“Such a trusting girl,” said Jupiter, helping her with her coat. “Always eager to see the best in people.”
They went out together. Jupiter had replaced the painting in its frame and carried it under his arm. They left Chalmers at the car and again started back to Cambridge.
Betty pestered him for details, but he was uncommunicative. He walked with her to her door.
“Would you like to know who painted the picture?” he asked.
“No, of course not; I’m not the least interested.”
“Fitzgerald painted it.”
She sat down on the steps. “Is that true, Jupiter?” she asked seriously.
“Unless I’m wrong about everything else — yes.”
“Then he killed Singer? Is that what you think?”
“Bright girl.”
He got up. She stood up with him.
“Won’t you tell me about it, please?”
He kissed her quickly and competently. “Wait until to-morrow.”
“Aren’t you going to get hold of the Sergeant?”
He shook his head. “It’s too late. There’s no reason to bother him.”
“You’re a selfish brute and I won’t sleep at all to-night. Good night, Jupiter, I’ve had a lovely time.”
“Good night.”
He decided to leave his car outside. He parked near Hallowell House and walked to his room, still carrying the painting. There was no light in his room.
“Sylvester is getting frugal in his old age,” he said approvingly.
He’d been locked out of his room so many times because he had forgotten his keys that he had solved the problem by never locking his door. He walked in, set the painting against the wall, and reached for the light.
He never reached it. Something hard and heavy hit him solidly on the back of his head. He went to his knees, but he didn’t go out. A blazing white light danced crazily in his head. He wondered vaguely why he didn’t see stars.
“That’s considered illegal in most leagues, you bastard.” He was surprised to find himself speaking.
He rocked to his feet, holding his arms over his head against another attack. There was none. Dizzily he saw someone open the door and rush out into the hall. He started to follow, but a tidal wave of nausea hit him before he reached the door.
He made the toilet by inches.
He was wiping his mouth. “First time since freshman year, and I thought the liquor was improving.”
It didn’t occur to him that he had a slight concussion.
Back in the other room, he turned on a light.
Nothing had been touched. “Jones, old man, you’ve just been the victim of an attempted murder,” he mumbled. He walked shakily to the door and locked it. “If anyone wants to come back and shoot me through the window he’s welcome.”
The pounding in his head was worse than any hangover — and he’d had some beauties. He undressed with fumbling fingers. Any idea of chasing his assailant was far from his thoughts.
“The trouble with me is I talk too God-damned much.”
For the second night he fell into bed.
CHAPTER XVI
FOR a while after he had opened his eyes he couldn’t distinguish the ringing in his ears from the telephone bell. Then he rolled out of bed, noting blearily that it was eight-thirty. In the other room he picked up the phone and collapsed with it on the couch.
“Ungh?” he managed. The little old men were doing double duty with their hammers inside his head.
“Jones?” It was the Sergeant.
Jupiter nodded without sound.
“This is Rankin. Are you awake?”
“There seems to be some question about it.”
Well, snap out of it; I’ve got some news for you.”
He opened his eyes and saw the painting against the wall opposite him. He was awake.
If you think you have news, Inspector, you ought to hear what I’ve got.”
“What’s that?” asked Rankin quickly.
“I’ve solved your murder case,” he said, wishing he could see the Sergeant’s face.
There was a momentary pause.
Rankin said, “You have, huh? Who did it?”
“It’ll take some explaining. Have you seen Fitzgerald this morning, by any chance?” He was enjoying the thought of the Sergeant’s face as he listened to these obscure remarks.
Then Rankin floored him. “Yes, I’ve seen him,” he said quietly.
Jupiter swallowed. He hadn’t expected that. “You’ve seen him? What did he say?”
Rankin took his time. “He didn’t say anything.”
“What do you mean, he didn’t say anything?”
“He couldn’t say anything — he was dead.”
Jupiter reeled mentally. He opened his mouth and shut it again. There was nothing he could say.
Finally he said weakly, “Tell me about it, Inspector.”
“I’ve just been up there. Fitzgerald killed himself sometime last night.”
The Sergeant let that sink in.
“Killed himself?”
“Yeah. He’s had the desk at the hotel call him every morning at seven-thirty since he’s been there. They called him this morning and got no answer; finally they investigated and called me. He poured a can of ether onto a handkerchief, slapped it over his face, and lay down on his bed.. He never woke up. Been dead about eight hours when we got there. How does that fit with your theory?”
Jupiter thought awhile. “He didn’t leave a note or anything? They usually do, don’t they?”
“No. He didn’t leave a thing. Just went to sleep.”
“You haven’t any reason for his doing it, have you?”
“No, that’s why I called you. You said you’d solved the case just now. Do you still think so?”
“Yes, I still think so — I know so. But it spoils the act I was going to put on for you. I wanted Fitzgerald in person. Can you be at the Museum at nine-thirty? I’ll tell you all about it then.”
I’ll be there. One thing, though; has your idea anything to do with the fingerprints on the .fire door?”
“Not a thing. Why?”
Good. Some damn kid from
