“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?”
“Harlow 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.