“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 twelve, 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?”
“Nothing.”
“No threatening letters or telephone calls?”
“Nothing.”
“Crank calls?”
“Every author on the face of the earth gets crank calls.”
“Did he mention any?”
“Not specifically, no. But I know he had his telephone number changed last month, so I’m assuming that was the case.”
“Okay, thanks,” Carella said. “Mr. Corbett, we may want to get in touch with you again, so…”
“Don’t leave town, huh?” Corbett said, and smiled. “I used to edit mysteries on my first job in publishing.”
“I wasn’t about to say that,” Carella said.
“What were you about to say?”
“I was about to say…” Carella hesitated. “That’s what I was about to say,” he said.
In the street outside, as they walked to where Carella had parked the car, Hawes said, “You weren’t really about to say that, were you?”
“Yeah, I was.”
“Don’t leave town?”
“Words to that effect.”
It was beginning to snow again. When they reached the car, Carella unlocked the door on the curb side and then went around to the driver’s side. Hawes leaned over to pull up the lock-release button. Carella got in behind the wheel, shoved up the visor with its hand-lettered city detective on duty sign, and then started the car. They sat waiting for the heater to throw some warmth into it.
“What do you think?” Hawes asked.