“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.
