Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“I’m fouled up on a case,” Lieutenant Parker said, when I got into his office to see him. “And it’s a bitcheroo, all because it’s got to do with a dame who had lots of glossy photos of herself, all of them sexy. So the newspapers are not going to lay off it.”

“Vivian Frayne?” I said.

“You read the papers,” he said. “The wrong ones.” He sighed and stood up, rubbing a hand across his stiff black crewcut. He was short, broad, thick and stocky, with a ruddy face and bright dark honest eyes. “What brings you?” he said. “I’m told you were here before.”

“Vivian Frayne,” I said.

He did not move. His eyes were amused. “Okay,” he said, “I feel a cockeyed deal coming on. A Peter Chambers special. What do you know, and what must I do to find out what you know?”

“Don’t have to do a thing,” I said, “except tell me about Vivian Frayne.”

“And for that...?” he said.

“I might produce Gordon Phelps.”

That rocked him. He jumped like he’d been unexpectedly pinched, in an unexpected place. “Oho,” he said. “A real Peter Chambers special. I want that guy and I want him badly. You working for him?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Can you produce him?”

“I can’t produce him right now.”

“When can you?”

“Let’s talk it up a little, shall we, Lieutenant? You help me, I’ll help you. It’s the old story — we’re on the same side, you and I. It’s only the approach that may be different.”

“It may be, mayn’t it?” he said. He went behind his desk, lay back in his swivel chair, lit up a cigar. “We’re anxious about that Gordon Phelps. I’d like to squeeze that out of you.”

“If you tried to squeeze, Lieutenant, I’d deny any knowledge. I think we’re past that stage, the squeezing for information stage.”

“Yeah,” he growled behind cigar smoke. “Lawyer guy came in with cock and bull.”

“I know about that,” I said.

“Figured you would.” He sat up. “When will you have him for me?”

“Let’s say forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner, but let’s say forty-eight hours at the outside. I’ll either bring him in or I’ll convince him to come in. Good enough?”

“And if we pick him up before that?”

“Then you pick him up. That’s your business and I can’t stop you from working at your business. One proviso. I don’t want a tail on me. I’d lose him anyway, but why have to go through the bother?”

“Okay, no tail.”

“Then we’ve got a deal, Lieutenant?”

“What do you want to know?”

“All about Vivian Frayne.”

“Ain’t much, really.” He puffed on his cigar. He wrinkled his face, concentrating. “Dance hall dame. Been in New York about thirteen years. Wise little operator, always lived pretty good. Never in trouble, never caught up with law. Had a nice reputation, the gals in the dance hall adored her, she was kind of like a mother-hen to them. Investigation showed she’d been to Canada a couple of times, and that’s all we know about her.”

“What about background?” I said.

“Nothing,” he said, “which isn’t unusual. Vivian Frayne’s probably not her real name. Dame comes in from Oshkosh somewhere when she’s about seventeen, probably a runaway, or a go-offer with a guy. Breaks family ties, gives herself a fancy name, and gets lost in a city of nine million. Once there’s no record on them, you just can’t trace them back.”

“What about the published pictures?”

“Those don’t generally help either in these kinds of cases. These are sophisticated glossies — who can tie up this gorgeous mature woman with the kid of seventeen that scrammed Oshkosh. Even if she has a family, and they haven’t forgotten her — those pictures wouldn’t make the connection. These kinds of cases, you’ve got to work them from the present, from the recent life of the deceased. Background is out. If you fall into background, that’s just a lucky break.”

“Okay, Lieutenant,” I said. “Let’s have it.”

“Want it chronologically?”

“Want it any way you’d like to give it.”

“Chronologically,” he said. “Sequence started here on Monday, late Monday night. She’d worked Monday, left the dance hall about four ayem, went home. Cab dropped her, and as it pulled away, two guys approached, a mug job. One stuck a knife in her back, the other did an armlock around her throat. But, as luck would have it, just then a cop turned the corner. They grabbed her bag and blew, but she struck out at one of them. She hit him and the knife dropped. The cop chased them, but they outran him, and blew. That’s the Monday night bit.”

“Did she see either one of them, I mean to recognize them?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ve got Monday night.”

“It was a mugging, we figure it for a straight mugging, what with grabbing the bag, all in pattern. But we had the knife. There was one faint smudge of a print on it, and the laboratory boys did a hell of a job. Worked all of Tuesday, and finally came up with it. We did the search and it turns out to be a grifter named Mousie Lawrence. Ever hear of Mousie Lawrence?”

“Vaguely,” I said.