Long Time No See by Ed McBain

do.
    “Actually, I suppose it was several times,” Preston said.
    “How many times?”
    “Half a dozen times.”
    “Same little bar up the street?”
    “Well…no.”
    “Another bar?”
    “Yes.”
    “A lot of different bars?”
    “Yes.”
    “Anywhere besides a bar?”
    “Mr. Carella—”
    “Mr. Preston, a man and a woman have been murdered, and I’m trying to find out why. A few minutes ago you told me there was nothing between you and Isabel Harris except an employer-employee relationship. You took her out for a drink because she had a problem she wanted to discuss. Okay, fine. Now you tell me you met her away from the office on at least six occasions—”
    “That’s all it was.”
    “Six times, right, that’s what you said, half a dozen times. Did you go to bed with her, Mr. Preston?”
    “I don’t see what—”
    “Please answer the question. Did you go to bed with Isabel Harris?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you were having an affair with her.”
    “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