Jupiter stared at the Sergeant with admiration. Rankin went on, “I found out, by asking Hadley this morning if he had heard any sounds from Singer’s room, that Sampson had gone into the toilet at about half past six. Hadley said that he hadn’t heard anything, but that Sampson might have, since he had been in the toilet at that time.”
Jupiter found his voice. “My God, Inspector, you’re a wonder. I’ll have to hand it to you. There’s just one thing that doesn’t sound quite right. If Sampson had planned the thing so carefully, don’t you think he might have put back the glass in the lock so it wouldn’t look as if it had been played with?”
The Sergeant smiled. “That’s the one thing that throws my theory out a little. I thought you’d see that right away. The only way I can explain it is that, after actually killing Singer, he got excited and forgot to do anything about it.”
“You mean ‘there never was a perfect crime’?”
“Well, yes — they always make one slip; but that lock was broken last evening and it’s got to be explained.”
Jupiter frowned. “That’s a very neat theory, but how are you going to prove it?”
“I’ve had the lock photographed for fingerprints and I have a man out to get a sample of Sampson’s and Hadley’s prints. Of course there may not be any prints on the lock if he thought to put on gloves. There were no prints on the knife, but there wouldn’t be, anyway, on a surface like that. You remember how it looked, — twisted gold with those carvings, — not a chance to get a print. Well, the report should be in in a couple of hours and then I’ll know how to go ahead.”
“The old routine,” said Jupiter, delighted. “Cigarette butts and fingerprints. Inspector Rankin gets his man!”
“It’s the only way I know of,” growled Rankin. “And if Sampson’s prints are on that lock, he’s going to have some questions to answer.”
“By the way, Inspector, why did you have me open the lock on this side of Hadley’s fire door when we could have gone around through the hall just as easily?”
The Sergeant laughed for the first time. “I was using you as an experiment. I wanted to make sure how long it takes to open one of those things. I didn’t notice very closely last night. It took you one minute and fourteen seconds!”
“Jones, the human guinea pig. Let’s find another one. I’ll bet I can lower the existing record. When it comes to lock picking I am without peers.” The Sergeant was preparing to leave.
“Well, that’s my theory, and until it’s proved wrong I’m going to stick to it. I’m trusting you to keep it quiet. If the papers got hold of it and then I was wrong, I’d be in a spot.”
Jupiter was just beginning to realize the enormity of Rankin’s discovery. If he was right and Sampson had killed Singer, there really would be some excitement around Cambridge! He could see the headlines: “Head of Hallowell House Kills Professor in Love Duel!” Wow!
“See you later, Inspector,” said Jupiter vaguely, going back to his room.
He went into his bedroom and threw himself on his bed. He could think better lying down. The Sergeant was a canny bird, there could be no question about that. And he wasn’t likely to jump at conclusions. That was obvious from the way he had gone over everyone’s alibi before he had said anything about Sampson.
“But Sampson! Damn it, it’s impossible!” His old habit was getting the upper hand. “Murder’s not in his line.”
He took his pillow and hurled it against the wall. Physical action usually accompanied deep thought.
“What the hell is there to think, Jones, you dullard? A man’s been murdered — that’s the basic principle to cling to. A, a man’s been killed. B, someone killed him. C, there must have been a motive. , D, there must be a method. And finally E, — hell, the grade of my mind. Apply that to Sampson and it works out. But that broken lock still bothers me. With a brain like Sampson’s, he wouldn’t have left it like that. Nevertheless, the lock was broken last night and there’s got to be an explanation. This way lies madness, Jupiter; wait for the Inspector’s fingerprint experiments. But I’d offer even money right now that he doesn’t find any!”
He groaned and turned over. There were so damn many queer things going on. Mr. Fairchild’s finding the body, then shutting up about it. His wife’s purse at the edge of the desk. Miss Slade tearing up newspaper clippings and accusing Fitzgerald of the murder. Mrs. Sampson’s letter and Appleton’s nocturnal prowl. And Hadley forgetting about his dinner date with Singer — on purpose!
“My God, if I hadn’t seen it all myself, I’d never believe it. I wonder if every murder gets as complicated as this.”
He reached down at his feet and picked up the pillow, putting it behind his head.
“Now, Jones, you old detective, you’re going to start from the time when you found the body and go over every minute detail that happened up to the present writing and
