The Fourth Side of the Triangle (17 page)

Gently and step by step (did he suspect? Dane thought) the invalid led Lutetia to describe once more the events of September 14th.

“So after the servants left for the night, you were completely alone, Mrs. McKell?”

“Completely.”

“You didn't leave the apartment, even for a few minutes? For a stroll? Some air?”

No, she had not left the apartment for so much as thirty seconds. Of that she was positive. She had not even gone to the door, because no one had rung or knocked.

“How about the telephone? Did you speak to anyone on the phone?”

She hesitated. “Oh, dear.”

“Then you did?”

“I think I did.”

“To whom?”

“I can't remember. Some man, I think it was.”

“About what?”

She smiled uncertainly. “I feel an utter fool. I just don't recall. The only reason I remember a call at all is that I was half expecting my husband to phone from Washington.”

“This man called you?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure of that.”

“I think I'm sure. I'd probably remember if I made a call to anyone.”

Dane could have shaken her. “Mother, for heaven's sake,
think
. This could be all-important. Who phoned you?”

“Dane, don't look at me that way. If I remembered, don't you think I'd say? I wasn't paying much attention to anything that evening. You know television. You just sit there in a vacuum …”

Yes, Dane thought, where you live most of the time.

“… and then so much has happened since, it's quite driven the details of that evening out of my head.”

“Mrs. McKell, Dane is right,” Ellery said. “This could be of the utmost importance. You simply must try to recollect who called you. Was it during the early part of the evening, or late?”

“I don't
know.
”

“Was it a wrong number?”

“I don't believe so …”

“Someone you knew well?”

“Oh, I'm sure not. A stranger, I'm pretty sure of
that.
” This she said brightly, even anxiously, as at a minor triumph that might be snatched away from her. “I suppose that's why I don't remember. It couldn't have been anything of personal importance.”

“At the time, perhaps not. Now … In any event, you spent the entire evening watching TV—nothing else.”

“That's correct, Mr. Queen.”

“I want you to keep thinking about that call, Mrs. McKell. It will come back to you.”

“I'll do my best.”

Ellery sagged. He began to rub the bridge of his nose. “We seem to be hung up, don't we? We have your word, Mrs. McKell, that you didn't leave your apartment the entire time. Obviously, if you didn't leave the apartment, you couldn't have shot Miss Grey. The trouble is, we have
only
your word for it. Forgive me if I sound like a bookkeeper …

“The problem gets down to the absolute need to substantiate Mrs. McKell's story,” Ellery told the others. “How to do that is the heart of the business. Her only contact with the outside world, unless she can remember who phoned her, was by way of the television set. Too bad we don't live in an era of two-way TV communication, as in the science-fiction stories. Well! We seem to have arrived exactly nowhere.”

He sounded fagged; his whole personality appeared to have changed since their discussions of Ashton McKell's predicament.

“Let me keep thinking about this,” he said. “I'll discuss it with my father, too.”

“But he's in charge of the police end of the case,” Dane protested.

“Exactly.”

It was an unsatisfactory session all around. They rose to go in an atmosphere of helpless gloom. The very air in the room smelled stale.

They were at the door when Ellery suddenly said, “Oh, one thing. It probably won't lead anywhere—”

“Just tell me what it is, Mr. Queen,” said Ashton McKell.

“I'm curious about Sheila Grey's work. I'd like to see her fashion designs. What's her establishment called?”

“The House of Grey.”

Ellery nodded. “Can you bring me her drawings, photos, advertisements—anything you can lay your hands on of her creative work, or get permission to borrow? Particularly recent material. But I would like to get an all-over picture, going years back, if necessary.”

“Why, Mr. Queen?”

“If I could answer that, I wouldn't need the material. Say it's a hunch.”

“I don't know if we can …”

“I'll get it,” Dane said. “I'll go to work on it right away. Is that all, Mr. Queen?”

“No, when you do bring me the material I'd appreciate Miss Walsh's coming along with you. You can describe the annual collections to me from a woman's point of view, Miss Walsh—I'm afraid I know as little as most men about women's fashions. Will you do that?”

