The Sergeant looked at his paper and frowned. “We know Fairchild’s story, and the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to believe it. That leaves Mrs. Fairchild.”
“More or less holding the satchel,” said Jupiter seriously.
“Yes. And except for one point I’d think she did it. As it is, I don’t think so.”
Rankin got up from the desk and wandered across the room to the sofa at the other end. Jupiter watched him closely without any idea of what he was thinking.
“I confess I don’t know what goes on, Inspector,” said Jupiter.
“I may be wrong myself, but it’s a point I thought of last night as soon as I came into the room. Look, Singer died instantly — I know that from the examiner. Does that suggest anything?
“Let’s not play guessing games, Inspector. I’m not up to it.”
“Well, if he died instantly he must have been at his desk when he was stabbed. Unless, of course, someone put him there later, and there’s no reason to think that. Now if he had been expecting Mrs. Fairchild to call on him, as we know he was, what would he do when she came in?”
“I’m impressed, Inspector. You answer the questions.”
“He’d get up, naturally, and he would offer her a chair, — probably the sofa, and then he would sit down beside her. Do you see my point? Why would he sit at his desk way over at the other end of the room for an interview with a woman he was in love with?”
“I see that all right, and it’s a good point,” mused Jupiter. “But why did it occur to you last night when you knew nothing about Mrs. Fairchild?”
Rankin waved his hand. “I didn’t connect it with her, of course, but I figured immediately that a man must have killed him, because he would be unlikely to talk to a woman seated at his desk.”
“Right; it would be unlikely, but not impossible.”
“No, not impossible. But there’s a cigarette butt with lipstick on it still in this ash tray by the sofa.” He held up the stub.
“Good work,” laughed Jupiter. “Now we have cigarette butts coming in. It’s practically perfect.”
He was relieved that the Sergeant had admitted that he didn’t think Mrs. Fairchild had done it. Then a horrible thought struck him like a whack on the head. He had picked up the pocketbook at the edge of the desk! That knocked hell out of Rankin’s theory that she had never come near the desk!
Rankin talked on while Jupiter tried to keep his face from giving him away.
“Another thing that occurred to me is that if she had come here with the idea of killing him, she would have brought a gun or something to do it with. Even if she had known about that knife on Singer’s desk I doubt if she would have used it. Do you remember my saying when I first learned that the knife belonged to Singer that the person who did it must have done it in a fit of rage and not by premeditation?”
“Yes,” said Jupiter weakly.
“Then, even if she had got mad enough to kill him, she wouldn’t have seen the knife on the desk when she was sitting over here. I’m forced to admit that she didn’t do it.”
Jupiter sighed. Hell, if Rankin thought she didn’t do it, and he thought she didn’t do it, and Mr. Fairchild thought she didn’t do it, why should he try to change the Sergeant’s mind?
“Where does that leave us?” asked Jupiter.
“It leaves us to consider the Sampsons,” said Rankin definitely.
“What about them?” asked Jupiter. He was still in a slight daze from the shock he’d just had.
“I’ll tell you in a minute, but first there are some other points that need going over. Singer’s lawyer said that there were no relations close enough to matter. That is, no one who might have a financial interest in his death. As a matter of fact, he left no will, and his insurance money was made out to the Fogg Museum. It came to ten thousand dollars. Now here’s the most interesting thing I learned from his lawyer. He said that Singer had told him that he was considering retiring at the end of this year.”
Jupiter was surprised. “Really? I hadn’t even heard a rumor about it.”
“No one seems to have heard about it. He must have been keeping it secret.”
“Singer was going to retire?” mused Jupiter. “That means he must have had a certain amount of cash lying around. I thought he was almost dependent on his salary.”
“I asked the lawyer about that and he told me he thought Singer had just about enough to live on. You know, he goes abroad almost every summer, and he seems to have planned to live there permanently. He told the lawyer that he was sick of teaching and wanted to devote the rest of his life to research and writing.”
“Well, well, he seems to have retired a little prematurely.”
Jupiter lit a cigarette with the vague feeling that he was smoking too much. He had, by experience, established the fact that when a cigarette tastes wonderful in the morning it’s going to taste terrible in the evening. Knowing this, however, seldom made him cut down. A question arose in his mind.
“I just wondered, Inspector, why Miss Slade telephoned when she did last night. I suppose you’ve asked her that?”
Rankin looked puzzled. “Why do you ask that?”
Jupiter shrugged. “I don’t know. It just popped into my head.”
“I thought of that and asked her. She said she wanted to find out something about her work. Is there any reason why she shouldn’t telephone?”
“None that I know of,” conceded Jupiter. “Now what about the Sampsons? Did you ask her about the letter?”
“No. I had to be very tactful to find out even if she’d been home last evening. According to the servants in the house she never went out at all from
