Paul Cain
Murder In Blue

COLEMAN SAID: “Eight ball in the corner.” There was soft click of ball against ball and then sharper click as the black ball dropped into the pocket Coleman had called.

Coleman put his cue in the rack. He rolled down the sleeves of his vividly striped silk shirt and put on his coat and a pearl gray velour hat. He went to the pale fat man who slouched against a neighboring table and took two crisp hundred dollar notes from the fat man's outstretched hand, glanced at the slim, pimpled youth who had been his opponent, smiled thinly, said: “So long,” went to the door, out into the street.

There was sudden roar from a black, curtained roadster on the other side of the street; the sudden ragged roar of four or five shots close together, a white pulsing finger of flame in the dusk, and Coleman sank to his knees. He swayed backwards once, fell forward onto his face hard; his gray hat rolled slowly across the sidewalk. The roadster was moving, had disappeared before Coleman was entirely still. It became very quiet in the street.

Mazie Decker curved her orange mouth to its best “Customer” smile. She took the little green ticket that the dark-haired boy held out to her and tore off one corner and dropped the rest into the slot. He took her tightly in his arms and as the violins melted to sound and the lights dimmed they swung out across the crowded floor.

Her head was tilted back, her bright mouth near the blue smoothness of his jaw.

She whispered: “Gee--I didn't think you was coming.”

He twisted his head down a little, smiled at her.

She spoke again without looking at him: “I waited till one o'clock for you last night” She hesitated a moment then went on rapidly: “Gee--I act like I'd known you for years, an' it's only two days. What a sap I turned out to be!” She giggled mirthlessly.

He didn't answer.

The music swelled to brassy crescendo, stopped. They stood with a hundred other couples and applauded mechanically.

She said: “Gee--I love a waltz! Don't you?”

He nodded briefly and as the orchestra bellowed to a moaning foxtrot he took her again in his arms and they circled towards the far end of the floor.

“Let's get out of here, kid.” He smiled to a thin line against the whiteness of his skin, his large eyes half closed.

She said: “All right--only let's try to get out without the manager seeing me. I'm supposed to work till eleven.”

They parted at one of the little turnstiles; he got his hat and coat from the check-room, went downstairs and got his car from a parking station across the street.

When she came down he had double-parked near the entrance. He honked his horn and held the door open for her as she trotted breathlessly out and climbed in beside him. Her eyes were very bright and she laughed a little hysterically.

“The manager saw me,” she said. “But I said I was sick-- an' it worked.” She snuggled up close to him as he swung the car into Sixth Street. “Gee--what a swell car!”

He grunted affirmatively and they went out Sixth a block or so in silence.

As they turned north on Figueroa she said: “What've you got the side curtains on for? It's such a beautiful night.”

He offered her a cigarette and lighted one for himself and leaned back comfortably in the seat.

He said: “I think it's going to rain.”

It was very dark at the side of the road. A great pepper tree screened the roadster from whatever light there was in the sky.

Mazie Decker spoke softly: “Angelo. Angelo--that's a beautiful name. It sounds like angel.”

The dark youth's face was hard in the narrow glow of the dashlight. He had taken off his hat and his shiny black hair looked like a metal skullcap. He stroked the heel of his hand back over one ear, over the oily blackness and then he took his hand down and wriggled it under his coat. His other arm was around the girl.

He took his hand out of the darkness of his coat and there was brief flash of bright metal; the girl said: “My God!” slowly and put her hands up to her breast. . . .

He leaned in front of her and pressed the door open and as her body sank into itself he pushed her gently and her body slanted, toppled through the door, fell softly on the leaves beside the road. Her sharp breath and a far quavering “Ah!” were blotted out as he pressed the starter and the motor roared; he swung the door closed and put on his hat carefully, shifted gears and let the clutch in slowly.

As he came out of the darkness of the dirt road on to the highway he thrust one hand through a slit in the side-curtain, took it in and leaned forward over the wheel.

It was raining, a little.

R. F. Winfield stretched one long leg out and planted his foot on a nearby leather chair. The blonde woman got up and walked unsteadily to the phonograph. This latter looked like a grandfather clock, had cost well into four figures, would probably have collapsed at the appellation “phonograph”--but it was.

The blonde woman snapped the little tin brake; she lifted the record, stared empty-eyed at the other side.

She said: “'s Minnie th' Moocher. Wanna hear it?”

Mr. Winfield said: “Uh-huh.” He tilted an ice and amber filled glass to his mouth, drained it. He stood up and gathered his very blue dressing-gown about his lean shanks. He lifted his head and walked through a short corridor to the bathroom, opened the door, entered.

Water splashed noisily in the big blue porcelain tub. He braced himself with one hand on the shower-tap, turned off the water, slipped out of the dressing-gown and into the tub.

The blonde woman's voice clanged like cold metal through the partially open door.

“Took 'er down to Chinatown; showed 'er how to kick the gongaroun'.”

Mr. Winfield reached up into the pocket of the dressing-gown, fished out a cigarette, matches. He lighted the cigarette, leaned back in the water, sighed. His face was a long tan oblong of contentment. He flexed his jaw, then mechanically put up one hand and removed an upper plate, put the little semi-circle of shining teeth on the basin beside the tub, ran his tongue over thick, sharply etched lips, sighed again. The warm water was soft, caressing; he was very comfortable.

He heard the buzzer and he heard the blonde woman stagger along the corridor past the bathroom to the outer door of the apartment. He listened but could hear no word of anything said there; only the sound of the door opening and closing, and silence broken faintly by the phonograph's “Hi-de-ho-oh, Minnie.”

Then the bathroom door swung slowly open and a man stood outlined against the darkness of the corridor. He was bareheaded and the electric light was reflected in a thin line across his hair, shone dully on the moist pallor of his skin. He wore a tightly belted raincoat and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets.

Winfield sat up straight in the tub, spoke tentatively “Hello!” He said “hello” with an incredulous rising inflection, blinked incredulously upward. The cigarette dangled loosely from one corner of his mouth.

The man leaned against the frame of the door and took a short thick automatic out of his coat pocket and held it steadily, waist high.

Winfield put his hands on the sides of the tub and started to get up.

The automatic barked twice.

Winfield half stood, with one hand and one leg braced against the side of the tub for perhaps five seconds. His eyes were wide, blank. Then he sank down slowly, his head fell back against the smooth blue porcelain, slid slowly under the water. The cigarette still hung in the corner of his clenched mouth and as his head went under the water it hissed briefly, was gone.

The man in the doorway turned, disappeared.

The water reddened. Faintly, the phonograph lisped: “Hi de ho. . . .”

Doolin grinned up at the waiter. “An' see the eggs are four minutes, an' don't put any cream in my coffee.”

