The Fourth Side of the Triangle

“I don’t care a curse what your rules are,” he had assured the indignant night nurse, flourishing his inspector’s shield under her nose. “And don’t any of you Florence Nightingales dare interrupt us even if you hear me strangling your patient, which he bloody well deserves!” And he secured the door with the back of a chair.

Ellery was reading in bed.

“Dad?” He peered into the gloom. “You got him?”

“Listen, sonny-boy,” Inspector Queen said, hauling a chair over and snatching the book out of Ellery’s hand, “I’ll tell you what I’ve got. I’ve got heartburn and a bellyful, mostly of you. You can’t tell me the basis of the blackmail, hey? The hell you can’t! You don’t have to. I’m wise to the whole smelly business now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, keeping a thing like that from your own father—”

“What,” asked Ellery in an injured tone, “is this remarkable performance all about?”

“I’ll tell you what it’s about!”

“Keep your voice down, Dad. This is a hospital.”

“It’s about your precious Dane McKell! You know what happened this evening?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to find out.”

“What happened is that we received a Special Delivery envelope at headquarters is what happened. Full of interesting stuff, yes, sir. All kinds of reference material. Most fascinating of the bunch was a letter addressed to the police, in Sheila Grey’s handwriting, that she wrote the night she was knocked off. How do you like those apples?”

“Oh,” said his son.

“And ooh and ah! You knew all about it, didn’t you? But not a word about it to me. Your own father. In charge of the damn case. Not a word. I have to find out about it from an anonymous donor.”

“Dad,” said his son.

“Don’t Dad me! All right, I know what you’re going to say. This stuff came from the blackmailer—”

“And how,” Ellery asked placatingly, “did he get it?”

“How should I know? I don’t care! The point is, he got it, and he sent it to us, and now I’ve got it, and those McKells are going to rue the day! Especially that — that Hamlet-pussed pal of yours, Dane!”

“Whoa, slow down,” the son said. “You’re not as young as you used to be. Give this to me in something like intelligible sequence, will you, Inspector?”

“Glad to oblige,” chortled his father. “Here’s the way we dope it. First of all this blackmailer, who calls himself I. M. Ecks, doesn’t show — probably spotted the trap. He knows he can’t hope to collect a penny any more. So he sends the blackmail material to us — out of revenge, disappointment, malice; it doesn’t matter why. It’s no good to him. But it’s just what the doctor ordered for us.

“So. We now shift gears in the Grey case, and for the first time — armed with real evidence — we’re on the right track. We were wrong about the parents, but there’s no mistake this time. This Dane is it. The third McKell turns out to be the right one. And there’ll be no acquittal in his trial.”

“You’re still not telling me anything,” Ellery said fretfully. “What have you got besides the Grey letter? You realize that all the letter does is establish that Sheila Grey was still alive when Dane left her—”

“Oh, it establishes a lot more than that, my son. But let’s not pick over picayunes. Let’s tackle this scientifically. You want science?”

“I want science.”

“I’ll give you science. How’s this? We’ve got a witness, a reliable witness, who saw your Dane come back to the penthouse.”

Ellery was quiet.

“No reaction?” chomped the old man. “That tells me you knew about that, too. Thank God I raised you to be a rotten liar. Ellery, I don’t understand. Withholding information like that! How did you find out?”

“I didn’t say I found out anything.”

“Come on, son.”

“All right,” Ellery said suddenly. “Dane told me. Himself. Would he have done that if he had anything to be afraid of?”

“Sure he would,” said the Inspector. “If he was very smart. If he figured it would come out sooner or later anyway. Well, if you know that, you know he took the elevator right up there. Want to know what time? Or do you know it? Don’t bother. It was 10:19, my son, when he stepped into that elevator — 10:19 P.M. and going up — four minutes before she stopped that bullet, Dane McKell was zooming up to the penthouse! My witness watched the elevator dial swing right up there from the lobby, no stops.”

“I suppose it was the doorman.”

“You suppose correctly. We had a tough time prying the truth out of John Leslie tonight, but we cracked him. For some reason that escapes me he feels loyalty to the McKells. Well, we knocked it out of him. I’m not taking anybody’s crud in this case any more. I’ve had it.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”