Jupiter laughed. “The spirit of journalism lives on at Harvard! It was a good theory you had, Inspector. I’ll admit that!”
“Yeah,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll see you at the Museum.”
They hung up.
Jupiter got up, walked into the bathroom, and took three aspirins. He felt jittery; the knock on the head had been harder than he’d realized.
Sylvester came in bearing the morning orange juice. Jupiter sipped it slowly.
“Yo’ don’ look so good this mornin’, Mr. Jupiter,” said Sylvester with concern.
“I can imagine,” he answered. “It’s a wonder I’m alive — and there’s truth in that statement, my dusky friend.”
Sylvester eyed the painting skeptically.
Jupiter said, “Don’t worry; it wasn’t a scavenger hunt. All will be explained in due course.”
He finished the orange juice reluctantly and settled back on the couch. Fitzgerald was dead. Perhaps it’s better, he thought, but I was planning a dramatic scene for this morning. He wondered why Rankin hadn’t been more aroused by his announcement of the solution of the case. You’d think the Inspector would be fuming for news, he told himself, but then, he probably doesn’t believe I’m right.
“Why shouldn’t he believe I’m right?” he said aloud.
“Wassat, Mr. Jupiter?” asked Sylvester.
“Run out and get some coffee, Sylvester. My head needs clearing.”
Sylvester went out.
Jupiter picked up the phone book and began dialing numbers.
He was making his last call when Sylvester returned.
CHAPTER XVII
JUPITER walked into the Museum a little after nine-thirty and found his audience waiting. Sylvester, carrying the painting, followed him. They created quite a stir.
A few students, a pair of instructors, and several policemen stood outside the main assembly gaping. Sergeant Rankin, Hadley, Sampson, Betty, Miss Slade, Chalmers, and Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were gathered in a curious and nervous group. Mrs. Sampson was the only one missing.
Jupiter said, “Good morning, everyone; shall we go upstairs?”
He tried to sound like a professor greeting a class. He succeeded.
They trooped upstairs. Rankin gave orders to keep outsiders out. Betty walked beside Jupiter.
She whispered, “It looks like the final scene in a musical comedy.”
“It’ll than that,” said Jupiter.
They be better walked into the central gallery. Jupiter took the painting from Sylvester and hung it in its place.
Hadley started to sputter when he saw the ruined corner.
Rankin stopped him. “I don’t know any more about this than the rest of you. Please let Mr. Jones do the talking.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Jupiter. “If you will bear with me for a few minutes I think I can clear up the murder of Professor Singer.”
The air was tense. Better than Jupiter had hoped. Everyone had heard of Fitzgerald’s suicide. They waited breathlessly. Betty stood back against the wall, smiling faintly.
Jupiter continued, “It’s hard to know where to begin. As the Sergeant will tell you, I had no idea of all this yesterday afternoon. Miss Miahan stumbled on one point that seemed to connect a few things that I had thought of myself.”
Betty glared at him.
“You will remember, Sergeant, when Mr. Fitzgerald came to Singer’s room the night of the murder and Miss Slade accused him of the murder, he said that he was owed money for a portrait he had done of Singer. Well, I’d never seen the portrait myself, which, after all, isn’t unusual, but I asked Miss Slade and Miss Mahan if they had ever seen it. They hadn’t. Have you ever seen it or heard about it, Professor Hadley?”
Hadley’s head jerked up. “Me? Portrait? No, I — er — that is, no, I’ve never seen it.”
“Professor Sampson?”
“No, I’ve never seen it.”
“Anyone?”
They looked at each other and shook their heads. “Then I’m forced to believe that Fitzgerald never painted it.”
“Marvelous,” whispered Betty.
“All right,” he said, ignoring her. “You’ll also remember, Inspector, the memorandum Singer left on his desk. It was marked ‘important’ and read ‘Con plus Mad.’ After a good deal of effort I translated it. I thought at the time it was a lecture note, the plus sign being Singer’s abbreviation for a Crucifixion, the ‘Mad’ for Madonna, and the ‘Con’ for Condottiere. I was right about the abbreviations, but they weren’t lecture notes. Yesterday I had lunch with a student who is taking, or was taking, both Singer’s courses. Inadvertently he informed me that in neither course was Singer talking about painting. Nothing clicked at that time, but later when I found this,” — he took out the clipping, — “with the help of Miss Mahan, I decided that Singer’s memorandum was not a lecture note.”
He stopped. Miss Slade had paled noticeably when he had taken out the clipping.
“I’ll read it,” he said and did. -‘“You see, Singer’s memorandum meant those three paintings. The Madonna was the Lotto. The Crucifixion was the Perugino, and Tiepolo’s portrait of a soldier must be ‘Con/ the Condottiere — a Condottiere being a mercenary soldier, Miss Mahan.”
She smiled sweetly. “Oh, really? Thank you; I didn’t know that.”
Jupiter went on, “All this doesn’t make sense to you now probably, but I’ll try to explain. This is more or less the way I reasoned. First, Singer made a special note of those three paintings and marked it important. Second, a dealer in New York had copies of those three paintings which he himself said were excellent. Third, as some of you may not know, Singer had been planning to retire at the end of this year. You all know him, and none of you will believe, I think, that he would retire without sufficient money to be comfortable. I personally don’t think he had enough to be comfortable without the salary he was getting here at Harvard. Fourth, you’ll have to excuse me if I sound like a lawyer summing up a case, but it’s the only way I can think of to get the facts across. Let’s see — fourth, Fitzgerald never painted
