“Motley told me.”
“That slob talks too much,” O’Brien said. He rubbed his jaw and stared down at the carpet.
“Can the ownership of the house be traced to you?” Howard asked quietly.
“It might be. My attorney bought it, but if someone dug deep enough it could be traced to me. Let me think a moment.”
Howard took a long pull at his glass. He felt in need of a stimulant. All along he had had an uneasy idea that O’Brien was shady. He had appeared from nowhere; no one had ever heard of him, and yet he had millions. Now he was calmly admitting to owning a call-house.
“Did you know what these women are?” Howard asked.
O’Brien frowned at him.
“Of course. They have to live somewhere, and besides they pay damn well.” He got to his feet crossed over to the telephone and dialled a number. After a moment’s delay, he said into the mouthpiece. “Tux there?” He waited, then went on, “Tux? Got a job for you, and snap this one up. Go to 25 Lessington Avenue right away and clear all the wrens out you find there. Get them all out. There are four of them. When you’ve cleared them out, get four people into their apartments. I don’t care who they are so long as they look respectable: old spinsters would do fine. Some of the mob must have some respectable relations. I want the job done in two hours. Understand?” He dropped the receiver back on its cradle and came to sit down again. “Well, that takes care of that. When your news hawks arrive, they’ll find the house so respectable they’ll take their hats off and wipe their shoes.”
Howard stared at him uneasily. This was too glib; too much of the rackateer.
“That’s a relief off my mind. It didn’t occur to me to do a thing like that,” he said slowly.