,” he said. “I was just preparing you.”

  “Did you say you had found the body?”

  “Yes. I’m working with the police,” he lied. “Well, in that case, perhaps, it would be better if I told you and-avoided the police altogether.” Jupiter coughed. “Well, there may be a few odds and ends they’d like to check up with you.” They were approaching the crowd outside Singer’s room. Jupiter didn’t care about being seen with Hadley. After all, the police had been looking for him for a couple of hours.

  He stopped. “What time was it you last saw Professor Singer?”

  “I came down with him from the Museum about four. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Jupiter had to work quickly. Mr. Swayle was mingling with the crowd.

  “Do you remember that you had an appointment to have dinner with him to-night?”

  He thought a minute. “Yes. Yes, I do. To tell you the truth, I forgot about it. I forgot about it purposely.”

  Jupiter almost collapsed. The man seemed proud of the fact.

  He managed, “You forgot about it purposely?”

  Hadley was excited. “Yes, purposely. I was sick and tired of having Singer order me to eat with him. That’s what he did — order me! I said to myself, I’ll go over to the dining hall and he can join me if he will; but I won’t call for him!”

  Mr. Swayle had spotted Hadley; he was coming over.

  “Maybe, sir, maybe you’d better just tell the police you forgot about it. They might not understand. I forgot something in my car; I’ll see you later.”

  He ran up the street. Mr. Swayle hadn’t seen him.

  “God Almighty!” he muttered. “I tell him Singer’s been murdered between six and eight and he says he’s forgotten to have dinner with him purposely! Wait till Rankin gets hold of him. It’ll be ‘Good-bye, Mr. Chips,’ in no uncertain terms!”

  CHAPTER VII

  HE waited at a safe distance until Hadley and Mr. Swayle had gone into the building, then he walked quickly toward the House. He didn’t like being out in the rain.

  “So far,” he told himself, “I’m doing all right. I’ve hidden evidence, told the Fairchilds what to say, and now I’m covering up Hadley. The Inspector will lock me up if he finds out and I can’t say that I’d blame him.”

  A policeman barred the way to his entry.

  “Sorry, bud, you can’t go in there.”

  “I live in here,” explained Jupiter.

  The policeman was not impressed. “Oh, sure, you live in here. Fifty of you guys have tried that and there’s not that many lives here, not by a long shot. Go on, beat it, and don’t try and tell me you work for the Crimson, either.”

  Jupiter looked around for someone to identify him. There were a few “Yard Cops,” Harvard’s own police force, standing on one foot trying to look important, but he didn’t recognize any of them. Then he saw Illinois.

  “Hey!” said Jupiter.

  Illinois came over. “Where have you been, son? The Sergeant’s been looking for you.”

  “Sleuthing,” answered Jupiter truthfully. “Will you write me out a pass? I’d like to get to my room.”

  “Let him in,” said Illinois.

  “Thanks. Tell His Honor I’ll be in my room if he would have words.”

  Illinois went off shaking his head. These Goddamn crazy students were too much for him.

  A small crap game was in progress on the floor of his room. Only three reporters remained. Sylvester was trying for a four.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” said Jupiter, taking off his coat.

  “Where ah yoo, little Joe!” said Sylvester rolling. “Ha!”

  “I thought you guys only did this in the movies,” said Jupiter.

  “We have standards to keep up,” said one. He was a little on the ball.

  “What were you doing, distilling that Scotch?” said another. He, too, was progressing well. “We were about to send Saint Bernards after you.”

  “Stop me if I’m wrong,” said Jupiter. “But I thought there’d been a murder.”

  “Yes, but we’re keeping it secret,” added the third. “At least Rankin is; he’s trying to rival the Sphinx.”

  “This all makes very charming repartee,” said Jupiter, “but don’t you guys have to write stories?”

  “Hell, no, we’re photographers,” explained one. They went on with the game.

  “H’m,” said Jupiter. “Where’s the rest of the merry gathering?”

  “A couple of them went looking for you. I guess the rest are following Rankin.”

  He feared for the Fairchilds.

  “Don’t get up, Sylvester,” he murmured. “I’ll mix my own
.”

  He mixed a drink and came back to the game.

  “Do you mind if I sit in?”

  “Come ahead,” said one, moving over. “But lay off Sylvester; he’s having a heat wave.”

  The dice went around. Pretty soon two reporters came in. They glared at Jupiter.

  “Where the hell did you go? You didn’t go for liquor.”

  He looked up. “Your guess is as good as anyone’s.”

  He didn’t feel too congenial toward the press. They were drinking his liquor and making a club-room out of his quarters. At least they could be civil.

  “God, what a case!” one of them exploded. “Rankin won’t open his mouth and you go tearing off somewhere by yourself!”

  Jupiter was aroused. “If you don’t like it here, it’s still raining outside.”

  “Take it easy, Joe,” said one of the photographers.

  “Skip it,” said Joe. “I’ve got a story to write, that’s all.”

  “Sit down, Stanley Walker, and join the game,” said Jupiter.

  “Where is Rankin, by the way?” asked a photographer.

  “God knows. He skipped out, too. What time is it?”

  “Ten-fifteen.”

  “The American ought to have its extra out pretty soon. It won’t be much.”

  The gaming proceeded. Jupiter made six straight passes with the dice and was inclined to look on his companions more favorably. He had another drink; they all did. The pleasant pastime was broken up by Rankin appearing in the fire door.

  The Sergeant was not boisterous. “I’d like to see you a minute, Jones.”