Harvard Has a Homicide

on with it — that is, get a divorce from me and marry him; her home and our children meant more to her than that. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe she ever loved him really — merely infatuated. . . . I am not a brilliant man; I have few interests in life, and those — well, those were not her interests. I can understand her infatuation for Singer, and in a way I can forgive her, but that is beside the point. . . . This past week Singer had been telephoning her regularly, against her will. I decided to see him and put a stop to it. It may not have been my affair, but I decided to make it so. Anyway, last evening, as you know, I went to see him — that was at five-thirty. I told him my wife did not want to see him again and for him to stop making an ass of himself. He told me quite frankly that it was none of my business; that my wife loved him and he wasn’t going to let me or anyone else interfere with his happiness. . . . I am convinced that he was in love with her; for that I can’t blame him, but I told him that she was not in love with him and that he would have to reconcile himself to that fact. He told me that I was mistaken and that I was trying to influence her. By. that time both of us were pretty well wrought up, as you may imagine, and he told me to get out and I did. . . . Well, as I told you last night, I went to my club. There, I thought the thing over and decided to go back and see Singer again to try and make him see my point. I was prepared to do anything to stop him. I want you to know that. By the time I reached his room I had worked myself up to a point where I was prepared to stop at nothing. Without knocking, I walked into his room and there I had the shock of my life . . .”

He stopped. He was breathing as if he had just run a quarter mile.

Rankin waited.

Fairchild took a deep breath and continued: “Singer was sprawled at his desk. I went up to him and saw wet blood near his head; I lifted him up and saw a knife. Then I did a stupid thing, the stupidest thing I ever did in my life: I ran out of that room!”

Rankin did not speak.

“It sounds fantastic, but try and picture my state of mind. I had come to his room ready for anything — no definite plan, except to stop Singer from annoying my wife. And then to find him like that — dead — the shock was terrific! I couldn’t think of anything except that people would think that I had done it. Driving home, I thought the whole thing out and decided to call the police; then it seemed to me to be worse to do that because they would ask me why I hadn’t reported it immediately. . . . I wanted to keep my wife out of it if I could, because I knew if it all came out there would be a terrible scandal.”

“Is that all?” asked Rankin.

“Yes, that’s all, and it’s all the truth — you’ll have to believe me.”

The Sergeant sat back in his chair. “Mr. Fairchild, did you know when you found Singer in his room that your wife had been to see him?”

“No, I did not; young Jones — I mean I found out later that she had been to see him.”

“That’s all right; I know about Jones’s visit to your house,” went on Rankin. “But when you found that she had been there between your two visits, what did you think?”

“What do you mean?” He was perplexed.

“Well, it must have been evident to you that she was the last person to see Singer alive.”

Fairchild thought a minute. “Do you mean did it occur to me that she might have murdered him?”

“Exactly.”

“No, it didn’t,” he said definitely. “You see, we were playing backgammon when the news came over the radio that Singer had been found murdered. My wife fainted when she heard it.”

“Then you had told her nothing about your finding the body?”

“No; you see, I had planned then not to tell anyone. She doesn’t know it yet.”

“It never entered your head that Mrs. Fairchild might have murdered Singer,” mused the Sergeant.

Fairchild got up, his face crimson. “She couldn’t possibly have done it, I know that for a fact! . . . I don’t know how many clues you have found, but you can be sure she had nothing to do with it!”

“You’re asking me to believe quite a lot, Mr. Fairchild,” said Rankin softly.

“Believe what you like of my story, but don’t drag my wife into it!” He was raging, then suddenly he quieted. “I’m sorry, Sergeant; you’ve been very patient. . . .I’m not saying that my wife is incapable of murder, because 1 believe if she set her mind on it she could easily murder someone. But not Singer. . . . I told you she fainted when she heard the news of his death. It was genuine, I assure you. My wife is not an actress.”

“We’ll let it rest at that, Mr. Fairchild,” said Rankin, getting up. “Now if you will tell me the exact time you found Singer’s body, I’ll go along.”

“Let’s see. When I went to his room I wasn’t thinking of the time, but I remember seeing the clock on the tower of Hallowell House. It was about ten minutes of seven — I’m quite sure of that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fairchild. I wish you had told me all this last night; it would have saved a lot of time.” He was going out.

“You haven’t said whether