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