That night Philon did not sleep well for the morrow would be a day
he'd never forget. Even to his calloused mind the dangers involved in
the exploit were considerable.
In the morning he went into John's room and stood looking down at the
boy, who sleepily opened his eyes.
Philon said, "I'm going to be gone from my office all day. And if
anyone calls or comes to see me here at the house tell him I'm sick.
If necessary I'm ordering you to swear in court that I was here all
day and night. Ursula's gone for the weekend to the seashore, so I'm
depending on you. Do you understand?"
John frowned in confusion. "You say you're sick and staying home all
day?"
Impatience edging his words Philon went over the explanation again.
"What d'you mean 'swear in court?' What are you planning to do, Phil?"
John's eyes were wide open now and full of apprehension.
"Never mind what I'm doing. Just tell anybody inquiring that I'm sick
at home."
"You mean _lie_, eh?"
Phil lifted his hand, then swung, leaving the imprint of his four
fingers on the boy's left cheek. "Now do you understand?"
The boy blinked back a tear and nodded wordlessly.
* * * * *
In the late afternoon Philon landed at Washington and under an assumed
name made his way to the government building housing the big Election
Tabulator. At the technical maintenance offices Philon asked, "Is Al
Brant around?"
"Nope. He doesn't come on duty until tomorrow."
At Brant's address Philon knocked on an apartment door. Footsteps
approached inside and the door was opened by a medium-sized man with
black tousled hair. He appeared less than happy to see Philon.
"Hello, Phil. What's on your mind?"
Philon stuck out his hand. "Al, glad to see you again. I know you're
not pleased to see me but let's let bygones be bygones. Can we talk?"
Al Brant stepped back reluctantly. "Well, I guess so. I thought we'd
said everything we had to say the last time."
Philon walked in and settled himself on the davenport. "Yeah, I know,
Al, we had some pretty harsh words. But at least I got you out of the
mess."
Brant said bitterly, "Yeah, got me out of a mess I got into helping
you on one of your shady deals when I worked for you. Well, as I said
before, what's on your mind?"
Philon patted his right chest saying, "Got a hundred thousand here for
you, Al."
Brant's brows lifted in amazement. "A hundred thousand! What's the
catch, Phil?"
Philon's voice dropped to a confidential tone. "You always were a
clever man with electronics, Al, and I've got something here that's
just your meat. I've been studying the design of the Election
Tabulator, and I've discovered a wonderful opportunity for you and me.
"Now listen--it's possible to replace two transmitters on the main
teletype trunk so that a winning percentage of the incoming votes will
be totaled up for my party. Simple little job, isn't it? Worth a
hundred thousand!"
For a long moment Al Brant sat and stared at Philon in cold silence.
Finally, he said, "Do you know what the penalty is for jimmying the
Tabulator to influence voting?"
"No."
"It's life imprisonment!" Brant got up slowly and started across the
room to Philon. "I fell for your line once and got burned--and here
you come again. You must think I'm a born sucker. This time I'm doing
the talking. Give me the hundred grand or I'll kill you with my bare
hands!"
Philon watched him coming as if he were witness to a nightmare. He was
trapped. And in this moment of snowballing fear he ceased to think.
The gun in his pocket went off without conscious effort. Brant
stopped, then collapsed to the floor. Panic took over Philon's mind
and he fled the apartment building as rapidly as was safe.
He was almost back in the city when he tuned in a news broadcast As he
listened, he sat in stunned silence. Brant had roused himself enough
before he died to talk to the man who found him in his apartment.
Brant had named his killer as Philon Miller. Miller felt as if he had
turned to ice.
Then his mind thawed out with a rush of reassuring words. After all,
why should he be worrying? He had John's word in court as a perfect
alibi. Yes, everything would be all right. Everything _had_ to be all
right.
In the late evening Philon arrived at his house with a consuming sense
of great relief, as if the very act of entering his home would protect
him from anything. There was a sense of safety in the mere familiarity
of the environment.
On the mail table he found a note from Ursula saying she had gone for
the weekend. Philon shrugged indifferently. He was glad to have her
out of the way anyhow. But John--there was the best ten thousand
dollars he had ever spent. A sound investment, about to pay its first
real dividend.
"_John!_" His voice echoed in the house with a disturbing hollow
sound. He wet his dry lips and shouted again, "_John_--where _are_
you?"
Only his echoing voice answered him. In growing fright he pounded up
the escalator and rushed into John's room. It was empty. On a desk he
found a message in John's neat hand--
_Phil and Ursula,_
_For a long time I have been very unhappy living with you.
I'm grateful for the food and shelter and education you've
provided. But you have never given me the love and warmth
that I seem to crave. The funny part of it is that I never
understood my craving and what it meant until I saw how love
and affection bound the MacDonald kids and their folks._
_This afternoon Jimmie and Jean came over to say good-by
because they said their father told them they didn't belong
here--that he was taking his family back where they
belonged, atomic bomb threat and all--whatever he meant by
that. After they left I got to thinking how much I'd like to
go with them. So I'm leaving. Somehow I'm going to talk them
into taking me with them wherever they are going. So this
will have to be good-by._
_John._
Philon lifted his eyes from the note and his glance strayed to the
window. Dreading to look he took two slow steps and peered down the
street. The sight of the empty lot on the corner paralyzed him in his
tracks.
John gone! The MacDonald house gone! Gone was his perfect alibi! In
Washington a dying man's words had spelled out his own death sentence.
A step at the door roused him from his horror-stricken trance. He
looked up to see a detective and a policeman regarding him with cold
calculation.
"What's the matter, Miller?" asked the detective. "We've punched your
announcer button half a dozen times. You deaf? You better come along
to Headquarters to answer some questions about your movements today."
* * * * *