The Fourth Side of the Triangle

Ellery mumbled that he did indeed see; his tone suggested that, for purposes of the subject under discussion, he wished he were temporarily sightless. For the fraction of a moment uncertainty flickered over Mr. Lattimoore’s baby face, which looked as if he scrubbed every hour on the hour with Princess Belinda and Princess Anita soaps, and perhaps with Sudsy Chippos as well — but then the smile flashed back on with no kilowatt impaired.

“The gimmick was that everybody won. First prize was $10,000 — that was for anyone who guessed a number within 25 of the actual Lucky Number. Say the Lucky Number turned out to be 8,951. Any number picked by a contestant between 8,926 and 8,976 would be considered a bull’s-eye; if more than one contestant scored a bull’s-eye, the number closest to the Lucky Number was considered first-prize winner, the next closest getting second prize, which was $2,000. Third money went to the next closest, $1,000; fourth prize to the next closest, $500; all others got $100 consolation prizes.

“Quite an idea, wasn’t it?” glowed Mr. Lattimoore; but then the glow dimmed. “The only trouble was, it lasted a mere four weeks. Not only did B.T. consider it a flop with knobs on because, he said, it lowered the dignity of Princess products — that’s B. T. Worliss, Chairman of the Board — but there were, frankly, hrrm, legal problems, very serious ones. Having to do with the anti-lottery laws. The FCC...” Mr. Lattimoore stopped, the dread initials sticking in his throat. He cleared it. “Well, that’s the story of the ill-fated numbers game,” he said with feeble levity. “What else can I tell you gentlemen?”

“And on the telecast of September 14th,” Ellery mumbled, shading his eyes from the Lattimoore effulgence, “Mrs. McKell was one of the lucky persons telephoned?”

“That’s right. She came out fourth in our little old guessing game. Took the $500 prize.”

“And the check was never cashed.”

Ashton McKell produced a pink check. “And here it is, Mr. Queen. Lutetia simply isn’t used to handling money. She meant to send it to the Church Home, the one she does her needlework for, but she clean forgot.”

When Henry Calder Barton rose to open the defense, he wore a look in marked contrast to the expression of lofty confidence he had displayed previously. The actor was stripped away. Henry Barton had a good thing going suddenly, and he could afford to dispense with the psychology.

He went to work briskly.

“Mr. Graves, you are an assistant account executive with Newby, Fellis, Herkimer, Hinsdale and Levy, an advertising agency located on Madison Avenue? Your firm handles the Princess Soap account for television and radio?”

“Yes.”

Barton led the man skillfully through a description of how the defunct numbers game, a recent feature of The Princess Soap Company’s TV evening hour, worked.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves.”

De Angelus did not cross-examine; he objected. The consultation with Judge Everett Hershkowitz before the bench evidently satisfied His Honor, for he overruled the objection and the district attorney sat down to torment a fingernail. Barton’s new look had not escaped him.

“Call Miss Hattie Johnson.”

“Miss Johnson, what is your line of work?”

“I am a special telephone operator.”

“You do not work for the telephone company itself?”

“No, sir, for Tel-Operator, Incorporated.” Tel-Operator, Incorporated, turned out to be a firm that supplied operators for private corporations which required a type of answering service that the regular answering services were not prepared to furnish. Usually, the witness explained, this special service was for a limited period of time, such as after a “premium offer” was advertised for sale by a department store, and so on. “We have to be very quick and accurate,” Miss Johnson said.

“And you were one of the operators assigned to The Princess Soap Company’s television show Lucky Number gimmick?”

“Yes, sir, on Wednesday nights, for the four weeks it lasted.”

“Do you recall your work in connection with the telecast of Wednesday, September 14th last, Miss Johnson?”

“I do. That was the first show we worked.”

“I show you this transcript. Do you recognize it?”

“Yes, sir. It is a copy of one of my telephone conversations with a person I called that night.”

“Who was the person? Read the name from the transcript, Miss Johnson.”

“‘Mrs. Ashton McKell, 610½ Park Avenue, New York City.’”

Judge Hershkowitz had to resort to his gavel. District Attorney De Angelus was observed to inhale deeply, as after a long run, then fold his arms defensively across his chest.

Barton placed the transcript in evidence. Its contents, read aloud by the witness, almost broke up the court, and the Court almost broke up his gavel. As for the district attorney, he was blitzed.

When order was restored, Barton called Lutetia McKell to the stand.

“—but how could you have forgotten the call, Mrs. McKell? When so much depended on it?”

“I don’t know,” Lutetia replied helplessly. “I did remember speaking to some man over the phone—”