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

Name the time and place, Miss Grey.”
    Sheila hesitated. It seemed to Dane that she found herself in a dilemma. That means I’m not repulsive to her, he thought; and he felt a tingle suddenly.
    â€œIf you’re really interested in my work, in the whole area of fashion … Tell you what, Mr. McKell. Why don’t you plan to get here a bit earlier Monday? Say, at noon? Then we can go over some of the basic things.”
    â€œWonderful,” said Dane. “You can’t know what this means to me, Miss Grey. Monday at noon, then. Aunt Sarah?”
    â€œOh, you two do like each other,” cried Mrs. Vernier, glowing.
    Dane had been normally aware that women wore clothes and that their creation was a matter of considerably more moment than, say, the designing of a nuclear flattop. He knew vaguely that there was rivalry between the Continental and American dress houses, and that it resulted in a secrecy that made the answer to Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s? meekly affirmative. But he was hardly prepared to find Pinkerton guards standing watch over every nook and cranny of Sheila Grey’s establishment except the salon itself.
    â€œIt’s almost like the CIA!” he exclaimed.
    The comparison was not inexact. In a hugely different degree, on an infinitely smaller scale, the behind-the-scenes scenes of high fashion did have a faint air of the Pentagon gone mad. Men with the dedicated look of the career idealist, women who gave the impression of having studied at the secretive feet of Mata Hari, zealous underlings of the three sexes, and assorted females who could have been camp followers, sat poring over plans, screwed up their tired eyes at sketches, moved from office to office in zombi-like withdrawal; they examined swatches as if the bits of material were secret weapons, and peered with tucked-in lips at lovely young models who, for all the excitement their beauty generated, might have been made of plastic. Here clothes were the only living things.
    â€œAnd this is an annual event?” Dane asked.
    â€œYes. Let me show you.” Dane followed Sheila, attending her litany—Marc Bohan of Dior, Crahay of Nina Ricci, Castillo of Lanvin (like so many medieval saints, or feudatories, or even Isaac of York or Macdonald of the Isles), Cardin, Chanel, Jacques Heim, Balmain, Goma, Vernet, and the all but hallowed Yves St. Laurent. From Sheila’s tone, Dane gathered that St. Laurent could cure scrofula by a laying on of hands.
    â€œAnd that’s just France,” Sheila was saying.
    He was actually taking notes.
    â€œIt’s like wine,” Sheila explained. “Any reasonable Frenchman will admit that certain French wines are inferior to their American counterparts. But we’re such snobs! We’d rather tipple a mediocre vintage with a French label than a first-rate California. It’s the same with clothes. All right, St. Laurent is tops. But it’s not because he’s French, it’s because he’s St. Laurent. Another thing that blows me sky-high is the women who won’t wear a gown unless it’s designed by a man. It makes me want to spit!”
    â€œIt becomes you,” said Dane. It did, too; anger put color into her cheeks, and a sparkle in her eyes that made them flash.
    She stopped herself with one of her fresh, quick laughs. “Let’s go to lunch.”
    â€œI had forgotten lunch could be fun,” Sheila Grey said. “Thank you, Mr. McKell.”
    â€œCould you make it Dane?”
    â€œDane. Are you sure you’re writing a book with a designer-character in it?”
    â€œWhy would you doubt it?”
    â€œI suppose I don’t care for people with hidden motives.” She laughed. “I’m always on the watch.”
    â€œThe only hidden motive I could have would be very personal, and I can’t imagine any woman resenting that.”
    â€œAt this point,” said Sheila, rising, “I’ve