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.”
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.