The Philadelphia
Murder Story
by LESLIE FORD
The Philadelphia Murder Story
Copyright © 1945, renewed 1972, by Zenith Brown.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
1
The editors of The Saturday Evening Post have finally overcome what I think I may call their natural reluctance about telling the full story of the body they found in the goldfish pool in the entrance lobby of The Curtis Publishing Company Building on Independence Square, in Philadelphia, last winter. The ribald cries that went up in the New York columns about sweeping out the editorial offices and finding more bodies, including illustrators and fiction writers, had nothing to do, they insist, with that decision.
If there was pressure on the editors to tell the story, in fact, it was probably brought by the Ladies’ Home Journal and the Country Gentleman, who’d got tired of trying to explain that it had nothing to do with them—though neither, I’m told, has ever admitted the authorship of that interoffice memorandum entitled “Bring Out Your Dead” that was put up on the Post doors on the sixth floor.
This may all seem a little heartless now, but, as they said at the time, no one can go around asking for murder and expect tears to be shed when he gets it. I was, and in telling the story of what happened I still am, a little afraid that the people who write to the editors saying it must be Grace Latham who murders the victims herself, will now accuse them of wanting to get rid of this victim and calling me in to do it for them. It does seem obvious that a widow on what someone once kindly called the glamorous side of forty, living in Georgetown, District of Columbia, should not, in the ordinary nature of things, be constantly stumbling over corpses. On the other hand, it seems only fair to say I never did, until Col. John Primrose and Sgt. Phineas T. Buck became a Hydra-headed figure in my life. If people are suspicious of me, I can truthfully say there are times when I’ve been a little suspicious of Colonel Primrose and his sergeant. I’ve sometimes thought that when they retired from the Army (92nd Engineers) and started doing private inquiry for various governmental agencies, they set out to find what I hope it’s all right to call a fall guy, and found me living right across from them on P Street, It seems I was pretty much of a natural, or at least I certainly was in the business of the body in the pool and The Saturday Evening Post. And as for people constantly demanding why I don’t marry Colonel Primrose and get it over with, the answer is simply that he’s never actually asked me to, and I don’t feel I know him well enough to suggest it myself.
In any case, I was responsible neither for the body’s being put into the goldfish pool in The Curtis Building lobby nor for Colonel Primrose’s being there to help get it out. The editors of The Saturday Evening Post are responsible for the whole thing. If they hadn’t let Myron Kane do the profile of Judge Nathaniel Whitney, the marble-alabaster sanctuary of that lobby would never have been the scene of as astonishing a murder as ever turned a magazine inside out, and if they hadn’t themselves got Colonel Primrose in when things first began to look odd, I doubt if anybody would have discovered who did it or why. Where Colonel Primrose is, Sergeant Buck follows as the night the day, and it was Buck who stated the whole responsibility in a very few words. Few for most people, I mean. For Sergeant Buck it was a full week’s supply of his stringently rationed vocabulary, and the longest coherent statement I ever heard him make.
“If you lay down with dogs, you got to expect to get fleas,” he said.
He may have had something more in mind than the editors of the Post consorting with Myron Kane, because he’d already said Colonel Primrose’s being there in Philadelphia was a wild-moose chase, and he’s almost as suspicious of anybody connected with the printed word as he is of women who are designing to marry his colonel. And he never actually got over his mistrust of the people on the Post. Being a black-jack-and-poker man himself, he could easily suspect anything of Bob Fuoss, the managing editor, and Art Baum, one of the associate editors, when he found out they wasted their lunch hour playing three-cushion billiards, and the fact that Fuoss had played with Willie Hoppe was only the slightest mitigation. Ben Hibbs, the editor, he got to like, I suppose because of the earthy grass roots Ben had trailed from Kansas, though certainly that wouldn’t explain his attitude toward Marion Turner, one of the two women editors on the Post. It was his deep conviction that she, at least, had nothing to do with the murder—or it was until he saw her lunching at the Downtown Club with Colonel Primrose. Black hair, gray-green eyes and magnolia-petal skin are excellent things in a woman, but not when one’s colonel is so absorbed in conversation with them he forgets he’s supposed to be at the city jail.
However, when Sergeant Buck first saw them, all pretty shattered, I may say, by sudden violent death in their own front door, the marble bust of Benjamin Franklin looking quietly down from his fluted pedestal while detectives, white-faced editors and a pair of startled paper and ink salesmen milled about, he and the pallid goldfish huddled at the far end of the oblong pool regarded them with much the same look in their clammy eyes. It was no doubt the most excitement they’d had in all their submerged and sunless lives. The goldfish, I mean. I don’t know about the editors of the Post. And yet it was the editors who’d decided to have Myron Kane do the profile of Judge Nathaniel Whitney. The marble lobby, the pool with the water playing from shallow fountain urns, the goldfish, the great mosaic Dream Garden by Tiffany out of Maxfield Parrish will never seem so enchanted again. I’ve forgotten who it was said a lot of people had sweated blood crossing that lobby, going to interview an editor, but nobody had ever shed it there before.
2
Myron Kane had come back on the national scene after his notorious run-in with the military about evading censorship in the Near East. I’d read about him in a column syndicated from New York:
Another foreign commentator has decided fairer fields are closer home. Myron Kane, pal of princes, potentates and premiers—but not generals—is around town. He’s doing a piece for a national-circulation weekly on a Quaker City celeb. May be dull, may be a libel suit, depending on what table in snob Rittenhouse Square he picks his crumbs up at.
That was in November, and when I got back home to Georgetown for the Christmas holidays, I found a letter from Myron on my desk. It said:
Dear Grace: I understand you have relatives by marriage in Philadelphia. If they include, or you otherwise know, that eccentric museum piece, Abigail Whitney, will you drop me a note of introduction? I understand she’s taken her own name back, not being up to the mental effort of keeping her marital ventures in proper sequence. I’m doing a profile of her brother, Judge Nathaniel Whitney, for the Sat Eve Post, and I understand they’ve lived next door to each other and haven’t spoken for years, so I can’t meet her through him. If you ever get up there, give me a buzz and I’ll buy you a stengah.
MYRON KANE.
I did have relatives by marriage in Philadelphia, and some of them might be called museum pieces. Abigail Whitney was not one of them. I knew her very slightly, and that just from times I’d met her before I married Bill Latham, who came from there. After the plane crash that left me with two small sons, I seldom went back. In those days Abigail Whitney was in her late heyday and still very beautiful. My husband’s family thought she was shocking, and no doubt she was, but being a Whitney kept doors open to her that her money couldn’t have and that her four marriages and numerous escapades on both sides of the Atlantic should have locked and double-locked. She seemed to my generation to be a high wind, fresh if somewhat salty.
I didn’t know her well, however, and I’d never seen her since, though I’d heard a lot of gossip about her, and tales of the jungle warfare she carried on with her brother from their foxholes next door to each other in Rittenhouse Square.
She wouldn’t, furthermore, have known me from Adam,