The waiter bobbed his head sullenly and disappeared through swinging doors.

Doolin unfolded his paper and turned to the comic page. He read it carefully, chuckling audibly, from top to bottom. Then he spread pages two and three across the counter and began at the top of page two. Halfway across he read the headline: Winfield, Motion Picture Executive, Slain by Sweetheart: Story continued from page one.

He turned to the front page and stared at a two-column cut of Winfield, read the accompanying account, turned back to page two and finished it. There was another cut of Winfield, and a woman. The caption under the woman's picture read: “Elma O'Shea Darmond, well-known screen actress and friend of Winfield, who was found unconscious in his apartment with the automatic in her hand.”

Doolin yawned and shoved the paper aside to make room for the eggs and toast and coffee that the sour-faced waiter carried. He devoured the eggs and had half-finished his coffee before he saw something that interested him on page three. He put his cup down, leaned over the paper, read: “Man shot in Glendale Mystery. H J (Jake) Coleman, alleged gambler, was shot and killed as he came out of the Lyric Billiard Parlors in Glendale yesterday evening. The shots were fired from a mysterious black roadster which the police are attempting to trace.”

Doolin read the rest of the story, finished his coffee. He sat several minutes staring expressionlessly at his reflection in the mirror behind the counter, got up, paid his check and went out into the bright morning.

He walked briskly down Hill Street to First, over First, to the Los Angeles Bulletin Building. He was whistling as the elevator carried him up.

In the back files of the Bulletin he found what he was looking for, a front-page spread in the Home Edition of December 10th:

MASSACRE IN NIGHTCLUB Screen-stars Duck for Cover as Machine-guns Belch Death

Early this morning The Hotspot, famous cabaret near Culver City, was the scene of the bloodiest battle the local gang war has afforded to date. Two men who police believe to be Frank Riccio and Edward (Whitey) Conroy of the Purple Gang in Detroit were instantly killed when a private room in the club was invaded by four men with sub-machine guns. A third man, a companion of Riccio and Conroy, was seriously wounded and is not expected to live.

Doolin skimmed down the column, read:

R. F. Winfield, prominent motion-picture executive, who was one of the party in the private room, said that he could not identify any of the killers. He said it all happened too quickly to be sure of any of them, and explained his presence in the company of the notorious gangsters as the result of his desire for first-hand information about the underworld in connection with a picture of that type which he is supervising. The names of others in the party are being withheld. . . .

Under a sub-head Doolin read:

H. J. Coleman and his companion, Miss Mazie Decker, were in the corridor leading to the private room when the killers entered. Miss Decker said she could positively identify two of them. Coleman, who is nearsighted, was equally positive that he could not. . . .

An hour and a half later, Doolin left the Bulletin Building. He had gone carefully through the December file, and up to the middle of January. He had called into service the City Directory, telephone book, Dun & Bradstreet, and the telephone, and he had wheedled all the inside dope he could out of a police-reporter whom he knew casually.

He stood on the wide stone steps and looked at the sheet of paper on which he had scrawled notes. It read:

People in private room and corridor who might be able to identify killers of Riccio and Conroy:

Winfield. Dead.

Coleman. Dead.

Martha Grainger. Actress. In show, in N. Y.

Betty Crane. Hustler. Died of pneumonia January 4th.

Isabel Dolly. Hustler and extra-girl. Was paralyzed drunk during shooting; probably not important. Can't locate.

Mazie Decker. Taxi-dancer. Works at Dreamland on Sixth and Hill. Failed to identify killers from rogues-gallery photographs.

Nelson Halloran. Man-about-town. Money. Friend of Win-field's. Lives at Fontenoy, same apartment-house as Winfield.

Doolin folded and creased the sheet of paper. He wound it abstractedly around his forefinger and walked down the steps, across the sidewalk to a cab. He got into the cab and sat down and leaned back.

The driver slid the glass, asked: “Where to?”

Doolin stared at him blankly, then laughed. He said: “Wait a minute,” spread the sheet of paper across his knee. He took a stub of pencil out of his pocket and slowly, thoughtfully, drew a line through the first five names; that left Mazie Decker and Nelson Halloran.

Doolin leaned forward and spoke to the driver: “Is that Dreamland joint at Sixth an' Hill open in the afternoon?”

The driver thought a moment, shook his head.

Doolin said: “All right, then--Fontenoy Apartments--on Whitley in Hollywood.”

Nelson Halloran looked like Death. His white face was extremely long, narrow; his sharp chin tapered upward in unbroken lines to high sharp cheek-bones, great deep-sunken eyes; continued to a high, almost degenerately narrow, forehead. His mouth was wide, thin, dark against the whiteness of his skin. His hair was the color of water. He was six-feet-three inches tall, weighed a hundred and eighty.

He half lay in a deeply upholstered chair in the living room of his apartment and watched a round spot of sunlight move across the wall. The shades were drawn and the apartment was in semi-darkness. It was a chaos of modern furniture, books, magazines, papers, bottles; there were several good but badly hung reproductions on the pale walls.

Halloran occasionally lifted one long white hand languidly to his mouth, inhaled smoke deeply and blew it upward into the ray of sunlight.

When the phone buzzed he shuddered involuntarily, leaned side wise and took it up from a low table.

He listened a moment, said: “Send him up.” His voice was very low. There was softness in it; and there was coldness and something very far-away.

He moved slightly in the chair so that one hand was near his side, in the folds of his dressing gown. There was a Luger there in the darkness of the chair. He was facing the door.

With the whirl of the buzzer he called: “Come in.”

The door opened and Doolin came a little way into the room, closed the door behind him.

Halloran did not speak.

Doolin stood blinking in the half-light, and Halloran watched him and was silent.

Doolin was around thirty; of medium height, inclined to thickness through all the upper part of his body. His face was round and on the florid side and his eyes were wide-set, blue. His clothes didn't fit him very well.

He stood with his hat in his hand, his face expressionless, until Halloran said coldly: “I didn't get the name.”

“Doolin. D--double o-l-i-n.” Doolin spoke without moving his mouth very much. His voice was pleasant; his vowels colored slightly by brogue.

Halloran waited.

Doolin said: “I read a couple of things in the paper this morning that gave me an idea. I went over to the Bulletin an' worked on the idea, an' it pans out you're in a very bad spot.”

Halloran took a drag of his cigarette, stared blankly at Doolin, waited. Doolin waited, too. They were both silent, looking at one another for more than a minute. Doolin's eyes were bright, pleased.

Halloran finally said: “This is a little embarrassing.” He hesitated a moment. “Sit down.”

Doolin sat on the edge of a wide steel and canvas chair against the wall. He dropped his hat on the floor and leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. The little circle of sunlight moved slowly across the wall above him.

