Part 11 (2/2)

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 pa.s.serby 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 a.s.sociated 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 pa.s.sage that led to the main lounge. ”Go ahead and help yourself.”

Howard walked quickly down the pa.s.sage 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 cas.e.m.e.nt windows sat a tall willowy girl. She was strikingly beautiful; blonde, with big green eyes, a finely shaped nose, high cheekbones 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 h.e.l.l. . . ?” 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 highb.a.l.l.s. ”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 gla.s.s, set it down and lit a cigarette. His face was expressionless, but Howard knew him well enough to see his mind was working fast.

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