The Philadelphia Murder Story

by Leslie Ford

I told him why I’d come, in the first place, and about that document that Laurel had given Myron by mistake, and about Mr. Toplady’s letter, and about Mr. Toplady generally, but not about the conversation I’d had with him on the bench in the square. Nor did I tell him about Abigail and Judge Whitney, nor about what Monk had told me the night before, about Travis’ father using Laurel’s money and supposedly committing suicide. I thought, in fact, I really did a very good job of keeping faith with Monk, as I’d promised I would do.

  And then I discovered it wasn’t interest in what I was telling him that was keeping us there when we were supposed to be at Judge Whitney’s at one. It was because Sergeant Buck hadn’t come. When he did come, Colonel Primrose took him into the bedroom and closed the door. He came out a little later and we left immediately. He must have unburdened himself, I thought, because he was in a vastly better humor. It was too bad that I hadn’t had courage to listen at the keyhole.

  Our being late didn’t matter, however, because Monk and Travis were just going in as we got to that side of the square, and Laurel had taken us upstairs to the back library before Judge Whitney himself came in.

  They all looked pretty grim, frankly. The judge covered it up fairly well, and so did Laurel and Travis. Monk didn’t even try to. He wasn’t sullen exactly, but he sat with us but not of us, and if you’d taken his face without any of the background, you might have thought he sensed a polecat in the room, although Sam hadn’t come yet. It wasn’t Laurel, either, because neither of them seemed even to see the other. She was spared having to offer him a glass of sherry when he got up, went to the cellarette and poured himself a bourbon and water, emphasizing his nonconformity to the household mores.

  Judge Whitney looked at his watch. “Where are Sam and Elsie?” he asked… “I wanted you to meet all the members of the family, Colonel Primrose.”

  “Soapy had a busy day ahead of him,” Monk said.

  “Does he know, I wonder,” Colonel Primrose asked blandly, “that his wife is in possession of what seems to be a very dangerous document?”

  Laurel, who’d taken a chair where her back was all Monk could have seen of her if he had cared to look, which he didn’t, glanced quickly at me. She was taut and tense again, the way she’d been the first day, when the responsibility for the document Myron had was still entirely hers. She looked away as quickly.

  I realized that Colonel Primrose was only trying to find out if they knew about it, and there was no doubt they all did. There was a well of silence, not long, but fathoms deep.

  “Aunt Abby told him, sir,” Travis said at last. “She called the police station. That’s why he left without waiting to see Malone. I don’t get it, because he said Kane showed him the manuscript, and there was nothing in it anybody could object to. But he sure got out of there in a hurry. Boy, did he go!”

  “He didn’t say where he was going, Mr. Travis?”

  Travis hesitated for just an instant. I think he was going to correct Colonel Primrose about his name, but it would have been rather awkward, and he let it go.

  “No, sir,” he said.

  Judge Whitney looked at his watch again. He nodded to the maid who’d come to the door. “We won’t wait for them any longer.”

  “Elsie is probably at a Meeting,” Travis said.

  We went downstairs to the large dining room across the back of the house. It was dark and heavy, with beautiful gleaming silver on an oak sideboard and closets full of lovely old china and porcelain along one whole side of the room. Whatever sun there was wasn’t enough to get very far, and the overhead lights didn’t help out too much.

  Judge Whitney had me at his right and Colonel Primrose at his left. The two Phelpses’ seats yawned empty beside us, and then came Monk on my side, Laurel at the end and Travis next to her.

  “Of course, Colonel Primrose, it’s a very curious thing to me,” Judge Whitney said. “I’ve no idea why my family is so determined that this profile of mine has to be censored or why it’s regarded as dangerous. It’s a complete and total mystery to me.”

  “You didn’t see it, I understand?”

  “No,” Judge Whitney said deliberately. “I didn’t want to.”

  He avoided looking at the three members of his family— actual or virtual—at the end of the table, where they were sitting like children with their eyes on their plates.