Halloran mashed his cigarette out, changed his position a little, said: “Go on.”

“Have you read the papers?” Doolin took a cellophane-wrapped cigar out of his pocket and ripped off the wrapper, clamped the cigar between his teeth.

Halloran nodded, if moving his head the merest fraction of an inch could be called a nod.

Doolin spoke around the cigar: “Who rubbed Riccio and Conroy?”

Halloran laughed.

Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth. He said very earnestly: “Listen. Last night Winfield was murdered--an' Coleman. You're next. I don't know why the people who did it waited so long--maybe because the trial of a couple of the boys they've been holding comes up next week. . . .”

Halloran's face was a blank white mask.

Doolin leaned back and crossed his legs. “Anyway--they got Winfield an' Coleman. That leaves the Decker broad-- the one who was with Coleman--an' you. The rest of them don't count--one's in New York an' one died of pneumonia an, one was cockeyed. . . .”

He paused to chew his cigar, Halloran rubbed his left hand down over one side of his face, slowly.

Doolin went on: “I used to be a stunt-man in pictures. For the last year all the breaks have been bad. I haven't worked for five months.” He leaned forward, emphasized his words with the cigar held like a pencil: “I want to work for you.”

There was thin amusement in Halloran's voice: “What are your qualifications?”

“I can shoot straight, an' fast, an' I ain't afraid to take a chance--any kind of a chance! I'd make a hell of a swell bodyguard.”

Doolin stood up in the excitement of his sales-talk, took two steps towards Halloran.

Halloran said: “Sit down.” His voice was icy. The Luger glistened in his hand.

Doolin looked at the gun and smiled a little, stuck the cigar in his mouth and backed up and sat down.

Halloran said: “How am I supposed to know you're on the level?”

Doolin slid his lower lip up over the upper. He scratched his nose with the nail of his thumb and shook his head slowly, grinning.

“Anyway--it sounds like a pipe dream to me,” Halloran went on. “The paper says Miss Darmond killed Winfield.” He smiled. “And Coleman was a gambler--any one of a half dozen suckers is liable to have shot him.”

Doolin shrugged elaborately. He leaned forward and picked up his hat and put it on, stood up.

Halloran laughed again. His laugh was not a particularly pleasing one.

“Don't be in a hurry,” he said.

They were silent a while and then Halloran lighted a cigarette and stood up. He was so tall and spare that Doolin stared involuntarily as he crossed, holding the Luger loosely at his side, patted Doolin's pockets, felt under his arms with his free hand. Then Halloran went to a table across a corner of the room and dropped the Luger into a drawer.

He turned and smiled warmly at Doolin, said: “What will you drink?”

“Gin.”

“No gin.”

Doolin grinned.

Halloran went on: “Scotch, rye, bourbon, brandy, rum, Kirsch, champagne. No gin.”

Doolin said: “Rye.”

Halloran took two bottles from a tall cabinet, poured two drinks. “Why don't you go to the Decker girl? She's the one who said she could identify the men who killed Riccio and Conroy. She's the one who needs a bodyguard.”

Doolin went over to the table and picked up his drink. “I ain't had a chance,” he said. “She works at Dreamland downtown, an' it ain't open in the afternoon.” They drank.

Halloran's mouth was curved to a small smile. He picked up a folded newspaper, pointed to a headline, handed it to Doolin.

Doolin took the paper, a late edition of the Morning Bulletin, read:

MURDERED GIRL IDENTIFIED AS TAXI-DANCER

The body of the girl who was found stabbed to death on the road near Lankershim early this morning, has been identified as Mazie Decker of 305 S. Lake Street, an employee of the Dreamland Dancing Studio.

The identification was made by Peggy Galbraith, the murdered girl's room-mate. Miss Decker did not return home last night, and upon reading an account of the tragedy in the early editions, Miss Galbraith went to the morgue and positively identified Miss Decker. The police are ...

Doolin put the paper down, said: “Well, well. . . . Like I said. . . .” There was a knock at the door, rather a curious rhythmic tapping of fingernails.

Halloran called: “Come in.”

The door opened and a woman came in slowly, closed the door. She went to Halloran and put her arms around him and tilted her head back.

Halloran kissed her lightly. He smiled at Doolin, said: “This is Mrs. Sare.” He turned his smile to the woman. “Lola--meet Mr. Doolin--my bodyguard.”

Lola Sare had no single feature, except her hair, that was beautiful; yet she was very beautiful.

Her hair was red, so dark that it was black in certain lights. Her eyes slanted; were so dark a green they were usually black. Her nose was straight but the nostrils flared the least bit too much; her mouth red and full; too wide and curved. Her skin was smooth, very dark. Her figure was good, on the slender side. She was ageless; perhaps twenty-six, perhaps thirty-six.

She wore a dark green robe of heavy silk, black mules; her hair was gathered in a large roll at the nape of her neck.

She inclined her head sharply towards Doolin, without expression.

Doolin said: “Very happy to know you, Mrs. Sare.”

She went to one of the wide windows and jerked the drape aside a little; a broad flat beam of sunshine yellowed the darkness.

She said: “Sorry to desecrate the tomb.” Her voice was deep, husky.

Halloran poured three drinks and went back to his chair and sat down. Mrs. Sare leaned against the table, and Doolin, after a hesitant glance at her, sat down on the chair against the wall.

Halloran sipped his drink. “The strange part of it all,” he said, “is that I couldn't identify any of the four men who came in that night if my life depended upon it--and I'm almost sure Winfield couldn't. We'd been on a bender together for three days--and my memory for faces is bad, at best. . . .”

He put his glass on the floor beside the chair, lighted a cigarette. “Who else did you mention, besides the Decker girl and Coleman and Winfield and myself, who might . . .?”

Doolin took the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, got up and handed it to Halloran. Halloran studied it a while, said: “You missed one.” Mrs. Sare picked up the two bottles and went to Doolin, refilled his glass.

Doolin stared questioningly at Halloran, his eyebrows raised to a wide inverted V.

“The man who was with Riccio and Conroy,” Halloran went on. “The third man, who was shot. . . .”

Doolin said: “I didn't see any more about him in the files--the paper said he wasn't expected: to live. . . .”

Halloran clicked the nail of his forefinger against his teeth, said: “I wonder.”

Mrs. Sare had paused to listen. She went to Halloran and refilled his glass and put the bottles on the floor, sat down on the arm of Halloran's chair.

“Winfield and I went to The Hotspot alone,” Halloran went on. “We had some business to talk over with a couple girls in the show.” He grinned faintly, crookedly at Mrs. Sare. “Riccio and Conroy and this third man--I think his name was Martini or something dry like that--and the three girls on your list, passed our table on their way to the private-room. . . .”

