“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, he kept it on his desk. Picked it up in Italy. He thought it might have been done by Cellini. It dates from about that time.”
“You might have told me that before,” said the Sergeant, lighting a cigarette a little savagely.
“You didn’t ask me,” murmured Jupiter, wondering how much the Sergeant would stand. He liked to be sure of his footing.
Rankin let it pass. He was scratching his chin. “Well, that brings in a different angle.”
“How’s that, Chief?” asked Illinois.
“It means that if he was murdered it wasn’t premeditated — probably done in a fit of anger.” He blew out a cloud of smoke.
The policemen and Mr. Swayle were impressed.
“Not necessarily, Inspector,” said Jupiter.
Rankin coughed. “What do you mean?”
“Plenty of people knew that knife was on Singer’s desk.”
The Sergeant was shaken; perhaps nettled is the better word. “Maybe you’d like me to go back to the station and let you take charge here,” he said. “And I’m a Sergeant, not an Inspector.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jupiter. He was satisfied now; the scene was complete. The amateur had aroused the professional’s wrath.
Rankin had picked up the engagement pad again and was studying it without success.
“Can you translate this thing?” he asked, handing it to Jupiter.
“I’ll try.” They gathered around him. “Let’s see, we might as well start with Wednesday, as this is Wednesday. . . . Ten o’clock, ‘Vn. Pg., Rdfe.’ That would be the Venetian Painting course for Radcliffe. . . . Eleven, ‘do. Hvd.,’ ditto for Harvard. . . . You’d think he’d go crazy giving the same lecture right over again, but he liked it like that. . . . Twelve, ‘Off. Hr., Fg.’ Easy. Office hour at the Fogg. That’s the museum where all this takes place. . . . One, ‘Lch. Fac. Cl.’ Lunch at the Faculty Club. Easy, isn’t it?”
. He looked up and saw nothing but open mouths and bewilderment.
“You get used to it, and, of course, I know more or less what to expect.” He went on, “Two o’clock, ‘A.S.P. of R.’ Took that one last year. It’s another course, the Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting of Rome. . . . Three, another office hour at the museum. He usually left at four, so the rest would be here. . . . Four-thirty,‘A. Rsn.’ That’s got me. Let’s see, it must be somebody’s name. Oh yes, Rosen, Adam Rosen, one of Singer’s tutees. . . . Five, ‘P. App.’ . . . Well, well, well, Peter Appleton! A dear fellow, a darling boy. You’ll love him, Inspector.”
“Who’s he?” asked the Sergeant.
Another tutee, but a honey, a real honey, you’ll see, said Jupiter. “By the way, Inspector, about what time do you think Singer got the business, to be colloquial?”
“I don’t know exactly. We’ll find out when the examiner gets here, but I guess between six and seven.”
“Well, we’re getting warmer. . . . Five-thirty, ‘Mr. Arthur Fairchild.’ ” Jupiter stopped. The purse in his pocket felt much larger.
“I wonder why that isn’t abbreviated?” mused Rankin. “Do you know Fairchild?”
“Yes,” said Jupiter. The truth never hurt anyone, he thought — much. “He’s a banker, friend of Singer’s. You’ve probably heard of his wife. They live in Cambridge.”
“She’s the Society one,” explained Illinois to everyone’s surprise.
“Yes, I’ve heard of her, but what about Fairchild? What did he want to see Singer about?”
“I can’t answer all the questions, Inspector; it’s your turn,” said Jupiter, figuring it would get him out of a hole. It did.
“I’ll find out, all right. . . . Let me see that thing.” He took the pad from Jupiter. “Six o’clock, ‘Fitz.’. . . Let’s see. Fitz. Fitz. Fitzmaurice?”
“Fitzpatrick?” said Illinois.
“Fitzgibbons?” tried another officer.
“Fitzsimmons?” hazarded Mr. Swayle.
“May I play?” asked Jupiter meekly.
“Well?” It was the Sergeant.
“Fitzgerald,” he said definitely.
Rankin sighed. “Do you know him too?”
“Not personally, but by reputation. He’s a portrait painter, quite famous. He’s doing the President now.”
“What’s he doing here?” asked Illinois.
“The President of Harvard,” explained Jupiter softly. He didn’t like to hurt the man’s feelings. Illinois was not bright, but he was willing.
“You’d better do this; it’ll save time,” said Rankin, handing the pad back to Jupiter.
Jupiter took it without comment. The next entry was for six-thirty — ‘Dr. with Hdly.’
“That’s funny,” said Jupiter. “This must mean ‘Dinner with Hadley,’ but if he was killed between six and seven, he couldn’t have had dinner with Hadley very well.”
“Who’s this Hadley?” asked the Sergeant, hot on the trail.
“He’s a professor, an assistant professor, actually; he lives right across the hall. Let’s go see him,” said Jupiter.
“He’s not there; I didn’t see a light as I came past the door,” said Mr. Swayle.
“He’ll keep,” said the Sergeant.
Someone knocked heavily on the door and the Sergeant went over and opened it. There was quite a mill going on in the hall. Rankin gave a few orders to someone outside and then led a small procession into the room. Jupiter found a chair in a corner and sat down to watch the festivities.
A man, obviously the medical examiner, began to do professional things to Singer. Two cops started to set up a stretcher at the other end of the room, while another man with a camera fiddled with flash bulbs. A big shot in a uniform covered with gold stripes walked around the room with Rankin, finally disappearing into Singer’s bedroom. Someone was taking fingerprints from the desk. Jupiter realized that this was the first high-class murder the Cambridge police had had in years. Mr. Swayle came over.
“You know, Mr. Jones, I think someone ought to tell Professor Sampson about this.”
“Do you think he’d like it, too?” asked Jupiter; then, “I guess you’re right, although he probably knows already. Ask the Inspector before you go. He may have ideas.”
Mr. Swayle met Rankin coming out of the bedroom and after a few words rushed out of the room as if he were bringing the good news from Ghent to Aix. Jupiter suspected the janitor of
