Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“Nothing. Except that, kind of, I can understand it.” She moved near to me. Her face was inches away from mine. I could smell the musk-faint perfume of her. Her face was inches away from mine, but parts of her were touching me. She was built like that. “More than understand it,” she said. “I’ve kind of got a yen. I’m crazy like that. I go for people before I know what it’s all about.”

“I’m kind of crazy like that myself,” I said and I reached for her, but she moved away.

“I’m here with a message,” she said, “from someone who’s heard about you.”

“Like who?” I said.

“G. Phillips,” she said.

“G. Phillips?” I said. “I never heard of a G. Phillips in my life.”

She went to her handbag and took out a yellow sheet of paper. She brought it to me. It was a telegram. It was addressed to S. SIERRA, 11 EAST 45th STREET. It said: PLEASE CONTACT PETER CHAMBERS AT ONCE. TELL HIM TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME. TELL HIM WHERE. I MUST SEE HIM IMMEDIATELY. HE IS A FRIEND. G. PHILLIPS.

“Maybe I am a friend of G. Phillips,” I said, “but you wouldn’t know it from me. I never heard of a G. Phillips.”

“Ever hear of a Gordon Phelps?”

“Gordon Phelps I heard of.”

“G. Phillips is Gordon Phelps.”

“Gordon Phelps!” I brushed past her and lifted one of the tabloids and turned to page three and pointed. “This Gordon Phelps?” I said.

“That’s the one,” she said.

The prize item on page three of my tabloid had to do with the murder of Vivian Frayne. Vivian Frayne had been a hostess in a dance hall called the Nirvana Ballroom. There was a photo of Vivian Frayne, a theatrical photo of a lush blonde loosely swathed in diaphanous veils. Vivian Frayne had been found the night before, in her two-room apartment on East Sixty-fourth Street, relaxedly attired in lounging pajamas, but quite dead nonetheless. Five bullets had penetrated the lounging pajamas making indiscriminate, deadly indentations within the body of Vivian Frayne. A gun had been found on the premises, but the newspaper report made no mention of the significance or insignificance of this find — other than reporting that “a gun had been found on the premises.” It did report, however, in its last paragraph, that the police were seeking “one Gordon Phelps, millionaire playboy” in connection with their investigation.

“Gordon Phelps,” I said, laying away the paper, “is G. Phillips?”

“Uh huh,” said Sophia Sierra.

“And he sent you to contact me?”

“Just like it says in the telegram,” said Sophia Sierra, staring at me.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Couldn’t he contact me himself?”

“Cops are looking for him. You just read it in the paper, didn’t you?”

“Sure I read it. But he could have called me on the phone, couldn’t he? He knows where.”

“He’s got no phone.”

“Listen, Gordon Phelps owns a thirty-room mansion on Fifth Avenue, and I’d bet that joint has more telephones than rooms.”

“He’s not in his thirty-room mansion, sweetie. Otherwise the cops wouldn’t be looking for him — they’d have him.”

“You’ve got a point there,” I said. “So where the hell is he?”

“In a little hideaway he’s got — that only a few of his friends know about.”

“Okay, so where’s this hideaway?”

“Down in the Village. 11 Charles Street. Apartment 2 A. He’s listed as G. Phillips. That’s where you’re supposed to go.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’m going. But couldn’t he have called me from there?”

“No. Because it’s a hideaway. A complete hideaway. Not even a phone.”

“Check,” I said. “Now what about... you and me?”

She went for her coat, slung it over one shoulder, turned and smiled. “What about you and me?” she said.

“Are we going to see each other?”

“You’ve got a date. For tonight. I work at the Nirvana Ballroom—”

“Like Vivian Frayne...?” I pointed toward the crumpled tabloid.

“Just like Vivian Frayne,” she said. “Nirvana Ballroom. Once you’re a regular, it’s kind of like piece-work. You show up whenever you feel like it. You throw on an evening gown and you’re working — at fifty percent of what the suckers contribute. I’m a regular. I wasn’t going to work tonight — and I won’t — unless you’re coming. Are you coming?”

“For you,” I said, “I’m coming.”

“Swell. I’m looking forward. I’ll be at my best. I’ll wear my red gown. In the Nirvana Ballroom, that’s all you wear, practically — your gown. You’ll die when you see me in my red gown, I promise you.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Maybe late, but I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She waved, went to the door and opened it.

“About Vivian Frayne,” I called. “Did you know her? Vivian Frayne?”

“I knew her,” she said and she closed the door behind her.

And all that was left was the faint musk of her perfume.