They left him pulling at his lip, and squinting along the bulky line of his casts.

Sheila Grey had died intestate. Her estate fell to an only relative living in Kansas, a sister with a well-to-do invalid husband. Mrs. Potter had no need for money and no interest in The House of Grey. She had asked the staff to carry on for the time being, had signed powers of attorney, had given John Leslie $100 and the request that he “look after things” in the penthouse apartment; and immediately after the funeral she had flown back home.

Dane told Leslie what it was they wanted.

“I don't know, Mr. Dane,” the doorman said. “Seems like it wouldn't be right, me letting anybody take anything from Miss Grey's apartment. Even you, sir. I could get into trouble.”

“Suppose it was okay with the police,” Dane said. “Would you do it then, John?”

“Sure, sir.”

Dane called Ellery; Ellery called his father; Inspector Queen called Sergeant Velie. In the end, Dane got what Ellery wanted. As the Inspector said, “If he can borrow a defendant, I don't see any harm in letting him have a look at some drawings.”

Sheila Grey had been systematic in her filing. With Sergeant Velie standing by, Dane and Judy went through the dead woman's workroom in the penthouse. From 1957 on, everything was neatly in place, in chronological order. Under the sergeant's eye they transferred the contents of the files into boxes they had brought for the purpose. Dane signed a receipt, the sergeant countersigned it, John Leslie went off happy, and at 10
A.M
. Saturday, Dane and Judy presented themselves,
cum
boxes, in the Queen room at the Swedish-Norwegian Hospital.

Ellery perked up at sight of them. A quick riffle through some of the material, and he gestured toward the walls. “I had my Valkyrie nurse buy up all the local stocks of Scotch tape. Let's start to the right of the door and tape everything up in the proper time sequence … all around the room—drawings, photos, ads, what-have-you. And if the walls give out, spread them on the floor. You'll note that I persuaded the medical powers to let me abandon my chair for a wheelchair. That's for mobility.

“Judy, you arrange. Dane, you tape. I'll ask questions if and as the spirit—and my ignorance—move.”

Judy set to work. She handed Dane the material pertaining to Sheila Grey's first-shown collection, late in 1957, and he taped them to the wall. In a short time Judy was moved to voice her pleasure.

“Aren't these Lady Sheila things stunning,” she exclaimed. “Even if they are six years out of date.”

“Lady Sheila?” Ellery said.

“That's the name of that particular collection.” Judy pointed. “Each showing has a special collection-name, you see. The next year, 1958, is called Lady Nella. To name a collection gives it more character than just a date. Here—1959—”

“Lady Ruth,” Ellery read. “Mmm. Sheila was her own name, so that was natural enough. Nella sounds a bit fancy, but I suppose the exotic touch is an asset in this mysterious business. But why Ruth? Kind of Plain Jane, isn't it? Although … yes, I see.”

Dane, who did not, said, “See what, Mr. Queen?”

“Ruth. Named after the matron of the same name in the Bible book of ditto, I'll bet a ruffle. I don't know what an archeologist would say, but you could put these dresses—some of them, anyway—on 1000-Girls-1000 in any self-respecting Hollywood Biblical extravaganza and I, for one, wouldn't detect a false note. That beautifully ancient simplicity of drape and design. Right, Judy?”

Judy said, “Oh, yes!” Her eyes were shining at the drawings of Sheila Grey's 1960 collection, named Lady Lorna D., with its subtle influences of Scotch color and pattern—gowns which were not so much kilts as kilty, hats which instantly evoked the tam-o'-shanter and Highland bonnet without being either, purses worn in the manner of sporrans but made from the same material as the gown, hinting of plaids and tartans.

“Lady Lorna D.,” Ellery mused. “D. for Doone, I suppose.
Was
that Scottish? Well, it doesn't matter. What's next, Judy?”

Next—as the drawings and photographs, the slick pages from
Vogue
and
Harper's Bazaar
, marched around the walls—came Lady Dulcea, 1961. Lady Dulcea educed nothing of the past or of far-off exotica; that collection had aimed at the future, and some of its designs might have gone well with a space helmet. Judy shook her head. “I don't care much for these, compared with the others, I mean. I'm sure it wasn't her most popular collection. Of course, Sheila Grey never had a style showing that could really be called a failure.”

