Harvard Has a Homicide

by Timothy Fuller

  “I may be able to recognize it.”

  She looked at him queerly. “You wouldn’t be holding out on a little girl?”

  “How can you hint such a thing after all we’ve been to each other?”

  “Hm,” she mused, cocking her eyebrow. “Let’s find that paper.”

  Jupiter held up his hand. “All in good time. The surroundings are very pleasant here and I’m loath to leave. How about a Benedictine?”

  She looked at him sourly. “I’ll bet if I was trapped in the top of a burning building you’d have another drink before you did anything about it.”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “You know, that’s an interesting point. Of course it would depend on the circumstances. You merely say a ‘burning building.’ You fail to mention how far the fire has progressed, whether the fire department has arrived, or whether it would be humanly possible for me to reach you. No, I think I’d have to have more information before I’d bet with you on that.”

  “Gentlemanly, that’s it. It just goes to show that the age of chivalry has not passed. You’re not, by any chance, getting intoxicated?”

  He was hurt. “You know me better than that, Betty.”

  The waiter brought the liqueur.

  She sipped it absently. One of her best qualifications, in Jupiter’s eyes, was that she could drink with him all evening and never become a problem. There were few girls who could.

  “Look me in the eye, Jupiter,” she said seriously. “Have you any ideas or even suspicions about the murder?”

  “Why, certainly, I have hundreds.” Then he saw she was in earnest. “To tell the truth, I haven’t, but there are some things I can’t quite make out. Very likely they have nothing to do with it.”

  “And they are?”

  “Odd. Have you ever seen Fitzgerald’s portrait of Singer?”

  “No, why?”

  “Ever hear anything about it?”

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She set her glass down with a bang. “Don’t talk like that. I don’t like you when you’re supercilious. You must have had some reason to ask me that.”

  “Quiet, child,” he soothed. “I meant I didn’t know why you hadn’t seen the portrait or heard about it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but it didn’t sound like that.”

  Jupiter smiled. “I didn’t mean it to. However, it is funny that I’ve never seen it or heard about it, and neither has Miss Slade. You’d think a man like Singer, with a portrait by as famous an artist as Fitzgerald, would say something about it. Although Fitzgerald himself told me it wasn’t very complimentary.”

  “And all that proves?”

  “Nothing,” he said, rising. “Shall we find that newspaper?”

  Jupiter paid the check without blenching and they went out into the night. At the Herald Building he inquired into the whereabouts of old issues. A girl led them to the files. She looked as if she recognized Jupiter in connection with the Singer case.

  Just to be safe he said, “We’re looking for a recipe on how to make old Scottish porridge. My wife can make every kind of porridge except old Scottish porridge. Don’t you think it would be a shame if she didn’t know how to make old Scottish porridge?”

  “Yes,” said the girl nervously.

  Betty bit her lip.

  “If I remember correctly it was in the March fourth paper,” said Jupiter. “Although, of course, it might have been March third or fifth. Dates are funny, aren’t they?”

  The girl pointed to a pile. “It will be there. You can look through them.”

  She left as fast as she could.

  Jupiter was looking through the paper for March fourth.

  Betty laughed. “Now I’m sure you’re sober. You couldn’t say old Scottish porridge if you weren’t. Hey, you’ve got the wrong number — it was March third.”

  He didn’t look up. “Don’t be dull — stories in newspapers are dated the day before.”

  He continued his search. “Of course it would help if I had some idea of what to expect. I’m counting on my intuition. How large a clipping was it? A column? Half a column?”

  “Nearer half, I guess; it wasn’t very long.”

  He was nearing the back page. “Well, well, we’re lucky — here she is.”

