In the admittedly exclusive clubs along Mt. Auburn Street and its environs the talk was richer, but much the same. They were apt to take it lightly: —
“Of all the rotten breaks! I have to be in town when all the excitement was out here last night.”
“It was dull.”
“Who is this guy Singer? I never heard of him.”
“If you took a few courses outside of Economics you might.”
“By God, look — old Jupiter found the body!”
“You keep right up with the news, don’t you?”
“Hell, I just got up.”
“I’ll bet he went out and got stunk right afterwards; he’s always looking for an excuse.”
“He probably did it from boredom. I think that’s the only thing he’s never done.”
“What?”
“Killed a guy.”
“It’ll probably turn out to be a publicity stunt by the Lampoon.”
“Hell, no! They’d never have thought of it.”
“I don’t see how we can go to any classes to-day, do you?”
“Certainly not.”
“I’m not going to another class until the murder is solved.”
Later in the morning a well-known professor met a class of inattentive newspaper-reading freshmen. He said: “Gentlemen, a terrible thing has happened. It is a shock to the University and everyone connected with Harvard, but there is no reason why we should not continue our studies in a sane and normal manner. However, as you will undoubtedly continue to view this tragedy as a Roman holiday, I am going to take the precaution of dismissing this class. Good day, gentlemen.” Jupiter woke early. The Chapel bells were announcing the fact that nine-o’clock classes were getting under way. He stretched, yawned, and put his hands to his head. As always, he was surprised that it didn’t come off and roll onto the floor. Once he’d had a dream that he was holding his head in his hands and looking down at his horrible rolling eyes; he’d never quite recovered from it. His tongue made an experimental trip around his mouth and he was pleased that it encountered no pigmies. He was suffering a mild hangover.
Sylvester was making soundless noises in the other room. Jupiter could sense his presence. “Sylvester!” he called. “The master is awake.” Sylvester appeared with a glass of orange juice and a pile of newspapers. The perfect servant. “Good mornin’, Mr. Jupiter. Fine day.”
Jupiter looked out the window. The sun was shining.
“Good morning, Sylvester. If the sun should stay out all day the Transcript will probably have an editorial on the phenomenon.” He drank the orange juice quickly, then reached for the papers.
“Oh, my God!” He collapsed on his pillow. There was a large picture of Singer and beside it a smaller one of himself. It was from his Class Album. “That’s a fine thing to be faced with in the early hours of the morning. They were certainly hard up for news.”
He read one or two stories through and glanced at the rest. No names were mentioned; the stories dealt with the finding of the body, Singer’s educational record, and the arrival of the police. There was not a hint about the Fairchilds. Good, he thought.
“Ah’ll go an’ get some coffee an’ toast, Mr. Jupiter. Is they anything else yo’ want?”
“Not a thing, Sylvester. Hurry back.”
Sylvester went out. Jupiter took a shower and got dressed; he was feeling almost normal by the time his breakfast arrived.
“Any sign of the gendarmes outside?” he asked Sylvester.
“No, suh, but Ah saw the Sergeant go in Professor Singer’s room when Ah went out.”
“Oh,” said Jupiter, sipping coffee, “so he’s on the scene already. I wonder if, he’s nabbed anyone yet. . . . Knock on the door and ask him to step in a minute.”
Sylvester knocked. Illinois opened the door.
“Good morning, good morning!” Jupiter waved. “How’s the world of crime?”
Illinois was becoming hardened to Jupiter’s insanity. “Mornin’, son; you get up late.”
Rankin came in smiling.
“Sit down, Inspector. Have a cup of coffee.”
“You guys sure have a tough life at college,” said Rankin, sitting down.
“This is unusual; only on rare occasions do I allow myself this luxury. The coffee already has sugar and cream, so I won’t ask you how you like it.” He poured a cup.
“You know, I like this scene. I remember a detective story where every once in a while the Inspector would sit down and discuss the case with his confederate. It gave the writer a chance to get in a lot of details he’d left out in his descriptions.” Jupiter was enjoying himself. He hadn’t felt so well in the morning for a long time. “How are things going?”
Rankin laughed. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. You lie in bed while all the rest of the college is out rushing around trying to be detectives. They’ve been calling me up all morning. As far as I can make out, there must have been a parade going by outside here last night, but no one saw anyone come in or out of Singer’s entry. Did anything happen after I left?”
Jupiter looked at the Sergeant intently, but he seemed innocent. “Not a thing, Inspector; I was disappointed. I thought at least there might be a ghost or two roaming around next door.”
“Well, I’ve been over Singer’s room carefully. There’s nothing there that seems to bear on the case, except a letter. Do you know of any woman named Ruth who was intimate with him?”
All is well, thought Jupiter. He pretended deep concentration. “No; I’m sorry, I guess I missed that one. . . . What was in it? Did she threaten his life?”
“No, but it may have something to do with it. What is Mrs. Fairchild’s first name?”
“Constance.”
He said it too quickly. The Sergeant looked up sharply.
“You know them pretty well?”
He was in for it. “They’re