Doolin was leaning forward, chewing his cigar, his eyes bright with interest.

Halloran blew smoke up into the wedge of sun. “Winfield knew Conroy casually--had met him in the East. They fell on one another's necks, and Conroy invited us to join their party. Winfield went for that--he was doing a gangster picture and Conroy was a big shot in the East--Winfield figured he could get a lot of angles. . . .”

Doolin said: “That was on the level, then?”

“Yes,” Halloran nodded emphatically. “Winfield even talked of making Conroy technical expert on the picture-before the fireworks started.”

“What did this third man--this Martini, look like?”

Halloran looked a little annoyed. He said: “I'll get to that. There were eight of us in the private room--the three men and the three girls and Winfield and I. Riccio was pretty drunk, and one of the girls was practically under the table. We were all pretty high.”

Halloran picked up his glass, leaned forward. “Riccio and Martini were all tangled up in some kind of drunken argument and I got the idea it had something to do with drugs-morphine. Riccio was pretty loud. Winfield and I were talking to Conroy, and the girls were amusing themselves gargling champagne, when the four men--I guess there were four-crashed in and opened up on Riccio and Conroy. . . .”

“What about Martini?” Doolin's unlighted cigar was growing rapidly shorter.

Halloran looked annoyed again. “That's the point,” he said. “They didn't pay any attention to Martini--they wanted Riccio and Conroy. And it wasn't machine-guns-- that was newspaper color. It was automatics. . . .”

Doolin said: “What about Martini?”

“For Christ's sake--shut up!” Halloran grinned cheerlessly, finished his drink. “Riccio shot Martini.”

Doolin stood up slowly, said: “Can I use the phone?”

Halloran smiled at Mrs. Sare, nodded.

Doolin called several numbers, asked questions, said “Yes” and “No" monotonously.

Halloran and Mrs. Sare talked quietly. Between two calls, Halloran spoke to Doolin: “You've connections--haven't you.” It was an observation, not a question.

Doolin said: “If I had as much money as I have connections, I'd retire.”

He finished after a while, hung up and put the phone back on the low round-table.

“Martinelli,” he said, “not Martini. Supposed to have been Riccio and Conroy's partner in the East. They had the drug business pretty well cornered. He showed up out here around the last of November, and Riccio and Conroy came in December tenth, were killed the night they got in. ...”

Halloran said: “I remember that--they were talking about the trip.”

Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth long enough to take a drink. “Martinelli was discharged from St. Vincent's Hospital January sixteenth--day before yesterday. He's plenty bad--beat four or five murder raps in the East and was figured for a half dozen others. They called him The Executioner. Angelo Martinelli--The Executioner.”

Mrs. Sare said: “Come and get it.”

Doolin and Halloran got up and went into the little dining room. They sat down at the table and Mrs. Sare brought in a steaming platter of bacon and scrambled eggs, a huge double-globe of bubbling coffee.

Doolin said: “Here's the way it looks to me: If Martinelli figured you an' Winfield an' whoever else was in the private room had seen Riccio shoot him, he'd want to shut you up; it was a cinch he'd double-crossed Riccio and if it came out at the trial, the Detroit boys would be on his tail.”

Halloran nodded, poured a large rosette of chili-sauce on the plate beside his scrambled eggs.

“But what did he want to rub Coleman an' Decker for?”

Halloran started to speak with his mouth full, but Doolin interrupted him: “The answer to that is that Martinelli had hooked up with the outfit out here, the outfit that Riccio and Conroy figured on moving in on. . . .”

Halloran said: “Martinelli probably came out to organize things for a narcotic combination between here and Detroit, in opposition to our local talent. He liked the combination here the way it was and threw in with them--and when Riccio and Conroy arrived Martinelli put the finger on them, for the local boys. . . .”

Doolin swallowed a huge mouthful of bacon and eggs, said: “Swell,” out of the corner of his mouth to Mrs. Sare.

He picked up his cigar and pointed it at Halloran. “That's the reason he wanted all of you--you an' Winfield because you'd get the Detroit outfit on his neck if you testified; Decker an' Coleman because they could spot the L A boys. He didn't try to proposition any of you--he's the kind of guy who would figure killing was simpler.”

Halloran said: “He's got to protect himself against the two men who are in jail too. They're liable to spill their guts. If everybody who was in on it was bumped there wouldn't be a chance of those two guys being identified-- everything would be rosy.”

They finished their bacon and eggs in silence.

With the coffee, Doolin said: “Funny he didn't make a pass at you last night--before or after he got Winfield. The same building an' all. . . .”

“Maybe he did.” Halloran put his arm around Mrs. Sare who was standing beside his chair. “I didn't get home till around three--he was probably here, missed me.”

Doolin said: “We better go downtown an' talk to the D A. That poor gal of Winfield's is probably on the grill. We can clear that up an' have Martinelli picked up. . . .”

Halloran said: “No.” He said it very emphatically.

Doolin opened his eyes wide, slowly. He finished his coffee, waited.

Halloran smiled faintly, said: “In the first place, I hate coppers.” He tightened his arm around Mrs. Sare. “In the second place I don't particularly care for Miss Darmond-- she can God damned well fry on the griddle from now on, so far as I'm concerned. In the third place--I like it. . . .”

Doolin glanced at Mrs. Sare, turned his head slowly back towards Halloran.

“I've got three months to live,” Halloran went on--“at the outside.” His voice was cold, entirely unemotional. “I was shell-shocked and gassed and kicked around pretty generally in France in 'eighteen. They stuck me together and sent me back and I've lasted rather well. But my heart is shot, and my lungs are bad, and so on--the doctors are getting pretty sore because I'm still on my feet. . . .”

He grinned widely. “I'm going to have all the fun I can in whatever time is left. We're not going to call copper, and we're going to play this for everything we can get out of it. You're my bodyguard and your salary is five hundred a week, but your job isn't to guard me--it's to see that there's plenty of excitement. And instead of waiting for Martinelli to come to us, we're going to Martinelli.”

Doolin looked blankly at Mrs. Sare. She was smiling in a very curious way. Halloran said: “Are you working?” Doolin smiled slowly with all his face. He said: “Sure.”

Doolin dried his hands and smoothed his hair, whistling tunelessly, went through the small cheaply furnished living room of his apartment to the door of the kitchenette. He picked up a newspaper from a table near the door, unfolded it and glanced at the headlines, said: “They're calling the Winfield kill 'Murder in Blue' because it happened in a blue bathtub. Is that a laugh!”

