The Philadelphia Murder Story by Leslie Ford Page A

to print it. Or that’s what it used to be. I was going to be a printer once myself—like Benjamin Franklin. I even used to know the number of pieces of glass they baked to make that Maxfield Parrish Dream Garden in the lobby. But that’s not what I mean. I mean, what happens to Myron’s manuscript? Who’s got it now? Where is it?”
    “All I know is what Mark Childs told me when he did the profile of Colonel Primrose,” I said. “He gave it to Bob Fuoss at lunchtime. Two of the associate editors—I think Jack Alexander was one of them—read it that afternoon, and Ben Hibbs took it home that night. He has to read everything that goes in the magazine. Ben Hibbs probably has this now. They read so fast, people glue pages together to make sure they read it all, they tell me.”
    “If Mr. Hibbs okays it tonight, what happens?”
    “I suppose they might edit it in the morning and send it up to Composition right away,” I said. “If it’s timely. Or it might stay around a while. I don’t know, really. Why?”
    “I just wondered. If Elsie and Sam hadn’t chucked their weight about so, I’d go and talk to Hibbs in the morning. As a matter of fact, I guess I’ll just go now.”
    “He lives out on the Main Line,” I said. “They say he’s very nice, but he has one curious eccentricity. He goes to bed at night. It’s a grass-root habit that he picked up as a child in Kansas. He’s supposed to be mild, but I believe that’s at nine-thirty in the morning.”
    “Okay, Dear Child,” he said imperturbably. “I get it.”
    We were cutting across the jog in 19th Street to Mrs. Whitney’s house. The lights were still on in her room, and in the windows in her brother’s house next door. It seemed incredible to think they’d lived so close to each other and yet been so remote for so many years.
    “You know,” I said, “I wish somebody would ask me what I think about all this.”
    “Okay. What?”
    “I think you’re a lot of dopes. Now that I’ve met your father, I don’t believe for one instant that Myron Kane would have the courage to offend him, even if he wanted to. I think everything in that profile is there with your father’s knowledge and consent. At least everything about himself. Myron might take pot shots at you and Elsie and Sam, but that won’t hurt anybody. You know the business about present fears being less than horrible imaginings.”
    He didn’t say anything until we’d reached his aunt’s doorway. “It’s funny, you know, Grace,” he said then, “but I never realized till I was out there that I must have been an awful pain in the neck to him. Or how much I—well, I guess worshiped him is what I mean.” He looked at me and grinned suddenly. “I guess it’s a little too much below freezing to make you stand out here and listen to the story of my life,” he said. “What I mean is, if I could save him a half second’s worry—”
    “You could give him Myron Kane’s letter,” I said.
    His jaw hardened. He stood there silently.
    “And look. You don’t seriously think your father ever—I mean, that there’s anything in his life-He seems so—”
    I hesitated, and so did he.
    “He wasn’t always as judicial as he is now,” he said then. “Well, anyhow, good night. I’ll see you tomorrow. Wait, I’ll let you in; I’ve got a key. I guess I’ll go up and say good night to the old gal. Quiet; she may be asleep.”
    The grilled door moved noiselessly and we slipped in onto the thick beige carpet of the dimly lit lower hall. We started up the curving marble staircase. He gripped my arm suddenly, almost throwing me off balance. I caught myself, staring at him. He was standing there, rigid and motionless, his eyes fixed in a kind of incredulous, thunderstruck amazement on the mirrored panel in the wall.
    In it was an oblong of light, brilliant in the dim glow of the hall. I could see Abigail Whitney. She was talking to her brother. Judge Whitney stood there, his head bowed a