by Ed McBain
“I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning,” Carella said. “This is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad. I’m investigating the murder of Gregory Craig.”
“Oh. Yes,” Corbett said.
“I was wondering if I might stop by there a little later this morning,” Carella said. “There are some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Yes, certainly.”
Carella looked at the bedside clock. “Would ten o’clock be all right?”
Beside him, Teddy read his lips and shook her head.
“Or eleven,” Carella corrected, “whichever is more convenient for you.”
“Eleven would be better,” Corbett said.
“May I have the address there, please?”
Corbett gave it to him. As Carella wrote, Teddy’s hand became more insistent.
“I’ll see you at eleven,” he said, “thanks a lot,” and hung up, and turned to her.
“I have to call Cotton first,” he said.
She rolled her eyes heavenward.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
She released him as suddenly as she had grasped him and with a sigh lay back against the pillow, her hands behind her head, the bedclothes lowered to her thighs, the baby doll gown carelessly exposing the black triangular patch of hair below the hem.
“Cotton,” he said, “I’ve made an appointment with Daniel Corbett for eleven o’clock. He’s down in the Quarter. Can you meet me there?”
“How’d you find him?” Hawes asked.
“The Spook called.”
“Out of the blue?”
“Flux. Write this down, will you?” Carella said, and read off the address. “Eleven o’clock.”
“See you there,” Hawes said, and hung up.
Carella put the receiver back on the cradle and rolled over to Teddy. Her hands were still behind her head; there was an expression of utter boredom on her face.
“Okay,” he said.
She sat up suddenly. Her hands fluttered on the air. He watched her fingers, reading the words they formed, and then began grinning.
“What do you mean, you’ve got a headache?” he said.
Her hands moved again, fluidly, fluently.
I always get headaches when people stay on the phone too long, she said.
“I’m off the phone now,” he said.
She shrugged airily.
“So what do you say?”
She shrugged again.
“You want to fool around a little?” he asked, grinning.
Her eyes narrowed smokily, in imitation of some bygone silent-movie star. She wet her lips with her tongue. She lowered one strap of the gown from her shoulder, exposing her breast. Her hands moved again. I want to fool around a lot, big boy, she said, and licked her lips again, and fell greedily into his arms.
The Quarter on that Saturday before Christmas was thronged with last-minute shoppers, who milled along the sidewalks and swarmed into the stores in search of bargains they would never find. There was a time, not too many decades ago, when this section of the city was still known as the Artists’ Quarter, and when it was possible to find here first-rate paintings or pieces of sculpture, hand-fashioned silver and gold jewelry, leather goods the equal of any tooled in Florence, lavish art books and prints, blouses and smocks hand-stitched in Mexico, wood carvings and jade, pottery and exotic plants—all at reasonable prices. Them days was gone forever, Gertie. No longer was it possible to rent a garret here and starve in it. No longer was it possible to find anything of quality at less than exorbitant prices. The name had changed those many years ago, and the area’s uniqueness had vanished with it; the Quarter was now only another tourist attraction in a city that laid its traps like a fur trader. And still the shoppers came, ever hopeful of finding something here they could not find in the fancy shops lining Hall Avenue uptown.
As everywhere else in the city, the lampposts were now entwined with yuletide ropes and garlands of pine or holly. The storefront windows were sprayed with clouds of white paint in a vain attempt to simulate frost. Behind the plate glass, beds of cotton sprinkled with blue sequins were intended to evoke memories of snow-covered meadows. The huge Christmas trees in the area’s still-existing plazas and squares were festooned with outdoor bulbs that glowed feebly in the late-morning gloom. The sky had turned cloudy once again, and the plowed snow in the gutters was now the city’s favorite color: grime gray. The pavements had been shoveled only partially clear of the earlier snowfall, and there were treacherous icy patches to navigate. Nothing deterred the avid late shoppers. They plunged ahead like salmon swimming upstream to mate in icy waters.
Daniel Corbett lived in one of the area’s remaining mews. A sculpted black wrought-iron fence enclosed a small courtyard paved with slate and led to the hidden front door of a house in an alleyway protected from the side street by a stand of Australian pines. The door was painted bright orange, and there was a massive brass knocker on it. Had the door been anywhere near the sidewalk, the knocker would have been stolen in ten minutes flat. As it was, Carella decided Corbett was taking an enormous risk leaving it hanging out there in burnished invitation. He lifted the heavy brass and let it fall. Once, twice, again. Hawes looked at him.
“He knows we’re coming, doesn’t—?”
The door opened.
Daniel Corbett was a young and handsome man with straight black hair and brown eyes, an aquiline nose out of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a mouth out of The Razor’s Edge, and a jaw out of Brighton Rock. He was, in addition, wearing a red smoking jacket with a black velvet collar, straight out of Great Expectations. He was altogether a literary man.