A rather pretty fresh-faced girl was stirring something in a white sauce-pan on the little gas stove. She looked up and smiled and said: “Dinner'll be ready in a minute,” wiped her hands on her apron and began setting the table.

Doolin leaned against the wall and skimmed through the rest of the paper. The Coleman case was limited to a quarter column--the police had been unable to trace the car. There was even less about Mazie Decker. The police were “working on a theory. . . .”

The police were working on a theory, too, on the Winfield killing. Miss Darmond had been found near the door of Win-field's apartment with a great bruise on her head, the night of the murder; she said the last she remembered was opening the door and struggling with someone. The “Best Minds” of the Force believed her story up to that point; they were working on the angle that she had an accomplice.

Doolin rolled up the paper and threw it on a chair. He said: “Five hundred a week--an' expenses! Gee!--is that swell!” He was grinning broadly.

The girl said: “I'm awfully glad about the money, darling--if you're sure you'll be safe. God knows it's about time we had a break.” She hesitated a moment. “I hope it's all right. . . .”

She was twenty-three or four, a honey-blonde pink-cheeked girl with wide gray eyes, a slender well-curved figure.

Doolin went to her and kissed the back of her neck. “Sure, it's all right, Mollie,” he said. “Anything is all right when you get paid enough for it. The point is to make it last--five hundred is a lot of money, but a thousand will buy twice as many lamb chops.”

She became very interested in a tiny speck on one of the cheap white plates, rubbed it industriously with a towel. She spoke without looking up: “I keep thinking about that Darmond girl--in jail. What do you suppose Halloran has against her?”

“I don't know.” Doolin sat down at the table. “Anyway-- she's okay. We can spring her any time, only we can't do it now because we'd have to let the Law in on the Martinelli angle an' they'd pick him up--an' Halloran couldn't have his fun.”

“It's a funny kind of fun.” The girl smiled with her mouth.

Doolin said: “He's a funny guy. Used to be a police reporter in Chi--maybe that has something to do with it. Anyway, the poor bastard's only got a little while to go--let him have any kind of fun he wants. He can afford it. . . .”

They were silent while the girl cut bread and got the butter out of the Frigidaire and finished setting the table.

Doolin was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. “As far as the Darmond gal is concerned, a little of that beef stew they dish up at the County will be good for her. These broads need a little of that--to give them perspective.”

The girl was heaping mashed potatoes into a big bowl. She did not speak.

“The way I figure it,” Doolin went on--“Halloran hasn't got the guts to bump himself off. He's all washed up, an' he knows it--an' the idea has made him a little batty. Then along comes Martinelli--a chance for him to go out dramatically--the way he's lived--an' he goes for it. Jesus! so would I if I was as near the edge as he is. He doesn't give a god-damn about anything--he doesn't have to. . . .”

The girl finished putting food on the table, sat down. Doolin heaped their plates with chops and potatoes and cauliflower while she served salad. They began to eat.

Doolin got up and filled two glasses with water and put them on the table.

The girl said: “I'm sorry I forgot the water. . . .”

Doolin bent over and kissed her, sat down.

“As far as Halloran is concerned,” he went on--“I'm just another actor in his show. Instead of sitting and waiting for Martinelli to come to get him--we go after Martinelli. That's Halloran's idea of fun--that's the kind of sense of humor he's got. What the hell!--he's got nothing to lose. . . .”

The girl said: “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

They were silent a while.

Finally she said: “What if Martinelli shoots first?”

Doolin laughed. “Martinelli isn't going to shoot at all. Neither am I--an' neither is Mr. Halloran.”

The girl lighted a cigarette, sipped her coffee. She stared expressionlessly at Doolin, waited.

“Halloran is having dinner with Mrs. Sare,” Doolin went on. “Then they're going to a show an' I'm picking them up afterwards--at the theatre. Then Halloran an' I are going to have a look around for Martinelli.”

He finished his coffee, refilled both their cups. “In the meantime I'm supposed to be finding out where we're most likely to find him--Halloran is a great believer in my 'connections.'“

Doolin grinned, went on with a softly satisfied expression, as if he were taking a rabbit out of a hat: “I've already found Martinelli--not only where he hangs out, but where he lives. It was a cinch. He hasn't any reason to think he's pegged for anything--he's not hiding out.”

The girl said: “So what?”

He stood up, stretched luxuriously. “So I'm going to Martinelli right now.” He paused dramatically. “An' I'm going to tell him what kind of a spot he's in--with half a dozen murder raps hanging over his head, and all. I'm going to tell him that plenty people besides myself know about it an' that the stuff's on the way to the D A's office an' that he'd better scram toot sweet. ...”

The girl said: “You're crazy.”

Doolin laughed extravagantly. “Like a fox,” he said. “Like a fox. I'm doing Martinelli a big favor--so I'm set with him. I'm keeping Halloran from running a chance of being killed--an' he'll think he's still running the chance, an' get his throb out of it. I'm keeping five hundred smackers coming into the cash register every week as long as Halloran lives, or as long as I can give him a good show. An' everybody's happy. What more do you want?”

“Sense.” The girl mashed her cigarette out, stood up. “I never heard such a crazy idea in all my life! . . .”

Doolin looked disgusted. He walked into the living room, came back to the doorway. “Sure, it's crazy,” he said. “Sure, it's crazy. So is Halloran--an' you--an' me. So is Martinelli--probably. It's the crazy ideas that work--an' this one is going to work like a charm.”

The girl said: “What about Darmond? If Martinelli gets away she'll be holding the bag for Winfield's murder.”

“Oh, no, she won't! As soon as the Halloran angle washes up I'll turn my evidence over to the D A an' tell him it took a few weeks to get it together--an' be sure about it. It's as plain as the nose on your face that Martinelli killed all three of them. Those chumps downtown are too sappy to see it now but they won't be when I point it out to them. It's a set-up case against Martinelli!”

The girl smiled coldly. She said: “You're the most conceited, bull-headed Mick that ever lived. You've been in one jam after another ever since we were married. This is one time I'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself--an' probably get killed. . . .”

Doolin's expression was stubborn, annoyed. He turned and strode across the living room, squirmed into his coat, put on his hat and jerked it down over his eyes.

She stood in the doorway. Her face was very white and her eyes were wide, round.

She said: “Please. Johnny. . . .”

He didn't look at her. He went to the desk against one wall and opened a drawer, took a nickel-plated revolver out of the drawer and dropped it into his coat pocket.

She said: “If you do this insane thing--I'm leaving.” Her voice was cold, brittle.

Doolin went to the outer-door, went out, slammed the door.

She stood there a little while looking at the door.

Angelo Martinelli stuck two fingers of his left hand into the little jar, took them out pale, green, sticky with Smoothcomb Hair Dressing. He dabbed it on his head, held his hands stiff with the fingers bent backwards and rubbed it vigorously into his hair. Then he wiped his hands and picked up a comb, bent towards the mirror.

