“Nice doggie,” he said nervously.
The dog was disgruntled, but not belligerent.
Jupiter opened the basement door, went out, and placed the painting gently in an ashcan. Then he went back inside.
The dog eyed him silently.
“Glad you can’t talk, Bowser.”
He ran upstairs and entered Singer’s office. It had taken him three minutes.
Betty looked up curiously from the files. “Feel better?”
“Much,” he answered. “Have you got it?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Let me look.” He went over and opened one of the small drawers. After a couple of minutes he said, “Ah!” and drew out a card. It was a list of Singer’s tutees for the year 1932. He put it in his pocket.
Abner was curious. “Do you know who done it?”
“No, but this will help,” said Jupiter, tapping his pocket ominously.
They started to go out. Betty said, “You’ve been perfectly grand, Abner. We won’t forget about this.”
At the basement door Abner said, “You’re sure it’s all right, him taking that paper, Miss Mahan?” Betty smiled. “Don’t you worry, now, everything’s going to come out right in the end.”
They went out. Abner watched them start up the driveway, then turned back into the cellar. Jupiter walked back quickly, took the painting out of the ashcan, and hurried up to the car.
In the car Betty said, “Smooth. Every move a picture. Now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?”
He started the motor. “Back in town.”
“Going to let the pretty Frenchman have a look at it? He’ll be mad if you wake him up.”
“That’s an idea, but I’ve got a better one. Ever hear of Geoffrey Chalmers?”
She hadn’t. On the trip back to Boston he told her about him.
Chalmers was an artist of indeterminate age. He had a studio in the lee of Beacon Hill filled with drawings and paintings that had never been exhibited. Jupiter had met him back in the speak-easy days and Chalmers had taken him to his studio. He had dropped in on him off and on and Chalmers had even given him one of his drawings — a grotesque charcoal of fishing boats done in Brittany. His unaccountable horror of exhibitions had kept him out of the limelight that his few friends thought he deserved. He had made a precarious living out of copying early American paintings for high schools and public buildings. In out-of-the-way places some of these had been accepted as originals.
“In his way, he’s a genius. Unfortunately the curse of drink is upon him and he hasn’t done anything for years. He makes his own absinthe out of toothpaste, I think. Don’t let his flowery talk fool you,” he concluded.
“You have such charming friends, Jupiter,” murmured Betty.
He stopped the car. “The studio may be slightly sordid, but don’t let that bother you.”
“How could it with you along?” she said sweetly.
They got out and walked up a dark flight of stone steps, stopping in front of a grimy doorway. Jupiter walked in without ringing a bell.
“We’re very informal here. I hope he’s up. It’s the top floor.”
The stairway was both badly lighted and badly ventilated. It smelled more like an ancient tenement than most ancient tenements.
Betty whispered, “I know I’m going to get a knife in the back. This place is ripe with vendetta.”
At the top of the stairs Jupiter knocked at the door and it was opened by Chalmers. He was a stubby little gray-haired man with short fat hands and fingers. The foundation for the general belief that all artists have long, beautifully made hands was laid almost exclusively by imaginative female writers.
Chalmers was wearing a dirty blue shirt without a collar.
He said, “Ah, Jones, my boy, come in, come in.”
Jupiter introduced Betty and they entered.
The room looked precisely like a moving-picture set of a degenerate artist’s studio. Chalmers pushed a pile of clothes out of a chair.
“Please sit down, Miss Mahan. You took me unawares to-night, Jones; had I known of your coming, I should have made suitable arrangements. The studio seems to have suffered from the absence of my charwoman to-day. The dear lady had a touch of rheumatism and did not appear.”
Jupiter smiled. The room hadn’t been swept for weeks.
Chalmers saw the painting that Jupiter was carrying.
“Ah, what have you there, my boy?”
Jupiter held up the painting. “This is the Fogg Museum’s famous Lotto.”
The artist peered at it. “Oh, of course, the ‘Madonna’ — a lovely thing.” He turned to Betty. “You know, my dear, Lotto was one of the few Renaissance painters who really understood the unhappiness of the Italian people. He wandered among them and saw their sufferings. You can see this expression in all of his religious works. He interprets a people in need of God.” He stopped and wiped his mouth. “But where did this come from, Jones?”
“He stole it,” explained Betty simply.
“Do you think you could tell if this was a fake?” asked Jupiter.
“My dear fellow, do you mean to say you stole this from the Museum?” He was more than incredulous — he was aghast.
Jupiter nodded.
“But whatever for?”
“My God! ” said Betty. “I don’t think he’s heard about the murder!”
Chalmers was all eyes. “Murder? What murder?”
“Didn’t you see a paper to-day?” asked Jupiter.
Chalmers looked from one to the other. “Paper? No, I rarely read a newspaper.”
They told him about the murder. Although it had only happened the night before, Jupiter could hardly believe that there was anyone who hadn’t heard of it.
“And you think this painting has something to do with it?” asked Chalmers when they had finished.
“It may,” said Jupiter. “That’s why I wondered if you could tell if it was genuine.”
The artist took out a pair of bent spectacles and put them carefully on his nose. “If the authorities at Harvard have been taken in by a fraud, I scarcely think that I shall be able to shed much light on the problem. However . . .”
He switched on an overhead light and placed the painting delicately on a table. His
