Rankin whistled.
Renier said, “You are very clever, my young friend.”
“How did you know Fitzgerald hadn’t committed suicide?” asked the Sergeant.
Jupiter smiled. “I didn’t. I was just gambling on that. It seemed too much of a coincidence, that’s all. I don’t believe Singer ever made up that plan to ream the Museum. It was Renier’s brain child. Singer just got the idea of double-crossing both Fitzgerald and Renier. He almost succeeded because Renier could never say anything about the plot without exposing himself as a crook. He was in the same boat as Fitzgerald. They were left holding the bag — and it was a good-sized bag.”
Betty sighed. “This is too complicated for me. Let’s hear about Fitzgerald. Did Renier kill him, too?”
Everyone was surprised when Renier started to speak. His voice was high and thin, his accent more pronounced. He glared at Jupiter.
“Monsieur Jones is clever, very clever. He is right about your Professor Singer. He was a dog. I kill him! I will tell you.”
Suddenly Jupiter felt sorry for him. He couldn’t tell why — after all, the man had tried to kill him.
Rankin said, “You don’t have to talk, Renier. You’re entitled to a lawyer.”
The Frenchman snarled, “A lawyer! He could not assist me very much, I believe. Eh bien, it is as the young man say. It is my plot, the plot of the pictures. Monsieur Fitzgerald painted the copies — masterpieces each one. A clever man. I have everything ready, nothing can go wrong. The plan is perfect. But Singer, ah!” Illinois took a firmer grip on his arm. “He was greedy. He — what is the word — the double cross? Yes, that is it — the double cross. He wanted all the money. I am in Paris two weeks ago; I pick up the paper and read the announcement. A man, a Mr. Epstein, of whom I have never heard, has the copies. What do I think? I think Professor Singer is up to something, as you say, so I come to America.”
“Did you see the paintings in New York?” asked Jupiter.
“Oui, I see them. They are the originals. I come to Cambridge to talk with Singer. He does not expect me until yesterday. I go to his house. He tells me I am not to get any of the money. He says he has made the arrangements. I am not to get any money!”
His voice was raised to a scream. One arm was waving in the air. The people near him drew back.
“I have planned for four years to get that money. Four years I have waited! And now I am to get nothing! Nothing! I am enraged. I see there is nothing I can do to stop Singer. I can say nothing. I — I kill him with the knife on his desk. Merde! Death is too good for your Professor Singer!”
Renier was holding his audience. His famous wavy hair was down over his face. He looked the way anarchists are supposed to look after they have thrown a bomb.
Rankin said, “Then what?”
“I go away from there. I go back to the hotel; I wait. I read the newspapers — there is no mention of a man like myself. I am expected at the Museum; I must be calm. I come to Cambridge and I learn that the man Fitzgerald is in Cambridge also. I am frightened; I think that he may give away the plot when he learns I am here. There is nothing to do but wait. The evening papers say that Fitzgerald has been questioned, but they do not say what he has told them.”
He stopped, shaking his head slowly. Jupiter could understand the agony of suspense he must have suffered.
“I decide to wait until morning before I go back to New York. In the evening, this young man Jones meets me and asks me questions about paintings. I know he is trying to solve the crime. He must have a reason to ask me these things. I am horrified. I say to myself Fitzgerald will say something soon and I will be found out. I must act. I go to my room and try to think what to do.”
By now, everyone knew what he was going to decide to do. It was like a flash-back in a moving picture. They were so stunned by his story that it did not seem fantastic that a man should be telling them how he had planned to kill another in cold blood.
“I tell myself that Fitzgerald must die. He must die in such a way that it appears he has killed himself. He will be blamed for the murder of Singer! It is a good idea. I telephone him and say I am coming to see him. I find the number of his room. I buy a can of ether at the druggist. You see, I do not know what poison I can purchase — I know so little about your American laws.”
He looked at Rankin. He seemed to apologize for the use of ether.
He continued, “I go to Fitzgerald’s hotel. I take the elevator to the fifth floor and I walk down to the third — no one must know I have been to see him. It is a clever plot. We talk for a little time.” His voice was getting weaker. It was little better than a whisper. “I must act. I must kill him. I—”
He collapsed on Illinois’s arm. The policeman pulled him to his feet, but he was limp, his face gray.
Rankin said, “I think I can finish his story. He hit Fitzgerald over the head with a candlestick. I don’t know how he did it, but there was a mark on his head when we found him. I guess he just meant to knock him out easy and not leave a mark. Well, then he took Fitzgerald’s handkerchief and poured ether over it until he was dead. He put him on the bed and
