The Fourth Side of the Triangle

She did not even bother to reread it. She thrust it into an envelope, moistened the gum, sealed it securely, and on the envelope wrote: To be opened only in the event I die of unnatural causes. Now she searched her drawer, found a larger envelope, inserted the first envelope into it, sealed the outer one — heavy and yellow — and on its face wrote: For the Police. She hesitated, slipped the envelope into a bottom drawer of her desk, bit her lip, shook her head, took the envelope from the drawer, and dropped it on her desk. I’ll find a better place for it in the morning, she told herself.

Sheila sat back now, exhausted to the point of nausea. After a moment she got up and went over to an easy chair in a half-stumble and sank into it. Dizzy, sick to her stomach, shocked to the core, she felt as she imagined people feel when they are dying. If I died right here and now, she thought, I wouldn’t care.

Her eyes closed...

Later, she could not imagine at first why she was in the easy chair. All of a sudden it came back to her. A glance at her watch told her that less than ten minutes had elapsed.

She visited the bathroom again, dipping a washcloth in cold water, bathing her eyes and neck. My God, what a nightmare, she thought.

Sleep was out of the question, creative work. Yet it was either back to her drawing board or to bed with a sleeping pill, unless... Routine, that was it. There were always mindless matters to lose oneself in, rituals of invoice checking, sample matching, note jotting...

It was as if she had reached a refuge on her hands and knees. Sheila sat down once more at the desk in her workroom.

This affair had turned out monstrously, monstrously. The best thing to do was to forget it (could she ever forget the clutch of those fingers on her throat?). And she reached for a pile of papers in the desk bin.

Her hand remained in midair.

Someone was in her living room.

Her hand felt paralyzed. She forced it — a sheer act of will — to move toward the telephone, watching it as if it were part of someone else’s body. One fingertip clawed at the dial, pulled.

Whoever it was moved stealthily. From the living room into the bedroom.

Far off, a voice spoke. Sheila started. It was in her ear.

“Operator.” She tried to keep her voice steady in its whisper. “Police. Quick.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Yes.”

Sheila’s teeth chattered on the sibilant. Then there was no sound but the air-conditioner. Then a man’s voice said, “Seventeenth Precinct, Sergeant Tumelty.”

“Someone is in my apartment.”

“Who is this, please? What’s your address, phone number?”

Sheila told him. “Just hurry,” she whispered.

“Don’t panic, Miss Grey. Lock the door of the room you’re in. We’ll have somebody—”

“It’s too late!” screamed Sheila. “No — no — don’t shoot—!”

At the sound of the shot Sergeant Tumelty automatically jotted down the time, 10:23 P.M., and said sharply, “Miss Grey? Was that a shot, or...?”

He recognized the next sound. It was the snick of a receiver being set down on its cradle.

The sergeant got busy.

Just after midnight Dane, seeing the lighted windows in his parents’ apartment, went up and found his mother alone in the music room, watching an old film on television, Quality Street, from James Barrie’s 1901 drama of manners. No buckets of blood for Lutetia. In spite of Dane’s protest she turned off the set.

She kissed him on the brow. “Wouldn’t you like something to eat, dear? Or some cold lemonade?”

“No, thanks, Mother. Father’s not back?”

“No. I suppose he got through too late in Washington. After all, he did take an overnight bag.”

“And what have you been doing with yourself?” Dane wandered idly about the music room.

“Being just too wickedly slothful. The servants left at eight, and I’ve been sitting here ever since watching the television.”

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear,” smiled Lutetia.

“I’ve got something to ask you. Something very personal.”

“Oh?” She looked puzzled. The specific area of his question would never occur to her even as a speculation.

“I hope you understand that I wouldn’t ask such a thing if it weren’t very important for me to know.” He was casting about for some “nice” way to phrase the question.

“Of course, dear.” She laughed uncertainly. “You do make it sound... well...”

The way occurred to him. “Do you recall the annulment of the Van Der Broekyns marriage?” She immediately turned pink; she remembered. “His second marriage?” Lutetia nodded reluctantly. “What I have to ask you is this: Has it been, well, that same way with Dad?”

“Dane! How dare you!”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I must know. Has it?”

She refused to meet his eyes; sitting there, she was actually wringing her hands.

“Has it?”

He could barely hear her “Yes.”

And he was astounded. It was true. Sheila had told him the literal truth. He had never been so bewildered in his life.