“Pay station,” he communicated.
Jupiter handed him a dollar, asking for change. “Going to make a late date?” asked Betty, without conviction.
“I’ll be right back. Look after her, Jack.”
The bartender flashed the bored smile of all good bartenders.
“He’s playing detective,” she told him after Jupiter had gone. “He thinks he’s the Thin Man. “Oh,” said the bartender.
Jupiter dropped a nickel and dialed Information. “I have a task for you,” he told the operator. “I want a man in New York City named Epstein — Mark Epstein. There are undoubtedly several Epsteins in New York, but this one’s an art dealer. . . . Yes, person to person. . . . No, call me back. Hancock 7124. I’ll be here, thanks.”
He slid back onto his stool.
Betty said, “It’s a beautiful act, but if I didn’t have a lot of self-control, I’d poison your drink. Who did you call?”
“I’m trying to get Mark Epstein,” he said sipping.
She opened her eyes very wide. The effect was not lost on the bartender.
“Not the Mark Epstein of New York?” she gasped.
“The very same.”
“I knew it, I knew it,” she repeated. “You’re holding out on me.”
“No I’m not — cross my heart and hope to stop drinking.”
“What are you calling him for, then?”
I just want to talk to him. Something’s been missing in my life and I just discovered it was not knowing Mark Epstein.”
Betty turned to the bartender. “Do you know who this man is? He killed Singer over at Harvard. The police of three states are looking for him.”
“Yeah?” said the bartender with mild interest.
“Yeah,” she went on. “And that’s only one of the things he’s done. His grandfather was a cripple — couldn’t move out of his wheel chair. One day this killer took him out walking and pushed the wheel chair in front of a truck. Called it a Mercy Killing.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” said Jupiter. “Don’t serve this young lady any more drinks. She had a glass of sherry with her dinner and I think it’s gone to her head.”
Betty spluttered. The telephone bell eased matters.
Jupiter leaped into the booth.
A voice said, “I have Mr. Epstein; were you calling him?”
“Yes, thanks,” said Jupiter.
“One dollar and thirty-five cents, please,” caroled the operator.
The bell tinkled merrily as Jupiter deposited coins.
“This is a hell of a slot machine,” he muttered as he put in the last one. “Hello, Mr. Epstein? . . . This is Lieutenant Harrigan of the Cambridge homicide squad.”
He could hear Mr. Epstein swallow. “Yes?”
“I’m investigating the Singer murder at Harvard. Have you heard about it?”
Mr. Epstein said, “Er, of course — what can I do for you?”
I’ll bet you never heard of me, thought Jupiter.
“There was a story in the paper about ten days ago about a collection of pictures you had found in Italy.”
“Yes?”
“In that collection were some copies of paintings now in the Fogg Museum in Cambridge. Are you sure the ones in your collection are copies?”
Mr. Epstein took his time before answering. “That seems a queer question. Is there any reason why they shouldn’t be copies?”
“I’m asking you, Mr. Epstein, if you’re sure yours are copies.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he answered.
“Have you made tests?”
“Of course. All my pictures go through the same tests. They are very excellent copies, nothing more.”
“Have you ever seen the paintings now in the Fogg?”
“Yes, several years ago.”
“Did you study them?”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at, Lieutenant. I didn’t study them, but I naturally took it for granted they were genuine. There must be authorities there who can tell. I can’t understand why you called me.”
Jupiter gritted his teeth. “Please remember, Mr. Epstein, that I am a police officer and wouldn’t call you without reason. I’m interested to know where your collection was procured.”
Mr. Epstein coughed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that question. The former owner in Italy specified that I wasn’t to give out that information.
“I don’t have to remind you that this is an investigation into a murder,” said Jupiter as seriously as he could.
“I realize that, Lieutenant, but the source from which I get my paintings has nothing to do with a murder. I will try and help all I can, but I cannot disclose a business secret. If you will give me some hint as to what you’re trying to learn I’ll be glad to help you.”
“Don’t bother. Thank you very much, Mr. Epstein. I may call you again.”
Jupiter hung up.
“Damn,” he said. “Anyway, I doubt if brother Mark gets much sleep to-night.”
He went out of the booth.
Betty was standing outside. There were tears in her eyes from laughing.
She managed, “Oh, Lieutenant! Lieutenant Harrigan, may I have your autograph? You’re so big and strong and masterful, Lieutenant. Couldn’t I have one of your shiny brass buttons?” Jupiter glared at her. “If eavesdropping was your only vice, my girl, you’d have something to boast about.”
They went back to the bar.
Betty was still talking. “Please remember, Mr. Epstein, I’m a police officer,” she quoted. “Jupiter, I hate to admit it, but I love you.”
He smiled. “Please don’t bother with trivia; I’m concentrating.”
Suddenly she was serious. “What did you find out?”
“Nothing. A blank. But I didn’t expect much.”
Jupiter ordered another drink and downed it in silence.
Betty said, “If I’m in the way, I’ll be glad to take a streetcar home.”
“Don’t go,” said Jupiter. “You’re very ornamental.”
The bartender said, “Are you two married?”
“No, we’re not,” answered Jupiter, “but people are beginning to talk.”
He got up. “The time has come to ask Fitzgerald some pointed questions. If I wasn’t so lazy I’d go out and see him; as it is, the phone will have to do.”
“Who are you going to be this time — the Governor?” asked Betty.
Jupiter said over his shoulder, “I’d ask you into the booth, but it would remind me of a story.”
Fitzgerald was in.
Jupiter said, “This is Jones. Do you remember me?”
Fitzgerald said yes, he did.
“The police are about to make an arrest in the Singer case, but, before they do, would you mind
