Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

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 wideset, 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 cellophanewrapped 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 stuntman 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 salestalk, 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 roommate. 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?...”