“That’s fine,” said Jupiter. “But why did he try to kill me?”
Renier had opened his eyes. He stared at Jupiter.
“I do not know,” he whispered. “I lose my head when I leave Fitzgerald. I say to myself this young man knows something. Maybe he knows that I killed Singer. He must die too. If you are dead, Fitzgerald will be blamed for that also.”
“One more murder, more or less, won’t do any harm,” said Betty, but her hands were shaking.
Jupiter said, “But why did you run out after you hit me? Why didn’t you hang around and finish the job?”
Renier hung his head. “I think the first blow will make you unconscious. I am frightened when you speak to me. I run out—”
“But why didn’t you come back?”
The Frenchman had collapsed again. Rankin ordered Illinois to take him out. There was a mob of gaping students in the hall. When he had gone, there was a short silence in the room while they got their breath.
Jupiter turned to the Sergeant. “Now you might explain a few things yourself, Inspector. How did you get hold of Renier?”
The Sergeant smiled. “Oh, I’ve had him locked up since last night. He confessed killing Singer when I first spoke to him.”
Of all the shocks Jupiter had had that morning that shook him most.
“You had him locked up last night?”
“Sure, he confessed killing Singer; but when he found I didn’t know anything more about it, he shut up like a clam. That’s why I wanted your explanation this morning. I had no motive for his doing it.”
“But how did you pick him up? Or why, if you had no motive?”
Rankin was grinning. “One of my men picked him up on a charge of assault.”
“Assault! On who, or whom?”
“On you,” said Rankin.
Jupiter leaned back against the wall. Things were happening much too fast. His head couldn’t stand it.
The Sergeant went on: “I’ve had a man following you since the night of the murder. How else do you think I’d know you went to see the Fairchilds?”
Jupiter saw the light. “That’s what I’d call dirty politics, Inspector. Then this hound of yours trailed me last night?”
Right,” said Rankin. “He followed you to your room and was waiting outside when Renier came running out carrying a piece of pipe in his hands. He caught him and brought him in.”
Jupiter thought that one over for a minute. Then he said, “And one of your men, one of Cambridge’s policemen, left me to bleed to death while he hurried Renier off to the station?”
“Oh, no. You see he had strict orders not to let you know he was following you. He recognized Renier as the man you’d been talking with at the Ritz earlier in the evening. He was all set to go in and see you when your light went on and he saw you walking around inside perfectly healthy.”
“Perfectly healthy!” growled Jupiter.
“There’s not much more,” went on Rankin. “Renier wouldn’t talk after he had admitted killing Singer. He said nothing about Fitzgerald and I was more than surprised when I got that call from the hotel this morning. Renier is better at thinking up plots to steal paintings than he is at making a murder look like a suicide. I don’t think there ever was a suicide by the use of ether. Even if Fitzgerald had poured the whole can on his handkerchief it would have evaporated before he was dead. You have to keep applying the stuff in small doses to kill a man, and that’s what Renier did. Fitzgerald could never have done it himself. And also there was that bump on his head which was hard to explain. Renier had meant it to be a light whack, but the examiner found it just the same. Renier would have been better off if he’d never decided to put Fitzgerald out of the way. Most murders that are meant to cover up a first murder are no good anyway.”
Against the Museum regulations, Jupiter lit a cigarette. He figured enough had happened in the Museum already to cause people to overlook a cigarette — or almost anything, for that matter.
He said, “Well, why did you tell me Fitzgerald had killed himself this morning? Why didn’t you tell me he’d been murdered?”
“I’m sorry about that, Jones,” said Rankin. “It was professional jealousy, I guess. I was trying to cross you up. I still didn’t know how much you knew about everything that has happened. You fooled me when you said Fitzgerald didn’t kill Singer. I thought all along you believed it.”
“Well, I guess we came out about even, Inspector.”
Miss Slade was on her feet. The Sergeant faced her.
“How much did you know about this, Miss Slade?”
She was shaky, but she didn’t collapse. “I knew about the paintings, but I didn’t know who had killed Professor Singer. I’d suspected that something was bothering him for some time, but I didn’t know what it was. When Mr. Fitzgerald said he owed money for a portrait I knew he was lying. The news of Professor Singer’s death was a terrible shock to me; I couldn’t think clearly. . . . I — I can’t think clearly yet — oh, it’s dreadful — it’s—”
She was weeping.
“I think she knew something about the paintings, but nothing definite,” said Jupiter. “If she’d told us what she suspected it would have saved us a good deal of trouble.”
“But we wouldn’t have had so much fun,” said Betty.
“True,” answered Jupiter. “And Fitzgerald might have still been alive. But then, he would have gone to jail for a while anyway.”
Rankin addressed the audience. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be much more we can do here. I’m certainly glad everything is cleared up.”
Hadley said, “But the paintings? What about them? Shall we get the originals back?”
“Sure,” said Jupiter. “The Inspector will get his buddies down in New York to pick up Epstein and everything will be all right.”
“It’s like a fairy story,” said
