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.