“Mr. Corbett?” Carella said.
“Yes?”
“Detectives Carella and Hawes,” he said, and showed his shield.
“Yes, come in, please,” Corbett said.
What Corbett had promised in the flesh was now fully realized in the shell. The wood-paneled entrance foyer opened into a library lined with bookshelves that supported the weight of an entire publishing house’s output for the past ten years or more. Jacketed books in every color of the spectrum added a festive holiday note to the rich walnut paneling. Books bound in luxuriant leather provided a proper touch of permanence. A fire blazed on the hearth, flames dancing in yellows, reds, and blues undoubtedly generated by a chemically impregnated log. A Christmas tree stood in one corner of the room, decorated with delicate hand-blown German ornaments and miniature tree lights manufactured in Hong Kong. Corbett walked to where he had left a pipe burning in an ashtray beside a red leather armchair. He picked up the pipe, puffed on it, and said, “Please sit down.” Carella looked around for Dr. Watson but couldn’t see him anywhere in evidence. He sat in one of the two upholstered chairs facing the red leather chair. He felt like ringing for his nog. He wanted to take off his shoes and put on his velvet slippers. He wanted to cook a Christmas goose. He wanted to be looking forward to Boxing Day, whatever that was. Hawes sat in the chair beside him. Corbett, as befitted his station as master of the domicile, sat in the red leather chair and puffed on his pipe.
“So,” he said.
“So,” Carella said. “Mr. Corbett, I’ll come straight to the point. On Thursday afternoon, at about five o’clock—some two hours before Mr. Craig’s body was found—a man named Daniel Corbett arrived at Harborview and announced himself to the—”
“What?” Corbett said, and almost dropped his pipe.
“Yes, announced himself to the security guard in the lobby. The guard phoned upstairs, and Mr. Craig told him to send Corbett right up. Corbett was described—”
“Daniel Corbett?”
“—was described as a young man with black hair and brown eyes.”
“Incredible,” Corbett said.
“Mmm,” Carella said. “So where were you Thursday afternoon at five o’clock?”
“At the office,” Corbett said.
“Harlow House?”
“H
arlow House.”
“Anybody there with you?”
“Only the entire staff. We were having our annual Christmas party.”
“What time did the party start, Mr. Corbett?” Hawes asked.
“Three o’clock.”
“And ended when?”
“At about seven-thirty.”
“Were you there the entire time?”
“I was.”
“With anyone in particular or just the entire staff?”
“I spent some time with people who can vouch for my presence.”
“Who were those people?” Carella asked. “Can you give us their names?”
“Well…one person in particular.”
“Who?”
“One of our juvenile book editors, a woman named Priscilla Lambeth.”
“Were you with her at five o’clock?”
“Yes, I guess it was five o’clock.”
“And you say she’ll corroborate that?”
“Well…I’m not sure she will.”
“Why not?”
“She’s married, you see.”
“So?”
“So she may not be willing to admit having been in a…somewhat compromising position.”
“How compromising was the position?” Hawes asked.
“I was fucking her on the couch in her office,” Corbett said.
“Oh,” Hawes said.
“At five o’clock?” Carella said.
“At five o’clock and again at six o’clock.”
“Do you know her home number?”
“You surely don’t intend calling her?” Corbett said.
“We can visit her instead.”
“Really, gentlemen…”
“Mr. Corbett, one of your authors was killed last Thursday, and a man fitting your description and giving your name was reportedly at the scene of the crime two hours before the body was found. That’s serious, Mr. Corbett. We don’t want to break up any happy marriages, but unless Mrs. Lambeth can confirm that you were with her at five o’clock, instead of riding the elevator up to Craig’s apartment…”
“Her number is Higley 7-8021.”
“Okay to use your phone?”
“Yes, certainly,” Corbett said, and indicated a phone resting on one corner of the bookshelf. Carella lifted the receiver, dialed the number Corbett had just given him, and waited. Corbett was watching him intently; his face had gone pale. A woman answered the phone on the fifth ring.
“Hello?” she said. Her voice was tiny and barely audible, as suited an editor of juvenile books.
“Mrs. Lambeth?” Carella said.
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Carella, I’m investigating the murder of Gregory Craig. I wonder if I may talk to you privately for a few moments. Are you alone?”
“Yes, I am.”
“We’re here with Daniel Corbett…”
“Oh.”
“A colleague of yours…”
“Oh.”
“And he tells us you can vouch for his whereabouts at five o’clock Thursday afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“Can you?”
“I…suppose so,” she said, and hesitated. “Where did he say he was?”
“Where do you say he was, Mrs. Lambeth?”
“In my office, I guess.”
“Was he or wasn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he was.”
“At five o’clock?”
“Well…at about four-thirty, I guess it was. It’s difficult to remember exactly.”
“You went to your office together at four-thirty, is that it?”
