he put any kind of pressure on Motley, he was promptly shut out of his wife’s room. So long as he let Motley alone, Gloria performed her wifely duties. Crazy about this vivacious, beautiful girl, he had now accepted the position and had taken the line of least resistance.
Adams sitting opposite the Commissioner, was aware of these facts. He knew Motley was useless, as a police captain, and he knew, if Motley went, he himself would be the automatic choice to replace him. For months now he had been patiently waiting his opportunity to get rid of both Motley and Donovan. He had discovered, however, that it would need a major political explosion to blast Motley out of office, and even now, while he listened to Howard talking, his mind was trying to find a way to use Fay Carson’s death as the spark to touch off the explosion.
“I want this cracked and cracked fast!” Howard was saying, in a soft furious voice. He looked across at Motley. “Get every man working on it! We’ve got to nab this killer! A house full of prostitutes! You told me there wasn’t a call-house in town.”
Motley smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
“There are always call-houses,” he said. “We shut them up and they open again.”
“Why didn’t you shut this one up?” Howard demanded.
Motley stared at him.
“You know why, don’t you? It’s one of O’Brien’s houses.”
Howard flushed, then went white. He looked quickly at Adams, who was staring down at his brightly polished shoes, his face blank. Howard was reassured: either Adams hadn’t heard Motley’s remark or O’Brien’s name meant nothing to him.
But O’Brien’s name meant plenty to Adams. He new O’Brien was the money behind the party. He knew he was the boss of the party machine. He felt a tingle run up his spine. This could be it. So O’Brien owned 25 Lessington Avenue. Here was the scandal he had been hunting for months. If he could trap Motley into giving O’Brien away, the explosion he had been waiting to touch off would take place.
Only a few of the higher-placed officers of the Administration knew O’Brien was behind the party. Adams wasn’t supposed to know, but there wasn’t much about the party he hadn’t found out.
Howard felt a restricting band of rage tighten across his chest. This fat, loose-mouthed slob must be crazy to shoot his mouth off about O’Brien in front of Adams. He looked again at Adams. No, he didn’t know about O’Brien. The remark had passed over his head. Adams was a good police officer, but that was all. He was only interested in his work: politics meant nothing to him.
Howard had no idea O’Brien owned 25 Lessington Avenue, and he was dismayed to hear it. If the press found out, the repercussions might very easily unseat the Administration.
It was essential that this killing should be cleared up as quickly as possible and the killer caught.
“How far have you got to now?” he asked Motley.
Motley waved an indifferent hand towards Adams.
“He’s taking care of it. You know, Paul, you’re making a hell of a fuss about the killing of this woman. Who cares, anyway?”
“You’ll care when you see the press tomorrow morning,” Howard said grimly. “Got any leads yet?” he went on to Adams.
“We have a description of a guy who could have done it,” Adams said. “Donovan’s working on it, now.”
“Donovan? You should be working on it,” Howard said violently. “Donovan… !” He stopped short, scowled down at the desk and then shrugged.
Motley watched him and concealed a grin.
Donovan was Motley’s special pet. Howard and Motley had clashed over him before, and Adams knew it. He knew also that Gloria had been used to save Donovan from returning to a beat, and Howard wasn’t likely to start trouble for Donovan again, unless he was forced to.
“Donovan’s a good guy,” Motley said, patting his heavy paunch. Although he was only thirty-eight, lack of exercise, heavy drinking and gross feeding had thickened his figure, making him look a lot older than he was. “We don’t often get a murder case, and this could be Donovan’s chance. I want him to re-establish himself. The press has been picking on him for months. It’s time he had a chance to show what he can do.”
“This isn’t a one-man police force,” Howard said, controlling his temper with difficulty. “I want every man working on it. We’ve got to nab this killer, Joe.”
“Sure, sure,” Motley said indifferently. He got slowly to his feet. “Well, I’ve got to run along. I’m going to the club tonight and I’ve got to get a haircut. Gloria said she’d be at the dance. You coming?”
“We have a murder on our hands, Joe.”
Motley stared at him.
“So what? That doesn’t mean you and I can’t go to the dance does it? What the hell have we got Adams for? He’ll take care of it.”
“You go. I have things to do,” Howard said curtly.
“Gloria won’t like it. She’s relying on you.”
Howard started to say something, then stopped. To cover his embarrassment, he stubbed out his cigar which was only half burned.
“It’s up to you, of course,” Motley went on.
“Well, I’ll see how things work out. Maybe I’ll look in later.”
“Suit yourself,” Motley said. “But there’s no point in letting all the young punks fight over her. You know what it’s like when she goes to a dance on her own. I have my own dish to look after.”
Adams, watching and listening, saw Howard’s face tighten, and he knew Motley had hit him where it hurt.
The fool! Adams thought contemptuously. What a sucker he is for a woman! He’s scared stiff some young husky will make a pass when he’s not looking. If I were a slave like he is to that little bitch I’d shoot myself!
When Motley had gone, Howard turned his attention to Adams. He realized Adams had heard a lot more than he cared for him to know, and he glared at Adams angrily.
But the Lieutenant looked as if he was either asleep or miles away somewhere with his thoughts and his complete lack of interest somewhat reassured Howard.
“What are you doing about this killing, Adams?”
Adams gave an elaborate start, blinked at the Commissioner and his face became alert.
“I’m following the usual procudure sir. You have my report on the desk. There are no clues. We have a description of a man whom we believe went to her apartment about the time she died. Donovan is working on that angle. The killing of a prostitute is always a tricky nut to crack. There seems to have been no motive. Nothing was taken.”
“What are the chances of cracking this case in a hurry?” Howard asked, leaning forward across his desk and staring at Adams.
Adams shook his head.
“I wouldn’t count on it, sir. The guy may be a nut. If he doesn’t do it again, the chance aren’t good. She may have tried to blackmail him and he killed her to shut her mouth. We have checked through her apartment: there was nothing in it to tell us she did collect material for blackmail, but she may have a deposit box somewhere.”
“Do you think it was a nut?” Howard asked. Adams shook his head.
“I guess not. A nut invariably strangles and then rips them. She was stabbed. Doc thinks she may have known the guy because she was stabbed from the front. She must have seen him, and yet she didn’t cry out. At least, no one heard anything.”
Howard selected another cigar, bit off the end and spat angrily into his trash basket.
“We’ve got to get this killer fast. Donovan’s okay on the routine stuff, but fast work isn’t his strong point. I’m relying on you to crack this case, Adams. Hold your own investigation. Never mind what Motley and Donovan are doing. Get after this killer and nab him. There could be a shake-up here before long, and if you crack this one, you might do yourself a lot of good.”
The two men looked at each other.
Adams’ thin, pinched face was expressionless, but inside he was experiencing a surge of triumph.
“The Captain will know what I’m up to sir,” he said. “He
could block me off.”
“I’ll tell him you are working for me,” Howard said. “You have orders from me to investigate and produce a report on the vice set-up in this town. I’ll need the report, anyway. Get someone to do the’ leg-work; you concentrate on this killing. I’ll let you have duplicates of all reports sent in by Donovan. Now get moving: I want some action.”
“You’ll get it, sir,” Adams said, and went out of the room.
For some moments Howard sat staring at his blotter, then he got up, went to the door and half opened it.
“I’m going over to City Hall,” he told his secretary. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
He shut the door, put on his hat, crossed the room to the door leading to his private stairs, and hurried down to the street.
CHAPTER II
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.”
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