“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.