The Fourth Side of the Triangle by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online

they were.
    Sheila Grey’s Fifth Avenue salon.
    While Mrs. Vernier was exchanging greetings with the sharply tailored, gray-haired chief of saleswomen, Dane artfully wandered off, still holding his godmother’s packages. He did not want to set them down. Not just yet.
    He had become genuinely interested in the reproduction of a Pieter de Hooch—whoever selected the pictures in the salon had evidently not learned his trade at the feet of those who decorated American hotel rooms with thousands of mock-Utrillos and pseudo-Georgia O’Keefes—when a voice behind him said, “Let me take those from you, Mr. McKell.”
    Wheeling, he looked into the face of a woman his own age, chic, a little abstracted, the tidiest bit untidy. Dane was about to decline when she simply took the packages from him.
    â€œMy name is Sheila Grey, Mr. McKell.”
    It could not have been more beautifully executed if he had prepared two weeks for this moment. He had not seen her approach, he had not recognized her, and his reaction was therefore genuine.
    â€œThanks, Miss Grey. How stupid of me not to recognize you.”
    She handed the packages to a young woman who had materialized from somewhere and just as promptly snuffed herself out; and she smiled.
    â€œThere’s no reason why you should. If you were a female, I’d be worried.”
    Dane murmured something.
    His heart had not jumped; his flesh was not crawling; he was feeling neither rage nor contempt. He was wondering why when Sarah Vernier came up, beaming. “Sheila, this is my godson, Dane McKell. Isn’t he lovely?”
    â€œI’d hardly select that adjective, Mrs. Vernier,” Sheila Grey smiled. “Or don’t you object to it, Mr. McKell?”
    â€œI never object to anything Aunt Sarah says, Miss Grey. Incidentally, how did you know who I am?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou addressed me by name twice a few moments ago.”
    â€œDid I?” Did her make-up conceal the slightest flush? “I suppose I must have known who you were from seeing you in the lobby of your parents’ apartment building. You know I have the penthouse?”
    â€œOf course,” said Dane ruefully. “This is my stupid day.”
    She was neither short nor tall. She was slender, on the pale side (or was that her make-up?), with lustrous brown hair and gray, gray eyes. Her features were so regular that they seemed to Dane to have no character; certainly he would never have invented her as a femme fatale for a book. He wondered what had attracted his father, who had access—if he wanted to take advantage of his opportunities—to scores of far more beautiful women. It was not her youth alone; youth could be bought, or rented. There had to be something special about her; and he felt a slight anticipation.
    â€œIs this part of the international couturière’s image?” Dane asked, gazing around. “I mean all this unoccupied space? Or do you have invisible customers, Miss Grey?”
    â€œThey’re invisible at this time of the year.” She smiled back. “The summer doldrums are at their height. Or is it depth? However you measure doldrums.”
    â€œI’m not enough of a sea-dog to know.”
    â€œDane, I thought writers knew everything, ” said Sarah Vernier, delighted at the opening thus presented to her. “You know, Sheila, Dane’s in town working on his new book. ”
    â€œThen you and I are in the same leaky boat, Mr. McKell.” Her eyebrows (unplucked, he noticed) had gone up.
    â€œYou’re writing a book, too? On haute couture , I suppose.”
    â€œHeavens, I can barely write my name.” He rather liked her laugh; it was fresh and brisk and brief, like a frank handshake. “No, I’m staying in town to work on my new collection.” Sarah Vernier went, “Ohhhhhh …!” with a rising inflection. The showing was scheduled for