Halloran looked a little annoyed. He said: “I’ll get to that. There were eight of us in the private room — the three men and the three girls and Winfield and I. Riccio was pretty drunk, and one of the girls was practically under the table. We were all pretty high.”
Halloran picked up his glass, leaned forward. “Riccio and Martini were all tangled up in some kind of drunken argument and I got the idea it had something to do with drugs-morphine. Riccio was pretty loud. Winfield and I were talking to Conroy, and the girls were amusing themselves gargling champagne, when the four men — I guess there were four-crashed in and opened up on Riccio and Conroy...”
“What about Martini?” Doolin’s unlighted cigar was growing rapidly shorter.
Halloran looked annoyed again. “That’s the point,” he said. “They didn’t pay any attention to Martini — they wanted Riccio and Conroy. And it wasn’t machine-guns — that was newspaper color. It was automatics...”
Doolin said: “What about Martini?”
“For Christ’s sake — shut up!” Halloran grinned cheerlessly, finished his drink. “Riccio shot Martini.”
Doolin stood up slowly, said: “Can I use the phone?”
Halloran smiled at Mrs. Sare, nodded.
Doolin called several numbers, asked questions, said “Yes” and “No” monotonously.
Halloran and Mrs. Sare talked quietly. Between two calls, Halloran spoke to Doolin: “You’ve connections — haven’t you.” It was an observation, not a question.