The Fourth Side of the Triangle

Judy set to work. She handed Dane the material pertaining to Sheila Grey’s first-shown collection, late in 1957, and he taped them to the wall. In a short time Judy was moved to voice her pleasure.

“Aren’t these Lady Sheila things stunning,” she exclaimed. “Even if they are six years out of date.”

“Lady Sheila?” Ellery said.

“That’s the name of that particular collection.” Judy pointed. “Each showing has a special collection-name, you see. The next year, 1958, is called Lady Nella. To name a collection gives it more character than just a date. Here — 1959—”

“Lady Ruth,” Ellery read. “Mmm. Sheila was her own name, so that was natural enough. Nella sounds a bit fancy, but I suppose the exotic touch is an asset in this mysterious business. But why Ruth? Kind of Plain Jane, isn’t it? Although... yes, I see.”

Dane, who did not, said, “See what, Mr. Queen?”

“Ruth. Named after the matron of the same name in the Bible book of ditto, I’ll bet a ruffle. I don’t know what an archeologist would say, but you could put these dresses — some of them, anyway — on 1000-Girls-1000 in any self-respecting Hollywood Biblical extravaganza and I, for one, wouldn’t detect a false note. That beautifully ancient simplicity of drape and design. Right, Judy?”

Judy said, “Oh, yes!” Her eyes were shining at the drawings of Sheila Grey’s 1960 collection, named Lady Lorna D., with its subtle influences of Scotch color and pattern — gowns which were not so much kilts as kilty, hats which instantly evoked the tam-o’-shanter and Highland bonnet without being either, purses worn in the manner of sporrans but made from the same material as the gown, hinting of plaids and tartans.

“Lady Lorna D.,” Ellery mused. “D. for Doone, I suppose. Was that Scottish? Well, it doesn’t matter. What’s next, Judy?”

Next — as the drawings and photographs, the slick pages from Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, marched around the walls — came Lady Dulcea, 1961. Lady Dulcea educed nothing of the past or of far-off exotica; that collection had aimed at the future, and some of its designs might have gone well with a space helmet. Judy shook her head. “I don’t care much for these, compared with the others, I mean. I’m sure it wasn’t her most popular collection. Of course, Sheila Grey never had a style showing that could really be called a failure.”

“Why Dulcea, I wonder?” asked Ellery. “Any notion, Judy?”

Judy looked dubious. She was already absorbed in the 1962 collection, Lady Thelma, with its daring lines, bold colors, and generally theatrical air. “Isn’t it gorgeous? No wonder it was such a sensation.”

Dane had used up all the available wall space, and the final group was accordingly spread out on the floor.

“What’s this?” Ellery muttered. “This” was the collection Sheila Grey had been working on at the time of her death. In this one there were no photographs, no newspaper articles, no slick magazine illustrations, only drawings. Drawings in various stages of completion, from rough sketches through elaborate mock-ups to the almost-fully-delineated.

“Doesn’t look as if she actually got to finish any of them — even these,” Ellery said. He was squinting hard.

Judy picked up a drawing. “This one looks finished,” she said, handing it to him. “The only one in the batch.” At the bottom of the drawing was what was obviously intended to represent the 1963 collection’s name.

In inked block capitals: LADY NORMA.

“Well, that’s it,” said Judy.

Ellery sat bent over in his wheelchair. He nodded slowly. “I wonder if her death could in any way be connected with the intense rivalries that exist in the world of fashion design. It’s hardly credible that any reputable salon would send a thug or a thief to break into the Grey apartment. But suppose some independent operator — a free-lance industrial spy — decided to snatch what he could and sell it somewhere...”

Dane remembered what Sheila had told him on the subject. Ellery listened closely, interrupting: “Did she name names?” “Did she seem seriously worried?” Then he dropped that line of inquiry and turned to Judy. But Judy could contribute nothing that had any relevance to the murder. Finally he wheeled his chair around the room, examining the material on the walls with the most concentrated care.

He was still in silent communion with Sheila Grey’s handiwork when the blond nurse came in with a doctor.

“I’m afraid you two will have to excuse me now.”

“Shall we come back this afternoon?” Dane asked Ellery.

“No, you’d better give me some time to digest all this.”

In the corridor, Dane and Judy exchanged despairing glances. It would not have cheered them to know that in his hospital room Ellery wore very much the same look.

Judy and Dane met on Sunday. Neither found much to say. Finally Judy could stand it no longer.

“Do you feel as discouraged as I do?”

“I’ll match my dragging chin against yours any day.”