There was a pause while Fitzgerald got his breath.
“Will you repeat that?” he asked weakly.
Jupiter repeated.
“How much Singer owed me?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Why in the world do you want to know that?”
“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t tell me?”
Fitzgerald sputtered.
Jupiter said, “Let it go. Did you ever hear of Lotto’s ‘Madonna’?”
There was no reply for a full half minute — a long time over a telephone.
Fitzgerald said, “Are you drunk?”
“I may be.”
“Where are you?”
“Boston.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I was lonely.”
“I think you’re crazy. The next time I see Sergeant Rankin I’ll tell him so.”
“You’ll see him. Good night.”
He hung up and went back to the bar. Betty had never seen him looking so happy.
“Did you ask him questions?” she quizzed.
“No, he asked me questions. It was great fun.” She tipped back on her stool and surveyed him critically. “Who would have suspected that young Jupiter Jones would grow up to be a monosyllabic all-knowing detective. When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”
“As soon as I know myself. Let’s go to the Ritz; I like a sumptuous atmosphere when I think. No offense, Jack; we like your place, but we’re nomads, always on the road.”
Betty smiled at the bartender. “Like traveling salesmen. Good night.”
The bartender said good night and went back to polishing glasses.
“They have telephones at the Ritz, in case you get lonely,” she said. “Are you going to think out loud, or shall I buy a magazine?”
“You can probably pick up a clubman if you’re bored,” he said absently.
Driving to the hotel, Jupiter indulged in some strenuous speculation. His telephone calls to Epstein and Fitzgerald had produced nothing of any value, yet he felt he was on the track of something. Whether it had anything to do with Singer’s murder he did not know. He was sure Rankin wouldn’t be any help to him at the moment and he saw no reason for getting hold of him. Hadley might help, but that entailed a trip to Cambridge. All in all, he thought, the Ritz Bar is unquestionably the best place for me.
Going down the steps into the bar, he saw a familiar face in a corner. It was Renier, the wavy-haired Frenchman.
“Well, well, just the person who can help me in my troubles.”
“Who?” asked Betty, looking for a girl.
Jupiter pointed. “The Personage. Come.”
They stopped at the Frenchman’s table. He was alone.
Jupiter said, “I owe you an apology for running away so quickly this morning. This is Miss Mahan, Mr. Renier. Miss Mahan, Mr. Renier.”
Renier jumped to his feet and bowed, and said precisely, “Will you not sit down?”
They sat down.
Jupiter said, “Miss Mahan is associated with the Museum. She works there occasionally.”
“Yes, of course, I remember her,” said Renier like a true Frenchman.
She gave him her number-one smile and he smoothed his hair.
Jupiter ordered drinks.
Renier said, “I did not comprehend your sudden departure this morning. Did you find what you were looking for? The newspapers to-night said no word about the solution of the mystery.”
“It’s not solved yet,” answered Jupiter. “Are you staying here?”
“Yes. I leave to-morrow. I am sorry; I have enjoyed Boston so much.”
“It’s like London, don’t you think?” asked Betty sweetly.
“Yes, it is like London. Do you like London?”
“Oh, I adore it. Its streets, its people. Charming and so — er — regal.”
Her longest ocean voyage had been to the coast of Maine.
Jupiter kicked her and said, “I’ve always been interested in how people go about discovering fake paintings, Mr. Renier — you must be quite ah authority on that. Could you tell me something about it?”
The Frenchman stopped gazing at Betty. “What? Fake paintings? Oh, I see — yes, of course — you mean forgeries. Copies?”
“Yes. How do you tell the difference between a genuine masterpiece and a fraud?”
Renier smiled condescendingly, spreading his hands in the time-worn gesture of the French shrug. “There are so many ways. If you have a painting that you know is old and you want to find out the painter, you must study the recognized works of that painter. You must study his technique— that is, his brushwork, the pigments he used — oh, there are many things you must do. It is hard that — the attribution of paintings. We make many mistakes.”
“But in the case of two paintings of the same subject — if you know one is original, how do you pick the fake?”
“Oh, that! That is simple, very simple. We make very few mistakes in that to-day. That is, of course, if the copy is new, not painted at the time of the original.”
“But you hear all the time about fakes that have been made by criminals with the idea of selling them as originals.”
Renier frowned. “Yes, that is true. They are clever, some of those fellows, but now with the X-ray we can see through them. Ha, ha! That is good, is it not? We can see through them?”
“Ha, ha! You’re a card, Mr. Renier — that’s what you are,” giggled Betty.
The waiter slithered up and placed the drinks on the table with the flourish of all Ritz waiters.
Renier continued, “Besides the X-ray, we can tell by the pigments. Voila! Old pigments are not, as you say, affected by alcohol. New ones, ah, they melt. And the canvas! That is another way, also. Machine-built canvas and handmade canvas, they are not alike. But it is hard to tell. It is a very great task, very great. It is for the chemists — they understand the paint. There is much to it. It is — let me see — it is a lifework. A lifework.” Jupiter said, “Then it would take laboratory work to find out if a painting was a fake?”
“Oh yes. But non. No, if the faker, as you say, was not clever, an expert in such matters could discover in a second if the work was false.”
“It would take someone who had had lots of experience to turn out a first-class fraud?”
Renier laughed.