“About four-thirty, yes.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“Until about six-thirty. Is that what he told you?”
“Yes, that’s what he told us.”
“About the editorial meeting in my office?”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said.
“Well, fine,” she said, and sounded suddenly relieved. “Is that all?”
“For now, yes.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Does that mean you’ll be calling again?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d appreciate it if you called at the office next time,” she said. “My husband doesn’t like me bringing business into the home.”
I’ll bet, Carella thought, but said nothing.
“The number there is Carrier 2-8100. Extension forty-two.”
“Thank you,” Carella said.
“Please don’t call here again,” she said, and hung up.
“Okay?” Corbett said.
“Yeah,” Carella said. “Who do you suppose was up there at Harborview using your name?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is it common knowledge that you’re Craig’s editor?”
“In the trade, I suppose.”
“How about outside the trade?”
“I don’t think many people outside the trade would know it.”
“Have any magazine or newspaper articles mentioned you as his editor?”
“Well, yes, come to think of it. There was a story on Greg in People magazine. It mentioned me, and it also ran a picture of us together.”
“Then it’s entirely possible that someone outside the trade…”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“How long have you known Priscilla Lambeth?” Hawes asked suddenly.
“Not long.”
“How long?”
“She’s new with the company.”
“How new?”
“She joined Harlow House in the fall.”
“Have you been intimate with her since then?”
“What business is that of yours?” Corbett said, suddenly climbing onto his high horse.
“We have only her word for where you were at five o’clock Thursday, Mr. Corbett. If this is a long-standing affair…”
“It isn’t.”
“Thursday was the first time, huh?” Hawes said.
“I find this embarrassing,” Corbett said.
“So do I,” Hawes said. “Was it the first time?”
“No.”
“You’ve been with her before?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“It started last month,” Corbett said, and sighed.
“How often have you seen her since then?”
“Two or three times.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. This isn’t anything serious, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Pris has no reason to alibi me. Nor do I need an alibi. I was nowhere near Greg’s apartment on Thursday. I was exactly where I told you I was, in Pris’s office, on Pris’s couch.”
“Wasn’t that a bit risky?”
“Nothing’s risky at a Christmas party.”
“So this is just a casual little fling, right?” Hawes said.
“If that’s how you wish to put it.”
“How do you wish to put it, Mr. Corbett?”
“It’s casual, yes.”
“How was your relationship with Craig?” Carella asked.
“Professional.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he sent me a book, and I liked it and recommended a buy. I worked on it with him, and Harlow published it.”
“When was this?”
“We published it a year and a half ago. It was on our summer list.”
“When did the book come in?”
“About ten months before that.”
“Through an agent?”
“He has no agent. It came in addressed to an editor who was no longer with us. I recognized the name at once, of course, I’d read a couple of his novels in college.”
“But this was nonfiction.”
“Yes. A change of pace. Quite unlike anything he’d ever done before. I fell in love with it at once.”
“When you say you worked on it with him…”
“It didn’t require very much editing. Memory lapses—blue eyes on page tw
elve, green eyes on page thirty—some minor cutting here and there, but for the most part it was clean. I wish all my books were that clean.”
“And that was the extent of your relationship?”
“No, he was working on another book when…when he was killed. We’d had correspondence about it, and many, many phone calls. He was having a difficult time.”
“How about personal meetings?”
“Lunches, yes.”
“When was the last time?”
“Oh, two weeks ago, I would imagine.”
“Did he mention he was having difficulty with the new book?”
“Yes, that was why we met.”
“What did you advise him?”
“What can an editor advise? He’d had a dry spell before, between his last novel and Shades. I told him this one would pass, too.”
“Did he believe you?”
“He seemed to believe me.”
“Mr. Corbett,” Carella said, “there was a sheet of paper in Craig’s typewriter, and it seemed to me—I’m not an editor, I don’t know about such things—but it seemed like the beginning of a book. The opening paragraph, in fact.”
“I don’t think so, no,” Corbett said, shaking his head.
“I don’t remember it exactly, but I’m sure he wrote something about coming into a house for the first time…”
“Oh, yes. But you see, Greg was compiling a dossier of individual cases. About supposedly true supernatural happenings.”
“Supposedly true?”
“Well…you know,” Corbett said, and smiled. “What you saw in his typewriter may have been the beginning of just one chapter in the book.”
“How long had he been working on it?”
“For the past year or so.”
“How many chapters did he have?”
“Four.”
“In a year?”
“I told you he was having difficulty. He kept rewriting it over and over again. It simply wasn’t coming the way he wanted it to. Shades was a difficult act to follow, believe me. Greg wasn’t as familiar with the nonfiction form as he was with novels. Not as sure of his ground, do you know what I mean? Not even sure Shades wasn’t a fluke.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. The man was a quivering mass of insecurity.”
“Did he mention anything else that was troubling him?”