  “Once in a city out West—Tacoma, Washington, I think it was—I was walking through a public park,” he went on quietly. “I’ve forgotten now whether it was a bust of Ibsen or a full figure I came on. But there was a tablet on it with a quotation from him that I’ve never forgotten. It said:

  “Our lives should be pure and white

  Tablets whereon God may write.

  “I’m not so presumptuous as to pretend that I’ve followed that edict to the letter, but I think I can say there’s nothing in my life I would object to having published in The Saturday Evening Post.”

  Monk was the only one of the three who wasn’t looking at him then. A dull flush had deepened the color in his sunburned face. His eyes were still fixed on his plate.

  “I’ve made mistakes,” Judge Whitney said calmly. “A great many of them. I’ve done as many small and petty things I’m ashamed of as any man, and I wouldn’t flaunt them in public. But I have an idea that if Myron Kane had stumbled on any of them, it might be good for my soul to have them exposed.”

  He turned his fine white head and strong blue eyes toward Colonel Primrose, smiling faintly.

  “I think a profile ought to include a glimpse of the clay everyone’s feet are made of. That’s why I like the modern profile method. It’s an insult to every man’s intelligence to pretend, as the old biographies did, that the subject was flawless. That’s what makes for our common humanity.” He glanced at the three at the end of the table again and smiled. “For one thing, I understand Myron Kane made it very clear he thought I had, in a sense, adopted Laurel Frazier and concerned myself professionally with other people’s children, because I’d done such an unsatisfactory job with my own.”

  His smile as his eyes rested with great pride on Monk was a palpable denial. Monk’s eyes were still on his plate, and the ears and mind he was listening with were too beclouded to catch the gentle raillery in his father’s tone. His jaw tightened and the flush on his face darkened.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. His own tone was clipped and curt. “You won’t have to put up with me after tomorrow. My leave’s up and I’ll be glad to steer clear of Philadelphia hereafter. And as Elsie’s apt to get her throat cut any time now, you’ll be rid of her too. I’D be glad to do it myself, if it’ll help you out any.”

  His father had raised his glass of sauterne. He held it halfway to his lips, completely stunned, looking blankly across the table.

  “Oh, Monk!” Laurel said. “You ought to—”

  “You can shut up, please,” Monk said quietly. “Furthermore, I hope somebody’s told you the handkerchief you tried to palm off on Malone wasn’t mine, after all. You didn’t burn the right corner. What—”

  Travis Elliot put his wineglass down. “Come on, Monk. Cut it out.”

  Laurel was sitting bolt upright, her lips parted. “It—it wasn’t yours?” she whispered.

  “No, Sweetie-pie.” He spoke with elaborate irony. “It wasn’t mine, and you knew damned well it wasn’t.”

  Colonel Primrose’s urbane glance moved from one to the other of them. Judge Whitney sat there silently. The whole activity of the table centered in the young maelstrom swirling up at the other end.

  Travis pushed his chair back a little, his jaw beginning to stick out too. “Monk,” he said quietly, “you don’t know what you’re saying.” He had a good deal of force under his well-tailored exterior. “Just shut up, will you?”

  Laurel flashed around, the color suddenly flaming up like two geranium petals in her cheeks. “Will you be quiet yourself, Travis?”

  Judge Whitney’s hand came down on the table sharply. “Th
at makes it unanimous,” he said. “I suggest all three of you shut up. I don’t understand this—any of it. I don’t understand you—any of you. I’m astonished that you-Colonel Primrose, Mrs. Latham, I hope—”

  If Mr. Samuel Phelps had tried to plan his entrance for the worst possible moment, he couldn’t have done it better. He came bravely in through the living-room door, his bald head pink and glistening, rubbing his hands together.

  “I’m very sorry I’m late, sir,” he said.

  The atmosphere was crackling with static. Judge Whitney fixed his blue eyes on him. “Where is my daughter?”

  Sam Phelps stopped in his tracks, looking at the two empty chairs. I glanced at Colonel Primrose. He was still looking quietly around. Laurel had picked up her Waterford goblet, the bright pink stain still visible in her cheeks. The pulse in her throat was going a mile a minute. Monk and Travis were both staring grimly down at the table.