  The story read: —

  NEW YORK

  DEALER FINDS

  FAMOUS

  PAINTING

  * * *

  Early Titian Turns up in

  Forgotten Collection

  NEW YORK, Mar. 3 (AP) — A painting, purporting to be in the hand of Titian, was found in a collection of otherwise worthless copies by Mark Epstein, noted dealer in rare art works. In an interview, Mr. Epstein said that there could be little doubt but that the painting was an original by the famous Venetian Renaissance artist. The subject was an allegorical scene undoubtedly painted during the latter part of the artist’s career. Exhaustive tests by the new X-ray method failed to disclose anything to disprove Mr. Epstein’s belief that the work was original. Among the other paintings which are said to be remarkable copies of existing works were likenesses of three paintings now in the Fogg Museum at Cambridge. They are a “Crucifixion” by Perugino, a “Madonna” by Lorenzo Lotto, and a portrait of a soldier by Tiepolo. Mr. Epstein would not disclose where he had purchased the collection, but said that they had come from Italy.

  They read it together.

  Jupiter said, “See anything particularly murderous about that?”

  Betty sighed, “No, I’m sorry. You were right about Miss Slade; she tore that up in small pieces just for the hell of it when she saw me in the basement. Do you know, I read that little story when it came out; I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Jupiter tore out the clipping and put it in his pocket.

  “We’ll save it, anyway. They won’t miss it. Now if it’s not against your principles we might have a drink.”

  Going out they met the girl who had showed them the files.

  Jupiter beamed crazily. “Well, we found it, and would you believe it, the only difference between old Scottish porridge and Polynesian porridge is that in the Scottish porridge you add cloves — finely ground cloves placed on the back of the hand and blown gently over the pot. Well, good night and thank you, oh, so much.”

  They left her gaping.

  They found a quiet bar and sat on stools in front of it.

  Betty toyed with her Scotch. “Sorry to cause you all the trouble of that newspaper, Jupiter.”

  “No trouble,” he answered. Then to the bartender, “Got a phone, Jack?”

  The bartender jerked a thumb toward the back of the room. .

  “Pay station,” he communicated.

  Jupiter handed him a dollar, asking for change. “Going to make a late date?” asked Betty, without conviction.

  “I’ll be right back. Look after her, Jack.”

  The bartender flashed the bored smile of all good bartenders.

  “He’s playing detective,” she told him after Jupiter had gone. “He thinks he’s the Thin Man. “Oh,” said the bartender.

  Jupiter dropped a nickel and dialed Information. “I have a task for you,” he told the operator. “I want a man in New York City named Epstein — Mark Epstein. There are undoubtedly several Epsteins in New York, but this one’s an art dealer. . . . Yes, person to person. . . . No, call me back. Hancock 7124. I’ll be here, thanks.”

  He slid back onto his stool.

  Betty said, “It’s a beautiful act, but if I didn’t have a lot of self-control, I’d poison your drink. Who did you call?”

  “I’m trying to get Mark Epstein,” he said sipping.

  She opened her eyes very wide. The effect was not lost on the bartender.

  “Not the Mark Epstein of New York?” she gasped.

  “The very same.”

  “I knew it, I knew it,” she repeated. “You’re holding out on me.”

  “No I’m not — cross my heart and hope to stop d
rinking.”

  “What are you calling him for, then?”

  I just want to talk to him. Something’s been missing in my life and I just discovered it was not knowing Mark Epstein.”

  Betty turned to the bartender. “Do you know who this man is? He killed Singer over at Harvard. The police of three states are looking for him.”

  “Yeah?” said the bartender with mild interest.

  “Yeah,” she went on. “And that’s only one of the things he’s done. His grandfather was a cripple — couldn’t move out of his wheel chair. One day this killer took him out walking and pushed the wheel chair in front of a truck. Called it a Mercy Killing.”

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” said Jupiter. “Don’t serve this young lady any more drinks. She had a glass of sherry with her dinner and I think it’s gone to her head.”

  Betty spluttered. The telephone bell eased matters.

  Jupiter leaped into the booth.

  A voice said, “I have Mr. Epstein; were you calling him?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Jupiter.

