by Paul Cain
“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.”
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 saucepan 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 Winfield’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 its 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 goddamn 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 DA 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 setup case against Martinelli!”
The girl smiled coldly. She said: “You’re the most conceited, bullheaded 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 wristwatch. “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 halffull 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: “Okay.”
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.”
