I read a paper on the train ride back to the city. A feature article discussed the upturn in muggings and suggested ways for the reader to make himself a less attractive target. Walk in pairs and groups, the reporter advised. Stick to well-lighted streets. Walk near the curb, not close to buildings. Move quickly and give an impression of alertness. Avoid confrontations. Muggers want to size you up and see if you’ll be easy. They ask you the time, ask for directions. Don’t let them take advantage of you.

It’s wonderful how the quality of urban life keeps getting better. “Pardon me, sir, but could you tell me how to get to the Empire State Building?” “Fuck off, you creep.” Manners for a modern city.

The train took forever. It always felt a little strange going out to Long Island. Hicksville was nowhere near where Anita and the boys lived but Long Island is Long Island and I got the vaguely uncomfortable feeling I always get when I go there. I was glad to get to Penn Station.

By then it was time for a drink, and I had a quick one in a commuters’ bar right there in the station. Saturday might be a busy day for Douglas Ettinger but it was a slow one for the bartender at the Iron Horse. All his weekday customers must have been out in Hicksville buying pup tents and basketball shoes.

The sun was out when I hit the street. I walked across Thirty-fourth, then headed up Fifth to the library. Nobody asked me what time it was, or how to get to the Holland Tunnel.

BEFORE I went into the library I stopped at a pay phone and called Lynn London. Her father had given me her number and I checked my notebook and dialed it. I got an answering machine with a message that began by repeating the last four digits of the number, announced that no one could come to the phone, and invited me to leave my name. The voice was female, very precise, just the slightest bit nasal, and I supposed it belonged to Barbara’s sister. I rang off without leaving a message.

In the library I got the same Polk directory for Brooklyn that I’d used earlier. This time I looked up a different building on Wyckoff Street. It had held four apartments then, and one of them had been rented to a Mr. and Mrs. Edward Corwin.

That gave me a way to spend the afternoon. In a bar on Forty-first and Madison I ordered a cup of coffee and a shot of bourbon to pour into it and changed a dollar into dimes. I started on the Manhattan book, where I found two Edward Corwins, an E. Corwin, an E. J. Corwin, and an E. V. Corwin. When none of those panned out I used Directory Assistance, getting the Brooklyn listings first, then moving on to Queens, the Bronx and Staten Island. Some of the numbers I dialed were busy, and I had to try them four or five times before I got through. Others didn’t answer.

I wound up getting more dimes and trying all the J. Corwins in the five boroughs. Somewhere in the course of this I had a second cup of coffee with a second shot of bourbon in it. I used up quite a few dimes to no discernible purpose, but most investigatory work is like that. If she just roots around enough, even a blind sow gets an acorn now and then. Or so they tell me.

By the time I left the bar, some two-thirds of my phone numbers had check marks next to them indicating I’d reached the party and he or she was not the Corwin I was looking for. I’d call the rest of them in due course if I had to, but I didn’t feel very hopeful about them. Janice Corwin had closed a business and given up an apartment. She might have moved to Seattle while she was at it. Or she and her husband could be somewhere in Westchester or Jersey or Connecticut, or out in Hicksville pricing tennis rackets. There was a limit to how much walking my fingers could do, in the white or yellow pages.

I went back to the library. I knew when she’d closed up shop at the Happy Hours Child Care Center; I’d learned that much from her landlord. Had she and her husband moved out of Boerum Hill at about the same time?

I worked year by year through the Polk directories and found the year the Corwins dropped out of the brick building on Wyckoff Street. The timing was right. She had probably closed the day-care center as a prelude to moving. Maybe they’d gone to the suburbs, or his company transferred him to Atlanta. Or they split up and went separate ways.

I put the directory back, then got an intelligent thought for a change and went back to reclaim it. There were three other tenants in the building who’d remained there for a few years after the Corwins moved out. I copied their names in my notebook.

This time I made my calls from a bar on Forty-second Street, and I bypassed the Manhattan book and went straight to Brooklyn information. I got lucky right away with the Gordon Pomerances, who had stayed in Brooklyn when the Wyckoff Street building was sold out from under them. They’d moved a short mile to Carroll Street.

Mrs. Pomerance answered the phone. I gave my name and said I was trying to reach the Corwins. She knew at once who I was talking about but had no idea how I could reach them.

“We didn’t keep in touch. He was a nice fellow, Eddie, and he used to bring the children over for dinner after she moved out, but then when he moved we lost contact. It’s been so many years. I’m sure we had his address at one point but I can’t even remember the city he moved to. It was in California, I think Southern California.”

“But she moved out first?”

