At the door Rankin turned. “Frankly, I don’t know what to believe, Mr. Fairchild. You said, didn’t you, that the knife was in his back?
Fairchild didn’t hesitate. “No, I didn’t say that. It was through his heart, in front.
“Thanks,” said Rankin, going out.
The Sergeant seated himself with a sigh in the back of the car, telling Illinois to go back to Cambridge. Jupiter joined him in the back seat.
“No arrests, Inspector?” asked Jupiter.
Rankin told him of the interview, calmly and without committing himself.
“There’s nothing like a murder to make people lose their heads and do damn-fool things,” he finished sadly.
“Looks as though Fairchild crossed both of us up.”
“That’s just the trouble,” sighed Rankin. “I went in there expecting almost everything and he gave me that story. It’s so improbable that I nearly believe it.”
“Do you still cling to Mrs. Fairchild as the logical candidate?”’
“He doesn’t, anyway,” said Rankin circumspectly. “I don’t know what to make of him; he’s not as stupid as he thinks he is.”
“He’s not stupid, he’s just dull. There’s a difference.”
“Well, anyway, it narrows down the time of Singer’s death — we’ve got that much.”
When they got back to Hallowell House they got more.
A policeman met them at the door.
“There’s a student here, Sergeant, who’s been looking for you; says he has something that may be important.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Rankin.
They went into Singer’s room and Jupiter recognized Bob Berrings, an athlete who lived on the top floor of the entry. He looked as if he had just got up. He had.
“You wanted to see me?” asked Rankin.
Berrings’s mind, even while working at top speed, was not a thing to rave over. He said, “Well, I thought I ought to.”
“What about?”
“Well, last night I was out pretty late and I just woke up half an hour ago. That was the first I heard of the murder.”
“Very interesting,” said Jupiter.
“I read in the paper how you didn’t know when Professor Singer was murdered, so I thought I ought to tell you.”
Rankin gasped, “Good God, do you know when he was murdered?”
“Well, here’s what I wanted to tell you. I was writing a report for Singer that was supposed to be in Monday, but I asked him if it was all right if I got it in last night. He didn’t like it, but he said if it was in by six-thirty it would be all right.”
He stopped; the mere effort of speaking was a strain on him.
Rankin waited patiently.
“Well, I finally finished the damn thing at about six-thirty, and you see, I had a date with this girl for dinner. She lives out in Dedham and I was supposed to be there at seven, so I was in a hurry. As a matter of fact, I was a little late, but I had to wait for her, so it was all right.”
He was winded.
“Now here’s what happened,” he went on.
“I brought the report downstairs with me to give to Professor Singer. I guess it must have been twenty minutes of seven by then. I had a little trouble tying my tie, and you know when you’re in a hurry it takes a lot of time. Well, I knocked on the door and nothing happened, so I thought Singer must be in the dining room, so I put the report in his mailbox and went out.”
He smiled triumphantly.
“Is that all?” asked Rankin, dumfounded.
Berrings nodded.
“Anticlimax Department,” whispered Jupiter.
You can check up on the time, because Professor Sampson and Professor Hadley came out of Hadley’s room as I was going out,” said Berrings.
“Well, well,” said Jupiter. “Then you think Singer must have been dead when you knocked on the door?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant.”
“How long did you wait after knocking?” asked Rankin.
“I didn’t wait long, because, you see, I was in a hurry, and I thought of course Singer was having dinner; I just put the report in the mailbox and went out. It’s still there.”
“You heard no sound from Singer’s room? He couldn’t have called to you to come in?” asked the Sergeant.
“No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t,” he said, scratching his head.
“Well, thanks a lot. There’s nothing more you can say that might help?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Thanks very much, then. .If you think of anything let me know.”
Rankin ushered him to the door. When he had left, Jupiter said, “That would seem to put the pants on Fairchild’s story.”
“It might, but it doesn’t help his wife,” answered Rankin. “If Singer was dead at twenty minutes of seven, that leaves twenty-five minutes for the murder.”
“Nice figuring; anyway, we’re getting warmer. How about lunch, Inspector? I can’t vouch for the food, but it’s free.”
“Sorry, I’m having lunch with Singer’s lawyer. I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m late now,” he said, going out. “This has been quite a morning.” Jupiter nodded. “Not quite up to last night, perhaps, but interesting, yes.”
CHAPTER XI
WHEN Harvard went to lunch in its various gathering places that day, it was armed with more information than it had been at breakfast. Names were leaking out, speculation was rampant. A group of students who spent their spare time studying and the rest of their time gambling had prepared a sweepstake, using the name of everyone they had heard had been questioned by the police. The drawing was to take place that evening, when it was expected that more names would be available. The news had spread that Jupiter was working with the police.
“You know, I saw Jones in a police car this morning heading in town. I wonder what the story is?
“I spoke to him when he was going up to the Museum. He wouldn’t say a word.”
“God, I’d like to be in his place, the lucky stiff!”
“The Sergeant looks like he knew his stuff. I’ll bet he’ll solve this before Jones.”
“I don’t know. Jones knows a hell of a lot more about what goes on around this place than you’d think, and he wouldn’t mind asking people impertinent questions.”
“Pertinent questions,
