“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.