“You didn’t know that? She left him, left him flat with the two kids. She closed the whatchamacallit, the day-care center, and the next thing you know he’s got to find a day-care center for his own children. I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine a mother walking out on her own children.”

“Do you know where she might have gone?”

“Greenwich Village, I suppose. To pursue her art. Among other things.”

“Her art?”

“She fancied herself a sculptor. I never saw her work so for all I know she may have had some talent. I’d be surprised if she did, though. There was a woman who had everything. A nice apartment, a husband who was an awfully sweet guy, two beautiful children, and she even had a business that wasn’t doing too badly. And she walked away from it, turned her back and walked away.”

I tried a long shot. “Did you happen to know a friend of hers named Barbara Ettinger?”

“I didn’t know her that well. What was that name? Ettinger? Why is that name familiar to me?”

“A Barbara Ettinger was murdered down the block from where you lived.”

“Just before we moved in. Of course. I remember now. I never knew her, naturally, because as I said it was just before we moved in. She was a friend of the Corwins?”

“She worked for Mrs. Corwin.”

“Were they that way?”

“What way?”

“There was a lot of talk about the murder. It made me nervous about moving in. My husband and I told each other we didn’t have to worry about lightning striking twice in the same place, but privately I was still worried. Then those killings just stopped, didn’t they?”

“Yes. You never knew the Ettingers?”

“No, I told you.”

An artist in Greenwich Village. A sculptor. Of the J. Corwins I’d been unable to reach, had any lived in the Village? I didn’t think so.

I said, “Would you happen to remember Mrs. Corwin’s maiden name?”

“Remember it? I don’t think I ever knew it in the first place. Why?”

“I was thinking she might have resumed it if she’s pursuing an artistic career.”

“I’m sure she did. Artistic career or not, she’d want her own name back. But I couldn’t tell you what it was.”

“Of course she could have remarried by now—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t think she remarried,” Mrs. Pomerance said. There was a sharpness to her tone and I wondered at it. I asked her what made her say that.

“Put it this way,” she said. “Sculpture or no sculpture, she’d probably live in Greenwich Village.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t?” She clicked her tongue, impatient with my obtuseness. “She left her husband—and two children—but not to run off with another man. She left him for another woman.”

JANICE Corwin’s maiden name was Keane. It took a subway ride to Chambers Street and a couple of hours in various offices of the Department of Records and Information Services to supply this kernel of information. Most of the time was spent getting clearance. I kept needing the permission of someone who didn’t come in on Saturdays.

I tried marriage licenses first, and when that failed to pan out I had a shot at birth certificates. Mrs. Pomerance had been a little hazy on the names and ages of the Corwin children, but she was pretty sure the youngest’s name was Kelly and that she’d been five or six when her mother left. She’d been seven, it turned out; she’d be around fifteen now. Her father was Edward Francis Corwin, her mother the former Janice Elizabeth Keane.

I wrote the name in my notebook with a sense of triumph. Not that there was much likelihood that it would slip my mind, but as a symbol of accomplishment. I couldn’t prove that I was an inch closer to Barbara Ettinger’s killer than I’d been when Charles London sat down across from me at Armstrong’s, but I’d done some detecting and it felt good. It was plodding work, generally pointless work, but it let me use muscles I didn’t get to use all that often and they tingled from the exertion.

A couple of blocks from there I found a Blarney Stone with a steam table. I had a hot pastrami sandwich and drank a beer or two with it. There was a big color set mounted over the bar. It was tuned to one of those sports anthology shows they have on Saturday afternoons. A couple of guys were doing something with logs in a fast-moving stream. Riding them, I think. Nobody in the place was paying much attention to their efforts. By the time I was done with my sandwich the log-riders were through and a stock-car race had replaced them. Nobody paid any attention to the stock cars, either.

I called Lynn London again. This time when her machine picked up I waited for the beep and left my name and number. Then I checked the phone book.

No Janice Keanes in Manhattan. Half a dozen Keanes with the initial J. Plenty of other variations of the name—Keene, Keen, Kean. I thought of that old radio show, Mr. Keene, Tracer of Lost Persons. I couldn’t remember how he spelled it.

I tried all the J. Keanes. I got two that failed to answer, one persistent busy signal, and three people who denied knowing a Janice Keane. The busy signal lived on East Seventy-third Street and I decided that was no address for a lesbian sculptor from Boerum Hill. I dialed Directory Assistance, all set to go through my routine again for the other four boroughs, but something stopped me.

She was in Manhattan. Damn it, I knew she was in Manhattan.

