The Fourth Side of the Triangle

“In order to conceal my true identity.” Ash McKell hesitated for the briefest moment. “I mean while visiting the apartment of Miss Sheila Grey.”

“Order! Counsel will approach the bench. You, too, Mr. District Attorney.”

There was a three-cornered whispered conversation of considerable liveliness before the bench. Finally De Angelus waved his hand wearily, Judge Suarez said, “The exhibit will be admitted,” and everybody sat down but a bailiff, who moved a small table to a position before the witness chair, set the black bag on it, and retired. McKell removed the contents of the bag, which included a small swivel-mirror on a stand, and spread them on the table.

“Mr. McKell,” said Bob O’Brien, as if he were ordering a ham sandwich on rye, “make yourself up as Dr. Stone.”

And Ashton McKell, eighty to a hundred times a millionaire, adviser of Presidents, refuser of ambassadorships, proceeded to make himself up in full fascinated view of judge, jury, prosecutor, defense counsel, bailiffs, the press, and spectators.

When the tycoon was Dr. Stone, he straightened up from the mirror and glanced at his lawyer. The silence hung, broke. The gavel rapped, and the silence hung again.

O’Brien: “And this is how you always looked when you posed as Dr. Stone?”

“Yes, except for the tan suit and walking stick.”

“I think we can imagine those. All right, Mr. McKell. Your Honor, in the interest of more orderly development, I should like Mr. McKell’s testimony to be interrupted while we introduce the testimony of two other witnesses. If the Court and the district attorney don’t object?”

Another colloquy. McKell was told to stand down, and O’Brien said, “Call John Leslie.”

Leslie, shaven to a violent pink, stiff in the same suit he had worn to stand on the sidewalk and cheer the visiting Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, was called into the courtroom and sworn, and he testified that he was the doorman of 610½ Park Avenue, and had been since it opened its doors as a multiple dwelling. He had therefore known Mr. Ashton McKell, yes, sir, for over twenty-five years.

“Do you see Mr. McKell in this courtroom?”

Leslie scanned the room. He looked puzzled. “No, sir, I do not.”

“Well, would you recognize a Dr. Stone?” asked O’Brien.

“Dr. Stone? You mean the doctor who used to visit Miss Grey? I think so, sir.”

“Do you see Dr. Stone in this courtroom?”

Leslie looked around. “Yes, sir.”

“Point him out, please... Thank you, Mr. Leslie. That’s all.”

District Attorney De Angelus: “Mr. Leslie, do you recall the night Miss Grey’s body was found?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On that night, did this man you have identified as Dr. Stone visit the apartment building at 610½ Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At what time?”

“It was quite late in the evening. Somewhere around ten o’clock.”

“Can you be more exact as to the time?”

“No, sir. I had no reason to.”

“Do you recall his leaving the building?”

“Yes, sir, not long after. A few minutes. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“A half hour?”

“Might be.”

“You just said a few minutes.”

“I just don’t know, sir.”

“That’s all.”

Surprisingly, O’Brien did not recross. “I call Ramon Alvarez.”

Old John departed, still frowning over the incomprehensibility of the proceedings, to be succeeded on the stand by Ramon. Who testified that he had been employed as Ashton McKell’s chauffeur for the past five years; that since early spring — about April, he thought it was — he had at his employer’s direction been driving him, Ashton McKell, in the Bentley, at about four o’clock each Wednesday afternoon, to the front door of the Metropolitan Cricket Club. It was his, Ramon’s, practice then to park the Bentley at a garage behind the club.

“What did you do then?”

“I would have orders to meet Mr. McKell back at the club late that night, with the Bentley.”

“Did Mr. McKell ever tell you where he was going on those Wednesday evenings?”

“No, sir.”

“This happened every Wednesday since about April, Mr. Alvarez?”

“Once or twice not, when Mr. McKell was in South America or Europe, on business.”

O’Brien turned. “Mr. McKell, would you stand up? Thank you. Mr. Alvarez, did you ever see Mr. McKell dressed and made up as he appears right now?”

“Sir, no.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“Sir, yes.”

“You were never curious as to where Mr. McKell was going on Wednesday nights?” O’Brien persisted. “Without you to drive him?”

Ramon shrugged. “I am the chauffeur, sir. I do what I am told.”

“And not once did you see him in make-up...?”

“Your Honor,” said the district attorney, “Mr. O’Brien is cross-examining his own witness.”

O’Brien waved, De Angelus waved, and Ramon was dismissed.

“I recall Ashton McKell to the stand.” When Ashton resumed the witness box, being admonished that he was still under oath, O’Brien said, “Mr. McKell, I am going to ask you a painful question. What was your underlying reason for disguising yourself each Wednesday as a nonexistent Dr. Stone — even going so far as to conceal the disguise from your own chauffeur?”