Doolin laughed. “Martinelli isn’t going to shoot at all. Neither am I — an’ neither is Mr. Halloran.”
The girl lighted a cigarette, sipped her coffee. She stared expressionlessly at Doolin, waited.
“Halloran is having dinner with Mrs. Sare,” Doolin went on. “Then they’re going to a show an’ I’m picking them up afterwards — at the theatre. Then Halloran an’ I are going to have a look around for Martinelli.”
He finished his coffee, refilled both their cups. “In the meantime I’m supposed to be finding out where we’re most likely to find him — Halloran is a great believer in my ‘connections.’”
Doolin grinned, went on with a softly satisfied expression, as if he were taking a rabbit out of a hat: “I’ve already found Martinelli — not only where he hangs out, but where he lives. It was a cinch. He hasn’t any reason to think he’s pegged for anything — he’s not hiding out.”
The girl said: “So what?”
He stood up, stretched luxuriously. “So I’m going to Martinelli right now.” He paused dramatically. “an’ I’m going to tell him what kind of a spot he’s in — with half a dozen murder raps hanging over his head, and all. I’m going to tell him that plenty people besides myself know about it an’ that the stuff’s on the way to the DA’s office an’ that he’d better scram toot sweet...”
The girl said: “You’re crazy.”
Doolin laughed extravagantly. “Like a fox,” he said. “Like a fox. I’m doing Martinelli a big favor — so I’m set with him. I’m keeping Halloran from running a chance of being killed — an’ he’ll think he’s still running the chance, an’ get his throb out of it. I’m keeping five hundred smackers coming into the cash register every week as long as Halloran lives, or as long as I can give him a good show. An’ everybody’s happy. What more do you want?”
“Sense.” The girl mashed her cigarette out, stood up. “I never heard such a crazy idea in all my life!...”