Martinelli was very young--perhaps twenty-four or-five. His face was pale, unlined; pallor shading to blue towards his long angular jaw; his eyes red-brown, his nose straight and delicately cut. He was of medium height but the high padded shoulders of his coat made him appear taller.

The room was small, garishly furnished. A low bed and two or three chairs in the worst modern manner were made a little more objectionable by orange and pink batik throws; there was an elaborately wrought iron floor lamp, its shade made of whiskey labels pasted on imitation parchment.

Martinelli finished combing his hair, spoke over his shoulder to a woman who lounged across the foot of the bed: “Tonight does it. . . .”

Lola Sare said: “Tonight does it--if you're careful. . . .” Martinelli glanced at his wrist-watch. “I better get going--it's nearly eight. He said he'd be there at eight.”

Lola Sare leaned forward and dropped her cigarette into a half-full glass on the floor.

“I'll be home from about eight-thirty on,” she said. “Call as soon as you can.”

Martinelli nodded. He put on a lightweight black felt hat, tilted it to the required angle in front of the mirror. He helped her into her coat, and then he put his arms around her, kissed her mouth lingeringly.

She clung to him, whispered: “Make it as fast as you can, darling.” They went to the door and Martinelli snapped off the light and they went out.

Martinelli said: “Turn right at the next corner.” The cab driver nodded; they turned off North Broadway into a dimly lighted street, went several blocks over bad pavement.

Martinelli pounded on the glass, said: “Oke.” The cab slid to an abrupt stop and Martinelli got out and paid the driver, stood at the curb until the cab had turned around in the narrow street, disappeared. He went to a door above which one pale electric globe glittered, felt in the darkness for the button, pressed it. The door clicked open; Martinelli went in and slammed it shut behind him.

There were a half dozen or so men strung out along the bar in the long dim room. A few more sat at tables against the wall.

Martinelli walked to the far end of the bar, leaned across it to speak quietly to a chunky bald-headed man who sat on a high stool near the cash register:

“Chief here?”

The bald man bobbed his head, jerked it towards a door behind Martinelli.

Martinelli looked surprised, said mildly: “He's on time for once in his life!”

The man bobbed his head. His face was blank.

Martinelli went through the door, up two short flights of stairs to a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway he knocked at a heavy steel-sheathed fire-door.

After a little while the door opened and a voice said: “Come in.”

Doolin stood on his toes and tried to make out the number above the door but the figures were too faded by weather, time; the electric light was too dim.

He walked down the dark street a half block and then walked back and pressed the button beside the door; the door clicked open and he went through the short passageway into the long barroom.

A bartender wiped off the stained wood in front of him, questioned with his eyes.

Doolin said: “Rye.”

He glanced idly at the men at the bar, at the tables, at the heavily built bald man who sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. The little bald man was stooped over a wide-spread newspaper.

The bartender put a glass on the bar in front of Doolin, put a flat brightly labeled flask beside it.

Doolin said: “Seen Martinelli tonight?”

The bartender watched Doolin pour his drink, picked up the bottle and put it under the bar, said: “Yeah. He came in a little while ago. He's upstairs.”

Doolin nodded, tasted the rye. It wasn't too bad. He finished it and put a quarter on the bar, sauntered towards the door at the back of the room.

The little bald man looked up from his paper.

Doolin said: “Martinelli's expecting me. He's upstairs--ain't he?”

The little man looked at Doolin. He began at his face and went down to his feet and then back up, slowly. “He didn't say anything about you.” He spat with the admirable precision of age and confidence into a cuspidor in the corner.

Doolin said: “He forgot.” He put his hand on the doorknob.

The little man looked at him, through him, blankly.

Doolin turned the knob and opened the door, went through, closed the door behind him.

The stairs were dimly lighted by a sputtering gas-jet. He went up slowly. There was one door at the top of the first flight; it was dark; there was no light under it, no sound beyond it. Doolin went up another flight very quietly. He put his ear against the steel-sheathed door; he could hear no sound, but a little light filtered through under the door. He doubled up his fist, knocked with the heel of his hand.

Martinelli opened the door. He stood a moment staring questioningly at Doolin and then he glanced over his shoulder, smiled, said: “Come in.”

Doolin put his hands in his overcoat pockets, his right hand holding the revolver tightly, went forward into the room.

Martinelli closed the door behind him, slid the heavy bolt.

The room was large, bare; somewhere around thirty-five by forty. It was lighted by a single green-shaded droplight over a very large round table in the center; there were other tables and chairs stacked in the dusk of the corner. There were no windows, no other doors.

Halloran sat in one of the four chairs at the table. He was leaning slightly forward with his elbows on the table, his long waxen hands framing his face. His face was entirely cold, white, expressionless.

Martinelli stood with his back against the door, his hands behind him.

Doolin glanced over his shoulder at Martinelli, looked back at Halloran. His eyebrows were lifted to the wide V, his mouth hung a little open.

Halloran said: “Well, well--this is a surprise.”

He moved his eyes to Martinelli, said: “Angelo. Meet Mr. Doolin--my bodyguard. . . .” For an instant his wide thin mouth flickered a fraction of an inch upward; then his face became a blank, white mask again. “Mr. Doolin--Mr. Martinelli. . . .”

Martinelli had silently come up behind Doolin, suddenly thrust his hands into Doolin's pockets, hard, grabbed Doolin's hands. Doolin bent sharply forward. They struggled for possibly half a minute, silently except for the tearing sound of their breath; then Martinelli brought his knee up suddenly, savagely; Doolin groaned, sank to his knees, the nickel-plated revolver clattered to the floor, slid halfway across the room.

Martinelli darted after it.

Halloran had not appeared to move. He said: “Wait a minute, baby. . . .” The blunt Luger that Doolin had experienced in the afternoon glittered on the table between his two hands.

Martinelli made an impatient gesture, stooped to pick up Doolin's gun.

“Wait a minute, baby.” Halloran's voice was like a cold swift scythe.

Martinelli stood up very straight.

Doolin got to his feet slowly. He bent over and held the middle of his body, rolled his head toward Martinelli, his eyes narrow, malevolent. He said very quietly, as if to himself: “Dirty son of a bitch--dirty, dirty son of a bitch!”

Martinelli grinned, stood very straight. His hands, cupped close to his thighs, trembled rigidly.

Halloran said slowly: “Don't do it, baby. I'll shoot both your eyes out before you get that shiv of yours into the air-- and never touch your nose.”

Martinelli looked like a clothing store dummy. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands trembling at his sides; his grin artificial, empty.