  “I thought she would be here, sir.” Sam spoke politely, if not very tranquilly, and he was obviously not happy. “May I sit down, sir? I don’t care for anything to eat.” He sat down between Colonel Primrose and Travis.

  “I assume you’re aware, Sam, of what Elsie has done,” Judge Whitney said quietly.

  “I think we can trust her discretion, sir.” There was something very smug about the way he said it.

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you.”

  I don’t know why Sam missed the storm warnings. They were certainly plain.

  “I mean you don’t have to disturb yourself about the—the document any more, Judge Whitney.”

  It wasn’t only smug then, it was slightly patronizing. I didn’t dare look at anyone.

  “I mean, I’m sure Elsie will destroy it at once.”

  I looked at Travis then. He’d put his hand out to Laurel and was holding hers tightly on the edge of the table. She’d gone the color of the meringue under the fresh strawberries on her plate, the blue of her eyes drained until they were gray.

  “If you’ll pardon me, sir,” Travis said abruptly, “I think Sam had better explain what he and Aunt Abby have been doing. I think you should listen, sir.”

  Judge Whitney looked at him silently, and glanced at Monk, still sitting there like a hundred-and-ninety-pound Hamlet in contemporary dress, absorbed in a wordless soliloquy. He looked at Laurel and at Travis, and nodded.

  “What have you and my sister been doing, Sam?” he asked.

  “I would rather tell you in private, sir.” Sam’s collar seemed higher and tighter. He glanced sideways at Colonel Primrose.

  “I prefer to hear it now,” Judge Whitney said.

  “Very well, sir. It’s merely that Aunt Abby learned this fellow Kane had sent the document he got from Laurel—she says by mistake—down to Mrs. Latham’s house in Washington. I lunched with Aunt Abby yesterday, at her request. She suggested I telephone Mrs. Latham’s house and have Kane’s mail sent back here. We know it was the only way to get the—the document in the proper hands again.”

  The silence then was deep and long as well.

  “You see, that was before we knew Kane was dead,” Sam said. “It was… unfortunate, of course,” he added lamely.

  Still nobody spoke.

  “I was acting in what I regarded as the family’s best interest.”

  He waited, and was starting to add something when Judge Whitney interrupted him. “Thank you, Sam,” he said.

  If you have seen a soft crab dropped into a kettle of smoking fat, you will know what Sam Phelps looked like just then. I wouldn’t have believed three words could so wither and burn. It was fortunate the maid came in then.

  “The telephone, sir,” she said.

  Laurel jumped up. “I’ll answer it, sir.”

  The silence continued a moment after she’d got out. To my surprise, it was Colonel Primrose who broke it; and after a moment I was more than surprised.

  “I ran across some curious ancient history this morning,” he said—“While Miss Frazier is gone. I was at the Quaker Trust Company, having some microfilm records run off on the screen. The bookkeeper—his name is Toplady—got an extra roll in by mistake. They were films of the famous Douglas Elliot steal of ten years ago, and the note you’d signed the day he blew his brains—”

  If a bolt of lightning had struck the table, we couldn’t, any of us, have been more appalled or more rigidly speechless with horror. Colonel Primrose stopped abruptly, sensing it, as he would, but still, of course, not realizing.

  “I—I’m sorry!” he said. He looked quickly at the door. “I was sure she was out of hearing. I’m very sorry!”

  I have never seen people more aghast—even Sam—and all of us trying to look anywhere but at Travis.

  Monk pushed his chair back. “Excuse me, please, father,” he said shortly. He got up… “Come on, Trav.”

  Travis got up slowly. “My name is Travis Elliot, Colonel Primrose,” he said quietly. “Douglas Elliot was my father. Will you excuse me, please, sir?”

  Judge Whitney came around the table and put his hand on Travis’ shoulder. “If you’ll wait, son, I think Colonel Primrose would like the privilege of being allowed to tell you he didn’t—”

  If it hadn’t all been so awful, the sight of Colonel Primrose’s face would have been irresistibly funny.

  Travis shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, sir. It was a steal, and my father did blow his brains out. I—I can’t ask-Just excuse me, sir. Will you, please?”

