“You know what I mean. Did you ever hear the story about him in the hygiene lecture? It was his freshman year, naturally, and it was one of the first lectures. There was a new guy giving the lecture and he was pretty embarrassed. He’d been stumbling along groping for words, afraid to say anything definite. Finally it got so bad everyone was fidgeting in their chairs, hardly listening. This guy had got to the point where he was saying something like this: ‘Well — er — as you know, there are women, who are — er — not exactly on our own social level — that is — er — I mean . . .’ Then he stopped for a second and there was a complete silence. Then Jones said in a voice loud enough so everyone could hear: ‘I think what the gentleman means, boys, is “whore,” spelled, w-h-o-r-e. The w is silent.’ God, it must have been wonderful! I wish I’d been there!”
On the way to the dining hall, Jupiter met Peter Appleton crossing the courtyard.
“All is well, little man,” said Jupiter, “I’ll carry your secret to my grave.”
Appleton didn’t look at him. “Thanks,” he said shortly and walked off.
Jupiter shrugged and went into the dining room. He didn’t like to eat in the House, but the rule is that at least ten meals a week must be taken there. You pay for them whether you eat them or not. On top of this, Jupiter felt he owed it to his public to make an appearance. He knew that the reason he was going to eat in the House to-day was because he liked to be stared at and talked about. But, he figured, you can’t be objectionably conceited if you know you are conceited. It was thinking about things like this that kept him awake at night.
He did not, however, want to talk to anyone. So he took a table for two, hoping he could discourage volunteers from joining him. He was disappointed. Adam Rosen, whom he knew slightly, came in after him.
“Do you mind if I join you, Jones?” asked Rosen pleasantly.
“Sure,” said Jupiter. There was nothing else he could say.
Rosen sat down.
Jupiter said, “Did you listen to Fred Allen’s programme last night? It was very, very funny.”
Rosen’s face was a blank. “Well, no, I guess I missed it.”
Jupiter ordered a bacon and tomato sandwich in place of the regular lunch.
Rosen started to speak.
Jupiter picked up his knife. “You know, it’s a funny thing. Why do you suppose they always put the knife and spoon together on one side of the plate?”
Rosen blinked. “I guess you don’t want to talk about last night?”
“Let’s talk about life and — er — ways to prevent it.” It was an old joke, but he felt dull and could see no reason for straining himself for Rosen.
“I was just going to say that Professor Singer’s death will be a terrible loss to the Fine Arts Department. I was taking both his courses, you know.”
Oh hell, thought Jupiter, there’s no point in being nasty.
“You’re right there, it will,” said Jupiter. “I imagine Hadley will take them over. If he does, they will become very popular courses for those suffering from insomnia.”
Rosen didn’t smile. “It’s too bad, I was just getting interested in them. But Professor Hadley knows quite a lot even if he can’t express himself as fluently as Professor Singer. It will mean more work on the part of the students.”
God, this is terrible, groaned Jupiter. I can’t stand much more.
“I suppose you’ve heard that Colonel Apted killed Singer,” he said, trying to keep his face straight. “Colonel” Apted was the very efficient chief of Harvard’s private police force. His title had been conferred upon him by the undergraduate publications.
Rosen gasped. “You don’t mean it!” Then he smiled. “Oh, you’re kidding.”
“Anything for a laugh,” muttered Jupiter.
His sandwich appeared. It was in record time.
The waitress said, “You’re getting famous, Mr. Jones.”
“The wages of virtue,” he said obscurely.
He ate as fast as he could. There was a long silence, which was even worse than Rosen’s banality.
Finally, in desperation, Jupiter said, “I took Singer’s courses myself. How far had he got in the Venetian painting?”
Rosen brightened. “Well, Monday he finished with the Venetian pageant painters — you know, the Bellini, Cima, and Carpaccio — and yesterday he began discussing sculpture. It’s not really supposed to be in the course, but he wanted to show the relationship to painting. It’s a good idea, too.”
“Yes,” said Jupiter, half listening. “And the course on Rome — I hope that, too, was doing well?”
“Yes, yesterday he discussed St. Peter’s and was going to take up the palaces in the next lecture.”
“Well, well, that’s fine, Adam,” he said, getting up. “And now I must leave you. It’s been delightful.”
Back in his room he collapsed on his couch to wait for Rankin. He could think of nothing to do, and when that situation persisted he usually relaxed. He was almost asleep when the telephone rang. It was Betty.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Jupiter, regaining consciousness.
“Nothing; I’m just lonely,” she said sadly. “All alone with the ghosts of all these beautiful paintings around me — not to mention Miss Slade, a wraith if ever I saw one. And that’s why I called you. But first, what was the meaning of your sprint down the stairs after you left me?”
“Oh, that! A tame goose chase, I’m afraid. What about the mystery woman?”
“Don’t think you’re the only sleuth in these parts, my boy. Listen to this. Just after you and the charming Sergeant had departed, I spied Slade coming out of Singer’s office bearing papers. She headed downstairs, and just for the hell of it I decided to trail along under the pretext of answering a call. Well, I came upon her dumping the bundle in that great bucket of waste papers they keep in the basement. She’d just tossed the pile in, and in her hand was a
