The Fourth Side of the Triangle

Dane collapsed in a chair. His mother — raised in the world of her grandmother, when pipes were Rough, cigars Ostentatious, and cigarets Fast (snuff was regrettably outmoded, while chewing tobacco was not mentioned in polite society) — had given him the silver case on his twenty-first birthday as a sign of grace, conferring the solid right in his new manhood to smoke in her presence without the hint of reproof that had greeted his two or three earlier attempts. The case was a beautifully handcrafted Tiffany piece; the inside of the lid was engraved Philip Dane DeWitt McKell.

Where was it?

If he had left it in Sheila’s apartment, then the police had found it. The presence of his cigaret case on the scene of the crime... He might be able to get by with saying that he had left it there on a previous visit... Worry nibbled at him.

If the police had found the case, why hadn’t the two detectives mentioned it? Of course, they might be laying a trap for him. On the other hand, suppose they hadn’t found it? — because it wasn’t there? In that case, what had happened to it?

The next two days were unpleasant. His parents made no further mention of a European tour. Ashton McKell’s manner at home was listless and preoccupied.

Dane tried to work on his book without any success whatever. It was easier to sit turning the pages of illustrated books of other people, the illustrations distracting without requiring concentration — bulky books, Audubon’s sketchbooks, volumes of Peter Breughel and Hieronymus Bosch. The Bosch he flung aside; that nightmare world ruined his sleep. Demons, naked women and men, apples... silver cigaret cases...

There was something besides the cigaret case. For weeks he had been monopolizing Sheila Grey’s life — lunches, dinners, the theater, the ballet, walks, ferry rides. Cherchez l’homme.

He supposed it worked that way, too. Look for the man. He was the last man in Sheila’s life. How long would it take the police, by routine legwork, to get around to him?

He found it childishly easy to yield to his mother’s plea that for the present he take his meals with her and his father. He wondered if she knew, or suspected, about him and Sheila.

They were at breakfast, a moody one, his father’s New York Times untouched beside his plate, when the two police officers returned. One look at their faces told Dane that it was no longer a matter of questions like Did you hear anything unusual, etc.

Again it was Sergeant Velie who did all the talking. He greeted Lutetia politely, nodded to Dane. But his attention was concentrated on Ashton McKell.

They had all risen; the sergeant waved them back, refused a chair, and said, “On this Sheila Grey murder. I can tell you she was shot through the heart” — a stifled sound from Lutetia, and Ashton gripped her hand without taking his eyes off the officer — “and was killed instantly. A .38 S. & W. Terrier revolver was found next to the body. You want to say something, Mr. McKell?”

Ashton said quickly, “That’s probably my gun, Sergeant. There’s no mystery about it if it is, although of course you want an explanation. I lent it to Miss Grey. She said she was sometimes nervous being all alone in the penthouse. At the same time I didn’t want a frightened woman handling a loaded gun. So I filled the chambers with blanks without mentioning it to her — it was more to give her confidence than anything else. Do you mean to say...?”

“Say what, Mr. McKell?”

“That Miss Grey was shot with my gun?”

“Yes.”

“But it was loaded with blanks! I loaded it myself!”

“It was no blank,” Sergeant Velie said, “that killed her.”

“I don’t know how it could have been replaced,” Ashton McKell said in a calm voice — was there the slightest tremor? — “or by whom. For all I know Miss Grey may have done it herself. I don’t know how much she knew about firearms.”

Sergeant Velie was looking at him with great steadiness. “Let’s skip the gun and bullets for now. You admit you knew the woman?”

“There’s nothing to admit. Of course I knew Miss Grey. I know all the tenants in this building. I own it.”

“You knew her well?”

“Who?”

“Miss Grey,” the sergeant said patiently.

“Quite well.”

“And how well would quite well be, Mr. McKell?”

Dane glanced at his mother. She was absolutely rigid.

“I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant.”

Velie said, “You see, sir, we found men’s clothing in her apartment. One man’s clothing.” The sergeant paused, then repeated, “You want to say something, Mr. McKell?”

The elder McKell nodded with remarkable self-possession. He did not look at his wife. “They’re my clothes, Sergeant,” he said quietly. “You must have traced them.”

“That’s right, we did. We checked out the tailor’s labels and the laundry marks, and so forth. Anything else you have to say to us?”

Lutetia’s face was now expressionless. Their hands were still tightly gripped, Dane noticed.