Jupiter held up his hand. “All in good time. The surroundings are very pleasant here and I’m loath to leave. How about a Benedictine?”
She looked at him sourly. “I’ll bet if I was trapped in the top of a burning building you’d have another drink before you did anything about it.”
He wrinkled his forehead. “You know, that’s an interesting point. Of course it would depend on the circumstances. You merely say a ‘burning building.’ You fail to mention how far the fire has progressed, whether the fire department has arrived, or whether it would be humanly possible for me to reach you. No, I think I’d have to have more information before I’d bet with you on that.”
“Gentlemanly, that’s it. It just goes to show that the age of chivalry has not passed. You’re not, by any chance, getting intoxicated?”
He was hurt. “You know me better than that, Betty.”
The waiter brought the liqueur.
She sipped it absently. One of her best qualifications, in Jupiter’s eyes, was that she could drink with him all evening and never become a problem. There were few girls who could.
“Look me in the eye, Jupiter,” she said seriously. “Have you any ideas or even suspicions about the murder?”
“Why, certainly, I have hundreds.” Then he saw she was in earnest. “To tell the truth, I haven’t, but there are some things I can’t quite make out. Very likely they have nothing to do with it.”
“And they are?”
“Odd. Have you ever seen Fitzgerald’s portrait of Singer?”
“No, why?”
“Ever hear anything about it?”
“No, why?”
“I don’t know.”
She set her glass down with a bang. “Don’t talk like that. I don’t like you when you’re supercilious. You must have had some reason to ask me that.”
“Quiet, child,” he soothed. “I meant I didn’t know why you hadn’t seen the portrait or heard about it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but it didn’t sound like that.”
Jupiter smiled. “I didn’t mean it to. However, it is funny that I’ve never seen it or heard about it, and neither has Miss Slade. You’d think a man like Singer, with a portrait by as famous an artist as Fitzgerald, would say something about it. Although Fitzgerald himself told me it wasn’t very complimentary.”
“And all that proves?”
“Nothing,” he said, rising. “Shall we find that newspaper?”
Jupiter paid the check without blenching and they went out into the night. At the Herald Building he inquired into the whereabouts of old issues. A girl led them to the files. She looked as if she recognized Jupiter in connection with the Singer case.
Just to be safe he said, “We’re looking for a recipe on how to make old Scottish porridge. My wife can make every kind of porridge except old Scottish porridge. Don’t you think it would be a shame if she didn’t know how to make old Scottish porridge?”
“Yes,” said the girl nervously.
Betty bit her lip.
“If I remember correctly it was in the March fourth paper,” said Jupiter. “Although, of course, it might have been March third or fifth. Dates are funny, aren’t they?”
The girl pointed to a pile. “It will be there. You can look through them.”
She left as fast as she could.
Jupiter was looking through the paper for March fourth.
Betty laughed. “Now I’m sure you’re sober. You couldn’t say old Scottish porridge if you weren’t. Hey, you’ve got the wrong number — it was March third.”
He didn’t look up. “Don’t be dull — stories in newspapers are dated the day before.”
He continued his search. “Of course it would help if I had some idea of what to expect. I’m counting on my intuition. How large a clipping was it? A column? Half a column?”
“Nearer half, I guess; it wasn’t very long.”
He was nearing the back page. “Well, well, we’re lucky — here she is.”
The story read: —
NEW YORK
DEALER FINDS
FAMOUS
PAINTING
Early Titian Turns up in
Forgotten Collection
NEW YORK, Mar. 3 (AP) — A painting, purporting to be in the hand of Titian, was found in a collection of otherwise worthless copies by Mark Epstein, noted dealer in rare art works. In an interview, Mr. Epstein said that there could be little doubt but that the painting was an original by the famous Venetian Renaissance artist. The subject was an allegorical scene undoubtedly painted during the latter part of the artist’s career. Exhaustive tests by the new X-ray method failed to disclose anything to disprove Mr. Epstein’s belief that the work was original. Among the other paintings which are said to be remarkable copies of existing works were likenesses of three paintings now in the Fogg Museum at Cambridge. They are a “Crucifixion” by Perugino, a “Madonna” by Lorenzo Lotto, and a portrait of a soldier by Tiepolo. Mr. Epstein would not disclose where he had purchased the collection, but said that they had come from Italy.
They read it together.
Jupiter said, “See anything particularly murderous about that?”
Betty sighed, “No, I’m sorry. You were right about Miss Slade; she tore that up in small pieces just for the hell of it when she saw me in the basement. Do you know, I read that little story when it came out; I’d forgotten all about it.”
Jupiter tore out the clipping and put it in his pocket.
“We’ll save it, anyway. They won’t miss it. Now if it’s not against your principles we might have a drink.”
Going out they met the girl who had showed them the files.
Jupiter beamed crazily. “Well, we found it, and would you believe it, the only difference between old Scottish porridge and Polynesian porridge is that in the Scottish porridge you add cloves — finely ground cloves placed on the back of the hand and blown gently over the pot. Well, good night and thank you, oh, so much.”
They left her gaping.
They found a quiet bar and sat on stools in front of it.
Betty toyed with her Scotch. “Sorry to cause you all the trouble of that newspaper, Jupiter.”
“No trouble,” he answered. Then to the bartender, “Got a phone, Jack?”
The bartender jerked a thumb toward
