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 table-top 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.
Martinelli’s eyes bulged. His face was the face of a man who saw death coming, and was afraid. Doolin could no longer see Halloran’s face. He watched the knife near Martinelli’s chest, slowly.