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

suddenly sodden under his hands—it was not until then that a shudder shook him and awareness returned.
    Sheila lay collapsed on the floor, barely able to support herself on her forearms, breathing in great gasps. But breathing. Dane stared down at her. There was nothing he could say. It was all over between them. How could she ever look at him again without fear?
    His plans—to help his mother—punish his father—marry Sheila … all, they were all strangled by that single burst of homicidal fury. What was any of them worth now?
    She was alive. He could at least take satisfaction in that.
    Dane seized his coat and ran.
    Sheila got to her knees, pulled herself erect, toppled onto the ottoman.
    She spent some time learning to swallow again, her hands trembling on her bruised throat. She felt cold and sick; her body was racked with shudders. Gradually they subsided, her gasps became normal breathing, her racing heart slowed down.
    The thought kept hammering in her head: He almost killed me. He wanted to; it was in his murderous eyes … Little things came back to her. Hadn’t there been signs? His unnatural sulkiness when thwarted? His easy excitability? His inexplicable silences?
    Quivering, Sheila scrambled up and went to the bathroom and turned on the cold-water tap. She was drying herself when she heard a key in her door.
    It was Ashton McKell.
    He looked tired. But his face lit up as he saw her.
    â€œWell, the nation’s fate is secure for tonight, anyway,” he said. “Old Ash McKell has given the President—good evening, Sheila”—he kissed her, sank onto the ottoman—“the benefit of his advice. Now all he has to do is take it. Sheila? Something wrong?”
    She shook her head. Her hand was on her throat.
    He jumped up and went to her. “What’s happened? Why are you holding your throat?”
    â€œAsh … I can’t tell you.”
    â€œDid you hurt yourself?”
    â€œNo. No.”
    â€œDid someone hurt you?”
    â€œAsh. Please—”
    â€œLet me see your neck.”
    â€œAsh, it’s nothing, I tell you.”
    â€œI don’t understand.” He was distressed and bewildered.
    â€œAsh, I don’t feel well. Would you understand if …?”
    â€œYou’d like me to leave?”
    Weeping, she nodded. He hesitated, patted her shoulder, picked up his bag and hat, and left.
    Sheila looked out her window at the nighttime city for a few minutes after Ashton McKell’s departure. All at once she turned away and hurried into her workroom. She pushed a pile of unfinished fashion sketches aside, took a sheet of note-paper and envelope from a drawer, sat down.
    She wrote rapidly:
    Sept. 14th
    Dane McKell tonight asked if he could come up to my apartment for a nightcap. I told him I had work to do, but he insisted. In the apartment he refused to leave and nothing I could say made him do so. I lost my temper and slapped him. He then tried to strangle me. This is not hysteria on my part—he actually tried to strangle me. He took my throat in his hands and squeezed and seemed to be out of his mind with an insane rage. As he choked me he screamed that he was going to kill me and he called me many obscene names. Then he dropped me to the floor and ran out of the apartment. In another minute I would have been dead of strangulation. I am convinced that he is a dangerous person and I repeat his name, Dane McKell. He definitely tried to kill me.
    (signed) Sheila Grey
    She did not even bother to reread it. She thrust it into an envelope, moistened the gum, sealed it securely, and on the envelope wrote: To be opened only in the event I die of unnatural causes . Now she searched her drawer, found a larger envelope, inserted the first envelope into it, sealed the outer one—heavy and yellow—and on its face wrote: For the Police . She hesitated, slipped the envelope into a bottom drawer of her desk, bit her lip,