Ed McBain - Long Time No See

“What did she say?”

“At first she didn’t want to tell me what was bothering her.”

“Yes, what was it?”

“Jimmy. Her husband.”

“What about him?”

“Well, as I said before—”

“Mr. Preston, both of them are dead, and if whatever was bothering Isabel had anything to do with—”

“No, it didn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, I just... I don’t think it did.”

“How about letting me judge? What was it?”

“Well... she thought he had another woman.”

“Ah,” Carella said.

“So naturally, it... it troubled her. She was a lovely person it... troubled her to think her husband was being unfaithful.”

“Why’d she think so?”

“She just thought so.”

“Intuition, huh?”

“I suppose so.”

“But no real reason. She just assumed he was playing around, is that right?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“No whispered telephone conversations, no shirts smelling of perfume...”

“No, no.”

“And that’s what was bothering her. That’s why she came to you, and that’s why you went for a drink together last week. To discuss the possibility that Jimmy Harris was playing around with another woman.”

“Yes.”

“What did she expect you to do about it. Mr. Preston?”

“Oh, I don’t think she expected me to do anything.”

“Then why did she come to you?”

“To... just to talk.”

“Nobody she could talk to at the office, I guess.”

“I guess not.”

“None of the other girls.”

“I guess not.”

“Just you.”

“Well...”

“Was this the first time she came to you with a problem?”

“Yes.”

“First time you ever had a drink together?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure about that?” Carella said.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Because, you see,” Carella said, “my information indicates otherwise.” He paused. He looked into Preston’s eyes. He had no information other than what Jennie D’Amato had given him: she had seen Preston and Isabel together once, last week. That’s all he had. Period. He was lying, and he was gambling, and the gamble paid off.

“Well... perhaps we had a drink together once or twice before,” Preston said.

“Which was it, Mr. Preston? Once or twice?”

“Twice.”

“Now you’re sure about that , are you?”

“Yes.”

Carella raised his eyebrows. That was all he had to do.

“Actually, I suppose it was several times,” Preston said.

“How many times?”

“Half a dozen times.”

“Same little bar up the street?”

“Well... no.”

“Another bar?”

“Yes.”

“A lot of different bars?”

“Yes.”

“Anywhere besides a bar?”

“Mr. Carella—”

“Mr. Preston, a man and a woman have been murdered, and I’m trying to find out why. A few minutes ago you told me there was nothing between you and Isabel Harris except an employer-employee relationship. You took her out for a drink because she had a problem she wanted to discuss. Okay, fine. Now you tell me you met her away from the office on at least six occasions—”

“That’s all it was.”

“Six times, right, that’s what you said, half a dozen times. Did you go to bed with her, Mr. Preston?”

“I don’t see what—”

“Please answer the question. Did you go to bed with Isabel Harris?”

“Yes.”

“Then you were having an affair with her.”

“I didn’t think of it as an affair.”

“How did you think of it, Mr. Preston?”

“I loved her. I planned to marry her.”

“Ah,” Carella said, and nodded. “Did your wife know this?”

“No.”

“Did Jimmy?”

“No. That’s what we talked about last Wednesday. Telling them.”

“Then all this stuff about Jimmy having a woman...”

“I made that up,” Preston said.

“It was a lie.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“What would you call it, Mr. Preston?”

“A lie, I suppose.”

“So the reason you met last— When was it?”

“Wednesday afternoon.”

“Wednesday afternoon was to discuss how you and Isabel would tell your respective...”

“Yes.”

“And what did you decide? What scheme did you hit upon?”

“It wasn’t a scheme, Mr. Carella, I don’t like the way you use the word scheme, we weren’t scheming or plotting, we were...”

“Yes, what were you doing, Mr. Preston?”

“We were two people in love planning divorce and remarriage.”

“After having seen each other a total of half a dozen times?”

“Well...”

“Or was it more than that?”

“Well...”

“Was it?”

“We’d been seeing each other for the past year.”

“Ah.”

“We loved each other.”

“Yes, I understand that. Mr. Preston, where were you on Thursday night between six-thirty and seven-thirty P.M.?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because that’s when Jimmy Harris was killed.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Then tell me where you were.”

“I was...”

“Yes?”

“With Isabel.”

“Where?”

“At a motel on Culver.”

“Did you register under your own name?”

“No.”

“What name did you use?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Mr. Preston, remember. I suggest that you remember. I strongly suggest that you remember right this minute.”

“I really don't remember. I used a different name each time.”

“Then I think you’d better put on some clothes and tell your wife you’re coming downtown with me.”

“Wait a minute.”

“I’m waiting.”

“It was Felix something.”

“Felix what?”

“Felix... something with a P.”

“Take your time.”

“Felix Pratt or Pitt — one of the two, I don’t remember.”

“Are those names you’d used before?”

“Yes.”

“All right, what’s the name of the motel?”

“The Golden Inn.”

“On Culver, did you say?”

“Yes, near the old Hanover Hospital.”

“I’m going to call and ask if you were registered there Thursday afternoon. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“My wife...”

“You keep your wife busy while I make the call. Because if you weren’t there on Thursday when Jimmy Harris was having his throat slit, you’re coming with me. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I was there.”

“Okay, call your wife and tell her I want to use the phone in private.”

“All right.”

“Go ahead, do it.”

“You won’t...”

“No, I won’t tell her you were playing around.”

“Thank you.”

“Call her.”

Preston went to the door and opened it. He looked out into the corridor, and then turned back to look at Carella again. Carella nodded. Preston went into the corridor and shouted, “Sylvia?” From somewhere in the apartment she answered, “Yes, Frank?”

“Sylvia, Mr. Carella wants to use the phone... come in here a minute, will you?”

“Yes, Frank.”

“The phone’s in the bedroom,” Preston said. “Down the hall.”

“Thank you,” Carella said.

As he walked down the corridor Mrs. Preston came around the bend in the L. “It’s in the bedroom,” she said

“Yes, thank you,” he said, and went into the bedroom and waited until he saw Preston and his wife entering the television room at the end of the hall. He closed the door then, and went directly to where the phone was resting on a night table alongside the bed. The elevated train rattled along the tracks a block away. Through the windows at the end of the room, he saw it moving against the sky, black against the cold gray of November. There was something oddly evocative about the sight of it. A toy train somewhere? The house in Riverhead when he was a boy. His father’s rich laughter.