“Like a light.”
He went back inside and tried Singer’s door. It was unlocked. He went in and walked over to the desk. Singer was leaning forward, half covering the desk, his arms out flat. There was a little blood under his chin. Jupiter touched the back of Singer’s neck with his finger, then sat down quickly in a chair.
Every muscle in his body was twitching. He was shaking, the way he had done one morning in a New York hotel after a four-day week-end, only worse. Much worse. After a struggle he got the package of Camels out of his pocket, but the cellophane licked him. He sank back in the chair. He began to speak; he always talked when he was excited.
“Nerves, nerves, just plain nerves.” His teeth actually chattered. “Thought you were drunk, Singer old man, thought you were drunk. Fooled me completely.” He tried to get up and was surprised that he could. He stood looking down at the man, his mind coming back to normal. He put both hands on Singer’s shoulders and pulled backward. The body came back stiffly into the chair. There was a beautifully wrought gold knife hilt sticking out of Singer’s coat, near his heart. Jupiter let go of the shoulders and Singer fell forward — his head sounded hollow as it hit the desk.
“Good God!” said Jupiter. He sat down again.
His legs felt like old inner tubes and a large lump of iron had just landed somewhere in his stomach. His eyes were starting out of his head. Before, he had known that Singer was dead; now he knew that he had been murdered. Singer murdered! Someone had actually come into this room and pushed that knife into Singer’s heart. God! He hadn’t been such a terrible old guy, after all; but —
“This is no time for sentiment,” he heard himself saying. He reached for the phone and tried to dial Operator. He had trouble getting his finger in the hole.
“Police Department,” he said, and then under his breath, “and don’t spare the horses. . . . Hello? Hello? I want to report a murder . . . I guess he’s murdered. . . . I just found him dead. . . . What? . . . Yes, dead. . . . Professor Singer. . . . Hallowed House. . . . Entry B. . . . No, wait a minute, Entry A. . . . Room eleven — no, room twelve. Yes, that’s it.” He hung up and glared at the phone. “Make sense, please, hell! . . . I suppose you find bodies every day, before breakfast, like newspapers on the doormat.”
Doing something had steadied him. He managed to get the cellophane off his cigarettes and light one. He looked around the room, trying to think of something to do. He thought he ought to look for clues, but he didn’t know quite what a clue should look like. In a corner was a heavy wooden cabinet, obviously antique and Italian, like everything else in the room. Inspiration came to him; he walked over to it and opened a door. Inside was an assortment of bottles. He took out a whiskey bottle and filled a jigger. He had two without looking at Singer. They helped. After all, he told himself, if you’ve known a man as long as I’ve known Singer, you’d be expected to be somewhat unnerved. He guessed the police would be along any minute, so he had another short one, then put the bottle and glass back in the cabinet. He was feeling better. He decided he liked fat, red-faced policemen.
Underneath Singer’s desk, near the edge, he saw a pocketbook. It was a small leather change purse, the kind women carry in their pocketbooks. On it he could see, in neat silver, the initials C. A. F. He recognized them.
Outside he heard the last wail of a siren in death.
He continued to look at the purse, his mind turning over slowly like an egg beater in molasses. Then he bent down, slipped the purse in his pocket, and went to the door.
The police had arrived.
CHAPTER III
FOUR policemen came in. Two were fat and redfaced, one was in plain clothes, the other was nondescript. They all wore overshoes. Mr. Swayle, the Hallowell House janitor, hovered near the door, his large eyes and small head moving from one to the other. He was known as the Owl Man.
Jupiter said, “Glad you’ve come,” then, a little dramatically, “There’s the body.”
There was a general babble.
Mr. Swayle said, “Why, he’s dead!”
The plain-clothes man said, “Take it easy, boys.” One cop said, “God!”
The two others grunted fittingly.
“Close the door,” said the plain-clothes man to Mr. Swayle.
They gathered around the desk, looking at Singer. The plain-clothes man repeated Jupiter’s manoeuvre of pulling the body back in the chair. The knife was still there.
“Neat, not gaudy,” murmured Jupiter.
“Knifed!” said one of the fat policemen, and Jupiter liked him for it.
The plain-clothes man let Singer fall forward gently on the desk, then he straightened up.
“You said over the phone he was murdered.” He was speaking to Jupiter.
Jupiter didn’t get it. “I guess I did.”
“What makes you think so?” He was quite pleasant.
Jupiter was still in the dark. “Possibly the knife sticking out of his ribs.”
“H’m,” said the plain-clothes man. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
The policemen shuffled their feet. Jupiter lit a cigarette.
“Hello! Give me Hennessey.” Pretty soon he had Hennessey. “Hello, Jim. Rankin speaking. . . . Yes, he’s dead. . . . A couple of hours, I guess. . . . I don’t know; it could be suicide.” Jupiter saw the light. “Send up the usual stuff, and, Jim, better have some more men up here. There’ll be a mob when it leaks out. . . . O. K. I will, thanks.”
“I never thought of suicide,” said Jupiter.
“Why
