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.