Doolin went on: “I used to be a stunt-man in pictures. For the last year all the breaks have been bad. I haven’t worked for five months.” He leaned forward, emphasized his words with the cigar held like a pencil: “I want to work for you.”
There was thin amusement in Halloran’s voice: “What are your qualifications?”
“I can shoot straight, an’ fast, an’ I ain’t afraid to take a chance — any kind of a chance! I’d make a hell of a swell bodyguard.”
Doolin stood up in the excitement of his sales-talk, took two steps towards Halloran.
Halloran said: “Sit down.” His voice was icy. The Luger glistened in his hand.
Doolin looked at the gun and smiled a little, stuck the cigar in his mouth and backed up and sat down.
Halloran said: “How am I supposed to know you’re on the level?”
Doolin slid his lower lip up over the upper. He scratched his nose with the nail of his thumb and shook his head slowly, grinning.
“Anyway — it sounds like a pipe dream to me,” Halloran went on. “The paper says Miss Darmond killed Winfield.” He smiled. “And Coleman was a gambler — any one of a half dozen suckers is liable to have shot him.”
Doolin shrugged elaborately. He leaned forward and picked up his hat and put it on, stood up.