There was a meaty silence.
Finally Mrs. Fairchild said, “But that’s so — so fantastic!”
Sampson said, “It’s impossible, Jones. There would be an investigation and the whole thing would be traced to Singer. He’d never take the chance.” That’s true, sir, said Jupiter. “There certainly would be an investigation. But, you see, Singer’s murder brought the whole thing to light. If he had still been alive, it would have been much different. As I said, I’m merely guessing as to how they went about it, but you can bet fairly safely that Epstein had his answers ready. Look, the first thing an investigator would want to know is where Epstein got his originals in the first place. Remember that this little party had been planned for four years, or even more, for all I know. Well, I should imagine Singer and Epstein would have that worked out. They probably have an Italian count ready to swear that the paintings have been in his family for generations. I think that end would be covered. I don’t see how they could possibly trace it to Singer. Look at the man. He’s a highly respected member of the Harvard faculty, an expert on Italian painting, and he’s taking the blame on himself. He may have been planning to retire in disgrace. You’ve got to keep in mind the point that fake paintings are turning up all the time both in this country and abroad. I’m not saying Singer didn’t take a small chance of being caught, but it was a tiny one against his cut of sixty or seventy thousand dollars.”
Rankin was still smiling. “Let’s let that go for a while, Jones. I’m interested in finding out about the murder.”
“Right,” said Jupiter, leaning back against the wall. Elis head was still pounding. “We’ll consider that I’m right in my theory about the paintings. Let’s go back a little. The originals have been hanging here in the Museum for four years. Singer and Fitzgerald are stalling, waiting for an appropriate time to shift the paintings. Singer gets to thinking; he says to himself, ‘Why should I split this cash three ways? I’ll have to let a dealer in anyway, there’s no getting around that. But what about Fitzgerald? Can’t I cut him out? Certainly I can.’ In other words, he decides to put the double cross on Brother Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald had made the forgeries, old wood, old canvas — good fakes; he was in deep. If Singer cuts him out with a paltry ten thousand dollars he can’t say anything to anyone without getting involved himself. So Singer goes ahead without him. A month ago he switches the paintings and sends the originals down to New York. There is no hue and cry around the Museum, as no one recognizes the copies as copies. All right. Epstein comes out with his statement in the paper and right here there’s a small question in my mind. Fitzgerald was in Cambridge at the time the clipping appeared, and I don’t know whether he saw it or not. It was near the back page and there’s a chance he didn’t. I think he didn’t. Anyway, we’ll suppose he didn’t; it doesn’t matter much one way or the other. The day of the murder he’s in the Museum and he looks at the three pictures which he supposes are still the originals, and to his amazement he finds they’re his own copies. He rushes downstairs to find Singer. He finds him in his office and he says, ‘What the hell goes on here, anyway? I want an explanation and I want a good one!’ Miss Slade overhears the conversation. How much, I don’t know.”
Miss Slade opened her mouth, shut it, and then said, “Yes, yes, that is right. He said something like that; then Professor Singer said, ‘We can’t talk here; come to my room at six to-night.’ That was the first I knew about it.”
Rankin looked at her queerly. “Go ahead, Jones.”
“Right. Fitzgerald went to Singer’s room at six, but Singer told him he was sorry, but he was expecting someone else and for him to come back at eight-thirty.”
Mrs. Fairchild blushed slightly and took a deep breath.
Jupiter continued, “Fitzgerald went up to the Square and thought the thing over while he drank a couple of beers. He realized something was wrong and he even suspected that Singer was putting the screws on him. He decided the hell with waiting, and hurried through his last drink. He went back and found Singer alone. The conversation probably went something like this. Fitzgerald: ‘What’s the idea of going ahead without me?’ Singer: ‘Why shouldn’t I go ahead without you? All you did was paint the copies; I’m taking the responsibility. I’m giving you ten thousand dollars and you’re lucky to get that.’ Fitzgerald: ‘Not enough. We went into this thing together.’ Singer: ‘We went in together, but now you’re out, my friend, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ Fitzgerald lost his head, saw the knife on the desk, and picked it up. He said, ‘Oh yes, there’s something I can do about it!’ And he
