“A guy named Jones found the body,” said an undergraduate, concluding his story.
“He did, did he?” murmured Miss Mahan. “Thanks very much for telling me about it.”
She walked off.
“He would find the body,” she told herself. “If there are any old bodies lying around, trust Jupiter to find them, the snake.”
That Singer had been murdered upset her very little, but that Jupiter should find the body and get in on all the fun was too much for her. She was that kind of girl.
“I’ll bet he’s being smug and conceited,” she muttered, “and having the time of his life.”
CHAPTER V
RANKIN had gone back to Singer’s room. Uninvited, Jupiter followed him. Fitzgerald came in with Illinois. Like most good painters, Fitzgerald didn’t look like an artist. He was short, middle-aged, getting fat, and now he appeared bewildered. Rankin said, “What can I do for you?”
“I just heard that Mr. Singer was murdered.” He seemed to feel that that explained everything. “Yes, he was murdered, I think.”
“Well, I — ” He was pretty nervous.
“You said you had something important to tell me.”
“I was just coming to see him and now he’s dead. I mean, he’s dead and I can’t see him.”
“That’s true.” The Sergeant was very patient. “You saw him this afternoon, didn’t you?”
Fitzgerald looked surprised. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
Jupiter felt Rankin had been foolish to mention the visit first.
“I knew,” said Rankin. “And you wanted to see him again. Was he expecting you?”
Fitzgerald tightened. “Yes, he was.”
“What time did you leave here this afternoon?” Rankin asked the question pleasantly.
The artist thought for a minute. “A little after six, I think; I had an appointment to see him at six. I didn’t stay more than five minutes. He seemed to be expecting someone else and he asked if I would mind coming back this evening.”
“You’re sure of the time? You left at five past six?”
“Yes, I should think so. Maybe a few minutes later.”
A strange policeman put his head in the door. “Hey, Sergeant! There’s a lady out here says you want to see her. Name’s Slade.”
“Tell her to wait a minute; I’ll see her as soon as I can.” Then turning to Fitzgerald, “Well, sir, I’m afraid there’s not much more I can tell you about the murder; but if you’ll leave your address I may want to talk with you again. You weren’t planning to leave Cambridge right away?”
Fitzgerald was relieved. “No, I have about two weeks’ more work to do here. I’m doing a portrait of the President, you know. I’m staying at the Hotel Continental, room 303 —you can reach me there. I’m afraid I’ve caused you a lot of trouble coming here, but it was quite a shock. I expected to see Professor Singer, and I—”
“That’s all right; I’m glad you came in.” He turned to Illinois. “Ask Miss Slade to come in now.”
She must have been standing just outside the door in the hall, because Illinois didn’t go out. Jupiter had always thought she looked awful, but he had never seen her look unbelievable. Her gray hair straggled over her forehead and the only color in her face was a bit of red on the end of her nose. She stood in the doorway looking around the room. Then she saw Fitzgerald. Jupiter had seen a lot of movies, but he’d never seen such a look of hatred on any person’s face in his life. He actually tingled.
“Make sure that man doesn’t get away,” she said quietly.
Fitzgerald turned white.
Rankin said, “What the hell do you mean?”
Miss Slade looked at the Sergeant and hesitated, but not for long. “I see you don’t know who killed Singer. He did — just as sure as I’m standing here. I know it and he knows it.”
Fitzgerald coughed. “This woman is obviously insane.”
Jupiter thought for a minute she was going to attack him. The Sergeant stepped closer to her.
“Insane — insane, am I? Not insane and not deaf, either.” She was at least hysterical. “I heard you threaten him this afternoon. Do you deny that?”
Rankin put his hand on her arm. “Please, Miss Slade, just a minute. You’re making a serious charge.” Then to Fitzgerald, “Do you know what she’s talking about?”
“Mr. Singer and I had a few words this afternoon in the Museum which she seems to have overheard. I assure you I didn’t threaten his life.” He had grown much calmer.
Miss Slade had not. “A few words! A few words! You said if he hadn’t made a logical explanation by to-night you would take action — drastic action; and now he’s murdered.”
“Those were my words, I’ll admit; but my action did not involve murder, Miss Slade.”
His tone was level; even Miss Slade was affected by it. She had stopped talking, but was still breathing hard.
Rankin said, “You don’t have to answer now, but I’d like to know what explanation you demanded of Professor Singer.”
Fitzgerald nodded his head. “In view of Miss Slade;’s accusation, I think some explanation is necessary. Some time ago I painted Mr. Singer’s portrait, and I did not press him for payment. He had made no move to pay me and, knowing he had the money, I wanted an explanation. As you doubtless know, artists are always poor. I needed the money, that’s all.”
“That sounds logical,” said Rankin. “I’m afraid Miss Slade was shocked