I asked for a Janice Keane in Manhattan, spelled the last name, waited a minute, and was told the only listing in Manhattan under that name and with that spelling was unpublished. I hung up, called back again to get a different operator, and went through the little ritual that a cop uses to obtain an unlisted number. I identified myself as Detective Francis Fitzroy, of the Eighteenth Precinct. I called it the One-Eight Precinct because, although cops don’t invariably talk that way, civilians invariably think they do.

I got the address while I was at it. She was on Lispenard Street, and that was a perfectly logical place for a sculptor to be living, and not too long a walk from where I was.

I had another dime in my hand. I put it back in my pocket and went back to the bar. The stock cars had given way to the feature of the program, a couple of black junior-middleweights topping a fight card in some unlikely place. Phoenix, I think it was. I don’t know what a junior-middleweight is. They’ve added all these intermediate weight classes so that they can have more championship fights. Some of the patrons who’d passed up the log-rollers and the stock cars were watching these two boys hit each other, which was something they weren’t doing very often. I sat through a few rounds and drank some coffee with bourbon in it.

Because I thought it would help if I had some idea how I was going to approach this woman. I’d been tracking her spoor through books and files and phone wires, as if she held the secret to the Ettinger murder, and for all I knew Barbara Ettinger was nothing to her beyond a faceless lump who put the alphabet blocks away when the kids were done playing with them.

Or she was Barbara’s best friend. Or her lover—I remembered Mrs. Pomerance’s questions: “She was a friend of the Corwins? Were they that way?”

Maybe she had killed Barbara. Could they have both left the day-care center early? Was that even possible, let alone likely?

I was spinning my wheels and I knew it but I let them spin for a while anyway. On the television screen, the kid with the white stripe on his trunks was finally beginning to use his jab to set up right hands to the body. It didn’t look as though he was going to take his man out in the handful of rounds remaining, not like that, but he seemed a safe shot for the decision. He was wearing his opponent down, grinding away at him. Jabbing with the left, hooking the right hand to the rib section. The other boy couldn’t seem to find a defense that worked.

I knew how both of them felt.

I thought about Douglas Ettinger. I decided he didn’t kill his wife, and I tried to figure out how I knew that, and I decided I knew it the same way I’d known Janice Keane was in Manhattan. Chalk it up to divine inspiration.

Ettinger was right, I decided. Louis Pinell killed Barbara Ettinger, just as he’d killed the other seven women. Barbara had thought some nut was stalking her and she was right.

Then why’d she let the nut into her apartment?

In the tenth round, the kid who’d been getting his ribs barbecued summoned up some reserve of strength and put a couple of combinations together. He had the kid with the stripe on his trunks reeling, but the flurry wasn’t enough to end it and the kid with the stripe hung on and got the decision. The crowd booed. I don’t know what fight they thought they were watching. The crowd in Phoenix, that is. My companions in the Blarney Stone weren’t that involved emotionally.

The hell with it. I went and made my phone call.

IT rang four or five times before she answered it. I said, “Janice Keane, please,” and she said she was Janice Keane.

I said, “My name’s Matthew Scudder, Ms. Keane. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Oh?”

“About a woman named Barbara Ettinger.”

“Jesus.” A pause. “What about her?”

“I’m investigating her death. I’d like to come over and talk with you.”

“You’re investigating her death? That was ages ago. It must have been ten years.”

“Nine years.”

“I thought it was the Mounties who never gave up. I never heard that about New York’s Finest. You’re a policeman?”

I was about to say yes, but heard myself say, “I used to be.”

“What are you now?”

“A private citizen. I’m working for Charles London. Mrs. Ettinger’s father.”

“That’s right, her maiden name was London.” She had a good telephone voice, low-pitched and throaty. “I can’t make out why you’re starting an investigation now. And what could I possibly contribute to it?”

“Maybe I could explain that in person,” I said. “I’m just a few minutes away from you now. Would it be all right if I come over?”

“Jesus. What’s today, Saturday? And what time is it? I’ve been working and I tend to lose track of the time. I’ve got six o’clock. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d better fix something to eat. And I have to clean up. Give me an hour, okay?”

“I’ll be there at seven.”

“You know the address?” I read it off as I’d received it from Information. “That’s it. That’s between Church and Broadway, and you ring the bell and then stand at the curb so I can see you and I’ll throw the key down. Ring two long and three short, okay?”

“Two long and three short.”

“Then I’ll know it’s you. Not that you’re anything to me but a voice on the phone. How’d you get this number? It’s supposed to be unlisted.”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Right, so you said. So much for unlisted numbers, huh? Tell me your name again.”

“Matthew Scudder.”

She repeated it. Then she said, “Barbara Ettinger. Oh, if you knew how that name takes me back. I have a feeling I’m going to be sorry I answered the phone. Well, Mr. Scudder, I’ll be seeing you in an hour.”