Lola Sare put her hands up to the middle of her breast, low; her head came forward slowly. She started to get up and the Luger leaped in Halloran’s hand, roared again.
At the same instant Doolin shot, holding the revolver low. The two explosions were simultaneous, thundered in the dark and narrow room.
Halloran fell as a tree falls; slowly, stiffly, his arm stiff at his sides; crashed to the floor.
Doolin dropped the revolver, walked unsteadily towards Lola Sare. His knees buckled suddenly and he sank forward, down.
There was someone pounding at the door.
Doolin finished dabbing iodine on his head, washed his hands and went into the little living room of his apartment. A first dull streak of morning grayed the windows. He pulled down the shades and went into the kitchenette, lighted the gas under the percolator.
When the coffee was hot he poured a cup, dropped four lumps of sugar into it absently, carried it into the living room. He sat down on the davenport and put the coffee on an end-table, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
He said: “Hello, Grace? Is Mollie there?...” He listened a moment, went on: “Oh — I thought she might be there. Sorry I woke you up...” He hung up, sipped his steaming coffee.
After a few minutes he picked up the phone, dialed again, said. “Listen, Grace — please put Mollie on... Aw nuts! I know she’s there — please make her talk to me...”
Then he smiled, waited a moment, said: “Hello darling... Listen — please come on home — will you?... Aw listen, Honey — I did what you said — everything’s all right... Uh-huh... Halloran’s dead — an’ Martinelli... Uh-huh... The Sare dame is shot up pretty bad, but not too much to give evidence an’ clean it all up... Uh-huh...”