The professor went on. “Possibly you may wonder why I asked to see you. We,” he indicated his wife, “are, naturally, stunned by this tragedy. It seems so grotesque, so — so unbelievable happening here in this House, or, for that matter, anywhere at Harvard. I talked with that policeman, Sergeant Rankin, last evening. He was quite reticent in discussing the affair with me, although he appears assured that it was murder. Do you think there is any possibility of — er — suicide?”
“None at all,” said Jupiter.
Mrs. Sampson started to speak. Her husband stopped her. “Just a minute, dear. You’re convinced yourself, Jones, that it was murder?”
“Absolutely,” he said, then he decided an explanation was in order. “You must realize yourself, sir, that Professor Singer wasn’t the type of man who would dream of suicide.”
This time Mrs. Sampson would not be stopped. “How can you say that?” she demanded fiercely. “How can you say that about any man? Your best friend might commit suicide to-morrow and no one would be more surprised than you. You say the type of man! Anyone is capable of suicide.”
“Please, please!” Sampson was trying to quiet her.
Jupiter was dazed. He certainly hadn’t expected this.
Sampson apologized: “My wife, for some reason, is convinced that Professor Singer was not murdered. That’s the reason I wanted to see you, to see if it was absolutely established that there was a murder.”
“Of course,” said Jupiter, “there is a chance that he did kill himself. As a matter of fact, Rankin thought at first that it was suicide, but when he found that Singer’s engagement pad was filled for the next two days and that people had seen him alive and apparently happy at six o’clock, he gave up any thought of suicide.” He turned to Mrs. Sampson. “You must see yourself that if Professor Singer was contemplating suicide he would hardly have seen all those people yesterday afternoon, made appointments to see more in the evening, and then killed himself at half past six.”
It had little effect on her. “I still believe he killed himself — I’m convinced of it! I knew him very well. He was often depressed for days at a time, you must have noticed that yourself. Oh, it’s horrible, disgusting, the police there prying into his affairs!”
She was close to tears.
“Now, Ruth, please be sensible,” said Sampson, going to her.
That was all Jupiter heard. Ruth! Holy God, am I in it again? He stared at Mrs. Sampson. If it was true, it might explain her feeling about suicide, but could it be? How could I have missed hearing about it, he asked himself. God, how cozy Singer must have been! But then, there are hundreds of Ruths loose in the world. How shall I find out? I can’t very well ask her if she wrote that letter. Obviously Sampson doesn’t know about it . . . or does he? This .thing is really getting sticky. What’s the logical way of finding out? Comparing her handwriting, of course, simple Jones. But how? I can’t hand her a piece of paper and say, “Pardon me, but would you care to write a few words? I’m very much interested in chirography.” In mystery stories it’s always done so smoothly; the detective develops a bad hand or something and asks his victim to take notes for him. Hell!
Sampson was still talking. “. . . You’re just upset, dear; this has been an ordeal for all of us. Try and pull yourself together.”
Suddenly Jupiter had a thought. It was too simple. Several samples of her writing were lying in a drawer in his room. Invitations to tea in the Master’s Lodgings — she always wrote them herself!
He got up. “If there’s nothing more I can do for you, sir, I’ll . . .”
The Sampsons did not restrain him.
“Thanks for coming over, Jones. I’m sorry this happened; Mrs. Sampson is not herself.” He shook hands. “I’m sure all this will straighten itself out.”
Jupiter didn’t add that he was doing his best right at the moment.
Going back to his room, he decided that if he witnessed many more scenes of hysterics and weeping he would become unbalanced himself. What is there in me, he asked himself, that makes people lose control of themselves and unburden their souls to me? In the last twelve hours Mrs. Fairchild had wept and told him of a love affair, Hadley had confided his jealousy of Singer, Appleton had made an ass of himself, and now Mrs. Sampson! After this is over, he thought, I’ll have to go out in the country and commune with some placid pigs, if I can find any.
In a messy pile of invitations he found one from the House Master.
There was no question about it — the writing was the same as in the letter.
CHAPTER IX
HE decided to walk up to the Museum and find the Sergeant. On the way he discovered he was running out of cigarettes. He stopped in at Joe’s. It seemed an unbelievably long time since last evening when he had bought his last package there.
Joe was dithering. It was Jupiter’s first contact with the excitement that the murder had caused.
“Ah, Mr. Jones!” called Joe. “You finda da bod’, huh?”
Several customers stared at Jupiter.
“Camels,” said Jupiter, not wasting words.
Joe would not be muted. “You know who done da job, huh, Mr. Jones?”
“No idea,” said Jupiter.
“Sure, sure, I see. You know, a man come in here las’ night, ask where to fin’ Hallowell House. He say, ‘Where I fin’ Hallowell House?’ Like dat.”
“Tell it to the police, Joe; they’re collecting people like that.”
Joe smiled. “You maka da joke, eh?”
“Yeah,” said Jupiter. “How about my cigarettes?”
“Sure,” he handed them to him. “He was a little man, so high.”
Joe made a motion with his hand. Jupiter smiled and went out. Everyone, including Joe, has ideas, he thought; I pity the Inspector.
Coming around a corner onto Massachusetts
