The Fourth Side of the Triangle

MR. DANE MCKELL. SHEILA GREY’S LETTER WON’T BE SENT TO POLICE IF. MAKE UP PLAIN PACKAGE 100 $20 BILLS NOT MARKED AND MAIL TO MR. I.M. ECKS CARE GENERAL DELIVERY MAIN POST OFFICE CITY. IMMEDIATE. THEN PACK OF $1000 IN $20 BILLS, NOT MARKED, TO BE SENT 15TH OF EVERY MONTH WITHOUT FAIL SAME ADDRESS. OR POLICE WILL BE INFORMED. I MEAN THIS.

“Mr. I. M. Ecks. A comedian,” Ellery commented. “I must say I don’t blame you for not finding him funny.”

“Blackmail.” Dane let out the same bitter laugh. “What do I do?”

“What I did,” his father said quietly.

“What?” Dane said.

“You paid someone blackmail, too, Mr. McKell?” Ellery turned quickly back from the etched trees he had been studying through his window.

“I got a similar letter — I’m sure the same person sent it, from the kind of note it is, the wording, the paper and so on — shortly after, well, I began visiting Miss Grey.” Ashton McKell swallowed. “It was foolish of me, I know. But I just couldn’t face a scandal. So I paid — $2,000 down, $1,000 a month. It was worth that to me to keep my name and family from being dragged through the newspapers.”

“But you kept seeing her,” Dane said slowly.

“Sheila was important to me in a way which I doubt I could make anyone understand.” His father spoke with difficulty. “Anyway, I kept sending this dirty hound, whoever he is, the thousand a month until I was arrested. Naturally, after that he had no further hold over me, and I stopped paying him. I haven’t heard a word about it since.”

“Do you have any of the notes you received?”

“I got just that first one — the one like this, Mr. Queen. I burned it.”

Ellery brooded. “Dane, let’s go over the ground again, in the light of this new information. You left Sheila before ten o’clock that night. You left her alive. You didn’t show up at your parents’ apartment until after midnight. All right. What did you do in those two hours?”

“I took a little walk first, to cool off. I was horrified at myself, at what I’d almost done. I knew I must have hurt her badly, then I’d run as if I’d murdered her. Finally I decided to go back—”

“You went back?” cried Ellery. Dane’s father and Judy were open-mouthed.

“I’m on one hell of a spot, hey?” Dane said with a wry smile. “That’s what I did, all right. I figured I owed her an explanation, the story of these rages, to ask her forgiveness if nothing else. So I went back to the building—”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t believe so, but I can’t be sure.”

“Go on.”

“I took the elevator up to the penthouse and stood before her door. I raised my hand — I actually raised it — to ring her bell. And... I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to. To ring it, or knock, or use my key, or anything. I chickened out. I couldn’t face her.”

Oddly, he addressed this last to Judy in a pleading way, as if soliciting her understanding. Her face softened.

“Dane, pay attention. This could be important. You say you took a short walk, then returned to the penthouse — at least to her vestibule. Think now. How long were you gone? Can you tell me?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No idea at all?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say I was gone about fifteen minutes.”

“Then it’s possible you were outside Sheila’s door at 10:23, the time she was shot.”

“I suppose so.”

“Level with me, Dane. If I’m to help you, I need straight answers. Did you hear a shot from inside the apartment?”

“No. I’d remember if I did.”

“I doubt if a shot could be heard, Mr. Queen,” the elder McKell said. “The apartments are solidly soundproofed.”

Ellery murmured, “Dane stood outside that penthouse apartment just about the time Sheila was shot. Do you see what that means? In all likelihood, you were standing in that vestibule while the killer was inside. Didn’t you see or hear anything? How long did you stand there?”

Dane shook his head. “A very short time. I couldn’t ring or knock, so I went away. I didn’t hear or see anything at all.”

“You went away. Where?”

“Walked some more.”

“Did anyone see you leave? Did you meet anyone you knew, Dane? Say, in the building?”

“I can’t remember anybody. I was in a fog. I do recall being in a movie theater—”

“That’s something,” his father exclaimed. “Which movie theater, son?”

“I don’t know. Some neighborhood house. Probably around Lexington or somewhere.”

“What was the title of the picture?”

“How should I know? I tell you I was half off my rocker!” Dane was growing angry. “I sat there watching a Western, I remember that, in color, all the fixings, but when the shooting started and the bodies began flying around I got up, sick to my stomach, and walked out. And back to the house and apartment. That’s all I can tell you, Dad.”

“Do you have the ticket stub, son?”