The Fourth Side of the Triangle

When the detectives had departed with their prisoner, Ellery waved cheerfully. “Now, you two. The pubs await you. Start crawling. Meanwhile, I’ll phone Bob O’Brien and see if I can get him to talk Judge Suarez and the D.A. into agreeing to a forty-eight-hour recess — even a twenty-four-hour stay may do it. I think we can get it. O’Brien can do more things with his tongue than the head chef at the Waldorf.”

When they were gone, Ellery leaned over and rang for the nurse. He seemed pleased with himself.

“I’m worn down,” he said to the ravishing blonde when she came in, “and I badly need tuning up. Put on a record, Kirsten, skin me a grape, and tell me you’re not going to be busy the night of the day they finally peel off these plaster pants.”

“Pardon?” said the girl, frowning.

“This armchair Hawkshaw role is debilitating. What price Mycroft Holmes?”

“Mr. Queen, I do not understand—”

“Never mind, Kirsten. Teach me your native tongue. All I know is akavit and snoose. Meanwhile, I’ll try not to let your Nordic beauty overexcite me. May I hold your hand?”

The nurse gave him her sizzling smile. “I think you are very yoking, Mr. Queen. But it is nice yoke, no?”

“It is nice yoke, yes. Would you hand me the phone?”

On the morning the trial resumed there was a marked alteration of the atmosphere. No cluster of bankers, non-career ambassadors, bishops, and captains of industry waited to take the stand. Robert O’Brien arose, in a radiation of confidence. Something not quite a whisper or ripple passed through the courtroom and reached His Honor, who looked up from the bench sharply. The judge, grown so old in the juridical service that he had developed a sixth sense, felt his sleepiness slip away and that telltale tingle in his brain that made him sit up in his swivel chair.

Bob O’Brien was in his early forties, a burly Irishman with the face of a boy. He specialized in lost legal causes and brought them off with amazing consistency. A family man, a Harvard man, learned in history and the classics, he was a Sunday painter, a summer archeologist, and a courtroom terror. He had just fought a penniless defendant’s murder case through three mistrials to an acquittal. His successful defense of an alien from deportation earned him the sobriquet of “the new Darrow” in liberal circles; then when he sued for the right of a handicapped child to obtain special transportation to a parochial school on public funds, he lost the most vocal part of his support.

Bob O’Brien, then, on that November morning, rose.

“Call Ashton McKell,” he said, to the tune of another murmur. McKell, chin high, took the stand as if it were the chair at an international shippers’ convention, and the oath as if it admitted him to clerical orders.

“State your full name.”

“Philip Cornelius Ashton McKell.”

“Have you ever used another name?”

“Yes.”

District Attorney De Angelus leaned forward as if impelled by a wire.

“What name was that?”

“Dr. Stone.”

The D.A. shook his head as if to dislodge something from his ear.

“This other name — Dr. Stone — was it an alias?”

“No.”

“Please explain just what use you put it to, Mr. McKell.”

“It involved an entirely different identity. In order to become Dr. Stone, I would put on make-up and clothing of a type I do not ordinarily wear. I also used false eyeglasses, which I do not need to see by, and carried a walking stick and a physician’s black bag.”

“All this in your Dr. Stone identity?”

“Yes.”

Bob O’Brien was back at his table and reaching under it. He pulled out the little satchel. “Is this the bag you refer to, Mr. McKell?”

“It is.”

“Would you open it and display its contents?”

Ashton McKell did so. “This is spirit gum, this is false gray hair, this is...”

“In other words, Mr. McKell, this bag contains make-up materials for a disguise?”

“Yes, except for the clothing and cane.”

“Thank you. I place this bag and its contents in evidence as defendant’s Exhibit—”

The judge opened his mouth, but too slowly. District Attorney De Angelus was finally on his feet, waving wildly.

“Your Honor, may I ask Counsel what is the relevance of this evidence?”

“It is necessary for my client,” said O’Brien, “to use the contents of this bag in order to make himself up.”

“In this courtroom?” cried the district attorney.

“In this courtroom,” said the Irishman courteously.

“Here? Now?”

“Here and now.”

“Counsel,” said His Honor, “we all appreciate the more colorful practices you occasionally indulge in in the courtroom — when you’re permitted to get away with them — but tell me: What is the purpose of introducing amateur theatricals into this trial?”

O’Brien permitted himself to look disconcerted. “I hadn’t intended to reveal defense’s reasons so early. However, if Your Honor insists—”

“His Honor insists,” said His Honor.

“Very well. Mr. McKell, will you tell the Court, please, for what purpose you were accustomed to assuming this false identity?”