“Will you join me in a cocktail, Sylvester?” he yelled through the water.
Another of Sylvester’s less arduous duties was to keep Jupiter from becoming a solitary drinker. Although the risk of this was slight at Harvard, he usually preferred Sylvester’s company to that of thirsty undergraduates.
“Yassir,” answered Sylvester quickly.
Jupiter had slipped into a pair of shorts by the time Sylvester was ready.
“To murder, the liveliest of indoor sports,” he said raising his glass.
They drank. Jupiter coughed.
“What did you make this with, old man?” asked Jupiter.
Sylvester held up the bottle of Scotch that had recently belonged to Singer. ‘
“Dat’s all there was, Mr. Jupiter,” he apologized.
“Well, it’s appropriate, anyway,” he smiled.
They had another while Jupiter dressed.
“I’m going to be at Locke Ober’s for dinner until about eight-thirty, so if anything astounding happens out here get on the wire and tell me about it,” he said, getting his coat.
“You want me t’ stay heah?”
“Yes. Run out and grab a sandwich, but wait around until eight-thirty. The Inspector may telephone.”
Sylvester looked sad.
Jupiter said, “Cheer up, there aren’t any ghosts. Have some of your pals in for a game of slapjack if you want.”
He went out. He got his car and picked up Betty. She had on a neat little hat and coat. She wasn’t quite a blond.
“Lovely as always,” said Jupiter.
“You’ve been drinking,” she noticed. “How hangs the horrible Harvard homicide?”
“How long did it take you to think that up?” he grinned. “The Inspector has a theory.”
On the way to Boston he told her about it. By the time they had reached the restaurant and Jupiter had ordered the meal and cocktails she was up to date.
“And you don’t think much of it?” she said.
“I preserve an open mind.”
“Did you see Miss Slade?”
He nodded. “Reticent is the word for Slade.” They sipped their drinks.
Betty said, “Then if Sampson’s fingerprints are on the fire door, he’s the guilty party?”
“Unless he can talk very fast and convincingly.”
“When will you know?”
“If they’re there, Rankin will probably telephone me. He must have found out by now, but he hasn’t called me.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“I’m going to in a while.”
They had another cocktail.
Betty frowned. “This is getting us nowhere.
“I find it very pleasant,” smiled Jupiter. “Shall we talk about modern art? Do you know how the school of Dadaism was founded? I see you don’t. They cut out little pieces of tin and paper and tacked them on a canvas. They held an exhibition. One of the leaders stood on a chair and shot himself through the head when people came to the gallery. They thought he was a genius and thus a great new movement was begun. Fortunately it didn’t last long.”
“Why don’t you call the Sergeant?” asked Betty. “You have no soul,” he said, getting up.
He called Rankin and was back in ten minutes.
“I am bewildered,” he said, sitting down.
“Were there any fingerprints?”
“Yes, there were fingerprints.”
“I don’t like to appear inquisitive, you know,” she said dryly, “but whose were they?”
Jupiter cut his steak. “No one seems to know.”
She controlled herself with an effort. “Stop acting like a second-rate amateur detective and tell me about it. Do you want to spoil our friendship?”
“That’s true, no one knows.” He went on eating. “I was hungry — nothing but a sandwich all day.”
“I hate you,” she said, “but it’s not going to stop me from eating your food.”
They ate in silence. Finally Jupiter stopped.
“There were fingerprints on the lock. They weren’t Sampson’s or Hadley’s. The Inspector is tearing his hair.”
“But whose were they?”
“Ah!” he laughed. “A good question. That is the nub. You’ve put your finger on the important print — I mean point.”
She sniffed. “Don’t patronize me. What is the Sergeant doing about it?”
“Hell, what can he do? He can’t go around taking everybody’s prints. He saw Sampson and he admitted being in the john about six-thirty, but he said he didn’t notice the fire door.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Sure, why not? His fingerprints weren’t on the lock.”
“He might have worn gloves.”
“I, too, am a follower of crime,” said Jupiter shortly. “But how about Mr. X’s telltale marks? Sampson and Hadley were in the room from four until twenty minutes of seven. Whoever broke the lock must have done it before or after. We’re fairly sure that Singer was dead before they left the room, so that must rule out anyone killing him via the two toilets.”
“But it doesn’t explain the broken lock.”
“True,” said Jupiter, attacking the salad.
They were preoccupied with eating.
Finally Betty said, “I think Miss Slade knows something.”
“I think she thinks she knows something,” Jupiter qualified.
“The same old psychoanalyst,” sneered Betty. “Aren’t you afraid of Freud?”
He disregarded her. “Let me see that piece of newspaper.”
“I told you I was going to throw it away. Don’t tell me you’re interested in any little thing my feeble mind might work out?”
“Let me see it,” said Jupiter patiently. “Come on, papa won’t buy you any more Scotches and sodases unless you’re a good girl.”
She handed it to him. “I don’t see why you want to see it. There’s nothing except a date.”
He looked at it. “Nothing but the date, but it’s from the Herald ”
She was startled. “How do you know that?”
He smiled condescendingly. “From the type, darling.”
“You’re marvelous,” she cooed. “When I write my memoirs I can say I was privileged to know one of the truly great minds of the twentieth century. So what?”
“So we can find the story that goes with it.”
“Granted that you can find the paper, how will you know what story goes with it?”
“I may be able to recognize it.”
She looked at him queerly. “You wouldn’t be holding out on a little girl?”
“How can you hint such a thing after all we’ve been to each other?”
“Hm,” she mused, cocking
