“Yes?”
“Detective Carella,” he said. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Preston, please.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Are you Miss D’Amato?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mr. Preston in?”
“I’ll see,” she said, and slid the panel shut, and picked up the telephone receiver, and stabbed at a button in the base of the phone. He could hear her voice through the glass panels. “Mr. Preston? There’s a Detective Carella here to see you.” She listened, said, “Yes, sir,” and put the receiver back on its cradle. She slid open the panel again. “I’ll buzz you in,” she said to Carella, and indicated a door on her right. Carella went to the door, took the knob in his hand, waited for the buzz that unlocked it, and opened it into the office beyond. Desks, filing cabinets. At one of the desks, a horsefaced woman working over what appeared to be the company ledgers. He supposed this was Miss Houlihan. She did not look up from the books.
“It’s the door right there,” Jennie said. “Just go right in.”
“Thank you,” Carella said, and walked to the door and knocked on it.
“Come in,” Preston said.
He was sitting behind a large wooden desk, the book cases behind him lined with leatherbound books that looked dusty and old. He was wearing a dark pinstriped suit, a white shirt and muted tie. The last time Carella saw him, he’d been wearing a bathrobe. He looked rather more elegant now, somewhat like a barrister out of Great Expectations, fringe of white hair framing his massive head, blue eyes alert and expectant under the white shaggy brows. He rose immediately, shook hands with Carella, and immediately asked, “Any news?”
“No, nothing,” Carella said. “I’d like to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. This other woman who was killed—”
“You know about that?” Carella asked at once.
“Yes, it was in the papers. Is her death linked to Isabel’s?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Because if it is...” Preston shrugged. “Well then, you’re obviously dealing with a lunatic, isn’t that so?”
“Possibly,” Carella said. “Mr. Preston, I’m assuming that the relationship between you and Isabel was the sort in which there was a free exchange of dialogue.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ever talk about your separate marriages?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Mr. Preston, we have good reason to believe that Jimmy Harris wrote to someone he knew in the Army, proposing some sort of business deal — possibly something illegal. Did Isabel ever mention this to you?”
“No, she did not.”
“Never mentioned Jimmy contacting one of his old Army buddies?”
“No.”
“Did she mention Jimmy going to the reunion in August?”
“Yes. In fact...”
“Yes, Mr. Preston?”
“We... stole a few days together.”
“You and Isabel went away together, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“While Jimmy was at the reunion?”
“Yes.”
“Did she later mention anything that happened at the reunion?”
“No.”
“Did Jimmy ever tell her about a plan to get rich?”
“She never mentioned such a plan to me.”
“Mr. Preston, when we went through the Harris apartment, we didn’t find anything like a diary or a journal that Isabel might have kept...
“She was blind,” Preston said.
“Yes, I realize that, but blind people can write in Braille, and I’m sure there are at least some blind people who keep diaries. Did Isabel ever mention a diary or a journal?”
“No.”
“Where did she work, Mr. Preston?”
“Here, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“In the mail room.”
“Where’s that?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because maybe she kept such a diary here at the office, where her husband wouldn’t come across it.”
“No, I don’t think she kept a diary.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“Well, I can’t be sure, of course, but... she never mentioned a diary to me. I’m sure she would have mentioned it.”
“Mr. Preston, may I see her desk, please?”
“I... I don’t see what...”
“What’s the problem, Mr. Preston?”
“There’s no problem. It’s simply that you’d be wasting your time.”
“Well, it’s my time, isn’t it?”
“Yes but...”
“What is it, Mr. Preston?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you show me the mail room, please?”
Preston sighed and rose from behind his desk. “This way,” he said, and walked across the office to the door, and opened it, and stepped into the outer office, Carella following him.
The door to the mail room was set alongside the desk at which Miss Houlihan still worked on the ledgers. This time she glanced up as the two men went past. There seemed to be a faintly quizzical look on her face. Preston opened the door to the mail room as though he were opening the door to a vault. A girl sat at a desk inside the windowless room. There were brochures stacked on the floor beside the desk. The girl kept reaching for the brochures and stuffing them into envelopes. She did this mindlessly — reaching, inserting, moistening the envelope flaps, sealing the envelopes.
“Would you, leave us, please, Beth?” Preston asked, and the girl walked out of the room. Preston closed the door behind her. Idly, because he was not here to look through advertising matter for ashtrays, salt and pepper shakers, coasters, swizzle sticks or other assorted souvenir items, Carella picked up one of the brochures.
On the cover there was a line drawing of a man and a woman kissing. Above the woman’s head, and moving across the cover from left to right in delicate script lettering, was the legend Marital Aids for Lovers. Below the word Lovers, in a white heart on the extreme right-hand side of the cover, was the name of Preston’s firm, and below that its address on Dutchman’s Row. In the lower left-hand corner of the cover, in very small print, Carella read the words sexually oriented advertising for adults. Beneath this was the warning This catalogue contains advertisements which may be deemed sexually oriented under the new postal law. That law is concerned with seeing that sexually oriented advertisements are not thrust upon minors or persons not desiring such advertisements. Accordingly, if you are less than 21 years of age, or if you do not desire to view a sexually oriented advertisement, DO NOT OPEN THIS CATALOGUE. Please be kind enough to request that we remove your name from our mailing list. We will then remove your name and make every effort to see that you do not receive any more sexually oriented advertisements from us.