Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“Simple. I would be given a few little packages, oh, a few small little packages, no bigger than a couple of lumps of sugar, no bigger than that. They’d be given to me at home, a man would deliver them. Then, at the dance hall, sooner or later, a man would be dancing with me and he would say, ‘I come from Larson.’ And I was supposed to say, ‘Who’s Larson?’ And he was supposed to say, ‘A friend of Masters.’ Then, while we were dancing, I was supposed to slip him the little packet and he was supposed to slip me a folded hundred dollar bill. Somebody, later on, would come to my home to collect. Either I had all the packets, or I had hundred dollar bills for the packets I didn’t have. I’d get five bucks for every transaction. Could happen two-three times a night, they told me.”

“Why didn’t you take the deal?”

“Because it was penny-ante.”

“Didn’t you also figure it for trouble?”

“I did, but they explained that it couldn’t actually be trouble. If anything happened, I would just tell the truth. On the other hand, I was to keep my nose clean. If I talked about it — without trouble — then I would be causing trouble, and like that, the least that would happen to me would be a dose of acid in my eyes.”

“Pretty,” I said. “Real pretty. They set up a dope-drop in a dance hall. It’s all quiet and furtive in there anyway. They pick special girls who know enough not to shoot their faces off. They use stooges for delivery and pick-ups. A girl has two-three transactions a night. They pick twenty girls and they’re doing a minimum gross business of four thousand bucks a night, which is approximately twenty-five thousand bucks a week. Given a little luck — once the thing shapes up — it runs a year. That’s over a million dollars worth of business, just in one year. Could be much more than that. Could run much more than a year. Could use more than twenty girls, could use fifty. Could step up the amount of transactions a night to five or six. Those figures could run up fast to real heavy millions. Fantastic, out of one lousy little dance hall in New York. And the guys who set it up would be in the clear. There’d be layers and layers of in-between nobodies who would take the rap once the thing busted. How about Steve Pedi? Did he talk to you about this?”

“No.”

“Did he know what was going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you talk to him about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was afraid to. They warned me what would happen if I discussed it. I wasn’t going out of my way looking for trouble.”

“And the racket’s been working? Going on right now?”

“Yes, I think so. Since they talked to me, I’ve kind of been watching. It’s hardly noticeable, no one would notice unless they were actually watching hard for it, but I’m pretty sure it’s been going on.”

“Okay,” I said, “thanks. Now get up. Let’s get out of here.” I started putting out the lights.

She stood up and wriggled into the black velvet short-coat.

“My letters...?” she said.

“But of course. Your letters.” I chuckled. “What’s a murder case without letters? It’s like a spy case without The Plans, or The Papers, or The Formula.” I took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go try for The Letters.”

6

The cab dropped us at 11 Charles Street. I paid the cabbie, waited until he tilted his clock, then added two dollars to the fee. “Please wait,” I said. “You’ll have another customer in a few minutes.”

I pushed the Phillips’ button — five short pushes, a pause, and then one long push.

The clicker clicked back. Upstairs, after his peek-hole routine, Gordon Phelps opened the door for us. He was wearing expensive slacks and a white silk sport shirt. He was very pale. He kept chewing on his red lower lip as though he were trying to pry loose a piece of stuck cigarette paper.

“I bring you a guest,” I said.

“Ah, the sulphuric Sophia,” he said. “Welcome.” But he kept chewing on the red lower lip. “Any news?” he said.

“Plenty,” I said. “Sophia, would you please go into the bedroom, and close the door behind you?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s just that I’ve got some very personal stuff to talk to Gordon about.”

“The hell with both of you,” she said, but she went into the bedroom, though she slammed the door viciously.

“Any news?” Gordon Phelps said. “I’ve been dying here.”

“The cops are very anxious for you,” I said.

“As Sophia would say — the hell with them.”

“They’ve got reason to be anxious. Special reason.”

“Special? Why—”

“Vivian Frayne was murdered with bullets shot out of a gun that belongs to you. That’s definite. On the line.”

“My gun?”

“Your gun, Mr. Phelps. You the guy that used it?”

“Stop that.”

“Want to explain the gun?”

“That’s easy, man. I gave Vivian Frayne a gun that belonged to me, even gave her cartridges for it.” He shifted. He was now biting on the upper lip. “Gave it to her, as a matter of fact, because of that girl in there, because of Sophia Sierra. Vivian was very frightened of her for a time, wanted some sort of protection. I gave her my gun at that time.”

“That your story?” I said.

“It’s no story. That’s exactly what happened.”