  “One dollar and thirty-five cents, please,” caroled the operator.

  The bell tinkled merrily as Jupiter deposited coins.

  “This is a hell of a slot machine,” he muttered as he put in the last one. “Hello, Mr. Epstein? . . . This is Lieutenant Harrigan of the Cambridge homicide squad.”

  He could hear Mr. Epstein swallow. “Yes?”

  “I’m investigating the Singer murder at Harvard. Have you heard about it?”

  Mr. Epstein said, “Er, of course — what can I do for you?”

  I’ll bet you never heard of me, thought Jupiter.

  “There was a story in the paper about ten days ago about a collection of pictures you had found in Italy.”

  “Yes?”

  “In that collection were some copies of paintings now in the Fogg Museum in Cambridge. Are you sure the ones in your collection are copies?”

  Mr. Epstein took his time before answering. “That seems a queer question. Is there any reason why they shouldn’t be copies?”

  “I’m asking you, Mr. Epstein, if you’re sure yours are copies.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he answered.

  “Have you made tests?”

  “Of course. All my pictures go through the same tests. They are very excellent copies, nothing more.”

  “Have you ever seen the paintings now in the Fogg?”

  “Yes, several years ago.”

  “Did you study them?”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at, Lieutenant. I didn’t study them, but I naturally took it for granted they were genuine. There must be authorities there who can tell. I can’t understand why you called me.”

  Jupiter gritted his teeth. “Please remember, Mr. Epstein, that I am a police officer and wouldn’t call you without reason. I’m interested to know where your collection was procured.”

  Mr. Epstein coughed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that question. The former owner in Italy specified that I wasn’t to give out that information.

  “I don’t have to remind you that this is an investigation into a murder,” said Jupiter as seriously as he could.

  “I realize that, Lieutenant, but the source from which I get my paintings has nothing to do with a murder. I will try and help all I can, but I cannot disclose a business secret. If you will give me some hint as to what you’re trying to learn I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Don’t bother. Thank you very much, Mr. Epstein. I may call you again.”

  Jupiter hung up.

  “Damn,” he said. “Anyway, I doubt if brother Mark gets much sleep to-night.”

  He went out of the booth.

  Betty was standing outside. There were tears in her eyes from laughing.

  She managed, “Oh, Lieutenant! Lieutenant Harrigan, may I have your autograph? You’re so big and strong and masterful, Lieutenant. Couldn’t I have one of your shiny brass buttons?” Jupiter glared at her. “If eavesdropping was your only vice, my girl, you’d have something to boast about.”

  They went back to the bar.

  Betty was still talking. “Please remember, Mr. Epstein, I’m a police officer,” she quoted. “Jupiter, I hate to admit it, but I love you.”

  He smiled. “Please don’t bother with trivia; I’m concentrating.”

  Suddenly she was serious. “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing. A blank. But I didn’t expect much.”

  Jupiter ordered another drink and downed it in silence.

  Betty said, “If I’m in the way, I’ll be glad to take a streetcar home.”

  “Don’t go,” said Jupiter. “You’re very ornamental.”

  The bartender said, “Are you two married?”

  “No, we’re not,” answered Jupiter, “but people are beginning to talk.”

  He got up. “The time has come to ask Fitzgerald some pointed questions. If I wasn’t so lazy I’d go out and see him; as it is, the phone will have to do.”

  “Who are you going to be this time — the Governor?” asked Betty.

  Jupiter said over his shoulder, “I’d ask you into the booth, but it would remind me of a story.”

  Fitzgerald was in.

  Jupiter said, “This is Jones. Do you remember me?”

  Fitzgerald said yes, he did.

  “The police are about to make an arrest in the Singer case, but, before they do, would you mind telling me how much Singer owed you?”

  There was a pause while Fitzgerald got his breath.

  “Will you repeat that?” he asked weakly.

  Jupiter repeated.

  “How much Singer owed me?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Why in the world do you want to know that?”

