The Fourth Side of the Triangle

The Christmas tree which Ellery had not been able to see on its day of glory was still there when the three McKells and Judy Walsh got to the Queen apartment at 9:30 that night. Partly because of Ellery’s delayed Yuletide, partly in the old Knickerbocker tradition of New Year’s Day, the McKells had brought gifts. Ramon’s arms were full of them.

Inspector Queen was there, too, not altogether gracefully. (“What do you think you’re doing?” he had demanded of Ellery. “It isn’t bad enough having the parents here, after my part in getting up a case against them, but this son of theirs I arrested! It isn’t exactly the setup for good social relations.” “Dad, trust me.” “Trust you?” the Inspector had said scathingly. So Ellery had explained; and after that the Inspector helped Ellery ready the apartment; and he was johnny-on-the-spot, dentures grinning, when the McKell party arrived, playing the role of mine host’s aging parent like the hardened trouper he was.)

“All these gifts,” Ellery said, glowing. “Well, I’ll be having a New Year’s gift for the McKell family myself later tonight. Do you suppose I could borrow Ramon?”

“Of course,” said Ashton McKell.

Lutetia said, “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Queen,” her anxiety tempered by her supreme confidence that everything would come out right in the end. Sooner or later the law would release her son, as it had released her and her husband. Ashton would see to that. Or Ellery Queen, or both.

“The gift isn’t ready, but if Ramon can get back a little after eleven o’clock and run an errand for me...”

“Certainly,” Ashton said. “Ramon, be back here at, say, 11.15.”

The chauffeur said, “Yes, sir,” and left.

The presence of the Inspector was something of a damper. Ellery worked hard at playing host. He had put some Elizabethan music on the hi-fi, and he presided like a pitchman over the punch bowl, in which he had prepared a Swedish punch after a convivial recipe given him by one of the hospital doctors. Judy helped him serve the food, which boxed the compass from Peking duck to tiny buckwheat cakes. “There’s something of a rite involved in handling the duck,” he said. “Mr. McKell, would you be kind enough to carve?” (at which the Inspector growled a very low growl that only his son heard)... “Thank you... First we take one of these thin little pancakes, or knishes — almost like tortillas, aren’t they?... spread them with slices of duck... green onions... the soy sauce, the other sauces... roll ’em up... tuck in the ends so that the sauce doesn’t drip, and fall to. Dane, some more of that hot punch, and skoal to the lot o’ yez!”

He told them the story of the very young student nurse who had rushed from a patient’s room screaming that his pulse had dropped to 22. The staff had come running, the resident took the pulse over again, laughed, and said, “What did you do, take a fifteen-second count? His pulse is 88.” The poor girl had forgotten to multiply by four.

Ellery labored to keep the party going, but the Inspector noticed that he kept glancing at the foyer. Only when the buzzer sounded, and Inspector Queen went to answer the door, did Ellery’s anxiety turn to confidence.

“It’s Ramon back,” the Inspector said.

“Come in, Ramon. A glass of punch?”

The chauffeur glanced at his employer, who nodded. Ramon accepted the steaming red liquid, murmured a health in Spanish, and drank quickly.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to Ellery. “Where did you want me to go?”

“I have the address right here.” Ellery handed him a card. “Hand them this and they’ll give you a package. Try to get back as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Ramon left, Ellery commandeered the services of Dane, and Dane came back with a cooler of champagne. Judy turned on the TV set. Times Square was jammed with its New Year’s Eve quota of ninnyhammers, as Dane called them — “They’re the same folksy folks who clutter up the beaches in summer and jump up and down when the camera turns their way.” But no one smiled. The approach of midnight was turning the screw on nerves, as at some impending grim event. And when the door buzzer sounded again, everyone started. But it was only Ramon, back from his errand.

“Not quite midnight,” said Ellery. “Thank you, Ramon. Have a glass of champagne with us.”

“If it is all right with Mr. McKell—”

“Certainly, Ramon.”

The package was tubular, about two feet long. It seemed an odd shape for a gift. Ellery placed it carefully on the mantelpiece.

“There goes the ball on the Times Building,” he said. “Fill up!” And as the announcer’s countdown reached the tick of midnight, and Times Square roared and fluttered, Ellery lifted his glass. “To the New Year!”

And when they had all drunk, he hobbled over to the television set and turned it off; and he faced them and said, “I promised you a gift. Here it is. I’m ready to name the murderer of Sheila Grey.”