 Archer Atkins, the Dean of New York Drama Critics, had ever at Clayton a syndicated column. But more than that, it was interesting in its structure. There were seven distinct steps between an apparently causal relationship and a murder. The opening night of Clayton's first play at a whirlwind was step number one. Atkins had attended, of course, with the rest of the critics. Shortly after the final curtain, had walked across the street to the offices of the New York Globe with merchants and his editors to meet the newspaper's deadline. It was Clayton's new play, The Whirlwind, opened last night at the Brighton Theatre with Diana Brooks and Paul Strand in the leading role. Did they shoot Atkins? Oh, well, much of it. I want to see what you did to Clayton's play. I thought it was great. Oh, did you? Here's what I saw. Ever at Clayton's new play, The Whirlwind, his dullness itself is utterly lacking in originality, imagination, or even ordinary playability. The death rattle was audible before the first act was five minutes old. Less than Atkins, you can. Oh, why can't I? You grew up together. You came from Texas together. You even engaged to his sister. He's your best friend. Oh, no, no friendship. You're a liar. You're jealous because Clayton's invading the drama, your sacred territory. Oh, that's true. You should fire me. It's too bad I'm too influential, huh? You know, one of these days you'll stick your neck out too far and I'll chop it off. So, whatever Clayton's play was step number two. The next day you see Clayton in the coffee shop of the Stratford Club where both of you live. He walks over to your booth. He's faced tense and expression. The paper folded in his pocket. Well, Edward, good to see you sit down. Thank you. Yes, sir. Coffee, please. Yes, sir. Two. No coffee for me. No coffee. Yes. Are you stomach again? I'm getting worse, I'm afraid. But that's not why I came, is it, Archie? I suppose not. That review, Archie. Nice of you. You're not a player, right, Edward? You, uh, you only saw the play ever since. Of course. An author spends a year writing a play and that's the consideration he gets. Any of your money, any? Everything I've got. Oh, too bad. Why didn't you consult me before? Let me read it. Because only when I get sarcasm, smart cracks, not one bit of constructive criticism. There is a small item you've forgotten. Talent. No one has yet succeeded in drawing milk from an elephant. No, a kindness from a critic. If you wanted charity, you should have said so. Do you want me to go over it scene by scene and show you how bad it is? No, because you couldn't. That's the trouble, you know. The people don't decide what's good or bad anymore. They wait for the critic to tell them. Oh, thanks to you, I know my play is dead, Atkins. But I also know you're fake. You've been phony all your life. If the roguer boys in Switzerland had Edgar Allan Poe's name on it, you'd call it great. Very easy, old boy. You're getting carried away. You picked on the wrong guy, Archer. I've got 20 million readers too, and before this thing's over, I'm going to make you look like the village idiot. Just do me a favor, Atkins. Check my column tomorrow. It'll interest you. But there's the Atkins Clayton Affair fell neatly into seven parts, seven steps to murder. Clayton's play, of course, was the first step. And the scathing review that appeared in the globe the next day over your signature was the second. But when you arrive at your office the next day, Merchants and the editor is sitting on your desk waiting for you. The afternoon edition of the ledger in his hand. Hello, Magistral. The reeked plate was confiscated in Norse. Lead paragraph. Listen. I am now reconciled of the fact that my play in a whirlwind will close in a matter of days as a result of the efforts of a group of critics headed by Archer Atkins. As a matter of fact, Atkins is not equipped to set himself up as a critic or even a writer. He has no conception of literature, dramatic, poetic, or otherwise. And I intend to prove it. You're amusing, but not very. You started all of this, Atkins. I think you should apologize. I'm not quite busy, Magistral. I'm sure there are a few obituaries that require your keen intelligence. I hope Clayton gives you a...sock and a jewel. Number three, Archer. The public challenge that went out to 20 million readers. You decide it's ridiculous, of course, and forget about it. The play lasts five days and closes. Then one evening, some weeks later, Barbara Ross, the fashion editor on