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 machineguns — 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 LA 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 DA 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 shellshocked 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.”