“Is that all?” asked the Sergeant.
“All,” answered Jupiter.
“Did he know about the murder when you spoke to him?”
“No, I broke the news to him; he’d been to the movies.”
“How did he take it?”
“I’d swear on any amount of Bibles it was the first he’d heard of it.”
“Maybe,” said the Sergeant doubtfully. “But forgetting about dinner was a hot one.”
“If you think Hadley killed Singer you’re crazy.”
“I’m not thinking who killed him yet; I’m trying to find out the time of his death. As a matter of fact, Professor Sampson was with Hadley until quarter of seven.”
“You’ve been doing all right,” said Jupiter. He thought he’d sound him on the Fairchild situation. “Well, then, the last person to see Singer was Fitzgerald.”
Rankin took the bait. “No, I’ve found the person Singer was expecting. Mrs. Fairchild, the wife of the banker, paid him a short visit; left about six-fifteen, she says.”
Jupiter whistled. He hoped it sounded authentic.
“It looks bad for the lady,” he suggested.
“Not necessarily. I tell you I’m just trying to place the time, but their both seeing him to-night needs some explaining. He says he saw him on business and she says she was inviting him to some party she’s throwing.”
They were both thinking.
Finally Rankin said, “I’m convinced Singer didn’t have dinner. I’ve checked with the head waitress in the dining hall and she says he never appeared. The dining hall closes at seven, and so if he wasn’t dead before then he would have gone over. How does that strike you?”
“I’ll admit that had occurred to me, Inspector.”
“That places it between six-fifteen and seven,” mused Rankin.
“What’s the story on that dramatic little scene we had here a while ago featuring Miss Slade?” He wanted a change of subject. Any minute the Sergeant might ask him what he knew about the Fairchilds.
“I had a talk with her about that. She’s still convinced Fitzgerald killed him.’ Says for the last week, ever since he got here, Singer’s been nervous, hardly able to do his work. There may be something in it.”
“How did that act strike you? I had a feeling it might have been rehearsed.”
“You mean accusing Fitzgerald? How could it’ve been? She didn’t know he was going to be here.”
“That’s true, but still I felt it was overdone. Did she give you any more interesting bits of information?”
Rankin pondered. “No, not much . . . name of his lawyer . . . he didn’t have any relations that she knew anything about . . . have to go over all that in the morning. . . .I’m trying to find out now how many people were seen going in and out of this entry at about half past six.”
“You’ll have your troubles there, Inspector,” said Jupiter. “Everyone was apt to be in the dining hall, or mooching back and forth in the rain not noticing anything. But still, have a try. Did Slade translate Singer’s little note ‘Con plus Mad’?”
“No, she couldn’t figure it out. . . . I don’t think it’s important, though — probably something to do with his work. I’ve been through the notes in his desk, but I can’t connect it. . . . You go on back and look after those reporters, but don’t tell them anything, remember that, and if you come across any more witnesses let me talk to them.”
Rankin was pleasant again. Jupiter figured he was satisfied with the way the case was going.
He had started through the fire door. “I suppose you’ve already done it, Inspector, but how about checking up on Fitzgerald? Find out what time he got back to his hotel?”
The Sergeant smiled. “Thanks, I’m checking everyone’s alibi, don’t worry about that. I’m going to talk to the students in this entry. Haven’t had a chance yet. Tell the boys I’ll give ’em their story as soon as I can.”
“The Sergeant,” said Jupiter to himself, “is moaning; every cylinder clicks. I don’t think I’ll hold out on him again.”
Back in his own room, he found things much as he had left them. Sylvester was still dominating the game. A few more news hounds had wandered in; they wanted information.
“Sorry, no dice,” said Jupiter. “Rankin has pledged me to silence, but he will appear in person directly.”
Time passed. Someone brought in the American extra. There wasn’t much to the story an account of Jupiter finding the body, a picture of Singer, and a brief biographical sketch. It was going big outside; students were fighting for copies.
Rankin came in, but he didn’t soothe the scribes. His outstanding piece of information was the narrowing down of the time of the murder. The reporters began to leave as soon as the whiskey ran out.
About twelve the Sergeant came back and said he was leaving for the night — he’d be back in the morning. Sylvester and Jupiter were alone.
Jupiter relaxed. “Quite an evening, Sylvester. How did you fare financially?”
Sylvester was all smiles. “Ah done fine, Mr. Jupiter. Ah can’t complain.”
“Good,” said Jupiter. “I’ll try and arrange another murder for you sometime. How about cleaning up here now?”
Sylvester collected glasses and began washing them in the bathroom. Jupiter never thought of going to bed before one-thirty or two; it was against his principles. Idly, he reviewed the evening’s events. He was convinced that Connie Fairchild was innocent; but if she hadn’t done it, who had? Fitzgerald and Hadley were alibied, and after all the field of possible murderers was fairly limited.
“I’ll have to wait until the Inspector has done more groundwork, then I can let my master intellect sift the facts,” he thought.
Puzzles fascinated him. He toyed with Singer’s note, “CON + MAD.” On the rare occasions when he actually studied, he let his thoughts out vocally. This habit had not added to his popularity with other students in libraries. He would be reading a book peacefully enough in the Fogg library and suddenly shout, “Anyone who can seriously make a statement like that is an ass
