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?”
“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?”