It seemed as if a high-tension wire connected everyone in the room. Rankin was the only one not affected by it. He was still grinning.
“Then what?” asked the Sergeant.
“Fitzgerald went back to his room in a daze. He began to think the whole thing over and realized he’d made a bad mistake, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was pretty sure no one had seen him go in or come out of Singer’s room, so he decided to appear on the scene at the time when he was supposed to meet Singer. He went down there and found you, Sergeant, and everything was going nicely until Miss Slade came in and accused him of the murder. He had a bad moment, because he didn’t know how much she knew. He passed it off with the story of the portrait and you let him go. As long as the plot of the fake paintings didn’t turn up, he was all right. He thought about it and figured he could get in touch with Epstein and work things out. They couldn’t trace the copies to him, anyway. He was sitting pretty. I mean he was until I telephoned him and made some cracks about Lotto’s ‘Madonna’ and how much did Singer owe him. Then he knew he was on the spot, because I was onto something. I shouldn’t have called him at all, but at the time I didn’t know very much and hoped to frighten him into saying something. Well, I frightened him into committing suicide.
The Fairchilds were murmuring. Sampson was talking to Hadley. Everyone was relaxed.
Betty said, “Jupiter, my boy, I congratulate you.” Jupiter held up his hands for silence. It was an elaborate gesture. He waited for complete quiet.
“My friends, I think you’ll all agree that my theory is sound,” he said. He was weighing his words carefully. ‘ But there’s just one little point that I have left out. Some people might say it was a major point. And that point is that Fitzgerald didn’t kill Singer and he didn’t kill himself.”
It was hard to describe. Faces fell as if some giant hand had passed over them, leaving eyes bulging and mouths gaping.
Mrs. Fairchild dropped her pocketbook and it hit the floor like an explosion in a mine.
Rankin’s smile evaporated. He was the first to speak.
“How the hell did you know that?”
CHAPTER XVIII
JUPITER’S mouth dropped open. That made it unanimous. He stared at the Sergeant.
“Do you mean to say you knew Fitzgerald didn’t do it?” asked Jupiter incredulously.
“I want to know how you knew he didn’t,” demanded the Sergeant.
“But you said Fitzgerald had killed himself, said Jupiter vaguely. His head was bothering him some more.
Rankin said, “How did you know he didn’t?”
Betty said, “Why don’t you boys stop asking each other questions and tell us about it?”
Sampson wiped his forehead. “Yes. Just who did kill him?”
“The guy who killed Singer and Fitzgerald is about halfway to New York by this time, if he’s not there already,” said Jupiter.
“No, he’s not,” said Rankin.
“Oh, my God!” said Betty faintly.
Rankin walked out into the hall. He wasn’t gone long. When he came back he was with Illinois. Illinois was holding an exquisite little man with wavy hair by the arm. It was Renier.
“Here’s your murderer,” said Rankin.
Hadley looked as if he were going to faint.
Jupiter thought he was going to himself.
Miss Slade did.
For first-class confusion it ranked high. Renier was now the calmest person in the room. His clothes were rumpled and he looked as if he hadn’t slept, but he watched them without blinking.
Jupiter leaned on Sylvester. Chalmers was making motions with his hands, but not saying anything. Mrs. Fairchild was bending over Miss Slade. No one else paid any attention to her.
Hadley said, “How — why — what?”
Betty said, “That’s just it, Professor. How? Why? What?”
Rankin said, “Tell me how you knew about it, Jones.”
“I don’t see how you did it, Inspector, but I’ll tell you what I know. Up until this morning I thought Fitzgerald really had done it, but when you telephoned and told me he had killed himself and had been dead eight hours I didn’t know what to think. You see, someone was waiting up for me when I got back to my room last night and tried to put me on the spot. I thought it was Fitzgerald come to put me out of the way after my talk with him on the phone. But it couldn’t have been, because he was dead at the time. Dumfounded is inadequate to express my feelings. Who could have whacked me? I knew it must have been someone who knew that I was getting hot on the trail, but who? Epstein knew I was, but he was in New York, and as a matter of fact he doesn’t even know who I am. Fitzgerald was dead. Then I had a brain wave. As brain waves go, it was a honey. I thought of Renier. I had talked with him in the Ritz earlier in the evening; he was an art dealer from Paris; Singer had bought the paintings in Paris; he was on the scene. As a matter of fact, I even knew he asked how to get to Hallowell House on the night of the murder. Joe, the Italian who runs the cigar store, tried to describe him to me. He had tried to copy Renier’s accent for me, which I missed because a French accent by an Italian is a tough thing to see. Well, I telephoned the Ritz this morning on a hunch and found that Renier had checked out at eleven-thirty last night. He had told me he was spending the night at the hotel. The whole thing was sewed up when I gave Joe his description this morning and he remembered him as the man who had asked how to get to Hallowell House at about six-fifteen the night
