Harvard Has a Homicide

kill Singer? God knows, but whoever did must have had a good reason. Why did anyone kill anyone else? Revenge, money, hate, a woman? Lots of reasons, but they had to be powerful motives. Was Hadley capable of a really intense passion? Jupiter knew the college gossip about the men — the usual thing, petty jealousies whispered about in the library, in the Museum, in classes. Hadley was the elder, been teaching for years, still an assistant professor; then Singer the brilliant, the forceful, came along, advanced rapidly, got the appointments. But wasn’t there something more? There had been something about a book. Oh yes, Hadley had started a short treatise on Giorgione, the attributions of his paintings, an interesting and well-known subject, but with some good ideas. Then Singer had come out with his book covering the whole Venetian School and including most of Hadley’s theories. It had eclipsed Hadley’s thesis and done much to win Singer his full professorship. The plagiarism had been overlooked by everyone except Hadley, who had almost resigned. But still that had been years ago, and hardly a reason for murder. And Hadley himself! He barely had the courage to call his hat his own, let alone his soul.

“No, Inspector, 1’m afraid I can’t pin a motive on Hadley. You’ll have to try.”

The Sergeant held out a pad of paper. “Here’s another abbreviation. Do you know what it means?”

The pad was marked at the top, “TO-DAY,” and underneath, in Singer’s writing but not in his usual neat, scroll-like script, were the words, “IMP: CON + MAD.”

“ ‘IMP’ — that must mean important; ‘CON plus MAD’ — that’s a tough one. ‘Con’ and ‘Mad’ . . . maybe C-O-N and M-A-D — who knows? . . . The writing’s funny, too — printed in large letters. It must have been important for him to go to all that trouble.”

“It probably doesn’t mean a damn thing, but I wish to God he didn’t write everything in code.”

“It’s getting fictional,” smiled Jupiter; “but maybe the Slade will know what it means.”

“We can’t do much more until she gets here or we find Hadley. I suppose I might as well see those reporters.”

“Expect an arrest within twenty-four hours,” whispered Jupiter. “Here’s an idea, Inspector; why don’t you herd them into my room? It’s right next door. Then you can keep this room clear for your little chats with embryonic witnesses.”

The Sergeant looked up and smiled. “Would that be all right? It’s a good idea to keep in good with the press.”

Jupiter wondered vaguely if there was ever a policeman who had shunned publicity. ” We can open the fire door to my room, and then you can keep popping in and out with the latest news flashes.”

“The fire door?”

“Yes, all these rooms are connected by fire doors. When a group of friends get together in adjoining entries, they open the fire doors to make connecting rooms. You’re supposed to have the permission of the janitor to do it, but no one bothers about that. Have you got a knife?”

Dubiously the Sergeant handed Jupiter his knife, and in a moment the glass and red cardboard were removed from the lock and the door opened.

A light was on in the room, and in a chair sat a small Negro, smoking a cigarette.

Rankin managed: “Good God!”

Jupiter said, “Hello, Sylvester!”

The Negro arose. “Ah thought yo’ might need me, Mr. Jones.”

Sylvester was very black with a touch of indigo. His head, a big head, was shaved and polished like a number-eight ball and on his nose he wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. In his junior year Jupiter had won Sylvester in a crap game: that is, he had won his wages from another student for three months. When the three months were up, Jupiter had been unable to get along minus Sylvester, so he had kept him ever since. There are many Negroes around Cambridge employed as valets for students living outside the House Plan in rooming houses. They polish shoes, press clothes, run errands, and have become one of Harvard’s little-known institutions. Although frowned on by House authorities, Jupiter kept Sylvester for these purposes. To him, Sylvester was indispensable; he had become a nurse, a confidant, and even a friend. When he woke after a strenuous evening, the sight of Sylvester gliding rhythmically about the room was a sedative strong enough to conquer a medium hangover.

Not a Southern Negro by birth, Sylvester had acquired an almost theatrical Southern accent, for which Jupiter was thankful. There is one colored man in Cambridge with a Harvard accent that would make a Middle-Western freshman give up in despair. However, Sylvester’s greatest glory, that which set him high above any other, was his ability to quote Shakespeare — never aptly, to be sure, but quote it, nevertheless. Where he learned it Jupiter was unable to tell, but on tracing most of the quotations to their source he found that they came exclusively from The Rape of Lucrece. Once, at a cocktail party, an English professor had stopped drinking for a month when he heard Sylvester, mixing more drinks, say: “If eber man were mov’d wid wimman’s moans, be moved wid mah tears, mah sighs, mah gwoans.” Sylvester was, in his own words, a “jule.”

“According to the latest reports, Inspector,” said Jupiter, “reporters are still drinking — in fact, I need one myself; so go ahead, Sylvester, slide into your white coat.”

“Yassir,” said Sylvester.

Illinois appeared in the fire door, looking scared. “I couldn’t find you, Chief.” He seemed relieved. “There’s a guy outside that’s been trying to see you. He says it’s important.”

“Who is it?”

“His name’s Fitzgerald — you know, the painter.”

CHAPTER IV

“HARVARD indifference” is a household word around Boston. It has become so mainly through the efforts of the Boston Evening Transcript and other papers which have seized on this as a method to explain any untoward action on the part of a student or group of students. It is difficult