Harvard Has a Homicide

by Timothy Fuller

“But in the case of two paintings of the same subject — if you know one is original, how do you pick the fake?”

  “Oh, that! That is simple, very simple. We make very few mistakes in that to-day. That is, of course, if the copy is new, not painted at the time of the original.”

  “But you hear all the time about fakes that have been made by criminals with the idea of selling them as originals.”

  Renier frowned. “Yes, that is true. They are clever, some of those fellows, but now with the X-ray we can see through them. Ha, ha! That is good, is it not? We can see through them?”

  “Ha, ha! You’re a card, Mr. Renier — that’s what you are,” giggled Betty.

  The waiter slithered up and placed the drinks on the table with the flourish of all Ritz waiters.

  Renier continued, “Besides the X-ray, we can tell by the pigments. Voila! Old pigments are not, as you say, affected by alcohol. New ones, ah, they melt. And the canvas! That is another way, also. Machine-built canvas and handmade canvas, they are not alike. But it is hard to tell. It is a very great task, very great. It is for the chemists — they understand the paint. There is much to it. It is — let me see — it is a lifework. A lifework.” Jupiter said, “Then it would take laboratory work to find out if a painting was a fake?”

  “Oh yes. But non. No, if the faker, as you say, was not clever, an expert in such matters could discover in a second if the work was false.”

  “It would take someone who had had lots of experience to turn out a first-class fraud?”

  Renier laughed. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. I have met these men who devote all their lives to studying one master so that they could make one copy of the work. An ordinary artist could never make a good forgery. Jamais!”

  Jupiter sipped his drink thoughtfully.

  Betty said brightly, “You know, Mr. Renier, this young man is having great fun. He thinks he can solve Professor Singer’s murder all by himself. He won’t tell anyone about it. You’d better be careful what you say to him — he may suspect you.” The Frenchman laughed, and pulled out his watch. “Ah, mon Dieu, it is late. I must retire; I have to catch a train early in the morning.”

  He got up.

  Jupiter rose with him. “Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Renier. This morning you unwittingly gave me a tip and now you’ve helped me some more. If I do solve this case, you’ll know you helped a lot.

  Renier gave a short bow. “Au ’voir, Miss Mahan. Good night, Mr. — er—”

  “Jones.”

  “Jones — ah yes. Bonsoir, Mr. Jones.”

  He tiptoed out of the room.

  “I like his hair. He may be light on his feet, but I like his hair,” said Betty into her glass.

  “You’re getting to the sentimental stage. It’s a bad sign.”

  “Frenchmen make wonderful lovers,” she answered softly.

  “That’s hearsay, I trust,” said Jupiter.

  When they were finishing their second round, Jupiter said suddenly, “Would you care to join me in a small robbery?”

  She clapped her hands. “Oh, goody! A robbery! But, Jupiter, you never told me you were on the Lampoon?”

  “Very funny. Come on.”

  They got up. Jupiter scribbled his name across the back of the check.

  “Is this going to be a big robbery or a small one? Am I dressed properly? You know I’ve had my eye on the statue of John Harvard for some time.”

  “I’ll tell you about it.”

  CHAPTER XV

  THEY drove out to Cambridge. Jupiter parked the car near the back entrance to the Museum.

  “All set?” he asked.

  Betty whispered, “You’re sure your gun’s loaded?”

  “Quiet,” commanded Jupiter.

  “If you work this you’re a magician.”

  “I’m a magician. Come along, little one.”

  There was a light shining through a window in the basement. The night watchman with his police dog was sitting inside. Jupiter knocked on the door. The man peered out skeptically. Then he saw Betty. He opened the door.

  Betty said, “Greetings, Abner. We’ve come to read the gas meter.”

  The man’s mouth dropped open as if someone had cut the muscles in his jaw. “Now, Miss Mahan — what do you want?”

  “Mr. Jones, here, has a test in Fine Arts tomorrow and he’s forgotten to study the slides. It’s so like him.”

  Jupiter said, “Pay no attention to her, Abner, we want to look at Singer’s office.”