  Monk was waiting for him in the door. He was looking back at his father. He didn’t speak, but just looked at him. They went on out.

  Colonel Primrose had got himself together and got to his feet, knocking over his wineglass as he did it.

  “I’m very sorry, Judge Whitney,” he said quietly. “I—I understood the young man’s name to be Travis. I—you know, I wouldn’t for the world have—”

  “I know, indeed, you would not have,” Judge Whitney said. He let himself down heavily in his chair and sat there, looking down at the table. “It can’t be helped, colonel. Travis has had a good deal to forgive a good many people—including his father before and at his death. I—I didn’t know the records were still in existence. It was a very great tragedy.” He got slowly up. “I think, if you will excuse me now—I don’t wish to be rude, but I—I feel the need of a little rest.”

  We went out of the dining room. All of us, that is, but Sam Phelps. At the door, I glanced back. Nobody else seemed to notice that he was still sitting at the table.

  14

  “I don’t want to rub it in, but if you just hadn’t been so brutal about it—” I said as we left the house. “Did you have to call it a steal? And couldn’t you have said something besides ‘blew his brains out’?”

  He gave me a rueful glance. “I’m sorry,” he said briefly.

  We were walking toward Walnut Street in silence after that, because it seemed to me that it was hardly sufficient apology for such an incredibly inept breach of courtesy.

  “I guess it must have been that Ibsen quotation,” he said as we reached the corner. He repeated the lines Judge Whitney had spoken:

  “Our lives should be pure and white

  Tablets whereon God may write.”

  He was silent a moment.

  “You see, I knew Douglas Elliot,” he said. “He was in the Judge Advocate General’s Department in the last war. I never knew a man whose life was a whiter tablet for God to write on. It made me very sore. Stupid, I suppose, but there it is.”

  I didn’t know what he meant, but I thought I had a fairly good idea. He always knew things I never gave him credit for knowing, and if he knew what Monk and I knew, that quotation, coming from Judge Whitney, must have sounded like the crassest and most hypocritical bombast and deceit. I knew that was what it had sounded like, and sickeningly, to Monk. It hadn’t to me, but I’m easily affected by what I believe is called theater. And it was good theater, at that. Still, to anyone inclined to be a realist or with a personal conn
ection I didn’t have, I could see how it would have sounded, knowing the tablet of the judge’s life was splotched with the blood of his friend.

  Anyway, I decided I’d better go back and tell Monk it wasn’t I who’d told Colonel Primrose—or not so far as I knew.

  “I’ll go back to Abigail’s, I think,” I said.

  He smiled faintly. “You’re going with me.”

  He hailed a taxi.

  “To the Warwick, please. After that I want to go to Camden.”

  “You mean New Jersey?” I demanded. My knowledge of geography being pre-Copernican, I had no way of knowing it was just across the river and not as far as Capitol Hill is from my house in Georgetown.

  It seemed to me an embarrassingly long time that he was in the Warwick, but that was, no doubt, because so many people wanted the taxi in which I was parked outside.

  He came out at last and said to the driver, “Three hundred ten Pepperell Street.”

  “Who lives on Pepperell Street?” I asked.

  “Albert Toplady.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  He cocked his head down and around again, and looked at me this time, sharply.

  “Will he be home?” I asked.

  “Yes. He will.”

  No. 310 was painted bright yellow, with white trim, and it had a whitewashed picket fence around its minute lot, with a star-shaped flower bed marked with whitewashed bricks as a front garden. The shades were drawn in the two front windows and there was a bottle of milk on the porch.

  “Wen, it doesn’t look as if anybody’s at home,” I said.

  We went up to the door. I noticed two women peering out at us through the orange curtain of the window next door. They were still there when Colonel Primrose gave up ringing the doorbell after several minutes.

  “I’ll go around to the back,” he said. “You wait here.”

  I waited. I could hear him banging on the back door, but either Mr. Toplady was not at home or Mr. Toplady had no intention of coming out. The taxi driver got back into his car and settled down. Colonel Primrose came back.