Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

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.”

Martinelli looked like a clothing store dummy. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands trembling at his sides; his grin artificial, empty.

Doolin laughed suddenly. He stood up straight and looked at Martinelli and laughed.

Halloran moved his eyes to Doolin, smiled faintly.

He said: “Gentlemen — sit down.”

Martinelli tottered forward, sank into one of the chairs.

Halloran said: “Put your hands on the table, please.”

Martinelli obediently put his hands on the table. The empty grin seemed to have congealed on his face.

Halloran turned his eyes towards Doolin. Doolin smiled, walked gingerly to the other chair and sat down.

Halloran said: “Now...” He put one hand up to his face; the other held the Luger loosely on the table.

Doolin cleared his throat, said: “What’s it all about, Mr Halloran?”

Martinelli laughed suddenly. The empty grin exploded into loud high-pitched mirth. “What’s it all about! Dear God — what’s it all about!...”

Halloran was watching Doolin, his shadowed sunken eyes half closed.

Martinelli leaned forward, lifted his hands and pointed two fingers at Doolin. “Listen — wise guy... You’ve got minutes to live — if you’re lucky. That’s what it’s all about!”

Doolin regarded Martinelli with faint amusement.

Martinelli laughed again. He moved his hand slowly until the two fingers pointed at Halloran. “He killed Coleman,” he said. “He shot Coleman an’ I drove the car. An’ he killed Winfield himself. An’ his outfit killed Riccio an’ Conroy...”

Doolin glanced at Halloran, turned back to smile dimly, dumbly at Martinelli.

“He propositioned me into killing the dancehall dame,” Martinelli went on — “an’ now he’s going to kill you an’ me...”

Doolin grinned broadly but it was all done with his mouth. He didn’t look like he felt it very much. He looked at Halloran. Halloran’s face was white and immovable as plaster.

“Listen — wise guy!” Martinelli leaned forward, moved his hand back to point at Doolin. He was suddenly very intense; his dark eyes burned into Doolin’s. “I came out here for Riccio to make connections to peddle M — a lot of it — an’ I met Mr Halloran.” Martinelli moved his head an eighth of an inch towards Halloran. “Mr Halloran runs the drug racket out here — did you know that?”

Doolin glanced swiftly at Halloran, looked back at Martinelli’s tense face.

“Mr Halloran aced me into double-crossing Frankie Riccio an’ Conroy,” Martinelli went on. “Mr Halloran’s men rubbed Riccio an’ Conroy, an’ would’ve taken care of me if Riccio hadn’t almost beat ’em to it...”

Halloran said coldly, amusedly: “Oh — come, come, Angelo...”

Martinelli did not look at Halloran. He said: “I met Riccio an’ Conroy at the train that night an’ took them to that joint in Culver City to talk business to Mr Halloran — only I didn’t know the kind of business Mr Halloran was going to talk...”

“Is it quite necessary to go into all this?” Halloran spoke sidewise to Martinelli, smiled at Doolin. It was his first definite change of expression since Doolin had come into the room.

Martinelli said: “Yes,” emphatically. He scowled at Halloran, his eyes thin black slits. “Bright-boy here,” he indicated Doolin with his hand — “wants to know what it’s all about. I’d like to have somebody know — besides me. One of us might leave here alive — if I get this all out of my system it’s a cinch it won’t be Bright-boy.”

Halloran’s smile was very cheerful. He said: “Go on.”

“One of the men the Law picked up for the Hotspot shooting was a good guess — he’s on Mr Halloran’s payroll,” Martinelli went on. He was accenting the “Mr” a little unnecessarily, a little too much. “When I got out of the hospital Mr Halloran suggested we clean things up — move Coleman an’ Decker an’ Winfield — anybody who might identify his man or testify that Riccio shot me — out of the way. He hated Winfield anyway, for beating his time with the Darmond gal — an’ he hated her...”

Halloran was beaming at Doolin, his hand tight and steady on the Luger. Doolin thought about the distance across the big table to Halloran, the distance to the light.

Martinelli was leaning forward, talking swiftly, eagerly: “I brought eighty-five grand worth of morphine out with me, an’ I turned it over to his nibs here when we threw in together. I ain’t had a nickel out of it. That’s the’ reason I went for all this finagling — I wanted my dough. I was supposed to get it tonight, but I found out about ten minutes ago I ain’t going to get it at all...”

Martinelli smiled at Halloran, finished: “Mr Halloran says it was hijacked.” He stood up slowly.

Halloran asked: “All through, baby?”

Martinelli was standing very stiff and straight, his hands cupped at his sides.

Doolin ducked suddenly, exerted all his strength to upset the table. For a moment he was protected by the edge, could see neither Martinelli nor Halloran; then the big round tabletop slid off its metal base, crashed to the floor.

Halloran was holding Martinelli very much in the way a great ape would hold a smaller animal. One long arm was out stiff, the long white hand at Martinelli’s throat, almost encircling it. Halloran’s other hand held Martinelli’s wrist, waved it back and forth slowly. The blade of a short curved knife glistened in Martinelli’s hand. Except for the slow waving of their two hands they were as if frozen, entirely still. There was nothing human in their position, nothing human in their faces.

Doolin felt in that instant that Halloran was not human. He was mad, insane; but it was not the madness of a man, it was the cold murderous lust of an animal.

The Luger and Doolin’s revolver were on the floor near their feet. Doolin circled until he was behind Halloran, moved slowly towards them.

As he dived for one of the guns Halloran swung Martinelli around swiftly, kicked viciously at Doolin’s head. He missed once but the second caught Doolin’s hand as it closed over the Luger, sent the Luger spinning to a corner.

As Doolin half rose, Halloran’s long leg lashed out again, his heavy shoe struck the side of Doolin’s head. Doolin grunted, fell sidewise to the floor.

Doolin lay on his back and the room went around him. Later, in remembering what followed, it was like short strips of motion picture film, separated by strips of darkness.

Halloran backed Martinelli slowly to the wall. It was as if they were performing some strange ritualistic dance; their steps were measured; Halloran’s face was composed, his expression almost tender. Martinelli’s face was darkening from the pressure on his throat. Halloran waved the hand holding the knife slowly back and forth.

The next time the darkness in Doolin’s head cleared, they were against the wall, his head high, at a curious twisted angle above Halloran’s white relentless hand, his face purpling. Halloran’s other hand had slipped down over Martinelli’s chest.