Doolin opened the door, went in.
She was sitting in a long low chair beneath a crimson-shaded bridge lamp. It was the only light in the room. Her arms were bare, straight on the arms of the chair, her hands hanging limply downward. Her dark head was against the back of the chair and her face was taut, her eyes wide, vacant.
Doolin took off his hat, said: “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?”
She did not speak, nor move.
“You’d better get out of here — quick.” Doolin went towards her. “Halloran killed Martinelli — an’ Martinelli opened up about you before he died. Halloran will be coming to see you...”
Her blank eyes moved slowly from his face to some place in the dusk behind him. He followed her gaze, turned slowly.
Halloran was standing against the wall near the door. The door had covered him when Doolin entered; he put out one hand and pushed it gently, it swung closed with a sharp dick.
As Doolin’s eyes became used to the dimness of the room he saw Halloran clearly. He was leaning against the wall and the right shoulder and breast of his light gray suit was dark, sodden. He held the short blunt Luger in his left hand.
He said: “You’re a little late...”
The Luger roared.