“Mr. O’Brien in?” Howard asked.
“Sure,” Sullivan said, stepping aside, “but he’s busy right now.”
As Howard entered the hall, he heard a woman singing somewhere in the bungalow, and he thought at first O’Brien had on the radio. The clear soprano voice had great quality. Even Howard, who didn’t appreciate music, realized the voice was out of the ordinary.
“Tell him it’s important.”
“Better tell him yourself, boss,” Sullivan said. “More than my life’s worth to stop that hen screeching.” He waved passage that led to the main lounge. “Go ahead and help yourself.”
Howard walked quickly down the passage and paused at the open doorway, leading into the lounge.
O’Brien lolled in an armchair, his hands folded across his chest, his eyes closed.
At the grand piano by the open casement windows sat a tall willowy girl. She was strikingly beautiful; blonde, with big green eyes, a finely shaped nose, high cheek-bones and a large, sensuous mouth. She was wearing a white cashmere sweater and a pair of blue-and-white checkered jeans.
She was singing some soprano aria that was vaguely familiar to Howard. Her voice was as smooth as cream, and full of colour.
He stood motionless, watching her, feeling his pulse quicken. Up to now he had always imagined Gloria to be the most beautiful girl in town, but he had to admit this girl had her well beaten. Her figure, too, was sensational. Just like O’Brien to have found a beauty like this, he thought enviously.
The girl caught sight of him, standing in the doorway.
Her voice was moving up effortlessly, and she was about to hit a high note when their eyes met. She started, her voice trailed off, and her hands slipped off the keyboard.
O’Brien opened his eyes, frowning.
“What the hell… ?” he began, looking across at her, then swiftly he followed the direction of her staring eyes, and in his turn, he stared at Howard.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Howard said, advancing into the room. “I wanted a word with you.”
O’Brien got to his feet. He showed no surprise to see Howard, although Howard knew he must be surprised.
“You should have kept out of sight until she had finished,” he said, coming across to shake hands. “Never mind. Music had never been your strong point, has it? Commissioner. I want you to meet Miss Dorman, my future wife.”
The girl got to her feet and came over. Her wide heavily made-up lips were parted in a smile but her eyes were wary. Howard had a puzzling idea that she was frightened of him.
“Your future wife?” he repeated, startled. “Well, I didn’t know. My congratulations.” He took her slim, cool hand as he smiled at O’Brien. “Well done! I was beginning to wonder if you were going to remain a bachelor all your life.”
“I was in no hurry,” O’Brien said, putting his arm around the girl’s waist. “She’s worth waiting for, isn’t she? Gilda, this is Police Commissioner Howard. He is a very important person, and I want you two to be great friends.”
Gilda said, “You know, Sean, all your friends are mine now.”
O’Brien laughed.
“That sounds fine, but you don’t kid me. I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at some of my so-called friends. Anyway, be nice to this guy. I like him.” He looked at Howard. “Have a drink, Commissioner?”
“Well…” Howard glanced at Gilda and then at O’Brien. “There’s a little business matter…”
“Now you’re really going to make her love you,” O’Brien said, shrugging. “Hear that honey? Business…”
“That’s my cue to duck out,” Gilda said, moving away from O’Brien’s encircling arm. “Don’t be too long, Sean.”
She gave Howard a quick searching glance as she smiled at him. Then she left the room.
Howard followed her with his eyes, and again he felt his pulse quicken at the shape he could see under the sweater and jeans.
“Some kid, isn’t she?” O’Brien said, who missed nothing. He knew Howard’s weakness for beautiful young women. “And what a voice!” He went over to the liquor cabinet and began mixing two highballs. “Believe it or not I found her in a nightclub singing swing! As soon as I heard the quality of her voice I persuaded her to get down to serious work. She’s on Mozart now. Francelli has heard her, and he’s crazy about her. He says she’ll be at the Met. in a couple of years.”
Howard took the highball O’Brien offered him and sat down.
He looked up at O’Brien.
Handsome devil, he thought. He can’t be much older than forty, and he must be worth ten millions if he’s worth a cent.
O’Brien was good-looking in a dark, showy way. His eyebrows that sloped upwards and his fine pencilled moustache gave him a satanic look.
“What’s biting you, Commissioner?” he asked, sitting on me arm of a chair and swinging an expensively shod foot.
“Know anything about 25 Lessington Avenue?” Howard asked.
O’Brien’s right eyebrow lifted.
“Why?”
“I hear you own the place.”
“So what?”
“A call-girl was murdered there last night, and four other apartments in the house are occupied by call-girls.”
O’Brien drank from his glass, set it down and lit a cigarette. His face was
expressionless, but Howard knew him well enough to see his mind was working fast.
“You have nothing to worry about,” O’Brien said finally.
“I’ll take care of it. Who is the girl ?”
“She called herself Fay Carson.”
O’Brien’s face remained expressionless but his eyes narrowed for a moment, and that was enough of a clue to tell Howard the information had shocked him.
“Press know yet?”
Howard shook his head.
“We’ll have to give it to them in an hour or so. I thought I’d better have a word with you first. This could develop into something though.”
“How did you know the house belongs to me ?”
So he wasn’t denying it. Howard’s heart sunk. He had hoped Motley had been sounding off.
“Motley told me.”
“That slob talks too much,” O’Brien said. He rubbed his jaw and stared down at the carpet.
“Can the ownership of the house be traced to you?” Howard asked quietly.
“It might be. My attorney bought it, but if someone dug deep enough it could be traced to me. Let me think a moment.”
Howard took a long pull at his glass. He felt in need of a stimulant. All along he had had an uneasy idea that O’Brien was shady. He had appeared from nowhere; no one had ever heard of him, and yet he had millions. Now he was calmly admitting to owning a call-house.
“Did you know what these women are?” Howard asked.
O’Brien frowned at him.
“Of course. They have to live somewhere, and besides they pay damn well.” He got to his feet crossed over to the telephone and dialled a number. After a moment’s delay, he said into the mouthpiece. “Tux there?” He waited, then went on, “Tux? Got a job for you, and snap this one up. Go to 25 Lessington Avenue right away and clear all the wrens out you find there. Get them all out. There are four of them. When you’ve cleared them out, get four people into their apartments. I don’t care who they are so long as they look respectable: old spinsters would do fine. Some of the mob must have some respectable relations. I want the job done in two hours. Understand?” He dropped the receiver back on its cradle and came to sit down again. “Well, that takes care of that. When your news hawks arrive, they’ll find the house so respectable they’ll take their hats off and wipe their shoes.”
Howard stared at him uneasily. This was too glib; too much of the rackateer.
“That’s a relief off my mind. It didn’t occur to me to do a thing like that,” he said slowly.