The Sergeant shook his head and sat down on the couch. Jupiter felt sorry for him. It was certainly a tough spot for a detective.
“Keep your chin up, Inspector. After all, Singer was only killed last night. You can’t expect to have the murderer tied up and ready for delivery right away. What about Sampson himself? Do you think he knew what was going on?”
“I wish I knew,” sighed Rankin.
They sat and smoked in silence. Less than twenty hours ago Singer had been murdered in this room, and in that short time Jupiter had learned more about his private life and the lives of people he knew than he had learned in four years of actual contact with the man. It seemed incredible. He thought that if Sylvester had read Julius Cæsar he might come out with the old favorite, “The good is oft interred with their bones,” although he had found little on the credit side of Singer’s character. That started him thinking about Shakespeare and how little there was that he hadn’t said about life and things in general. Why the hell should he be thinking about Shakespeare at a time like this?
Rankin brought him back to earth.
“I wish I’d been the first one to ask Hadley questions. You know, you may have put him on his guard before he talked to me.”
“Don’t worry about Hadley,” said Jupiter firmly. “He hasn’t got a guard.”
“There seems to be a rumor around that Hadley didn’t get along with Singer very well.”
“There are always rumors. You’ll find them about any two professors in the same department. I’ll bet my last dollar against an old worn-out handkerchief that he knows nothing about it.” The Sergeant got up and stretched.
“Come here a minute. I want to show you something.”
He walked into Singer’s bathroom. Jupiter followed him.
“Keep it clean, Inspector,” he murmured.
“This is an idea I got last night after you showed me that fire door. I wasn’t going to say anything about it until I was absolutely sure I was right. I’m still not perfectly sure, but I’m going to tell you, anyway. At first I thought of it in connection with Hadley, but after I found that letter I changed my mind. Look here. As you know, this fire door connects Singer’s and Hadley’s toilets, the way all the rooms in this building are connected.”
Jupiter nodded. The implication was beyond him.
The Sergeant continued. He was getting more excited. This, thought Jupiter, is going to be his big brain wave.
“Hadley and Sampson were together in Hadley’s room from four until twenty minutes of seven, when we know they went out together. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” nodded Jupiter.
“We know Singer was killed between six-fifteen and six-fifty at the latest, probably by six-forty. Correct?”
“Correct.” The Sergeant has a fine feeling for the theatre, he thought.
“We have no motive for Hadley killing Singer and you’re convinced he had nothing to do with it?”
“Those were my words,” said Jupiter.
“All right, open the fire door.”
Rankin handed him his knife and Jupiter started to jimmy the lock.
“I suppose it will be O. K. if we find Hadley with his pants down when we open the door?” asked Jupiter.
“He’s not in his room. I made sure of that.”
He finished his operations.
“Allow me,” said Jupiter, swinging the door open for the Sergeant to go in.
They both entered. Rankin closed the door after him.
“Look at that.” He pointed to the fire lock. The glass and red cardboard were missing.
Jupiter was not astonished. “You’ll find that on practically every fire door in the building. It was probably done years ago.”
“But it wasn’t,” said the Sergeant seriously. “It was done last night.”
“How do you know?” Now Jupiter was astonished.
“I talked with the chambermaid who cleans this room. She swears it was all right yesterday morning. Mr. Swayle, the janitor, checks them twice a year. He said the last time he looked it was O. K.”
Jupiter whistled. “Have you talked with Hadley about it?”
“No, I’m waiting for a check on it, but I don’t think he knows anything about it.”
“This is all very mysterious and exciting, but just what does it prove?”
The Sergeant opened the door again and they walked back through Singer’s toilet to the living room. Rankin sat down at the desk.
“If it proves what I think it does, Singer’s murder was one of the simplest yet most premeditated murders I’ve ever seen,” said the policeman, lighting a cigarette.
“Do I get twenty questions, or are you going to tell me about it?”
“I’ll tell you about it as long as you promise not to spread it around. I can’t have anything leak out until I’m convinced I’m right.” Rankin settled back in his chair. “You know just as much as I do about this case so far, now that you’ve seen that lock. I’m surprised you don’t see what I’m driving at.”
“Don’t gloat, Inspector; I realize my limitations.”
“All right, here it is.” He was making marks on the paper in front of him. “Suppose Professor Sampson knew about an affair his wife was having with Singer and decided to kill him. He wants an alibi, so he decides to make Hadley his alibi. He goes to Hadley’s room and stays with him from four o’clock on. Presumably he knows Singer’s appointments for the afternoon, but that doesn’t matter. Just before half past six he asks Hadley if it’s all right if he uses his toilet to wash up. He goes into the toilet, closing the door behind him, turns on the water in the bowl, then breaks that fire lock and goes into Singer’s room. Of course Singer is surprised to see him coming in through his bathroom, but Sampson explains it by saying he found the door open and just dropped in
