“Small world,” he cliche’d.
Fitzgerald recognized him. “Good morning, good morning.” He seemed happy. “I don’t believe I remember your name.”
“Good morning, Mr. Fitzgerald. Jones is the name I struggle along with.”
“Oh, of course. You discovered the body, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Jupiter. Suddenly he wondered if he was going to go through life known as the man who discovered Singer’s body, like the man who ran the wrong way in the football game.
“I’ve been trying to think what to do all morning,” continued Fitzgerald. “But I suppose Sergeant Rankin will send for me if he wants to see me.”
“Doubtless,” said Jupiter pleasantly. “No work to-day?”
“No, I couldn’t possibly paint a thing to-day and I imagine the President feels the same way.”
“I didn’t know he painted, too,” murmured Jupiter. He hoped Fitzgerald would get mad. He couldn’t tell why he hoped so.
“Ha, ha! I meant he probably wouldn’t feel like sitting.’”
“I’d like to see it when it’s finished. By the way, I can’t remember ever having seen your portrait of Professor Singer. I wonder where he keeps it.”
“What? Portrait of Singer? Oh, I have no idea where he keeps it. It wasn’t very complimentary. He probably doesn’t hang it.”
“Well, it looks as though you’d have to wait to get paid for it.”
“I’ve waited quite some time already,” said Fitzgerald, starting to walk off. “Well, glad to have seen you.”
He walked away rapidly. That, said Jupiter to himself, is the one person I can’t figure in this case.
Before he had reached the Museum eight people had stopped him and said in various forms that they had heard he found the body.
“If many more people tell me that,” said Jupiter to the last one, “someone will find my body under the ice in the Charles.”
The usual cigarette-smoking group of students was missing from the steps of the Museum. There was not even a harassed Radcliffe girl in sight. Jupiter deduced correctly that classes had been called off for the day in the Fogg..
Betty Mahan was sitting behind her desk doing nothing.
She saw him come in, but paid no attention to him. Jupiter, in his own modest way, knew she was trying to keep from showing she was glad to see him.
When he came up to her desk she said, “You’re wasting your time in here, young man; there’s not a sign of a body. I’ve been all over with my fine-tooth comb. How are you?”
“I am well,” he said. “I see you are hard at your daily tasks as usual, letting no grass grow under your feet.”
She waved an arm, taking in the whole Museum. “This place is a madhouse; everyone rushing around trying to look sad when they are all damn glad Singer got what he deserved — Miss Slade, of course, excepted.”
“How is the good woman, by the way?”
She grimaced. “A horrider sight I have yet to see. Why do you ask?”
“And the law? Is it present?”
“In Singer’s office. I am waiting for your story.”
“Patience. In due time you shall know all, but I’ve got to see the Sergeant.” He started to walk off.
“Hey! Come back here!” she called. “You can’t leave me like this.”
“I’ve left girls in far worse condition than I leave you,” he said over his shoulder.
“I don’t doubt it, you dirty crook,” she murmured.
Rankin was looking through papers at Singer’s desk, while Miss Slade, pale and straggly, looked on as if the examination were a personal affront. Jupiter beckoned the Sergeant outside.
He handed him the invitation. “This was written by Mrs. Sampson, the wife of the House Master. What do you make of it?”
Rankin whistled. “How did you get on to this?”
“Elementary,” quoted Jupiter. “As a matter of fact, Sampson telephoned me to come and see him. While I was there I found his wife’s name was Ruth.”
The Sergeant stared at him sharply. “Are you at it again already?”
“Not a chance, Inspector. I’ll tell you all.” When Jupiter had completed the Sampson saga, Rankin frowned.
“Thanks for the information — that’s more like it,” he said; then he muttered, “This case is going to take some delicate handling.”
“Right,” said Jupiter. “I’ll run out and see if I can find you a velvet glove.”
The Sergeant grinned. “I’ll need it. I hope I can count on the hand of iron.”
“My money’s on you, Inspector. Find anything in there?” He pointed to Singer’s cubicle office.
“Not a thing except piles of notes about a lot of Italians I never heard of.”
“The old boy knew his stuff, I’ll hand him that,” said Jupiter. “How’s the sinister Slade woman?”
“Not sinister, just plain nasty,” growled Rankin. “She doesn’t like my going over Singer’s papers. I think she liked him quite a lot. Well, I’m going back to Hallowell House; there’s nothing more to do up here.”
They walked back through the library together. Several ardent students who had been straining to overhear their conversation looked at Jupiter enviously. Jupiter stopped at Betty’s desk.
“Sergeant, I’d like you to meet Miss Mahan. She has often made threats on Singer’s life; you might do well to check up on her.”
The Sergeant was embarrassed. He looked as if he’d never seen an attractive girl before. “How do you do,” he stammered.
Betty gave him her prettiest smile, the smile that had caused undergraduates to flock to the library. “If this young man is bothering you, Sergeant, I’ll be glad to chain him up.”
Rankin was floored. He was getting used to Jupiter, but here was a girl who appeared to talk the same way.
He laughed nervously. “No need of that, I guess. Well, see you later, Jones.”
After a nod to Betty he stamped out of the Museum.
“Charming man,” said Betty. “Not much of a line, perhaps, but altogether charming.”
Jupiter relaxed on the edge of her desk. “And smart, too. Well, I suppose you’re waiting for the gory details?”
“I have such a hard time concealing my emotions,” she said.
He gave her a look and proceeded to render an unexpurgated edition of the evening’s events. By the time he had
