“The man who was with Riccio and Conroy,” Halloran went on. “The third man, who was shot...”
Doolin said: “I didn’t see any more about him in the files — the paper said he wasn’t expected: to live...”
Halloran clicked the nail of his forefinger against his teeth, said: “I wonder.”
Mrs. Sare had paused to listen. She went to Halloran and refilled his glass and put the bottles on the floor, sat down on the arm of Halloran’s chair.
“Winfield and I went to The Hotspot alone,” Halloran went on. “We had some business to talk over with a couple girls in the show.” He grinned faintly, crookedly at Mrs. Sare. “Riccio and Conroy and this third man — I think his name was Martini or something dry like that — and the three girls on your list, passed our table on their way to the private-room...”
Doolin was leaning forward, chewing his cigar, his eyes bright with interest.
Halloran blew smoke up into the wedge of sun. “Winfield knew Conroy casually — had met him in the East. They fell on one another’s necks, and Conroy invited us to join their party. Winfield went for that — he was doing a gangster picture and Conroy was a big shot in the East — Winfield figured he could get a lot of angles...”
Doolin said: “That was on the level, then?”
“Yes,” Halloran nodded emphatically. “Winfield even talked of making Conroy technical expert on the picture-before the fireworks started.”
“What did this third man — this Martini, look like?”