Dane could have shaken her. “Mother, for heaven’s sake, think. This could be all-important. Who phoned you?”
“Dane, don’t look at me that way. If I remembered, don’t you think I’d say? I wasn’t paying much attention to anything that evening. You know television. You just sit there in a vacuum...”
Yes, Dane thought, where you live most of the time.
“...and then so much has happened since, it’s quite driven the details of that evening out of my head.”
“Mrs. McKell, Dane is right,” Ellery said. “This could be of the utmost importance. You simply must try to recollect who called you. Was it during the early part of the evening, or late?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it a wrong number?”
“I don’t believe so...”
“Someone you knew well?”
“Oh, I’m sure not. A stranger, I’m pretty sure of that.” This she said brightly, even anxiously, as at a minor triumph that might be snatched away from her. “I suppose that’s why I don’t remember. It couldn’t have been anything of personal importance.”
“At the time, perhaps not. Now... In any event, you spent the entire evening watching TV — nothing else.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Queen.”
“I want you to keep thinking about that call, Mrs. McKell. It will come back to you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Ellery sagged. He began to rub the bridge of his nose. “We seem to be hung up, don’t we? We have your word, Mrs. McKell, that you didn’t leave your apartment the entire time. Obviously, if you didn’t leave the apartment, you couldn’t have shot Miss Grey. The trouble is, we have only your word for it. Forgive me if I sound like a bookkeeper...
“The problem gets down to the absolute need to substantiate Mrs. McKell’s story,” Ellery told the others. “How to do that is the heart of the business. Her only contact with the outside world, unless she can remember who phoned her, was by way of the television set. Too bad we don’t live in an era of two-way TV communication, as in the science-fiction stories. Well! We seem to have arrived exactly nowhere.”
He sounded fagged; his whole personality appeared to have changed since their discussions of Ashton McKell’s predicament.
“Let me keep thinking about this,” he said. “I’ll discuss it with my father, too.”
“But he’s in charge of the police end of the case,” Dane protested.
“Exactly.”
It was an unsatisfactory session all around. They rose to go in an atmosphere of helpless gloom. The very air in the room smelled stale.
They were at the door when Ellery suddenly said, “Oh, one thing. It probably won’t lead anywhere—”
“Just tell me what it is, Mr. Queen,” said Ashton McKell.
“I’m curious about Sheila Grey’s work. I’d like to see her fashion designs. What’s her establishment called?”
“The House of Grey.”
Ellery nodded. “Can you bring me her drawings, photos, advertisements — anything you can lay your hands on of her creative work, or get permission to borrow? Particularly recent material. But I would like to get an all-over picture, going years back, if necessary.”
“Why, Mr. Queen?”
“If I could answer that, I wouldn’t need the material. Say it’s a hunch.”
“I don’t know if we can...”
“I’ll get it,” Dane said. “I’ll go to work on it right away. Is that all, Mr. Queen?”
“No, when you do bring me the material I’d appreciate Miss Walsh’s coming along with you. You can describe the annual collections to me from a woman’s point of view, Miss Walsh — I’m afraid I know as little as most men about women’s fashions. Will you do that?”
They left him pulling at his lip, and squinting along the bulky line of his casts.
Sheila Grey had died intestate. Her estate fell to an only relative living in Kansas, a sister with a well-to-do invalid husband. Mrs. Potter had no need for money and no interest in The House of Grey. She had asked the staff to carry on for the time being, had signed powers of attorney, had given John Leslie $100 and the request that he “look after things” in the penthouse apartment; and immediately after the funeral she had flown back home.
Dane told Leslie what it was they wanted.
“I don’t know, Mr. Dane,” the doorman said. “Seems like it wouldn’t be right, me letting anybody take anything from Miss Grey’s apartment. Even you, sir. I could get into trouble.”
“Suppose it was okay with the police,” Dane said. “Would you do it then, John?”
“Sure, sir.”
Dane called Ellery; Ellery called his father; Inspector Queen called Sergeant Velie. In the end, Dane got what Ellery wanted. As the Inspector said, “If he can borrow a defendant, I don’t see any harm in letting him have a look at some drawings.”
Sheila Grey had been systematic in her filing. With Sergeant Velie standing by, Dane and Judy went through the dead woman’s workroom in the penthouse. From 1957 on, everything was neatly in place, in chronological order. Under the sergeant’s eye they transferred the contents of the files into boxes they had brought for the purpose. Dane signed a receipt, the sergeant countersigned it, John Leslie went off happy, and at 10 A.M. Saturday, Dane and Judy presented themselves, cum boxes, in the Queen room at the Swedish-Norwegian Hospital.
Ellery perked up at sight of them. A quick riffle through some of the material, and he gestured toward the walls. “I had my Valkyrie nurse buy up all the local stocks of Scotch tape. Let’s start to the right of the door and tape everything up in the proper time sequence... all around the room — drawings, photos, ads, what-have-you. And if the walls give out, spread them on the floor. You’ll note that I persuaded the medical powers to let me abandon my chair for a wheelchair. That’s for mobility.
“Judy, you arrange. Dane, you tape. I’ll ask questions if and as the spirit — and my ignorance — move.”
Judy set to work. She handed Dane the material pertaining to Sheila Grey’s first-shown collection, late in 1957, and he taped them to the wall. In a short time Judy was moved to voice her pleasure.
“Aren’t these Lady Sheila things stunning,” she exclaimed. “Even if they are six years out of date.”
“Lady Sheila?” Ellery said.
“That’s the name of that particular collection.” Judy pointed. “Each showing has a special collection-name, you see. The next year, 1958, is called Lady Nella. To name a collection gives it more character than just a date. Here — 1959—”
“Lady Ruth,” Ellery read. “Mmm. Sheila was her own name, so that was natural enough. Nella sounds a bit fancy, but I suppose the exotic touch is an asset in this mysterious business. But why Ruth? Kind of Plain Jane, isn’t it? Although... yes, I see.”
Dane, who did not, said, “See what, Mr. Queen?”
“Ruth. Named after the matron of the same name in the Bible book of ditto, I’ll bet a ruffle. I don’t know what an archeologist would say, but you could put these dresses — some of them, anyway — on 1000-Girls-1000 in any self-respecting Hollywood Biblical extravaganza and I, for one, wouldn’t detect a false note. That beautifully ancient simplicity of drape and design. Right, Judy?”
Judy said, “Oh, yes!” Her eyes were shining at the drawings of Sheila Grey’s 1960 collection, named Lady Lorna D., with its subtle influences of Scotch color and pattern — gowns which were not so much kilts as kilty, hats which instantly evoked the tam-o’-shanter and Highland bonnet without being either, purses worn in the manner of sporrans but made from the same material as the gown, hinting of plaids and tartans.