“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.
He watched the train, and forgot for a moment that he was here to learn about murder. He kept watching it until it rumbled into the platform, and then he picked up the telephone receiver and dialed 411 for information. When the operator came on, he asked for the Golden Inn on Culver, and she gave him the number. He dialed it at once. Through the windows he could see the train moving away from the platform. A library. Something. Walking to the library with books under his arm. The elevated train overhead. Snow on the pavement.
“Golden Inn, good morning,” a man’s voice said.
“Good morning, this is Detective Carella, Police Department.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d check your register for a couple that may have been there this past Thursday, that would have been November eighteenth.”
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to call you back on that.”
“I’m not at the office.”
“Well, it’s... How do I know you’re a policeman?”
“Call the 87th Squad, here’s the number, and ask whoever’s there if a Detective Carella works there. That’s Frederick 7-8024. Then call me back here as soon as you’ve checked — the number here is West-more 6-2275. Have you got both those numbers?” “Yes, sir.”
“Do it fast, please.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do it right this minute.”
“Good,” Carella said, and hung up.
He waited. Another train pulled into the elevated platform. He waited. The train pulled out. He looked at his watch. On the dresser opposite the bed, there was a picture of Frank and Sylvia Preston, taken when they were much younger. There were pictures of grown children, presumably theirs. There was a wedding picture of two young people Carella assumed were also children of the Prestons. The sweep hand on the electric dresser clock wiped the dial relentlessly. Another train pulled into the station. Carella sighed. He waited. The train rumbled out again. Exasperated, he picked up the receiver and dialed the motel.
“Golden Inn, good morning.”
“Good morning, this is Detective Carella again. Did you check with the squad?”
“Sir, the phone rang the minute I hung up, I haven’t had a chance to—”
“What’s your name?” Carella asked.
“Gary Otis.”
“All right, Mr. Otis, listen to me,” Carella said. “This is a homicide I’m investigating here, and I haven’t got time for you to go checking all over the city to see whether I’m a bona fide cop or not. My name is — have you got a pencil? — Stephen Louis Carella, that’s Stephen with a p-h, I'm a Detective Second/Grade working out of the 87th Squad in Isola. My shield number is 714-56-32, and my commanding officer’s name is Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes. Have you got all that?”
“Well, I... I think so.”
“Good. If it turns out I’m a fake cop, you can sue the city. In the meantime, Mr. Otis—”
“How can I sue the city?”
“Mr. Otis, you’re irritating me,” Carella said.