The Fourth Side of the Triangle (5 page)

He decided to order just one more drink.

He was hung over when the telephone rang on his desk. The shrilling made him wince. It was all of a piece with his general outlook on life this morning, for his cogitations had led him into a cul-de-sac, and he had not yet worked his way out of it.

In sober determination to act boldly, he had composed imaginary dialogue for their opening conversation:

Miss Grey, I'm working on another novel—I don't know if you've seen my earlier ones …?

I'm afraid not, Mr. McKell, although I've heard about them
. (That seemed a reasonable preconstruction. The elder McKell could hardly have avoided mentioning his son's literary achievements, such as they were, and Sheila Grey, a VIP in her own right, could hardly be construed as caring a damn.)

My books haven't raised anything yet but a slight stench, I'm afraid. But I have high hopes for this one—if you'll help me
.

If I'll help you, Mr. McKell?
(That would be the raised-eyebrow department. Perhaps a shade interested.)

You see, Miss Grey, one of my leading characters is that of a famous dress designer. If I wanted to research a cab driver, all I'd have to do is ride around in cabs. But a great fashion figure—I'm afraid you're the only accessible one I've heard of. Or am I presuming?

Ordinarily what she would say was
You certainly are
, but under the circumstances he foresaw a
Well … just how can I help you?

The secret of making people interested in you, Dane had learned, lay not in helping them but in getting them to help you.
By letting me watch you at work
would be the irresistible response. She was bound, no matter how jaded fame had made her, to be flattered.

Or was she?

Here was where Dane's hangover had ached.

Sheila Grey might be flattered if he were Tom Brown or Harry Schnitzelbach. But he was Ashton McKell's son. His head throbbed with caution. To achieve an appointment he would have to give her his name. And no matter how little time elapsed between his request for an appointment and his plea for her help, it would be more than long enough to set her to wondering.

And to becoming forewarned and, therefore, forearmed.

It wouldn't do.

So he had been prowling his apartment, chewing on his thoughts, trying to crack the problem.
If you can't go through, go around
kept running about in his head. But he could not think of how to go around.

That was when the telephone rang, and he winced and answered it.

It was Sarah Vernier.

“You're annoyed, Dane,” she said. “I can tell. I've interrupted your work.”

“No, Aunt Sarah, it's just that—”

“Dear, I simply wanted to know if you'd come up to Twenty Deer for the weekend.”

Mrs. Vernier was not his aunt, she was his godmother; and it was not spiritual consanguinity that drew them together but a mutual fondness of long standing. Twenty Deer had been one of his favorite places as a boy; and Sarah Vernier's charm, plus the excellence of her table and her French husband's cellar, preserved its attractions for him as an adult. It was the estate near Rhinebeck which—before his mother's revelation—had been one of his possible choices for the weekend he had sworn not to spend in the city.

“I'm afraid it's impossible, Aunt Sarah,” Dane said.

“Shoot!” she said. “What is it with everyone? Somebody must be spreading the rumor that we have the plague up here.”

“I wish I could come, I really do.”

“I'll bet you do. It's a new girl, isn't it, you devil?” Mrs. Vernier sounded pleased. “Tell me about her.”

“It's worse. A new book, Aunt Sarah.”

“Oh, dear, that obsession of yours.” The weekend was ruined, no one was coming to Twenty Deer, she would be alone with Jacques—sweet man, wasn't he? but one of those infernal enthusiasts. Two years ago it was organic farming, last year orchids, now it's falcons.

“Messy, smelly, savage things,” said Mrs. Vernier. “Fortunately, he keeps them in the barn, so I'm spared the sight of them. As a result, of course, I never see Jacques, either. I've half a mind to come into town, just to teach him a lesson.”

And, “Why don't you?” said Dane strongly.

It was as easy as that. In a moment he would be astonished at the speed of his inspiration; now he had time for nothing but following it up.

“But everyone's away, dear,” Sarah Vernier said. “No one at all is left in New York.”

“You can always,” Dane said, “do some shopping.”

“But with whom? You're aware, my dear, that your mother is no fun, bless her—she might as well get her things from the Salvation Army. And you're too busy. Or,” she asked suddenly, “are you?”

“For you, Aunt Sarah? Never!”

So easy. Sarah Vernier and her shopping were proverbial in and about their circle. It was one of the few subjects on which she could be a bore. So Dane knew all about her favorite shopping places.

As usual, she began with trivia and worked her way up. She visited Tiffany's and ordered—for her husband—cuff links with falcons on them. Then she picked up two cut-glass toothpick holders at the Carriage House for her collection. At a “new little place” in the East 80s she (eventually) came away with a “darling” hat. At Leo Ottmiller's bookshop, since the falcon-ridden Jacques's happiness was still on her conscience, Mrs. Vernier purchased
The Boke of the Hawke
.

They lunched at the Colony.

