A transformation had come over Miss Slade. She had wilted. Jupiter was sorry for her, but, watching the scene, he felt that she had stepped too far out of character. But then he couldn’t tell; maybe she was inclined to be hysterical. He’d seen her only drifting peacefully around the Museum. He really knew nothing about her.
Fitzgerald was leaving. Rankin went to the door with him.
“I’ll be at the hotel when you want to see me. I hope I can be of some help.”
“Thanks,” answered Rankin. “I’ve been working on this case only an hour and I don’t know where I’m at. I’ll probably call you in the morning.” The artist went out. Miss Slade was sitting in a chair, blowing her nose. Very unattractively, thought Jupiter. The Sergeant went out in the hall. Illinois was mopping his face. There was quite a letdown in the atmosphere.
Rankin came back. “I’ve told those reporters they could go to your room. I want to have a talk with Miss Slade. Don’t tell them anything.” Jupiter took the hint. He almost knocked Sylvester over when he opened the fire door.
“Mustn’t eavesdrop, Sylvester; it’s very bad taste.” He went over and turned on the radio. “The press is imminent. Are we prepared?” Sylvester had whiskey, glasses, ice, and soda ready on a tray. Jupiter went to the door. There were about seven of them.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in,” he greeted them. “It makes cold outside, hein?”
Sylvester was mixing.
One reporter said, “What the hell is this, a murder or a party?”
Another said, “Where’s Rankin?”
“He’s collecting data,” answered Jupiter, “but will join us presently. Keep your hats on, but take off your coats. The evening is in swaddling clothes.”
Sylvester, inspired, said, “For princes are da glass, da school, da book, where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look.”
A reporter said, “I think I’m going crazy, but I’ll have a drink.”
“Who in God’s name are you?” asked another outspoken scribe.
“My name is Jones; I discovered the deceased,” answered Jupiter. Immediately there was clamor.
Jupiter held up his hand. “Sorry, but my lips are sealed. I am not to talk.”
“Who was the last person to see him alive?”
“What time did he get it?”
“What do you know about his private life?”
“Who was the guy that just came out of there?”
“Who was the old dame that just went in?”
“Was there much blood?”
“Blood?” said Jupiter. “I’ve never seen so much blood. It was ankle deep. They’ve got three scrubwomen in there now mopping it up.”
“Come on, kid, give us a break. What do you know about it?”
“Tell us how you found the body.”
“It was quite simple,” said Jupiter, and he told them his story. He was just finishing when the radio report came on.
“Oh, hell!” said a reporter disgustedly. “ ‘For further details, see your local newspaper’!”
“Radio’s certainly knocked hell out of our stuff.” It was the old complaint. “Everyone knows what the next day’s headlines are going to be.”
“Look what it’s done to advertising.”
Rankin came in through the fire door. They fell on his neck.
“Now wait a minute, you guys; there’s not much I can give you — nothing definite now, no names. Here it is.” Rankin was enjoying himself. “I am fairly sure Singer was murdered. He was stabbed with his own paper cutter, an antique Italian dagger. He was killed between six and eight — that’s as close as I can come now. There are several people I want to talk to. No one’s directly under suspicion. You’ll have to work on that. I’ve got to see Professor Sampson, the head of this building, now. I’ll try and give you some more later.” He went back through the fire door.
“Well, that was a great help,” sneered a reporter. “We knew all that half an hour ago.”
“We’ll have to dig up some stuff on Singer ourselves,” said another. They seemed to be working together. “You can’t expect much more yet.”
The telephone rang. Jupiter answered it.
“Is that you, Jupiter?” said a voice. “This is Mr. Fairchild.”
“Yes,” said Jupiter.
“We just heard about the murder over the radio — shocking.” He was upset.
“Yes,” said Jupiter again.
“It was you who found the — him?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Fairchild is naturally very shocked — upset, you know, coming so suddenly. She seems to want to see you.”
“Yes?”
“Do you suppose you could come up? Right away? She says it’s important.”
“Yes, I think I can.”
“I wish you would. Thanks. Good-bye!”
Jupiter hung up.
“Who was that?” asked a newspaper man.
Jupiter thought quickly. “That was my mother. She wanted to know if my laundry was ready. It wasn’t very good, but they took it.
He was putting on his hat and coat. “Just make yourselves at home. Sylvester will look after you. You can use the telephone, if you want to.”
“Where are you going?” Three of them asked the question together.
“I’m going out to buy another bottle of Scotch.”
That held them.
“Tell teacher I’ll be right back,” he said, going out.
“That guy’s a nut,” commented one.
“Just a college boy,” explained another. “Come on, Sylvester, we’ll have another drink.”
CHAPTER VI
JUPITER’S car was parked outside Hallowell House in an alley. He got in and drove out toward Brattle Street. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to accomplish by visiting the Fairchilds, and if the Sergeant found out he would probably give him hell. His father had been a classmate of Mr. Fairchild’s at Harvard, and when Jupiter had arrived as a freshman they had invited him to Sunday dinner. From then on, he had spent a good deal of time at the Fairchilds’. When the food became unbearable at the Union, he would telephone them and they would take the hint and invite him out. They had become quite intimate. After he had graduated and decided to come back as a postgraduate, they had asked him to live with them, but he preferred his own room and of course he couldn’t give up Sylvester.
He thought what a damn fool Mrs. Fairchild
