The Fourth Side of the Triangle

He was now mobile to the extent of wheeling himself about the corridors, so he helped the ravishing blond nurse decorate the Christmas tree on their floor, and he almost enjoyed the Swedish julotta celebration afterward. But the only real pleasure he took was in the joy of the McKell family.

His unhappiness had a broader base, a disdainful disappointment in himself. Armchair detective! What satisfaction he had taken in his role in the case of Ashton McKell — Phase One, as he had come to think of it — was erased by his nonexistent role in Phase Two. By himself he had come up with nothing whatever to help Lutetia. The letter from The Princess Soap Company, from which her subsequent acquittal stemmed, had simply turned up one morning through the courtesy of the ineffable Lattimoore. Its import would have been obvious to a rookie policeman.

And the killer of Sheila Grey was still at large, as Judge Hershkowitz had pointed out, and the great man hadn’t a clue in his head that might be called promising.

Oh, well, Ellery thought with a sigh. At least the McKells’ troubles are over.

The McKells’ troubles were over for exactly one weekend. Father, mother, and son had had a pleasant, if not joyous, Christmas together. They had attended services at the great unfinished cathedral on Christmas Eve, mingling unnoticed with the crowds of worshipers. In the morning they attended services at a chapel in a poor neighborhood whose congregation was almost entirely foreign-born and whose “language” newspaper had run no photograph of the McKell family. The remainder of Christmas Day they spent quietly at home. They had exchanged gifts, listened to the Missa Solemnis on the hi-fi, read the newspapers.

On Monday, Lutetia expressed a desire to see the ocean. Ramon had been given the day off, for Ashton was at home — the McKell enterprises, like most companies, were keeping Monday as part of the holiday — so Dane drove his parents down to Long Beach, where for almost two hours they strolled beside the gray Atlantic sweeping endlessly in from Europe. The walk made them hungry, and when they returned home Lutetia took pleasure in preparing a hearty supper of soup and sirloin steak with her own hands. Ashton read aloud from Matthew, they listened to the enchanting music of Buxtehude’s Missa Brevis and the majestic Mendelssohn Elijah sung ineffably by the Huddersfield Choral Society, and then they called it a day.

Dane was still eating breakfast as well as dining with his parents; he supposed this would stop when he could slip his life back into its independent groove once more, an opportunity he was on the lookout for these days. He was at breakfast in his parents’ apartment, then, two days after Christmas, when Ramon — waiting to drive Ashton to his office — brought in the mail containing the bulky brown envelope.

Ashton, shuffling through the mail, handed the brown envelope to Dane. It was a long one made of kraft paper. Dane slit it open, removed its contents, glanced over them — and the cup he set down in the saucer rattled.

“Dane?” said Lutetia. “Is something the matter?”

He continued to read; his complexion had turned gluey.

“Son, what is it?” Ashton asked.

Dane muttered, “Now it will have to come out.”

“What will have to come out?”

Dane rose. “I’ll tell you, Dad. But first I’ve got to make a phone call.”

Automatically he went to his old room, sat down at his old desk. For a moment he buried his face in his hands. Then he got a grip on himself and dialed a number.

“Judy?”

“Dane.” She sounded remote.

“Judy, I can tell you now what I wasn’t able to tell you before.” The words came tumbling out. “About what’s been worrying me — making me act toward you the way I... Please. Would you — can you — meet me right away in Ellery Queen’s room at the hospital?”

Judy said uncertainly, “All right.” She hung up.

“Dane,” Ashton McKell said from the doorway; Lutetia was peering anxiously from behind him. “You said you’d tell me.”

“Come with me to see Ellery Queen, Dad. Mother, not you.”

“Your mother will stay here.”

“Whatever you think best, dear.”

Left alone, Lutetia frowned out her picture window. The world outside was hurrying so. Trouble, always trouble. Ever since... But Lutetia shut her mind down very firmly. That way lay unpleasantness. There was always one’s duty, no matter how trifling, for relief. She rang for her maid. “Margaret, I shall want my needlework. Tell Helen she may begin clearing off the breakfast things.”

Ellery greeted them with ebullience. “It’s official,” he chortled. “I’ll be out of this Bastille in a few days.” Then he said, in a different tone, “What’s up now?”