The Fourth Side of the Triangle

“We’ve never been to Luxembourg,” Ashton said enthusiastically. “—Yes, Ramon?”

“The car is ready, Mr. McKell,” the chauffeur said.

“Wait for me.”

“What is it, Margaret?” asked Lutetia. Ramon withdrew, and old Margaret, the senior maid, had come in.

“Callers, ma’am.”

“At this hour? Who are they?”

“Policemen, ma’am.”

“Policemen?”

The roaring began in Dane’s ears. He barely heard his father say, “Show them in, Margaret. Lu, you let me handle this — you, too, Dane”; was barely conscious of the entrance of two men in plainclothes, one of them a giant of a man with a gravelly voice.

“I’m Sergeant Velie of police headquarters,” the big man said, flipping open his shield case. “This is Detective Mack of the 17th Precinct. I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but you know what’s happened in this building—”

“Happened?” Ashton McKell was on his feet. “No, Sergeant, we didn’t know. What is it?”

“The tenant of the penthouse, Miss Grey, was murdered a little before half-past ten last night.”

Lutetia McKell was slewed around, one delicate hand gripping the back of her chair; her husband’s pallor took on a corpselike lividity. Dane fought down the ugly and familiar roaring by sheer savagery.

“What we want to know, sir,” Sergeant Velie was saying, “is if you people heard anything around the time of the murder...”

Ashton McKell’s knees buckled and he pitched over with a thud.

II The Second Side Ashton

The two policemen picked up Ashton McKell and carried him to the couch, loosened his clothing. Dane did nothing.

“You maybe ought to call a doctor, Mrs. McKell,” the bigger detective said.

She shook her head. From somewhere she had produced a silver filigree smelling-salts bottle and she was holding it to her husband’s ashy nose. He twitched, trying to get away from it. She pursued him with firmness. “It’s just overwork. My husband works too hard, and then this shock on top of it... Only yesterday he was called to Washington by the President. Last week he had to fly down to South America. We were just talking about a vacation... Murdered, you say? That poor woman. No, we didn’t hear anything; this is an old house with very thick walls and floors. Dane, please fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. Don’t say anything to the servants. There’s no point in distressing them.”

She continued to talk. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, listening to her, that her husband should have fainted on hearing of a tenant’s violent death.

Gradually his color returned; his eyelids fluttered. Lutetia rose and faced the detectives.

“You’ve been very kind. It’s all right now. I know we mustn’t keep you gentlemen.”

“We’ll probably have to come back,” the big sergeant said with an air of apology. The officers left.

Dane had brought the water in a daze. He sat down at the table, trying to master his nerves, which seemed to have been invaded by St. Vitus. All the little muscles in his hands and face were twittering. He knew he would never forget the sight of his father’s face, this morning of September 15th, drawn even before the detectives’ visit, turning clay-colored as the announcement came and his eyes turned over and he slid to the floor. Had his father ever before in his life fainted? Dane was sure he had not. The news of Sheila Grey’s death must have been a tremendous shock.

The two detectives... the tall one with the sledgehammer hands and the rumbling voice who did all the talking — what was his name again? Sergeant Velie — were deference and concern his usual attitudes on the job? Dane thought not. All detectives had to be actors of a sort, and it seemed to Dane that Sergeant Velie had been striding the boards in full make-up. He knew something. Far more than he had let on.

Dane reached for a cigaret. Then it came back to him: he had not been able to find his cigaret case earlier this morning, just the remains of an old pack. The flat taste of the cigaret he had smoked seemed still in his mouth. Or was it the taste of fear?

His father had begun to moan; his mother had phoned Dr. Peabody after all and was back at her husband’s side; Dane ignored them and ran back to his room. He tumbled things about, questioned the servants, went through the other rooms.

“My cigaret case!” He flung the phrase at his parents. Lutetia looked up; her blue eyes were moist, she was holding on to her husband’s hand. “Have you seen my cigaret case?” She shook her head, obviously bewildered that such a thing could be on his mind; as for Ashton McKell, he was now breathing regularly — otherwise, he lay in silence.