“Lieutenant, this is Mr. Jones; he found the body.”
“Clever of me, wasn’t it?” said Jupiter softly, getting to his feet with an effort.
Rankin went on, “We were just going over Singer’s appointment memorandum when you came in. Mr. Jones was very helpful; in fact, I’m going to ask him to stick around for a while and help me some more, if he doesn’t mind.” Then turning to Jupiter, “You see, in the usual murder case, such as a gang killing, the police have a definite method of procedure which goes on without the help of anyone outside, but here we really need someone closer to the actual facts.”
The Lieutenant tossed his head and said, “H’m, yes.
Jupiter wondered how many gang murders the Cambridge police had on their hands in a year, but decided not to ask.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, trying not to sound like a boy scout about to lay down his life for his country.
The doctor had finished prodding and was packing things in his bag.
“Can you tell when he was killed?” asked the Sergeant.
“Can I tell when he was killed?” sneered the doctor. “Why, certainly. He was found at about eight, I hear. Well, then, he was killed between eight and five. That’s three hours. Even with a post-mortem, I don’t believe I could get much closer; it depends on too many things. You ought to know that, Sergeant.”
One-word description, thought Jupiter — waspish.
“Well, we’ll want a post-mortem, anyway. I want to know if he had any supper, too,” said Rankin. It was hard to ruffle the man.
Jupiter figured he could think of an easier way of discovering if Singer had had dinner, but again he practised self-control.
“All right, Jenkins, take your pictures. They won’t be much use, since he wasn’t shot, but we’ll need them for the records.”
Jenkins adjusted his camera towards the desk and raised a flash bulb. Instinctively Jupiter straightened his tie. Professor Singer was shot from several angles and Jupiter felt how much the Professor would have disliked his last photographs being taken with his head on a desk. He had been proud of his face.
After the pictures, two policemen laid out the stretcher and Singer was lifted onto it. It was an inartistic sight. A little blood had dried on the man’s chin, making his mouth seem elongated, almost shapeless. There was a strange silence in the room as a sheet was pulled over the body, covering the face. Even Jupiter was affected by it; it seemed as if for the first time everyone was conscious that a man had actually died.
The telephone ringing cut the silence to shreds. Jupiter could almost feel the vacuum left by indrawn breaths. The bell rang three times before anyone moved. It is surprising the shock a telephone can give even in the calmest surroundings.
“I’ll take it,” said Rankin, going to the desk. The spell was broken; policemen were policemen again. The receiver came up. “Yes? . . . No, he’s not. . . . No. . . . Who is this, please? . . . Miss Slade? . . . Could you come down here? . . . Yes, right away. . . . Yes, it is. . . . Very important. . . . All right; thank you.” He turned to the room. “Singer’s secretary. She’s coming over.”
“Time marches on,” murmured Jupiter.
Singer’s body was carried out. With it went the doctor, the lieutenant, the photographer, and three policemen. Jupiter walked over to the window; a ‘ damp but undaunted gathering of undergraduates saw the stretcher placed in the ambulance. He turned to Rankin.
“What’s next, Inspector?”
“Let’s finish with that engagement pad,” Rankin answered, picking it up. “I’ll want to get hold of all the people listed here and talk with them. I’ve sent the janitor to tell the man in charge of this House the news. I guess he’ll inform the proper authorities and then I’ll have to see him. . . . The last thing was ‘dinner with Hadley,’ wasn’t it? I think Hadley’s the man we want to see. Well, there’s only one more entry, that’s eight o’clock. ‘J.J.’ Is that you?”
“Yes, the J is for Jupiter, a nickname.”
“O. K. Let’s see what we’ve got. From four-thirty on at half-hour intervals we have Adam Rosen and Peter Appleton, students; Mr. Arthur Fairchild, banker; Fitzgerald, the artist; Professor Hadley, and finally you.”
“But not least,” muttered Jupiter.
The door opened and Illinois’s red face appeared. Jupiter had missed him.
“Hey, Chief, these reporters out here want to see you. They’re trying to break down the door.” Tell em to wait a minute. I’ll see them as soon as I can.”
Illinois disappeared in a roar from the hall.
The Sergeant turned back to the desk. “I haven’t a legal right to go through Singer’s papers yet; have to wait and see his lawyer. What I want to find out is his financial standing, relatives, insurance, and so forth. He was thinking out loud. “I suppose Miss Slade, his secretary, can help when she gets here. This kind of case will either take a couple of hours or it may drag on for a year. That’s the trouble: you never know and you’ve got to be careful not to step on anyone’s toes. You can’t very well take a Harvard professor down to the station and give him the works the way you can some second-rate gunman.”
“True,” said Jupiter, “but I know of a few who would like the publicity. Have you done anything about finding Hadley?”
“Yes, I have a man looking for him now; he may be the key to all this. If he is, there’s no point in bothering a lot of other people. I don’t suppose you can think of any reason why he’d kill Singer?” Jupiter felt that the Sergeant was hitting his stride; he was getting organized. Why should Hadley
