Tiger By The Tail

"I'll tell him you are working for me," Howard said. "You have orders from me to investigate and produce a report on the vice set-up in this town. I'll need the report, anyway. Get someone to do the' leg-work; you concentrate on this killing. I'll let you have duplicates of all reports sent in by Donovan. Now get moving: I want some action."

"You'll get it, sir," Adams said, and went out of the room.

For some moments Howard sat staring at his blotter, then he got up, went to the door and half opened it.

"I'm going over to City Hall," he told his secretary. "I'll be back in an hour."

He shut the door, put on his hat, crossed the room to the door leading to his private stairs, and hurried down to the street.

CHAPTER II

I

For the past three years, Sean O'Brien had been the secret political boss behind the present Administration. He had taken over at a time when the party was in very low water, and, by his enormous financial resources, had infused new life into it.

Ed Fabian, a fat, jovial, uninspired politician, had been the party's leader when O'Brien and his millions appeared on the scene. He had accepted O'Brien's offer of financial help without questioning where the money had come from or when would be the ultimate repayment.

The fact that O'Brien had insisted on complete anonymity should have aroused Fabian's suspicions, but Fabian had to have money to keep his party alive, and he couldn't afford to be curious.

Fabian now found himself a mere figurehead, but he was growing old, and had lost what fighting qualities he may have had. So long as he had the credit for running the party, he was content to take orders from O'Brien.

It would have severely jolted him if he had known that O'Brien had made his millions from large-scale, international drug trafficking. The drug traffic organization he had built up had eventually been smashed. He had always believed in being the unseen, unknown leader, and although the men who worked for him were now serving long sentences in French jails, he had managed to escape from France, taking his millions with him.

He had come to Flint City, California, to rest on his labours and enjoy his money. Pretty soon he became bored with an inactive life, and had decided to go into politics. He examined the political set-up in the town, picked on Fabian's party as the weakest reed, moved in and bought control.

In spite of his great care to remain anonymous during his drugtrafficking dealings, he hadn't been able to avoid contact with a few of the traffickers, and one of them, now serving a twenty years' sentence, had talked.

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.

"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."