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 penciclass="underline" “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...”