the ledger, walks up to you in the lobby and taps you on the shore. Archer, darling. Good evening, my dear. Archer, I found something I thought you'd want to glance at. Why, did Clayton put me in print again? Nothing like that. Somebody hadn't read his book of poetry. Poetry? It was printed privately, only 50 copies. Well, let me see. Fourteen by Jafar Ahmed. What's the book? Well, I think it's lovely. It's written by an immigrant boy about his love for a little girl. Oh, thank you. Poetry, darling, is as much a part of adolescence as the first shave, and just about as important. But it's really quite good. The boy seems to have an excellent sense of meter and a good deal of insight, too. Archer, you know so much more about poetry than anyone else I know. All right, dear. I'll look it over. Book of poetry. Nothing to it, of course, is there, Archer? But you take it home and toss it on the nightstand. And just before you decide to turn out the lights, you get up and glance at the first page. It's written before. Memory. Things you've forgotten completely. Spring to light. Yes, this boy has managed to capture something out of every man's youth. Something that gets under your skin and stays there. You finish the book. Get out of bed hurriedly and sit down at your typewriter. You can't wait until tomorrow, can you, Archer? I've got to get it on paper now. All the poems are immature. There's something great and universal about this work. The volume has been printed privately, but in my opinion it would be a wise investment for any publisher to issue it in quantity. 14 by Jaffa Ahmed should never be forgotten. I've ought to do it. It'll be on the bestseller list in a month. I'm aware, of course, that you've just completed number five. Although you don't know it, the minute you turn in that review, you move nearer to murder than you've ever been in your life. Just 24 hours later, when the same boy walks into your office, places a newspaper on your desk. Depth number six. These are copies of the literature. No, no, no. Round time the literature. Here we are. Three months ago, our promised reveal was written by Atkins, the so-called Dean of Literary Critics, as a phoné. Today I call attention to the raves he's been giving the book of poems called Fourteen. Supposedly written by a 14-year-old Iranian lad. The fact is, gentle readers, I wrote Fourteen. Oh, just shocking, eh, Atkins? Oh, well, I'll not decide in a second. That's all right. You needn't hide that. Some of our best people read ever at Clayton, this paper. That's trash, just trash. And lies to our father. Clayton never wrote Fourteen. He hasn't done enough fan. Seems to know a lot about it, Archer. Read on. He tells just how he did it. He had no knowledge of poetry, he says. Just threw together the luscious and most senseless adjectives he could concoct. Had the whole mess printed up on the quiet. And you, the great Archer, Atkins praised it to the skies. Why, you're trying to tell me that you believe this, what a man. A man who got readers, Archer, 20 million of them, so calm down. Don't tell me to calm down. As a matter of fact, why don't you get out of here? Let me have that pipe right now. He's close to his place. Not in a globe, you won't. And why not? I talked to the publishers. They want your resignation for the end of the month. Now, all I'm editing your material, and I don't intend to have any libel suits on my hands. Not even to save the great name of Archer Atkins. Good day. For once there are the last words. And then you never expect it. And it's even worse when you reach the depths of trouble and learn that you've suddenly been turned into a laughing stock. Archer, old boy, how could you? What was it now? I still feel the music, the poignant expression of an adolescent love. Sweetly agonizing emotions part of every man's youth. I was about to cry with pain on your skull by the hand there. Gentlemen, gentlemen, you hear? The great Atkins is no longer capable of using his cutting tongue. He must now resort to a pain. You have Midarcher, and it hurts deep, twisting inside you until finally the seventh step begins to take shape. The seventh and final step murder. I mean thought isn't it, Archer? It's frightening, but very clear. It's all there in your mind as you ride up to your luxurious suite in the elevator. Every Clayton is a man of habit. One of them forced upon him by his help. You know all about that, Archer. How each evening at seventh, a waiter brings a large glass of milk into his apartment. You