The Fourth Side of the Triangle

If Lutetia McKell’s anguish at the wild invasion of her privacy by the press was not quite on a level with her horror at Ashton’s predicament, it was still powerful enough to dominate her household. She had caught a single glimpse of a single tabloid (left incautiously in the kitchen by old Margaret, whose open vice was the journalism of murder and rape); it was enough. All newspapers, even the New York Times, were banned from the premises; and when it became evident that the scavengers of the press, in particular the photographers, were laying siege to the building, Lutetia went into strictest seclusion, like a Hindu widow, and forbade the entrance of the clamoring world by so much as an uncurtained window. To reach his mother, Dane found himself having to follow a route he had not used since his boyhood, entering another building around the corner, descending to its basement, and emerging into the alley from which he could reach the apartment of John Leslie, the doorman, by a window. John or his wife would let him in, and then out by the basement door adjacent to the service elevator. It had been great fun when he was a youngster, but somehow the adventure had lost its savor. When it became necessary to confer with Lawyer Heaton, Lutetia reacted to Heaton’s suggestion that she and Dane visit his office as if he had invited her to take a sunbath naked on her roof.

“I shall not set foot outside this apartment,” she said, in tears. “Nothing, nothing can make me!”

So stately Mahomet came to the mountain; and indeed it was almost as traumatic an experience for Richard M. Heaton as it would have been for Lutetia. For Heaton was the very portrait of the trusted family lawyer — elderly, florid, with the dignity of a retired major-general, and as horror-struck by the notion of publicity as Lutetia herself. He gained entry to the McKell building in a slightly disheveled condition after running the gauntlet of newsmen, and from his distress he might have been stripped by their waving hands to his under-clothing.

“Foul beasts,” he muttered, accepting a glass of sherry and a biscuit from Lutetia in great agitation. He wore a resentful look, as if he had been tricked. It took Dane five minutes to calm him.

“This is quite beyond my depth, Lutetia,” he said at last. “I have had no occasion to practice criminal law — haven’t appeared in court for any reason in fifteen years. What a dreadful business! A dressmaker!” Dane was tempted to ask him if he would have felt better about the whole mess if Sheila Grey’s name had been Van Spuyten, the end result of a long line of patroons. But he did not, for he suspected that his mother felt very much the same way.

“Tell Mother what you told me, Mr. Heaton.”

“Why I haven’t been able to pry your father out of the hands of the police? Well, Lutetia, Ashton cannot prove an alibi. He has told the authorities where he was at the time of the — of the event, but they’re unable to corroborate it. Therefore, they are continuing to hold him. Now. Although the charge is the most serious one under the law — with the possible exception of treason, of course, and the last treason indictment I can remember anywhere is that against John Brown by the State of Virginia—”

“Mr. Heaton,” said Dane politely, but firmly. He could see that his mother was holding herself together by sheer heroism.

“I’m rambling, forgive me, Lutetia. This has upset me more than I can say. However, even though murder is among the gravest of charges, an accused is presumed innocent until proved guilty, thank God, and I do not for one moment suppose such proof can be obtained in this case.”

“Then why haven’t you been able to get Ashton’s release on bond?” Lutetia asked timidly. “Dane tells me you said that New York State allows bond even in a charge of first — in a first-degree charge.”

“It’s complicated,” sighed Richard M. Heaton. “We have fallen afoul of a very poor climate, politically speaking, on the bail question, I mean here in the city. Of course, you don’t follow such things, but only a few months ago there was the case of another, ah, of a very prominent man who shot his wife to death. He was released on $100,000 bail, and he promptly fled the country. It has made the courts and the district attorney’s office extremely shy where bond in capital cases is concerned, especially since the newspapers have raked up the other case and are asking quite maliciously if this will prove a repetition.”

“But Ashton wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Lutetia moaned. “Richard, he’s innocent. Only guilty men flee. It isn’t fair.”

“I’m afraid we don’t live in as ideal a democracy as we sometimes boast,” the old lawyer said sadly. “The rich and socially prominent are very often discriminated against in our society. We could probably force the issue in the courts, but the trouble is...” He hesitated.

“The trouble is what, Mr. Heaton?” Dane asked sharply.