Detectives use all the modern tools of science, yes they do. I used a basic tool in a drugstore on Bank Street—the telephone book. It’s simple when you know what to look for. No Emory Foster was listed, not in five boroughs. No one has ever invented a free-lance writer without a telephone, or a poor free-lance writer with an unlisted number. I called Sarah Wiggen. She didn’t answer. She worked somewhere. Who had said it? Ted Marshall, yes—Sarah worked in some kind of residence hall for females. That could take all day. I flagged down a taxi on Hudson Street. The day was hotter now near noon, and they were still playing soccer in the park. Silent men scoring imaginary goals in make-believe important contests because they had nothing better to do in the richest country in the world. The superintendent of Sarah Wiggen’s brownstone had the steady eyes of a Corsican bandit. ‘Yeh?’ ‘Sarah Wiggen isn’t at home. You know where she works?’ ‘Why?’ ‘I’m working on her sister’s murder.