Doolin laughed suddenly. He stood up straight and looked at Martinelli and laughed.

Halloran moved his eyes to Doolin, smiled faintly. He said: “Gentlemen--sit down.” Martinelli tottered forward, sank into one of the chairs. Halloran said: “Put your hands on the table, please.” Martinelli obediently put his hands on the table. The empty grin seemed to have congealed on his face.

Halloran turned his eyes towards Doolin. Doolin smiled, walked gingerly to the other chair and sat down.

Halloran said: “Now. . . .” He put one hand up to his face; the other held the Luger loosely on the table.

Doolin cleared his throat, said: “What's it all about, Mr. Halloran?”

Martinelli laughed suddenly. The empty grin exploded into loud high-pitched mirth. “What's it all about! Dear God--what's it all about! . . .”

Halloran was watching Doolin, his shadowed sunken eyes half closed.

Martinelli leaned forward, lifted his hands and pointed two fingers at Doolin. “Listen--wise guy. . . . You've got minutes to live--if you're lucky. That's what it's all about!” Doolin regarded Martinelli with faint amusement. Martinelli laughed again. He moved his hand slowly until the two fingers pointed at Halloran. “He killed Coleman,” he said. “He shot Coleman an' I drove the car. An' he killed Winfield himself. An' his outfit killed Riccio an' Conroy. . . .”

Doolin glanced at Halloran, turned back to smile dimly, dumbly at Martinelli.

“He propositioned me into killing the dance-hall dame,” Martinelli went on--“an' now he's going to kill you an' me. ...”

Doolin grinned broadly but it was all done with his mouth. He didn't look like he felt it very much. He looked at Halloran. Halloran's face was white and immovable as plaster.

“Listen--wise-guy!” Martinelli leaned forward, moved his hand back to point at Doolin. He was suddenly very intense; his dark eyes burned into Doolin's. “I came out here for

Riccio to make connections to peddle M--a lot of it--an' I met Mr. Halloran.” Martinelli moved his head an eighth of an inch towards Halloran. “Mr. Halloran runs the drug racket out here--did you know that?”

Doolin glanced swiftly at Halloran, looked back at Martinelli's tense face.

“Mr. Halloran aced me into double-crossing Frankie Riccio an' Conroy,” Martinelli went on. “Mr. Halloran's men rubbed Riccio an' Conroy, an' would've taken care of me if Riccio hadn't almost beat 'em to it. . . .”

Halloran said coldly, amusedly: “Oh--come, come, Angelo. . . .”

Martinelli did not look at Halloran. He said: “I met Riccio an' Conroy at the train that night an' took them to that joint in Culver City to talk business to Mr. Halloran--only I didn't know the kind of business Mr. Halloran was going to

talk. ...”

“Is it quite necessary to go into all this?” Halloran spoke sidewise to Martinelli, smiled at Doolin. It was his first definite change of expression since Doolin had come into the room.

Martinelli said: “Yes,” emphatically. He scowled at Halloran, his eyes thin black slits. “Bright-boy here”--he indicated Doolin with his hand--“wants to know what it's all about. I'd like to have somebody know--besides me. One of us might leave here alive--if I get this all out of my system it's a cinch it won't be Bright-boy.”

Halloran's smile was very cheerful. He said: “Go on.”

“One of the men the Law picked up for the Hotspot shooting was a good guess--he's on Mr. Halloran's payroll,” Martinelli went on. He was accenting the “Mr.” a little unnecessarily, a little too much. “When I got out of the hospital Mr. Halloran suggested we clean things up--move Coleman an' Decker an' Winfield--anybody who might identify his man or testify that Riccio shot me--out of the way. He hated Winfield anyway, for beating his time with the Darmond gal--an' he hated her. . . .”

Halloran was beaming at Doolin, his hand tight and steady on the Luger. Doolin thought about the distance across the big table to Halloran, the distance to the light.

Martinelli was leaning forward, talking swiftly, eagerly: “I brought eighty-five grand worth of morphine out with me, an' I turned it over to his nibs here when we threw in together. I ain't had a nickel out of it. That's the reason I went for all this finagling--I wanted my dough. I was supposed to get it tonight, but I found out about ten minutes ago I ain't going to get it at all. ...”

Martinelli smiled at Halloran, finished: “Mr. Halloran says it was hi-jacked.” He stood up slowly.

Halloran asked: “All through, baby?”

Martinelli was standing very stiff and straight, his hands cupped at his sides.

Doolin ducked suddenly, exerted all his strength to upset the table. For a moment he was protected by the edge, could see neither Martinelli nor Halloran; then the big round table-top slid off its metal base, crashed to the floor.

Halloran was holding Martinelli very much in the way a great ape would hold a smaller animal. One long arm was out stiff, the long white hand at Martinelli's throat, almost encircling it. Halloran's other hand held Martinelli's wrist, waved it back and forth slowly. The blade of a short curved knife glistened in Martinelli's hand. Except for the slow waving of their two hands they were as if frozen, entirely still. There was nothing human in their position, nothing human in their faces.

Doolin felt in that instant that Halloran was not human. He was mad, insane; but it was not the madness of a man, it was the cold murderous lust of an animal.

The Luger and Doolin's revolver were on the floor near their feet. Doolin circled until he was behind Halloran, moved slowly towards them.

As he dived for one of the guns Halloran swung Martinelli around swiftly, kicked viciously at Doolin's head. He missed once, but the second caught Doolin's hand as it closed over the Luger, sent the Luger spinning to a corner.

As Doolin half rose, Halloran's long leg lashed out again, his heavy shoe struck the side of Doolin's head. Doolin grunted, fell sidewise to the floor.

Doolin lay on his back and the room went around him. Later, in remembering what followed, it was like short strips of motion-picture film, separated by strips of darkness.

Halloran backed Martinelli slowly to the wall. It was as if they were performing some strange ritualistic dance; their steps were measured; Halloran's face was composed, his expression almost tender. Martinelli's face was darkening from the pressure on his throat. Halloran waved the hand holding the knife slowly back and forth.

The next time the darkness in Doolin's head cleared, they were against the wall, his head high, at a curious twisted angle above Halloran's white relentless hand, his face purpling. Halloran's other hand had slipped down over Martinelli's chest.

Martinelli's eyes bulged. His face was the face of a man who saw death coming, and was afraid. Doolin could no longer see Halloran's face. He watched the knife near Martinelli's chest, slowly.

Martinelli, some way, made a high piercing sound in his throat as the knife went into him. And again as Halloran withdrew the knife, pressed it in again slowly. Halloran did not stab mercifully on the left side, but on the right, puncturing the lung again and again, slowly.