  They started to walk in.

  Abner backed away doubtfully. “I don’t know as I ought, Miss Mahan. I have orders . . .”

  “Fie on your orders, my good man,” said Betty. “Would you keep us out in the cold?”

  “Listen, Abner, we just want to see some papers in Singer’s office. I’m working with the police on the murder; it’s perfectly O. K.,” explained Jupiter.

  “That’s right,” added Betty. “The sergeant has a bad cold and asked Mr. Jones to carry on for him. Wouldn’t you like your picture in the paper?”

  Abner was swamped by the barrage. “Well, as long as you’re here, Miss Mahan,” he quavered.

  “Now you’re talking like a gentleman and a scholar,” said Betty.

  The police dog wasn’t as convinced as Abner. He gave a few abortive snarls before the watchman soothed him.

  Jupiter said, “Did Singer ever work here at night that you can remember?”

  Abner scratched his head. “Lemme see — I don’t remember ever seeing him.”

  “Not recently?” said Jupiter. “Say three weeks or a month ago?”

  A light broke over his face. “Now that you mention it, he did. About a month ago. Came in about nine — said he had important work to finish. Couldn’t wait until morning.”

  Jupiter was jubilant. “Did he have a bundle with him? Say about this size?

  He made a rough demonstration of a two-foot square.

  “Yes, he did! Told me he was going to the laboratory.”

  “And he took it out with him?”

  Abner nodded.

  “How long did he stay?”

  Abner surveyed the ceiling. “Don’t know. Not more ’n a half hour.”

  “Did you stay down here all the time?”

  “Sure. Why not?” He seemed to feel a little guilty.

  “Good,” said Jupiter. “Let’s go up and see his office.”

  Abner switched on a light and they walked through the basement. Going up the stairs, their footsteps echoed through the empty building. It was dark on the main floor. The watchman took out a flashlight.

  “Whose teeth do I hear chattering?” said Betty. “They’re not mine, are they?” ‘

  They went through the library and Abner turned on a light in Singer’s office. Jupiter went straight to the desk, opened the drawer, and began going over its contents. No one spoke while he examined every drawer. It took him about five minutes.

  “Can’t find it?” asked Betty.

  Jupiter didn’t look up. “Try the files.”

  Betty went over to the cabinet against the wall.

  Jupiter got up and took Abner aside.

  “Listen, Abner, I’ve got to go to the toilet. Let me borrow your flashlight a minute. You stay here with Miss Mahan; I think she’s a little frightened.”

  Abner acquiesced. The spirit of guarding frightened ladies had not died in him. Jupiter had counted on it.

  He took the flashlight and went out through the library into the hall. The toilet was in the basement, but Jupiter went upstairs to the galleries. He flashed the light on several paintings before he found the one he wanted. The beautifully sad face of Lotto’s “Madonna” in her cool blue robes shone in the light.

  He set the light on the floor and carefully lifted the painting from the wall. Even in the darkness he could see the white spot on the wall where the painting had been. He picked up the light and carried the painting silently down the stairs. When he arrived at the main floor, he kept on down the stairs to th
e basement. The police dog growled somewhere in the dark. Jupiter flashed the light in his eyes.

  “Nice doggie,” he said nervously.

  The dog was disgruntled, but not belligerent.

  Jupiter opened the basement door, went out, and placed the painting gently in an ashcan. Then he went back inside.

  The dog eyed him silently.

  “Glad you can’t talk, Bowser.”

  He ran upstairs and entered Singer’s office. It had taken him three minutes.

  Betty looked up curiously from the files. “Feel better?”

  “Much,” he answered. “Have you got it?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Let me look.” He went over and opened one of the small drawers. After a couple of minutes he said, “Ah!” and drew out a card. It was a list of Singer’s tutees for the year 1932. He put it in his pocket.

  Abner was curious. “Do you know who done it?”

  “No, but this will help,” said Jupiter, tapping his pocket ominously.

  They started to go out. Betty said, “You’ve been perfectly grand, Abner. We won’t forget about this.”

