“You should wear a hat, this weather,” Fanny said.
“I don’t like hats,” Carella said.
“Gentlemen wear hats,” Fanny said, and went out into the kitchen, where there was a wet sink and bar recessed into what had long ago been a dumbwaiter shaft. In the spare room, the ten-year old twins were watching television. Carella stopped in the doorway and said, “Hi.”
“Hi, Dad,” April said.
“Hi,” Mark said.
“No kisses?”
“Wait till she wins the money,” April said.
“Who?”
“Shh, Dad, there’s five thousand dollars at stake here,” Mark said.
“See you later,” Carella said, and started toward the living room, and then turned back and said, “Have you eaten yet?”
“Yes, Dad, shhhh,” April said.
Carella went down the corridor to the living room. Teddy was sitting by the fire. She had not heard the doorbell ringing, she had not heard the conversation with Fanny or the twins, she did not now hear her husband approaching; Teddy Carella was a deaf-mute. She sat by the fire, looking into the flames, the firelight touching her midnight hair with reds and oranges and yellows, as though it had been sprinkled with sequins. He hesitated in the doorway, watching her face, the dark luminous brown eyes staring into the flames, the full mouth and finely sculpted cheekbones. As always, his heart soared. He stood watching her speechlessly, feeling as he had the very first moment he’d met her. That would never change. He could guarantee that. In a world he sometimes did not understand, he understood completely his love for Teddy. He went to her. She sensed his approach now, and turned, and her face changed in the tick of an instant from meditative privacy to shared intimacy. There was nothing hidden on that face, her eyes and her mouth declared all her tongue could not. She rose from the easy chair and went into his arms. He held her close. He stroked her hair. He gently kissed her lips.
Her hands fluttered with questions, which he answered with his own hands, using the sign language she had taught him, occasionally lapsing into speech, her eyes searching his mouth. When Fanny came into the room with his drink, she did not interrupt their animated conversation. He told her about the second victim, and Teddy’s eyes clouded, and she watched as his hands and his face and his voice defined his outrage. He told her about Sophie Harris and Charles C. Clarke, whose middle name they still did not know, and Maloney from Canine, and she asked him what would happen to the dog, and he said he didn’t know. They ate dinner alone in the wood-paneled dining room, and later the children came to be kissed before going off to bed. April said the lady on television had blown it. Mark said any dope could have answered the question. April, not realizing what she was saying, said, “I couldn’t have answered it,” and they all burst out laughing.
It was almost nine-thirty, it had been a long day. They sipped their coffee in silence, holding hands across the table. Insidiously, the case began to intrude again. Carella found himself hurrying through the last of his coffee. When he rose abruptly from the table, Teddy looked up at him in puzzlement.
“I’ve got to call this guy Preston,” he said.
She waited, her eyes watching his mouth.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, get ready for bed?”
Still she waited.
“I won’t be a minute,” he said, and grinned boyishly.
She nodded briefly and reached up with one hand to touch his face. He kissed the palm of her hand, and then nodded too, and went out into the living room to dial Preston’s number from the telephone there.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said.
“Mr. Preston?”
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Carella, I called earlier.”
“Yes, Mr. Carella.”
“We’re investigating the murders of Isabel and Jimmy Harris, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Now, do you mean?”
“If it’s convenient.”
“Well... yes, I suppose so.”
“When I spoke to Mrs. Harris yesterday, she told me she worked for your company.”
“That’s right.”
“In the mail room.”
“Yes.”
“How long had she been working for you, Mr. Preston?”
“Two, three years.”
“What were her duties?”
“She inserted our catalogues into envelopes.”
“Who else worked in the mail room with her?”
“She worked there alone. Another girl typed up the labels and put them on the envelopes. But that was in the outer office.”
“What’s the other girl’s name?”
“Jennie D’Amato. She also answers phones and serves as receptionist.”
“Would you know her address?”
“Not offhand. If you call the office on Monday, she’ll give it to you.”
“How many people do you employ, Mr. Preston?”
“There’s just myself and three girls in the office — two without Isabel.”
“What’s the third girl’s name?”
“Nancy Houlihan, she’s my bookkeeper.”
“Do you employ anyone who works outside the office?”
“Yes, at the warehouse.”
“Where’s the warehouse.”
“About ten blocks from the office. On the river.”
“Who do you employ there?”
“Just two men to make up the orders and pack them and ship them.”
“So the way the operation works...”
“It’s direct mail,” Preston said. “We send out the advertising matter, and when we receive orders they’re filled at the warehouse. It’s a very small operation.”
“These two men working at the warehouse — did they ever come up to the office?”
“On Fridays. To pick up their pay checks.”
“Would they have had any contact with Isabel Harris?”
“They knew her, yes.”
“What are their names?”
“Alex Carr and Tommy Runniman.”
“Would you know their addresses?”
“You’ll have to get those on Monday. Just call the office anytime after nine.”
“Mr. Preston, how did Isabel get along with the other employees?”
“Fine.”
“No problems?”
“None that I knew of.”
“How did you get along with her?”
“Me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hardly knew her.”
“You said she’d been working there for two, three years...”
“That’s right. But I rarely had any personal contact with the employees.”
“How’d you happen to hire her, Mr. Preston?”
“I’d been thinking of hiring someone handicapped for a long time. The job doesn’t require eyesight. It’s merely inserting catalogues into envelopes.”
“How much were you paying her, Mr. Preston?”
“She was being paid comparable wages.”
“Comparable?”
“To the other girls.”
“Not more?”
"More?”
“Yes, sir. I’m trying to determine whether anyone would have had a reason for bearing a grudge or...”
No, she wasn’t paid more, comparably, than the other girls.”
“Sir, there’s that word ‘comparably’ again.”
“What I’m saying, Mr. Carella, is that you can’t expect someone working in the mail room to be paid the same wages as a bookkeeper or a typist, that’s what I’m saying. Comparably, she was being paid what a sighted person doing her sort of work would be paid. Neither more nor less. The other two girls would have had no reason for enmity.”
“How about the men from the warehouse?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mrs. Harris was an attractive woman. Did either of them ever make a play for her?”