Doolin rolled over on his side. The revolver lay on the floor midway between him and Halloran. He shook his head sharply, crawled towards it.

Halloran suddenly released Martinelli, stepped back a pace. Martinelli's knees buckled, he sank slowly down, sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his legs out straight. He sucked in air in great rattling gasps, held both hands tightly against his chest, tightly against the shaft of the knife.

He lifted his head and there was blood on his mouth. He laughed; and Doolin forgot the gun, stopped, stared fascinated at Martinelli. Martinelli laughed and the sound was as if everything inside him was breaking. His head rolled back and he grinned upward with glazing eyes at Halloran, held his hands tightly against his chest, spoke:

“Tell Lola we can't go away now. . . .” He paused, sucked in air. “She's waiting for me. ... Tell her Angelo sends his regrets. . . .” His voice was thick, high-pitched, but his words were telling, deadly, took deadly effect.

Halloran seemed to grow taller, his great shoulders seemed to widen as Doolin watched.

Martinelli laughed again. He said: “So long-sucker. . . .”

Halloran kicked him savagely in the chest. He drew his long leg back and as Martinelli slumped sidewise he kicked his face, hard, repeatedly.

Doolin scrambled swiftly, forward, picked up the revolver, raised it.

Halloran turned slowly.

Doolin held the revolver unsteadily in his right hand, aimed at Halloran's chest while the muzzle described little circles, pulled the trigger twice.

Halloran came towards him. Doolin made a harsh sound in his throat, scuttled backwards a few feet, held the revolver out limply and fired again.

Halloran's face was cold, impassive; his eyes were great black holes in his skull. He came towards Doolin slowly.

Doolin tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat, and then Halloran was above him and there was a terribly crushing weight against Doolin's forehead and it was suddenly dark.

Slowly, Doolin came to, lay a little while with his eyes closed. There were sharp twisting wires of pain in his head; he put his hand up, took it away wet, sticky.

He opened his eyes. It was entirely dark, a cold penetrating darkness; entirely still.

Suddenly he laughed, a curious hysterical sound in the quiet room; and as suddenly, panic seized him. He struggled to his knees, almost fell down again as the pain in his head throbbed to the swift movement. He got to his feet slowly, fumbled in his pockets and found a match, lighted it.

Martinelli's body was slumped in the angle of floor and wall at one side of the room. There was no one else. Doolin's revolver shone dimly on the floor in the flare of the match. The door was ajar.

Doolin lighted another match and picked up his revolver, his hat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and the handkerchief was wet, dark. He walked, unsteadily to the door, down the dark stairs.

One faint globe burned above the deserted bar. Doolin felt his way along the wall, lifted the heavy bar across the outside door and went out, closed the door behind him. It was raining lightly, a thin cold drizzle.

He took air into his lungs in great gulps, soaked the handkerchief in a little puddle of rainwater and tried to clean his face. Then he went down the dark street swiftly towards Broadway.

The druggist looked at him through thick spectacles, gestured towards the back of the store.

Doolin said: “Fix me up some peroxide an' bandages an' stuff--I had an accident.” He went back to the telephone booth, found the number of the Fontenoy, called it, asked for Mrs. Sare.

The operator said Mrs. Sare didn't answer.

Doolin hung up and went out and cleaned the blood from his face in front of a mirror. A little girl stared at him wide-eyed from the soda fountain; the druggist said: “Automobile ....?”

Doolin nodded.

The druggist asked: “How much bandage do you want?”

Doolin said: “Let it go--it's not as bad as I thought it was.”

He put his hat on the back of his head and went out and got into a cab, said: “Fontenoy Apartments--Hollywood. An' make it snappy.”

Lola Sare's voice said: “Yes,” with rising inflection.

Doolin opened the door, went in.

She was sitting in a long low chair beneath a crimson-shaded bridge lamp. It was the only light in the room. Her arms were bare, straight on the arms of the chair, her hands hanging limply downward. Her dark head was against the back of the chair and her face was taut, her eyes wide, vacant.

Doolin took off his hat, said: “Why the hell don't you answer your phone?”

She did not speak, nor move.

“You'd better get out of here--quick.” Doolin went towards her. “Halloran killed Martinelli--an' Martinelli opened up about you before he died. Halloran will be coming to see you. . . .”

Her blank eyes moved slowly from his face to some place in the dusk behind him. He followed her gaze, turned slowly.

Halloran was standing against the wall near the door. The door had covered him when Doolin entered; he put out one hand and pushed it gently, it swung closed with a sharp dick.

As Doolin's eyes became used to the dimness of the room he saw Halloran clearly. He was leaning against the wall and the right shoulder and breast of his light gray suit was dark, sodden. He held the short blunt Luger in his left hand.

He said: “You're a little late. ...”

The Luger roared.

Lola Sare put her hands up to the middle of her breast, low; her head came forward slowly. She started to get up and the Luger leaped in Halloran's hand, roared again.

At the same instant Doolin shot, holding the revolver low. The two explosions were simultaneous, thundered in the dark and narrow room.

Halloran fell as a tree falls; slowly, stiffly, his arm stiff at his sides; crashed to the floor.

Doolin dropped the revolver, walked unsteadily towards Lola Sare. His knees buckled suddenly and he sank forward, down.

There was someone pounding at the door.

Doolin finished dabbing iodine on his head, washed his hands and went into the little living room of his apartment. A first dull streak of morning grayed the windows. He pulled down the shades and went into the kitchenette, lighted the gas under the percolator.

When the coffee was hot he poured a cup, dropped four lumps of sugar into it absently, carried it into the living room. He sat down on the davenport and put the coffee on an end-table, picked up the phone and dialed a number.

He said: “Hello, Grace? Is Mollie there? . . .” He listened a moment, went on: “Oh--I thought she might be there. Sorry I woke you up. . . .” He hung up, sipped his steaming coffee.

After a few minutes he picked up the phone, dialed again, said. “Listen, Grace--please put Mollie on. . . . Aw nuts! I know she's there--please make her talk to me. . . .”

Then he smiled, waited a moment, said: “Hello darling . . . Listen--please come on home--will you? . . . Aw listen, Honey--I did what you said--everything's all right. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Halloran's dead--an' Martinelli. . . .Uh-huh. . . . The Sare dame is shot up pretty bad, but not too much to give evidence an' clean it all up. ... Uh-huh. . . .”

He reached over and picked up the cup and took a long drink of coffee, smiled into the phone, said: “Sure--I'm all right--I got a little scratch on my head but I'm all right. . . . Sure. .--Sure--we were right. ... All right, Honey--I'll be waiting for you. Hurry up. . . . G'bye. . . .”

He hung up, curved his mouth to a wide grin, finished his coffee, lit a cigarette and waited.