Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“A one-time loser, did a term about fifteen years ago for armed robbery, and that’s the last we heard of him — until now. Didn’t even know he was in New York. Fifteen years is a long time. New hoodlums grow up, you kind of lose track of the old ones unless they’re in open operation. Anyway, early this morning, about seven o’clock, cops come calling on Vivian Frayne with the gallery-mug photo of Lawrence.”

“But why if she’s said that she hadn’t recognized either one of them?”

“Just to see if she recognized the photo. After all, these guys were waiting for her practically at her apartment house. Maybe they were acquainted with her, met her at the dance hall. Like that, we’d have a better line on them, maybe she’d even be able to give us some information on the other mugger. Anyway, we wanted to see if she’d recognize the photo, if she’d have any angle on it. Reasonable?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“There was no answer to their ring. The milk bottles were outside the door, waiting to be taken in, but there was no answer to their ring at her apartment. One of the cops was a guy with brains, or maybe an impatient guy. He went down to the super, and had him open the door. They found her inside, dead. She was dressed in lounging pajamas. There were five bullets in her, and a gun on the floor beside her. The apartment was upside down, it had been thoroughly searched. And, mind you, when the super had opened the door, it had been locked — from the outside.”

“Deadlock type of lock?”

“Yeah. You had to turn the knob on the inside to lock it, or lock it with a key from the outside. She was dead and the murderer wasn’t there, so the lock had to have been locked from the outside.”

“Cute,” I said.

“Damn cute,” he said. “Anyway, that’s when I got into this, personally.”

“You think that mugging had anything to do with the murder?”

“Matter of fact, I don’t. Stands to reason. Whoever killed her was able to get in and out of that apartment. That’s for sure. If these babies were able to get into the apartment, they’d have been waiting for her there, wouldn’t they — if the job was for murder? But they were loitering outside, so they figure to be muggers, not murderers. We’re checking that angle, anyway. Had Lawrence’s photo passed around the dance hall, but the kids there clammed. Either they never saw the guy, or they don’t want to get mixed with stooling on hoods. Kids in dance halls are hip kids. They stay away from trouble, and it’s trouble, let’s face it, when you identify a hood.”

“Got a photo for me?” I said.

“Sure. Had a lot of them made. We’re looking for the guy.” He opened the middle drawer of his desk, brought out two photographs, each about four by six, and handed them across to me. One was full face and one was profile. I looked at them briefly and put them away.

“Figure a time of death for her?” I said.

“About one o’clock Tuesday night, that’s the best figure.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be working then?”

“Took the night off, probably had a date.”

“Any idea whom she had the date with?”

“Yeah, we got an idea. We got an idea she had a date with your client.”

“Really,” I said, and I shifted the subject. “The place was thoroughly searched, you say. Which seems to mean that whoever killed her was looking for something.”

“Whatever they were looking for — they found it, I figure.”

“Why?”

“Because we did a pretty good search ourselves. We found nothing that meant anything to anybody. All we got was the gun right there on the floor, and a diary.”

“Ah,” I said, “there we go. Always a diary.”

“The gun was something,” he said, “but ah the diary, that was nothing. The gun was the murder weapon, but the diary was a kind of new one, with only sporadic entries, which were mostly about somebody with initials G. P.”

“This G. P. have a key to the joint?”

“Nope. Diary specifically says no. Diary says that G. P. was never even at her apartment. Though I bet she was at his. There’s one key on her ring that we haven’t found a door for. I bet G. P. is behind that door somewhere. She saw G. P. Tuesday night before she came home to get killed.”

“How do you know that, Lieutenant?”

“Diary states the date with G. P.”

“Brother,” I said as I went to the door, “you’re one guy who doesn’t figure to jump to conclusions, in my book. Why link initials G. P. to Gordon Phelps?”

“Believe me, I haven’t jumped to any conclusions.”

“Have it your own way,” I said. “Can I see that apartment, Lieutenant?”

He looked dubious.

“You really want Phelps, don’t you?” I said. “Well, you can have him within twenty-four hours. Now can I see the apartment, Lieutenant?”

Again he opened his desk drawer and dipped into it. He threw me a bunch of keys. “You know the address?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Any prints on the gun?” I said.

“None,” he said. “Smudges, no prints. And no prints in the apartment that could do us any good.”

“It’s still bothering me,” I said.

“What?”

“Why you insist on linking initials G. P. with Gordon Phelps.”