I
For the past three years, Sean O’Brien had been the secret political boss behind the present Administration. He had taken over at a time when the party was in very low water, and, by his enormous financial resources, had infused new life into it.
Ed Fabian, a fat, jovial, uninspired politician, had been the party’s leader when O’Brien and his millions appeared on the scene. He had accepted O’Brien’s offer of financial help without questioning where the money had come from or when would be the ultimate repayment.
The fact that O’Brien had insisted on complete anonymity should have aroused Fabian’s suspicions, but Fabian had to have money to keep his party alive, and he couldn’t afford to be curious.
Fabian now found himself a mere figurehead, but he was growing old, and had lost what fighting qualities he may have had. So long as he had the credit for running the party, he was content to take orders from O’Brien.
It would have severely jolted him if he had known that O’Brien had made his millions from large-scale, international drug trafficking. The drug traffic organization he had built up had eventually been smashed. He had always believed in being the unseen, unknown leader, and although the men who worked for him were now serving long sentences in French jails, he had managed to escape from France, taking his millions with him.
He had come to Flint City, California, to rest on his labours and enjoy his money. Pretty soon he became bored with an inactive life, and had decided to go into politics. He examined the political set-up in the town, picked on Fabian’s party as the weakest reed, moved in and bought control.
In spite of his great care to remain anonymous during his drugtrafficking dealings, he hadn’t been able to avoid contact with a few of the traffickers, and one of them, now serving a twenty years’ sentence, had talked.
The police had from him only a vague description of O’Brien, but O’Brien
knew they were still hunting for him. Publicity of any kind was dangerous. A chance photograph in the local press might be seen by an alert officer of the Division of Narcotic Enforcement, and O’Brien would find himself with a twenty-year rap hanging around his neck.
But after three years of security he wasn’t unduly worried by his position. He had always avoided the limelight, always preferred to live quietly and not mix with people.
It amused him to control the activities of this prosperous town, and to know the voters had no idea he was the man who pulled the strings and to some extent directed their lives.
He had a big, luxurious bungalow with three acres of ornamental gardens, running down to the river. The grounds were screened by high walls, and it was impossible for the most curious passer-by to see beyond the walls.
It took Police Commissioner Howard twenty minutes fast driving to reach the bungalow. As he drove up the long, winding drive, flanked on either side by large beds of gaily coloured dahlias, he could see a regiment of Chinese gardeners working to keep the vast and beautiful garden immaculate.
But the garden didn’t interest Howard this morning. He knew it was unwise to call on O’Brien. Suspecting that there was something shady in the way O’Brien had made his money, Howard had been careful not to get his name too closely associated with O’Brien’s, and if they had to meet, he made sure other members of the party were present. But he had to talk to O’Brien alone this morning, and he knew it was far more dangerous to say what he had to say over an open telephone line.
He pulled up outside the main entrance, got out of his car, hurried across the big sun porch, and rang the bell.
O’Brien’s man, Sullivan, a hulking ex-prize fighter, wearing a white coat and well-pressed black trousers, opened the door. Sullivan’s eyes showed surprise when he saw Howard.
“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.
O’Brien lifted his shoulders.
“I guess you have other things to think about. I specialize in keeping out of trouble.” He reached for a cigar, tossed one into Howard’s lap and lit one for himself. “Now tell me about this girl. Who killed her?”
“We don’t know. The killer left no clues, but she must have known him. She was stabbed from in front with an ice-pick, and no one heard her cry out.”
“Last night, you say? There was a hell of a thunderstorm raging wasn’t there? Would they have heard her if she had cried out?”
Howard had forgotten the storm and bit his lip angrily.
“That’s right. They might not have heard her.”
“Who’s handling the investigation?”
“Donovan, but I’ve told Adams to work on the side. Donovan has a description of a guy who could have done it.”
O’Brien got up and moved over to the liquor cabinet. Howard wasn’t sure, but he had a vague idea that O’Brien had become suddenly tense.
“What’s the description?”
“It’s not much: youngish, about thirty-three, tall, dark and good-looking. Wearing a light-grey suit and matching hat.”
“Hmm, won’t help you much, will it?” O’Brien said, bringing two more drinks to the table.
“It’s better than nothing,” Howard said, taking the drink. “A case like this is always tough to crack. There’s usually no motive.”
O’Brien sat down again.
“This could give Burt an excuse to start trouble. Have you talked to Fabian yet?”
“Not yet. There’s nothing he can do, anyway. It’s up to me. If I find the killer fast we should be all right. What worried me was hearing the house was a call-house.”
O’Brien smiled.
“Well, I’ve taken care of that for you, so you can relax.”
“Yes,” Howard said uneasily. “Are there any more call-houses belonging to you in town?”
“There may be,” O’Brien returned carelessly. “I own a lot of property. There may be.”
“I have an idea Burt knows about you. It will be bad for us if he finds out about these call-houses of yours.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” O’Brien said, smiling. “I know the position as well as you do.” He got to his feet. “Well, Commissioner, I don’t want to hurry you away, but I have a whale of a lot of things to do this morning. Keep me in touch. I’d like to have a copy of all reports to do with the killing. I want them fast, too. Have someone bring them to me as soon as they are typed, will you?”
Howard hesitated.
“I don’t think our reports should leave headquarters: that would be contrary to regulations. Suppose I keep you informed personally?”
O’Brien’s eyes hardened although he continued to smile.
“I want the reports, Commissioner,” he said quietly.
Howard made a little gesture with his hands.
“All right. I’ll see you get them.”
“Thank you. You had better have a word with Fabian. Warn him Burt is almost certain to try to start something. It can’t be much if you find the killer fast. Play the girl down to the press. She can be a nightclub hostess.”
“Yes.”
Howard walked with O’Brien to the front door.
“Is Donovan such a good man to put on this case?” O’Brien asked as he opened the door.
“Adams is working on it too.”
“Ah yes… Adams. He’s a smart cop. So long, Commissioner, thanks for calling, and let me have those reports.”
O’Brien stood in the doorway and watched Howard drive away, then he slowly closed the door and remained motionless, his face thoughtful.
Gilda, concealed behind the half-open door of O’Brien’s study, felt a little chill of apprehension run through her at the hard, ugly set of O’Brien’s mouth.