The Fourth Side of the Triangle

The thought was so acute that Dane almost groaned aloud. He had never realized it; now, in the flash of the revelation, it was as if he had known it all his life. Everything was illuminated by it — his mother’s unnatural selflessness, her timidities resting on a bedrock of Victorian stubbornness, her self-isolation, her clinging to a past that for her must always be the present. How long has this been coming on? he wondered; and, looking back, it was impossible for him to judge just when she had crossed the line.

Whenever it had been, there was no spark to convert it into action until she became aware of her husband’s “spiritual infidelity.” Then, in her system of twisted values, she moved; she took the blame on herself by seeking punishment, at the same time that she “protected” her beloved husband and master and laid the onus of punishment on the other woman’s shoulders.

What his father must be thinking, Dane could not imagine. The whole concept was so extraordinary — the guilty man shriven of guilt, but feeling guilt still — that probably his thoughts were one boiling confusion. The elder McKell’s trapdoor mouth was half open, his commanding eyes glossy, his breathing labored. He looked like a man in shock.

It was Judy Walsh who said gently, “But didn’t you realize, Mrs. McKell, that what you did might lead to the accidental death of someone else?” Judy knew.

Lutetia shook the head that now rested on the lacy jabot of her bosom. “I’m so sorry. I never thought of that. How stupid of me. I was so sure it could only happen to me. But it didn’t... The nights came and went, and they were lonely nights... I could never bring myself to carry out my plan.”

Judy turned away; her eyes were filled with tears.

“No,” Lutetia said slowly. “Somehow, I never went back there.”

In Robert O’Brien’s unavailability, and on his recommendation, Ashton McKell engaged the services of Henry Calder Barton, a well-known criminal lawyer of the old school. Barton, assisted and advised by Heaton, indicated his line of defense.

“They can certainly show that Mrs. McKell could have done it,” Barton said. He was a heavy-set old man with a crop of white hair above a turkey-red face. “But they just as certainly can’t prove that she did do it. We’ll play the unknown-prowler bit for all it’s worth.”

“And how much, Mr. Barton,” asked Ashton bleakly, “is that?”

“Quite a lot. After all, Sheila Grey was no frightened little old lady seeing burglars under her bed at the shifting of every shadow. As I understand it, she was a shrewd, clearheaded businesswoman, a woman of spirit and action. If a woman like that became suddenly afraid to be alone, it’s a reasonable assumption that she had cause, or thought she had. There has been a rash of cases of forcible nocturnal entry in Park Avenue apartments this past year, many of them unsolved, and some very near your building. A prowler might well have got into the penthouse apartment, found a gun while rummaging in the drawers, and used it on being surprised by the occupant. If he was wearing gloves, his prints would not be found. Prints are rarely found on guns, anyway, even when they’re handled without gloves on. Yes, I think we can play up the prowler theory very effectively.”

Ashton McKell nodded, but his attention seemed elsewhere. Dane doubted that his father was thinking of prowlers, real or imagined, or of Sheila Grey as merely a “shrewd, clearheaded businesswoman.” Dane himself knew her as far more than that; what must his father know of her? And now she was dead, and no one’s guilt or innocence, no argument or theory, could change the fact for Ashton McKell.

As for Barton, Dane thought he was whistling in the dark. His mother’s fingerprints on the blank shells and on two of the live ones would alone outweigh the heaviest prowler structure Barton could build up in argument.

He took Barton aside. “I think my mother is mentally unstable,” he said quietly. “Isn’t that a better line of defense?”

The lawyer looked at him sharply. “What makes you think your mother is of unsound mind?”

“That story she tells about why she loaded the gun with live ammunition. That wasn’t an act, Mr. Barton, though I know you think it was — I was watching your face... I realize now that this has been coming on for a long time.”

Barton shook his head. “I don’t see how we can effectively use it. It isn’t as if she admits having pulled the trigger... I think we have a better chance with the prowler line. Let the burden of proof rest on De Angelus. He hasn’t got as good a case as he apparently thinks he has. At least in my opinion. There’s a long, long step between proving that she loaded the gun and proving that she pulled the trigger, Mr. McKell. Now don’t worry. We can always pull in the psychiatrists as a secondary line of defense...”

Dane remained unconvinced.