  At the basement door Abner said, “You’re sure it’s all right, him taking that paper, Miss Mahan?” Betty smiled. “Don’t you worry, now, everything’s going to come out right in the end.”

  They went out. Abner watched them start up the driveway, then turned back into the cellar. Jupiter walked back quickly, took the painting out of the ashcan, and hurried up to the car.

  In the car Betty said, “Smooth. Every move a picture. Now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?”

  He started the motor. “Back in town.”

  “Going to let the pretty Frenchman have a look at it? He’ll be mad if you wake him up.”

  “That’s an idea, but I’ve got a better one. Ever hear of Geoffrey Chalmers?”

  She hadn’t. On the trip back to Boston he told her about him.

  Chalmers was an artist of indeterminate age. He had a studio in the lee of Beacon Hill filled with drawings and paintings that had never been exhibited. Jupiter had met him back in the speak-easy days and Chalmers had taken him to his studio. He had dropped in on him off and on and Chalmers had even given him one of his drawings — a grotesque charcoal of fishing boats done in Brittany. His unaccountable horror of exhibitions had kept him out of the limelight that his few friends thought he deserved. He had made a precarious living out of copying early American paintings for high schools and public buildings. In out-of-the-way places some of these had been accepted as originals.

  “In his way, he’s a genius. Unfortunately the curse of drink is upon him and he hasn’t done anything for years. He makes his own absinthe out of toothpaste, I think. Don’t let his flowery talk fool you,” he concluded.

  “You have such charming friends, Jupiter,” murmured Betty.

  He stopped the car. “The studio may be slightly sordid, but don’t let that bother you.”

  “How could it with you along?” she said sweetly.

  They got out and walked up a dark flight of stone steps, stopping in front of a grimy doorway. Jupiter walked in without ringing a bell.

  “We’re very informal here. I hope he’s up. It’s the top floor.”

  The stairway was both badly lighted and badly ventilated. It smelled more like an ancient tenement than most ancient tenements.

  Betty whispered, “I know I’m going to get a knife in the back. This place is ripe with vendetta.”

  At the top of the stairs Jupiter knocked at the door and it was opened by Chalmers. He was a stubby little gray-haired man with short fat hands and fingers. The foundation for the general belief that all artists have long, beautifully made hands was laid almost exclusively by imaginative female writers.

  Chalmers was wearing a dirty blue shirt without a collar.

  He said, “Ah, Jones, my boy, come in, come in.”

  Jupiter introduced Betty and they entered.

  The room looked precisely like a moving-picture set of a degenerate artist’s studio. Chalmers pushed a pile of clothes out of a chair.

  “Please sit down, Miss Mahan. You took me unawares to-night, Jones; had I known of your coming, I should have made suitable arrangements. The studio seems to have suffered from the absence of my charwoman to-day. The dear lady had a touch of rheumatism and did not appear.”

  Jupiter smiled. The room hadn’t been swept for weeks.

  Chalmers saw the painting that Jupiter was carrying.

  “Ah, what have you there, my boy?”

  Jupiter held up the painting. “This is the Fogg Museum’s famous Lotto.”

  The artist peered at it. “Oh, of course, the ‘Madonna’ — a lovely thing.” He turned to Betty. “You know, my dear, Lotto was one of the few Renaissance painters who really understood the unhappiness of the Italian people. He wandered among them and saw their sufferings. You can see this expression in all of his religious works. He interprets a people in need of God.” He stopped and wiped his mouth. “But where did this come from, Jones?”

  “He stole it,” explained Betty simply.

  “Do you think you could tell if this was a fake?” asked Jupiter.

  “My dear fellow, do you mean to say you stole this from the Museum?” He was more than incredulous — he was aghast.

  Jupiter nodded.

  “But whatever for?”

  “My God! ” said Betty. “I don’t think he’s heard about the murder!”

  Chalmers was all eyes. “Murder? What murder?”

  “Didn’t you see a paper to-day?” asked Jupiter.

  Chalmers looked from one to the other. “Paper? No, I rarely read a newspaper.”

