“Even her husband!” he laughed at himself. “Don’t be dull, Jones! He’d be the last person to know about it.”
He turned into the driveway. The house was set back from the street. It was large and yellow.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, lady,” he said, getting out.
A maid met him at the door. Mr. Fairchild was right behind her.
“Come in, Jupiter, come in. Awfully nice of you to come so soon.” The maid faded out. “This is terrible, terrible! Must have been a shock, finding the body. Terrible!”
“Yes it was, sir — terrible!”
“I saw him a minute myself, this afternoon. Oh, it’s frightful — unbelievable! Stabbed, you say?”
“Yes. Where’s Mrs. Fairchild? I’m afraid I can’t stay more than a minute.”
“Of course. Yes. She’s upstairs. Don’t know what she wants to see you about. Better go up. She’s in the front sitting room.” He waved toward the stairs.
Jupiter expected to find her pale and nervous, but was impressed, as he always was at first seeing her, by her healthy color and tremendous energy. If she was shocked by the news, as she surely must be, she hid it well. A scene from a recent play flashed through his mind. An English mother receiving the news of the death of her two sons as if someone had told her the milk would be late. Why do I think these things, he asked himself.
“Oh, Jupiter, you’re here,” she said.
He sat down.
“Tell me about it,” she ordered.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” he asked.
“What do you mean, Jupiter?” She seemed sincere.
“Really, Connie,” — she liked him to call her that — “you d‘dn’t ask me to come up here to tell you the gruesome details.”
“Oh, Jupiter, don’t joke now, please.” She was hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he was. “But I can’t stay long. “What did you want to see me about?
“Were you there when — when the police came?”
“Yes.”
“Did they find anything? I mean, did they find—”
He’d been expecting that.
“They didn’t find this.” He showed her the purse.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she whispered. “Oh, I’m so glad!”
But that isn’t going to make much difference,” he added.
She stared at him wide-eyed. “You didn’t tell them?”
No, I didn’t tell them,” he answered. “But maybe you’d better tell me how that purse happened to be in Singer’s room.”
I left it there. I didn’t remember it until I got home.” She explained it simply, like a schoolgirl who had forgotten her rubbers. It seemed all right to her now that she knew the police didn’t know.
Listen, Connie, said Jupiter softly. “This is a murder — remember that. I don’t know what you were doing in Singer’s room, but the police will find out you were there. Someone probably saw you go in or come out. They will be up here asking questions. What time did you see Singer?”
You don’t think they’d suspect me?” She was beginning to realize the situation. “Oh, if this gets in the papers!”
“They won’t suspect you, and it won’t get in the papers.” He said that to quiet her, “What time did you see Singer?”
“About six, I guess. Just for a minute, though,” she said. “I don’t know — maybe it was later.”
“Try to make sure; it’s pretty important.”
“Let’s see. I got home at six-thirty. I must have left about six-fifteen. I was there only a very few minutes.”
Well, that clears Fitzgerald, thought Jupiter.
“Just for the records, Connie,” — he thought he’d have a try at it, — “did you kill him?”
She glared at him. He had expected a reaction; he got it.
“That’s not like you, Jupiter.” She spoke softly but intensely.
He sighed. “I’m very young and unworldly, but you can’t expect me to miss everything that goes on. I’ve known about you and Singer for some time.”
She broke down. She pulled out a handkerchief and began dabbing at her eyes.
“I’m a fool!” Jupiter realized he was in for it. “I don’t know why I thought no one would know. Oh, Jupiter, you say you’ve known about it, but you haven’t — you’re too young. You’ve read novels about married women with families who make fools of themselves with other men, but it wasn’t like that. Really it wasn’t. I love my family and my husband — I da. My life has been happy; I’ve had everything I want. But you know what Arthur is like; I don’t have to tell you. He’s a model husband, — everyone says so, — but he is tiresome, he really is.” Jupiter agreed with her. “He has no feeling about the things I like; he pretends to like music and painting, but he doesn’t; he hates them. I’ve known Albert Singer a long time; we’ve always been friends. That’s true; really, it wasn’t any more than that. He is — was a charming man. I know you don’t think so, but from a woman’s point of view he was.” She stopped.
Jupiter felt he could finish the story. Why do they always think they’re different, he wondered.
She went on: “We saw a lot of each other, at dinner parties and here — never alone. And then, well, things changed. We went out alone together; lunches in the country — that sort. Oh, you know what happened. It was nobody’s fault — no, I guess it was my fault. I was weak. After that, we had to be careful, and — ” She was crying openly now. “I never loved him, I never thought about divorce. He — he — I think he loved me; he wanted me to divorce Arthur and marry him. I told him I couldn’t — it wouldn’t be fair, fair to Arthur and the children; so I told him it was over.” She sank back in her chair, exhausted. Jupiter watched
