“How do they get on? Any trouble?”
You could shave with the tone of his voice, thought Jupiter.
“Why don’t you ask them?” Then he was sorry he’d said it.
The situation was tense. Jupiter tried to ease it.
“I’ve solved Singer’s code message, Sergeant, if that will help.”
“What is it?”
“Notes for his lecture — nothing important.” He described the abbreviations.
When he had finished, Rankin was still serious. “So far you’ve been a great help, Jones. I like you and I’d like to have you keep on helping me, but you’ve got to play ball. So far you haven’t.”
Jupiter was more than curious. “What do you mean?”
Rankin sighed. “I haven’t had your education, Jones, but I know a lot more about police work than you do or than you think I know. I haven’t asked you this before because I was trying to find out myself, but I can’t. Why did you go to the Fairchilds’ house last night?”
Jupiter blushed for the first time in his life. He felt like a little boy caught playing marbles in Sunday School.
“I guess I underrated you, Inspector,” he said weakly.
“Answer my question.”
Jupiter swallowed. “Mr. Fairchild telephoned me and asked me to come out. Mrs. Fairchild wanted to see me.”
“Had they heard about the murder?”
“Yes, they heard it over the radio.”
“What did she want to see you about?”
Oh hell, he thought, it might as well be the works.
“She wanted to know if I had found her purse in Singer’s room. I had.”
Rankin exploded. “Well, for God’s sake!”
“It was stupid, I’ll admit. I thought it would keep her out of the publicity of the murder. It didn’t. As a matter of fact, I advised her to tell you that she had seen Singer.”
The Sergeant was sarcastic. “That was nice of you. Of course it gave her a chance to make up a good story, but still it was nice of you. All right, now you can tell me the whole story. What was the connection between the Fairchilds and Singer?”
There was no backing out now. Jupiter told the entire conversation between himself and Mrs. Fairchild.
Fie concluded, “I don’t know why I think so, but I could swear that she didn’t kill him, and until you’ve got absolute proof that she did, it’s only fair that you hush things up. You know what would happen if that scandal got in the papers.”
During Jupiter’s talk, Rankin sat perfectly still; now he got up.
“If people weren’t so damn worried about publicity it would be a lot easier on the police. I ought to run you in for concealing evidence, but I’m not going to. You’re just a college boy who thinks the police are a bunch of idiots and that you can solve this murder all by yourself.”
“I’ve changed, Inspector,” said Jupiter.
“You’d better.” Fie was starting to leave. “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, you can help me if you play ball. As a matter of fact, even though you didn’t hide that pocketbook, I probably wouldn’t have found out the truth about the Fairchilds for some time without your help. You’re in closer to this than I first thought. Remember, after this no secrets.”
Jupiter smiled. “O. K., Inspector, from now on we go hand in glove together. Can I see that letter?”
Rankin thought a minute. “I shouldn’t let you, but you’ve given me some tips even if you didn’t mean to. Here it is.”
Jupiter read the letter for the second time, then handed it back.
“I’ll see what I can do with it, Inspector. What are your plans for the morning?”
“Routine stuff in Singer’s office at the Museum. I’ll see you later.”
He went out. Jupiter relaxed. Sylvester, who had been watching the proceedings with interest, said, “That man there sure is smart, Mr. Jupiter.”
“Smarter than I thought, Sylvester,” murmured Jupiter. “I was under the impression that I was way ahead of him for a while, but now he seems to have closed the gap.”
Sylvester cleared away the breakfast dishes while Jupiter smoked a cigarette. His next move seemed obscure. He could always tag along after Rankin to the Museum and have a talk with Betty. She might have something to offer — mentally, of course.
“You know, Sylvester, there’s an idea roaming around in the back of my head that I can’t place. Something I missed last night. I wish I could catch up with it.”
His reflections were shattered by the telephone. It was Professor Sampson, desiring an interview.
“Well, the day is officially started,” he told Sylvester, getting his hat. “If it continues at the standard set last night, I’ll be a nervous wreck by to-night. Hold the fort.”
He went out.
The rain had annihilated the last of the snow and slush, leaving Cambridge a fresher and happier place. Although he had seen it hundreds of times, the morning sun glistening on the gilt and colored domes made Jupiter aware of the beauty of Harvard’s Houses. Perhaps it’s just as well, he thought, that it does rain so much around here, because when the sun appears it gives such a satisfying shock to the citizens. It was typical of him that he should have these thoughts when his mind would ordinarily be on other things. And it was also typical that he should find nothing unusual about it.
A maid ushered him into Professor Sampson’s study, where he was surprised to find both the professor and his wife. Jupiter thought that she looked as though she had been left too long in a dark, damp cellar and that Sampson himself could do with a sun lamp.
“Good morning, Jones,” said Sampson, offering him a chair.
Jupiter sat down. Up to this point he hadn’t given much thought to Sampson’s reasons for wanting to see him. The way things had gone the night before had accustomed him to anything. He decided to become a listener.
There was a small silence as Jupiter refrained from speech.
Sampson cleared his throat. “This is a shocking thing, Jones.”
He nodded. He
