Martinelli, some way, made a high piercing sound in his throat as the knife went into him. And again as Halloran withdrew the knife, pressed it in again slowly. Halloran did not stab mercifully on the left side, but on the right, puncturing the lung again and again, slowly.
Doolin rolled over on his side. The revolver lay on the floor midway between him and Halloran. He shook his head sharply, crawled towards it.
Halloran suddenly released Martinelli, stepped back a pace. Martinelli’s knees buckled, he sank slowly down, sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his legs out straight. He sucked in air in great rattling gasps, held both hands tightly against his chest, tightly against the shaft of the knife.
He lifted his head and there was blood on his mouth. He laughed; and Doolin forgot the gun, stopped, stared fascinated at Martinelli. Martinelli laughed and the sound was as if everything inside him was breaking. His head rolled back and he grinned upward with glazing eyes at Halloran, held his hands tightly against his chest, spoke:
“Tell Lola we can’t go away now...” He paused, sucked in air. “She’s waiting for me... Tell her Angelo sends his regrets...” His voice was thick, high-pitched, but his words were telling, deadly, took deadly effect.
Halloran seemed to grow taller, his great shoulders seemed to widen as Doolin watched.
Martinelli laughed again. He said: “So long-sucker...”
Halloran kicked him savagely in the chest. He drew his long leg back and as Martinelli slumped sidewise he kicked his face, hard, repeatedly.
Doolin scrambled swiftly, forward, picked up the revolver, raised it.
Halloran turned slowly.