“Why Dulcea, I wonder?” asked Ellery. “Any notion, Judy?”

Judy looked dubious. She was already absorbed in the 1962 collection, Lady Thelma, with its daring lines, bold colors, and generally theatrical air. “Isn't it gorgeous? No wonder it was such a sensation.”

Dane had used up all the available wall space, and the final group was accordingly spread out on the floor.

“What's this?” Ellery muttered. “This” was the collection Sheila Grey had been working on at the time of her death. In this one there were no photographs, no newspaper articles, no slick magazine illustrations, only drawings. Drawings in various stages of completion, from rough sketches through elaborate mock-ups to the almost-fully-delineated.

“Doesn't look as if she actually got to finish any of them—even these,” Ellery said. He was squinting hard.

Judy picked up a drawing. “This one looks finished,” she said, handing it to him. “The only one in the batch.” At the bottom of the drawing was what was obviously intended to represent the 1963 collection's name.

In inked block capitals: LADY NORMA.

“Well, that's it,” said Judy.

Ellery sat bent over in his wheelchair. He nodded slowly. “I wonder if her death could in any way be connected with the intense rivalries that exist in the world of fashion design. It's hardly credible that any reputable salon would send a thug or a thief to break into the Grey apartment. But suppose some independent operator—a free-lance industrial spy—decided to snatch what he could and sell it somewhere …”

Dane remembered what Sheila had told him on the subject. Ellery listened closely, interrupting: “Did she name names?” “Did she seem seriously worried?” Then he dropped that line of inquiry and turned to Judy. But Judy could contribute nothing that had any relevance to the murder. Finally he wheeled his chair around the room, examining the material on the walls with the most concentrated care.

He was still in silent communion with Sheila Grey's handiwork when the blond nurse came in with a doctor.

“I'm afraid you two will have to excuse me now.”

“Shall we come back this afternoon?” Dane asked Ellery.

“No, you'd better give me some time to digest all this.”

In the corridor, Dane and Judy exchanged despairing glances. It would not have cheered them to know that in his hospital room Ellery wore very much the same look.

Judy and Dane met on Sunday. Neither found much to say. Finally Judy could stand it no longer.

“Do you feel as discouraged as I do?”

“I'll match my dragging chin against yours any day.”

“You know, we're a couple of goops,” Judy said. “I don't see that we're accomplishing anything moping and comparing moods. Why don't we have another look at Sheila Grey's apartment? Maybe we overlooked something.”

“For two reasons: One, we have no right to enter the premises; two, the police have been over it half a dozen times, and we're not very likely to find something they missed.” They were seated stiffly in the drawing room of the McKell apartment. Ashton and Lutetia had gone to an afternoon church service. “Anyway, nobody overlooked anything.”

“Why can't we try? What harm will it do?”

“I told you. We have no right to enter the premises!”

“Dane McKell, don't you raise your voice to me. I'm only trying to help.”

“Then suggest something helpful!”

Judy blew up. “Why are you treating me so brutally?”

“I'm not treating you any way at all!”

“There could be something in
that
. Look, buster, I know what's eating you. You can't forgive yourself because one night, for a few seconds, you allowed yourself to forget that little Miss Secretary, your father's hired hand, came from the wrong side of the elevated tracks!”

“Oh, come on, Judy,” Dane said wearily.

“Also, I have the misfortune to be Irish. And not lace-curtain Irish, either!”

“I wouldn't care if you were a Hottentot.”

“You'd treat me just as badly, is that it?”

“Now you're talking like a female. It's nothing you
are
, Judy. The trouble is me.”

“Don't give me that baloney,” Judy said tautly. “We worked together so well for a while, until I forgot my place. You haven't spoken a decent word to me since.”

“Judy, try to understand.” A certain faltering, the way his features twisted, silenced Judy. “It's something about me. Personally. I can't explain it. I mean, I may never be able to. Even to you. Especially to you.”