  “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t tell me?”

  Fitzgerald sputtered.

  Jupiter said, “Let it go. Did you ever hear of Lotto’s ‘Madonna’?”

  There was no reply for a full half minute — a long time over a telephone.

  Fitzgerald said, “Are you drunk?”

  “I may be.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Boston.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I was lonely.”

  “I think you’re crazy. The next time I see Sergeant Rankin I’ll tell him so.”

  “You’ll see him. Good night.”

  He hung up and went back to the bar. Betty had never seen him looking so happy.

  “Did you ask him questions?” she quizzed.

  “No, he asked me questions. It was great fun.” She tipped back on her stool and surveyed him critically. “Who would have suspected that young Jupiter Jones would grow up to be a monosyllabic all-knowing detective. When are you going to tell me what it’s all about?”

  “As soon as I know myself. Let’s go to the Ritz; I like a sumptuous atmosphere when I think. No offense, Jack; we like your place, but we’re nomads, always on the road.”

  Betty smiled at the bartender. “Like traveling salesmen. Good night.”

  The bartender said good night and went back to polishing glasses.

  “They have telephones at the Ritz, in case you get lonely,” she said. “Are you going to think out loud, or shall I buy a magazine?”

  “You can probably pick up a clubman if you’re bored,” he said absently.

  Driving to the hotel, Jupiter indulged in some strenuous speculation. His telephone calls to Epstein and Fitzgerald had produced nothing of any value, yet he felt he was on the track of something. Whether it had anything to do with Singer’s murder he did not know. He was sure Rankin wouldn’t be any help to him at the moment and he saw no reason for getting hold of him. Hadley might help, but that entailed a trip to Cambridge. All in all, he thought, the Ritz Bar is unquestionably the best place for me.

  Going down the steps into the bar, he saw a familiar face in a corner. It was Renier, the wavy-haired Frenchman.

  “Well, we
ll, just the person who can help me in my troubles.”

  “Who?” asked Betty, looking for a girl.

  Jupiter pointed. “The Personage. Come.”

  They stopped at the Frenchman’s table. He was alone.

  Jupiter said, “I owe you an apology for running away so quickly this morning. This is Miss Mahan, Mr. Renier. Miss Mahan, Mr. Renier.”

  Renier jumped to his feet and bowed, and said precisely, “Will you not sit down?”

  They sat down.

  Jupiter said, “Miss Mahan is associated with the Museum. She works there occasionally.”

  “Yes, of course, I remember her,” said Renier like a true Frenchman.

  She gave him her number-one smile and he smoothed his hair.

  Jupiter ordered drinks.

  Renier said, “I did not comprehend your sudden departure this morning. Did you find what you were looking for? The newspapers to-night said no word about the solution of the mystery.”

  “It’s not solved yet,” answered Jupiter. “Are you staying here?”

  “Yes. I leave to-morrow. I am sorry; I have enjoyed Boston so much.”

  “It’s like London, don’t you think?” asked Betty sweetly.

  “Yes, it is like London. Do you like London?”

  “Oh, I adore it. Its streets, its people. Charming and so — er — regal.”

  Her longest ocean voyage had been to the coast of Maine.

  Jupiter kicked her and said, “I’ve always been interested in how people go about discovering fake paintings, Mr. Renier — you must be quite ah authority on that. Could you tell me something about it?”

  The Frenchman stopped gazing at Betty. “What? Fake paintings? Oh, I see — yes, of course — you mean forgeries. Copies?”

  “Yes. How do you tell the difference between a genuine masterpiece and a fraud?”

  Renier smiled condescendingly, spreading his hands in the time-worn gesture of the French shrug. “There are so many ways. If you have a painting that you know is old and you want to find out the painter, you must study the recognized works of that painter. You must study his technique— that is, his brushwork, the pigments he used — oh, there are many things you must do. It is hard that — the attribution of paintings. We make many mistakes.”