The Fourth Side of the Triangle by Ellery Queen Page B

know. Name your poison, pardner.”
    The living room, furnished in Scandinavian Modern, was dimly lighted. Always peaceful-looking, it seemed extraordinarily so on this occasion. A feeling of contentment invaded Dane, in the van of which marched a wiry little excitement. It was the queerest thing. Sheila mixed their drinks at her bar, humming to herself the absurd tune to an absurd W. C. Fields song they had heard at the art movies; she reached for the ice, and he caught a quiet smile on her face.
    So it happened—not by calculation, not with his father standing aghast and outraged in the living-room archway, not as part of a created plot, but as naturally as breathing. Dane put his arms around her. Sheila turned with the same smile, lifted her perfect face and half closed her eyes, and they kissed.
    Her lips, her body, were sweet and soft and full. He had never thought of her body before except in a repellent image, lying in his father’s hairy arms.
    Dane heard her say, “I’m glad you waited, darling,” saw her hand him his drink, raise her own. They drank in silence, looking into each other’s eyes. Then Dane set his glass down and took her hand, her strong white little hand with the smudge of violet India ink on the palm, and he kissed it, a brush of his lips; and left.
    As he undressed for bed, the thought occurred to him for the first time that night: I’ve accomplished my purpose. I’ve got her. Now all I have to do is arrange the pay-off .
    But it’s gone all to pot .
    And the horrifying thought: I’ve fallen in love with her .
    He was in love with his father’s mistress. It was not as if the kiss symbolized a beginning; it was an ending, a climax of days and nights of exploration and intermingling of ideas and attitudes and laughter and close silences; a seal to a compact they—he—had never suspected they were making. I’m glad you waited, darling … It was the same with her; she had experienced the special quality of their relationship, sealed with the kiss. If there was a beginning at all, it was not the beginning of an affair; it was the beginning of a lifetime.
    Suddenly the whole incredible structure crashed about his head. Whom was he punishing? His father, yes; but his mother more. Himself most of all.
    It was not supposed to be that way. It was all wrong, twisted out of any semblance to the shape he had been fashioning. Everyone was going to be hurt—mother, father, himself … and Sheila.
    He tossed for most of what was left of the night.
    Dane awakened to a sense of purpose, almost recklessness. That was the way it had worked out. The hell with everything else.
    But with breakfast came caution. Think it over, he told himself, don’t rush it, perhaps you’re reading a fantasy into what could have been a mere kiss of the moment, as meaningless to you as to Sheila. He did not really feel that way, and he was sure that Sheila did not; still, it had to be taken into account. Take a day or so to simmer down, to let matters adjust themselves to some realistic yardstick.
    As the day wore on he found himself hungering for her voice. Work was out of the question. Suppose by his silence he made her think he was having second thoughts? She mustn’t think that, mustn’t. Besides … that voice, that deep and husky telephone quality it did not have at other times …
    â€œSheila! Dane.”
    â€œI know.”
    It was like warm honey, that voice.
    â€œI’ve got to see you. Tonight? This afternoon?”
    â€œNo, Dane, I want to think.”
    â€œTomorrow?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI love you, Sheila.”
    She did not reply at once, as if she were fighting him, or herself. “I know, Dane,” she finally said. “Tomorrow.”
    She came straight into his arms. There was a nerve in the hollow of her throat that jumped when he kissed it. It was some time before he said anything. Then he held her close