  They told him about the murder. Although it had only happened the night before, Jupiter could hardly believe that there was anyone who hadn’t heard of it.

  “And you think this painting has something to do with it?” asked Chalmers when they had finished.

  “It may,” said Jupiter. “That’s why I wondered if you could tell if it was genuine.”

  The artist took out a pair of bent spectacles and put them carefully on his nose. “If the authorities at Harvard have been taken in by a fraud, I scarcely think that I shall be able to shed much light on the problem. However . . .”

  He switched on an overhead light and placed the painting delicately on a table. His putty-like hands moved surely like a surgeon cutting an appendix. He placed the gilt frame on the floor and turned the picture in its stretcher to look at the canvas backing. Using a magnifying glass, he examined the wood of the stretcher and the canvas. Betty and Jupiter watched him eagerly.

  “Yes, yes,” he nodded. “Wood’s old, yes — h’m, — canvas seems genuine — can’t tell. Hard to, you know, without a microscope. Don’t need one. Let’s see, now.” He turned the picture to examine the paint.

  Even without the glass, Jupiter could see the tiny rectangular cracks in the paint.

  “See that cracking?” said Chalmers. “Paint cracks that way with time. All paint does it, but you can get the same thing using a varnish. Special antique varnish — buy it in a store — used it myself hundreds of times. Proves nothing. Make a test now — only thing I can do. I’m not a chemist — know nothing about pigments, really. Doesn’t matter. Most forgers use the same pigments that were common at the time of the original.”

  He straightened up, walked to a cabinet that was filled with paint tubes and brushes stiff with dried pigment, and returned with a bottle and a piece of waste.

  He held up the bottle. “Alcohol. Pity to waste it on this, eh, Jones? Won’t use much. See if the paint is old. Simple test, but effective. Chap in London discovered it, I think — an expert, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Jupiter, “I’ve heard of it.”

  Chalmers soaked the waste in alcohol and began rubbing it gently over a small corner of the picture. Then he held up the rag. It was tinted a light brown; the color of the paint where he had rubbed was a dark blue. He
frowned.

  “Just the varnish. It would come off anyway.” Betty said, “If, by any chance, you’re wrong about this, Jupiter, you’re going to have fun explaining to the authorities.”

  Oh, no. You took all the responsibility. Don’t you remember telling Abner?”

  Chalmers interrupted. “That doesn’t necessarily prove that the paint is old, my friends. A thin coat of size between the paint and the varnish would protect the paint from the alcohol. A chemist could tell us whether or not such a coat has been applied in this case. However . . .” He spread his hands hopelessly. “I am not a chemist.” Jupiter said, “H’m — you don’t know of any other way you could tell if the painting was a fake?”

  “Surely, there are many ways. But you see we have only this one painting to go on. We have nothing to compare it with. Laboratory tests could tell us, but I have no laboratory.”

  “That would take a hell of a lot of time,” mused Jupiter.

  “When they find you’ve stolen one of their better paintings there’s going to be trouble,” added Betty. “You’re a great help,” said Jupiter.

  “There is a way,” said Chalmers, “but unfortunately it would damage the painting slightly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I could scrape down a small portion of the paint and then apply the alcohol. That would prove conclusively if the paint was old, but it would leave rather an unsightly spot on the canvas, I’m afraid.”

  Jupiter licked his lips. “How large a spot?”

  “About two inches square would do it, I think. A chemist could accomplish the same thing without leaving a trace.”

  “Try it,” said Jupiter shortly.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t take the responsibility, Jones. It would be almost impossible to restore the damage adequately.”

  “I’ll take the responsibility. Go ahead.”

  Betty said, “Sure — hell, yes, go ahead. The painting’s only worth between sixty and seventy thousand dollars. They tell me jail conditions are improving every day.”

  “You’ll be with me, my girl. Proceed, Mr. Chalmers.”

  The artist shrugged and picked a scraping knife from the floor. He placed a block of wood under the canvas and with rapid yet careful strokes removed the top layer of paint from a corner of the picture. It left a faintly greenish spot on the canvas.