Doolin sat on the edge of a wide steel and canvas chair against the wall. He dropped his hat on the floor and leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. The little circle of sunlight moved slowly across the wall above him.
Halloran mashed his cigarette out, changed his position a little, said: “Go on.”
“Have you read the papers?” Doolin took a cellophane-wrapped cigar out of his pocket and ripped off the wrapper, clamped the cigar between his teeth.
Halloran nodded, if moving his head the merest fraction of an inch could be called a nod.
Doolin spoke around the cigar: “Who rubbed Riccio and Conroy?”
Halloran laughed.
Doolin took the cigar out of his mouth. He said very earnestly: “Listen. Last night Winfield was murdered — an’ Coleman. You’re next. I don’t know why the people who did it waited so long — maybe because the trial of a couple of the boys they’ve been holding comes up next week...”
Halloran’s face was a blank white mask.
Doolin leaned back and crossed his legs. “Anyway — they got Winfield an’ Coleman. That leaves the Decker broad — the one who was with Coleman — an’ you. The rest of them don’t count — one’s in New York an’ one died of pneumonia an, one was cockeyed...”
He paused to chew his cigar, Halloran rubbed his left hand down over one side of his face, slowly.