For an hour and a half he concentrated. For an uninterrupted period of heavy thought, it set a record. But when Jupiter put his mind on a subject it stayed there. That partly explained his ability to get good marks without apparently doing any studying. There are students who will say: “Well, I worked five hours last night — I know this stuff cold,” and when they are tested on it fail miserably. Jupiter had a photographic memory. He could go over a pile of two hundred slides, the basis of the study of Fine Arts at Harvard, and with half an hour’s study be able to recognize any one of them a month later, giving the name of the painter, his dates, and his school.
When the period of brain exercise was over, there were several points that he felt could stand more explaining.
“I think the person to see is our old friend the Ghost Woman,” he said, getting up. “Hell, if the Inspector can have a theory, I see no reason why I can’t work one up.”
CHAPTER XIII
A TELEPHONE call to Betty at the Museum disclosed that Miss Slade had gone home and was not expected to return. After much difficulty Betty found out where she lived and passed the information on to Jupiter.
In a few minutes he was walking up the murky staircase of her rooming house.
“I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see me,” he muttered. “We shall take tea together.”
Miss Slade opened the door cautiously and looked at him blankly. There was absolutely no expression on her face. He had expected some reaction to his sudden appearance at her home. Astonishment, dislike, fear, or at least interrogation should have been written on her face in capital letters. But there was nothing — just a white face, and an ugly one at that. My God, what a woman, he thought.
“What do you want?” she said in a tone so flat you could lay it on the floor and use it as a rug.
“I just wanted to talk to you a minute, Miss Slade. Do you mind if I come in?”
She said nothing and walked back into the room. He followed her.
“What is it?” she asked calmly.
Jupiter had been ready to ask her a lot of things, but her complete indifference to him had shaken him badly.
He gazed around the dark, unattractive room. Somehow he knew that her room would be like this, devoid of any taste or character. Yet, when he had told Betty that Miss Slade had a dual personality, he believed it to be true, and had hoped for some touch of color in the room to corroborate it. There was none. He decided she was an enigma. Come, come, Jones, he told himself, this is getting you nowhere.
“Did you know that Professor Singer had been planning to retire at the end of this year?” he asked. That question at least would do no harm.
“If you have come here to ask me questions about Professor Singer, Mr. Jones, you will be disappointed. I told the policeman all I know about it and I do not want to discuss it further.”
Her mouth closed with a snap.
Jupiter tried another line. “I’m just trying to find out who killed him, Miss Slade. I think you can help.”
She sighed. “He is dead — there’s nothing anyone can do about that.”
“That’s perfectly true,” agreed Jupiter. “But aren’t you interested in who killed him?”
“I told you before, I have nothing to say.”
Jupiter was having trouble keeping his temper. “Last night when you came to Singer’s room you seemed fairly sure that Mr. Fitzgerald had killed him.”
She sat down, still with the empty expression on her face.
“Mr. Jones, I think the police are capable of handling everything, I don’t think it’s any of your affair. I would be pleased if you would leave. I am very tired and would like to rest.”
The statement was final. Anyone but Jupiter would have departed, but he had walked all the way to her room and had no intention of leaving until he had finished. He could see she was keyed fairly high and he wanted to say something that would shake her calm.
He took a shot in the dark. “I have been talking with Sergeant Rankin and he doesn’t seem satisfied with your explanation of why you telephoned when you did last night.”
The shot landed. She was staggered.
“I — I phoned about some work I was doing. Is there anything unusual about that?”
Her voice trembled, and for the first time there was a look of fear on her face.
Jupiter followed it up. “But when you arrived at the room you were convinced that Fitzgerald had killed Professor Singer. How did you know that he had been murdered?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I didn’t know he was murdered until I got to Hallowell House. I heard people talking about it.”
“But as soon as you saw Mr. Fitzgerald you accused him of the murder,” he said quietly.
“You were there last night and heard Mr. Fitzgerald’s explanation.”
“And you’re satisfied with that now?”
“I am,” she answered softly. “Now, Mr. Jones, I wish you would leave me. I don’t want to talk any more.”
There was nothing he could do. He smiled and started for the door.
“Thank you very much, Miss Slade. I’m awfully sorry to have bothered you. I know how tired you must be. But I have been under suspicion myself and I’m just trying to help the police.”
At the door he stopped and gave her what he considered his most charming smile. “By the way, have you ever seen Fitzgerald’s portrait of Singer?”
She got up. “No, I never have. Good-bye, Mr. Jones.”
Her cat was massaging itself against her ankles.
He went out and closed the door.
“Net profit of interview, zero,” he told the stairs. “But, reading between the lines, not quite a total loss.”
CHAPTER XIV
JUPITER was taking a shower. After the Slade interview he had decided some exercise would
