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.