Few people have had occasion to murder a Harvard professor—and yet there was no doubt that Professor Singer of the Fine Arts department had been murdered. He was found dead in his study at Hallowell House by “Jupiter” Jones, an eccentric graduate student who arrived for a tutorial conference. Instead of discussing Fine Arts, “Jupiter” faced the police.
The very first clues appeared to have the makings of two juicy faculty scandals and the Cambridge detective working on the case chose to go slowly. Not so “Jupiter,” who, taking advantage of his familiarity with Singer and his sure knowledge of Harvard, began to piece together the astonishing story. But, like so many amateur detectives, “Jupiter” Jones overlooked a few vital facts.
“Tim” Fuller was a member of the class of 1936 at Harvard. This is his first novel. It is also the first contemporary mystery story to be serialized in the columns of the Atlantic Monthly.
Copyright, 1936,
BY TIMOTHY FULLER
All rights reserved
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO MY FATHER
who is a good bookseller and
a fair fisherman
Although some may find it hard to believe, all the characters in this book are both fictitious and imaginary and have no willful resemblance to any persons now living or dead.
Persons this Mystery is about—
JUPITER JONES,
a physical contradiction who looks as if he has just left the hospital after a lingering illness, but who can play five sets of tennis on a midsummer day and come out perspiring only slightly; he is at Harvard for a Ph.D. in Fine Arts, and is sure to receive it with honors, without having tried for anything but plenty of ease and plenty of Scotch.
SERGEANT RANKIN,
a solidly-built man of apparent intelligence and machine-gun type of speech; every cylinder clicks in the sergeant, and his lowly title shouldn’t be allowed to fool anyone.
ALBERT SINGER,
authority on Italian Renaissance painting and a full professor at the early age of forty-five; he is attractive and affected, and his success with women is unusual, although in some cases not unquestioned.
ARTHUR FAIRCHILD,
banker friend of Singer’s, sufficiently wealthy, impressive in evening clothes, whose attractive, energetic wife, Connie, a “Society one,” is, perhaps, an even better friend of Albert Singer’s.
PROFESSOR HADLEY,
that extremely rare character, an absent-minded professor, elderly, and after years of teaching still an assistant, with barely the courage to call his hat his own, let alone his soul, though his knowledge of painting may surpass even that of Professor Singer.
BETTY MAHAN,
assistant librarian at the Fogg Museum, the reason for the influx of students who come, not to study but to look; Jupiter’s interest in her has exceeded the brotherly.
MISS SLADE,
of the Fogg Museum, her identity submerged in that title after twenty-three years at Harvard, fifteen of them secretary to Albert Singer, is a little unattractive gray woman whose only color is centered in the tip of her nose.
FITZGERALD,
a portrait painter, quite famous, “doing” the President of Harvard.
PROFESSOR SAMPSON,
tall, thin, with a narrow face, beaked nose and lined mouth; House Master justly called “The Eagle of Economics,” whose wife, Ruth, appears to have been left too long in a dark, damp cellar.
MR. RENIER,
light-footed little art dealer with offices in Paris, who speaks with what is often called a charming French accent.
HARVARD HAS A HOMICIDE
CHAPTER I
JUPITER JONES threw down the rest of his hand and got up from the bridge table.
“You know,” he said, “it’s time something happened around here. I refuse to play bridge much longer. I want a fire, a riot, and lots of police cars.”
“Have a drink,” said his partner.
“It’s too wet for a fire, March isn’t the season for riots in Cambridge, and one police car is very much like another,” summed up opponent East. “Sit down and play bridge.”
“I don’t blame you, Jupe,” said West; “I feel the same way. If I weren’t going to Law School, I’d leave college now.”
“Everyone says that in March,” said South; “it’s chronic.”
“Hell hath no fury like Cambridge in March or something,” said Jones, putting on his hat. “Well, I’ve got to go down to the House and see the great Singer about a paper I’m writing for him, entitled, ‘Early Northern Sources of Venetian Color.’ It’s a pity you guys don’t study Fine Arts, so you could meet that prince among men. Good night, gentlemen.”
He went out.
“There goes our fourth,” sighed East, “and in a pleasant mood.”
They settled back in their chairs.
West said, “Why is Jones trying for a Ph.D. in Fine Arts? What does he expect to do?”
“He was so attached to Harvard he couldn’t bear to leave after four years,” explained South, smiling.
“You mean he was so attached to that girl in the Museum.”
“Well, maybe.”
“I think he wants to be a curator,” added East. “Why, I couldn’t possibly say.”
“I can’t see him in charge of a museum.”
“I can’t see him in charge of anything except, maybe, a bottle of Scotch,” said South.
“That’s true enough,” mused West. “When does he study?”
“He doesn’t need to.”
“He uses the Jones System, his own fortunately, of starting his week-ends on Wednesday and ending on Monday. Tuesday is his day of work — his week,” explained East.
“Harvard, the Institution of Higher Learning!”
“What does he do all the time?” asked West. “Sometimes I don’t see him for weeks.”
“I don’t know exactly,” answered South. “He has lots of queer friends around Cambridge and I guess he goes off with them or even by himself now and then.”
“He’s a mystery man,” said South. “He knows more people in college than anyone I’ve ever seen; but I don’t think anyone knows him very well, or at all, for that matter.”
East was picking up the cards. He said, “It’s a bad sign when Jones says he’s bored. Something usually happens. I remember one time he said that — a couple of years ago, I guess it was — and the next
