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 DA’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.”