She attacked her vichyssoise and cold chicken with good appetite. “Where shall we go next?” she asked. “Oh, Dane, this
was
an inspiration. I'm having such fun!”

“Macy's?”

“Don't be
wicked
. I know!” she cried. “Sheila Grey's.”

And Dane said—as if he had not brought Sarah Vernier half the length of the Hudson Valley for this sole purpose without her slightest suspicion of it—“Sheila Grey's? Of course,” with just the right touch of vagueness. He must have heard her say it a hundred times:
I
always
get my things at Sheila Grey's
.

On the sidewalk outside the Colony, she said, “You look like a porter on safari. Why don't we leave the packages somewhere?”

“They're light as air.” It was an important part of his plan to arrive at his goal looking the very picture of Gentleman Helping Lady on Extended Shopping Tour. He handed her into the taxicab before she could insist.

So here 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.

“My 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.

“Thanks, 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.

“There'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?”

“I'd hardly select that adjective, Mrs. Vernier,” Sheila Grey smiled. “Or don't you object to it, Mr. McKell?”

“I never object to anything Aunt Sarah says, Miss Grey. Incidentally, how did you know who I am?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You addressed me by name twice a few moments ago.”

“Did 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?”

“Of 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.

“Is 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?”

“They'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.”

“I'm not enough of a sea-dog to know.”

“Dane, 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.
”

“Then you and I are in the same leaky boat, Mr. McKell.” Her eyebrows (unplucked, he noticed) had gone up.

“You're writing a book, too? On
haute couture
, I suppose.”

“Heavens, 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 November, the designer went on. “I should really be home at my drawing board right now. In fact …” Dane saw that she was preparing gracefully to withdraw.

“Sheila, you mustn't!” wailed Mrs. Vernier. After all, she had come all the way from Rhinebeck, no one else could wait on her properly, she wanted summer and fall things, too—“Dane,
help
me.”

“I'd be the last one to keep another suffering soul from creative agony, Miss Grey, but if you'll spare Aunt Sarah a little more of your time I'll drive you home afterward.”

And “There!” exclaimed Mrs. Vernier in a you-can't-refuse-now tone of voice. And “Oh, no, no, that won't be necessary—” Sheila, hurriedly.
And how do you like the pressure, dear heart
…? Dane went on boyishly: He had never met a designer before, he threw himself on her fellow craftsmanship, and so on. “And think of poor Aunt Sarah, doomed to wear the same miserable rags.”

“I'll have you know, Mr. McKell, those ‘rags' came from my shop.”

“Oh, but Sheila,” cried Mrs. Vernier, “I got them here in April.”

“The riposte supreme,” Dane murmured. “Surely you can't expect a woman to wear clothes she bought in April? It's unconstitutional, Miss Grey.”

“Is that a sample of your dialogue?” Sheila dimpled. “Well, all right. But if the French and Italians sweep ahead of us next season, you'll know just where the fault lies.”

“I accept the awesome responsibility. I'll turn myself over for being spat upon and stoned.”

“While I go bankrupt. Now, Mr. McKell, you sit over there on that chesterfield and twiddle your thumbs. This is women's work.”

It was clear that she was, if not exactly interested, at least amused. Perhaps, too, the element of danger contributed to her decision. Or am I overstating the situation? Dane thought. Maybe she figures this is the easiest way to get rid of me. Give the little boy what he wants and then send him off with Auntie.

“Sheila, what do you think about this one?”

“I don't. Billie, take that away. Bring the blue and white shantung.” After a while, skillfully, the designer had Sarah Vernier almost entirely in the charge of her staff, while she sat beside Dane and they chatted about books and New York in midsummer and a dozen other things. Occasionally she put in a word to resolve a doubt of Mrs. Vernier's, or overrule a suggestion of her salespeople. It was all most adroitly done. She can handle people, Dane thought. I wonder just how she goes about handling Dad.

“I think we've crossed the Rubicon,” Sheila Grey said suddenly, rising. Dane jumped up. “Mrs. Vernier won't have to wear rags after all. Now I really must get home.”

“I'll drive you, as promised.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort, Mr. McKell, although it's noble of you to make the offer. You have to take care of Mrs. Vernier. I'll grab a taxi.”

“Supper?” he asked quickly.

She looked at him—almost, he thought, for the first time. Had he pulled a boner? Going too fast? She had remarkable directness in her cool gray eyes that warned him to be very cautious indeed.

“Why would you want to take me to supper, Mr. McKell?”

“I have ulterior motives. The fact is, I have to research a designer—and I can't think of a pleasanter way to do it, by the way, now that I've met the woman Aunt Sarah's raved about so long. Is it a date?”

“It is not. I'm going home and working right through the weekend.”

“I'm sorry. I've made a bloody pest of myself.”

“Not at all. It's I who's sounding ungracious. I could lunch with you on Monday.”