smile as you let yourself into your rooms across the hall. Tonight, that same waiter must bring you something as well. Hello. Hello, coffee shop. This is Mr. Atkins. I wonder if you'd send me up something, huh? I don't know. I don't know. Something light, a chicken sandwich, perhaps? Oh, no, no, hurry. Well, I've said you have a waiter coming to Mr. Clayton's rooms. At seven? That's time enough, surely. Don't make a special trip. Thank you. Sandwich and coffee for me? Oh, yes, sir. But I was going to stop first at Mr. Clayton. Yes, we're coming in a moment. I'll set it down there on the desk. And I wonder if you'd do something for me. I tried to unlock a suitcase a moment ago, but I couldn't seem to turn the key. Would you have a look at it, please? Why, certainly, sir. Where is it? In the bedroom. Of course, it's too much trouble. Not at all, sir. I have handled a lot of things. You hesitate as the waiter starts across to the bedroom. He's ready to betray. He's set down on your desk. Before he comes back, you enter the contents of a small envelope into the milk intended for Clayton. You stir it hastily, and then return to your book. Well, I got it open for you, sir. That lock is sprung a little bit, though. Oh, well, I'll have to have it attended to. Here you go. Thanks for your trouble. Not at all, sir. Thank you very much. Well, thank you. Go back in your chair now. Giving your waiter time to deliver the glass of milk to Clayton. A few minutes later, you slip out into the corridor and down the hall. Stop outside of Clayton's door and listen. He's talking to someone on the telephone. Yes, yes. I got your letter. Well, what did you expect me to do for the first of the clock? Hoping no one will come along the hall and find you standing here. Are you ever going to pick up that glass and then sit down in that ad-portable typewriter? To my dear mother, to write his own obituary. Because you know exactly what you want Clayton's suicide note to say. It includes above all else the confession, one in which the dead Everett Clayton will admit to the world that he perpetrated as a liberate hoax against you. His note tells how he lied and claiming to have written letters in the book 14. How actually he simply dug up a number of anonymous ballads and revised them a bit. You put it all down for a Clayton style and then you add his well-known signature. Just the two simple typewritten letters. E, C. My dear Everett, we'll see tomorrow how your 20 million readers like this one will publish his hamlet and the whole literary world will have to admit who has the right to wear the critic's crop. You don't seem at all the norm of the manager of this club inform me of Clayton's demise. I resign myself to a round of dull questions. Naturally. You've known him all his life, grew up with him, sweet on his sister. Anything else you want to know? I was an incubator baby, weight three pounds to a month-old answer. I'm surprised you aren't more interested in the way Clayton dies. I like to believe people, Captain. When I'm told someone is dead, I assume he's dead. Whether he was shot through the head with a cannon threw himself into Mount Vesuvius or was clubbed to death with the missing arm of Enos de Milo doesn't concern me in the least. Poison is more to your liking, isn't it? I don't know what you're trying to imply. Let's make it clear then. I'll take you to write that note. Note, Captain. The suicide note in Clayton's typewriter. Oh, do tell. Reverse, no doubt. It says Clayton never wrote those poems that he stole them from some anonymous ballad. Well... I insisted on that all the time. Wait till I get hold of that head. You wrote that note, Atkins. You poisoned Clayton and ran the note off on his typewriter. No, I'm sorry. Who gave you that story? Some idiot from the ledger. Have you ever seen them before? They're yellow. They're very old out there. They're poems you wrote to Everett Clayton's sister when you were 14, over 40 years ago. What? That book of poetry you reviewed was not written by Jafar Ahmed or Everett Clayton, but by Archer Atkins. You were my own poetry. So it wasn't suicide, you see? No, wait a minute. He still did it. It was a malicious criminalism, Captain. It wasn't suicide, Atkins. Clayton's sister blew up when she read what he did with those poems after she sent them to him. She phoned him last night. Talking to her sister. She made him promise a public retraction. Clayton was going to see you about it in the morning. It's Air Forces in Europe presents...