The Philadelphia Murder Story by Leslie Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

intently. She was standing taut and motionless, her whole bearing a dead giveaway that Myron’s hardly veiled threat had meaning to her that it did not have to him or Travis.
    Travis went over to the switch and pressed the button. The front door opened.
    “Travis?” A full deep voice I hadn’t heard before came up the stairway. Laurel took a deep breath and looked urgently at Monk. I saw his jaw tense as he turned and stood looking down into the fire. I thought he was more disturbed than he had been at any time before.
    Travis had gone out into the hall.
    “Come on up, sir,” he was saying, and I could hear a muffled pattern of more than one pair of feet on the carpeted stairs. “Oh, hello, Sam.”
    There was a good deal less cordiality in his greeting then than when he’d spoken first. Sam Phelps, I thought, in spite of how much Myron Kane thought he could write a check for, was certainly not what one might call a universal favorite. It was Judge Whitney, however, not Sam, that I was interested in, and when he came up into the room, I could see why Laurel Frazier thought about him as she did. He was large and robust, with thick white hair and shaggy, grizzled eyebrows over a pair of very wise blue eyes. His face was broad, shaped like his son’s, but filled out and mature. It was strong as iron, full of repose and understanding.
    “This is Mrs. Latham, judge,” Travis said. He followed him in, leaving Sam Phelps to bring up the rear.
    Judge Whitney took my hand in a warm, friendly grasp. “How do you do, Mrs. Latham? I dined with your friend Colonel Primrose this evening. He said you’re staying with my sister Abigail. I hope that isn’t going to keep me from having the pleasure of seeing you.” The twinkle in his eye disappeared as he turned. “You’ve met my daughter’s husband, Mr. Phelps, I believe?”
    Sam Phelps and I murmured something at each other. Judge Whitney went over to the fireplace.
    “I’ve come after the letter that Mrs. Latham brought to Myron Kane,” he said calmly.
    “We were just talking about it, sir,” Travis said.
    “I presumed as much. Which of you has it?”
    Monk moved over by me. “Better hand it out, Sambo,” he said.
    Sam Phelps’ polished dome flushed. “You’re just trying to annoy me, Monk,” he said angrily. “The first I knew of it was when Kane called me from here an hour ago. I reported it to the judge at once. I’m not in a position to—”
    “I don’t doubt you have the best intentions in the world— one or all of you,” Judge Whitney said. It was almost as if he had been concentrating on Something Else, too, and was unaware his son-in-law was speaking. “Let me say you are badly advised. It’s of the utmost importance that that letter be returned to Myron Kane—and immediately.”
    He stopped as if waiting for someone to hand it over. When no one moved or spoke, he settled back in his chair.
    “I appreciate your motive in all this,” he said patiently. “I don’t appreciate the attitude you all seem to take that I must be protected, against myself or against Kane.” A faint smile flickered for an instant in his eyes. “I can only tell you that this letter will make matters infinitely worse. It will do irreparable harm, and no good whatsoever. It won’t get the manuscript for you, because it’s already in. Kane delivered it to the Post some time ago.”
    There was a suspended silence in the room when he stopped. No one looked at Travis, who’d been so sure the letter was all that was needed to stop Myron Kane’s article from ever going to the Post or to get back the document Laurel had given him in the judge’s file.
    “I may also say that blackmail, in any form, is never justifiable,” Judge Whitney said quietly. “That letter belongs to Kane. It was taken by some one of you at my sister’s house this evening.”
    He turned to his son. “Have you got it, Monk?”
    “No, sir,” Monk said. “I have not.”
    “Travis?”
    “No,