Doolin looked disgusted. He walked into the living room, came back to the doorway. “Sure, it’s crazy,” he said. “Sure, it’s crazy. So is Halloran — an’ you — an’ me. So is Martinelli — probably. It’s the crazy ideas that work — an’ this one is going to work like a charm.”
The girl said: “What about Darmond? If Martinelli gets away she’ll be holding the bag for Winfield’s murder.”
“Oh, no, she won’t! As soon as the Halloran angle washes up I’ll turn my evidence over to the D A an’ tell him it took a few weeks to get it together — an’ be sure about it. It’s as plain as the nose on your face that Martinelli killed all three of them. Those chumps downtown are too sappy to see it now but they won’t be when I point it out to them. It’s a set-up case against Martinelli!”
The girl smiled coldly. She said: “You’re the most conceited, bull-headed Mick that ever lived. You’ve been in one jam after another ever since we were married. This is one time I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself — an’ probably get killed...”
Doolin’s expression was stubborn, annoyed. He turned and strode across the living room, squirmed into his coat, put on his hat and jerked it down over his eyes.
She stood in the doorway. Her face was very white and her eyes were wide, round.
She said: “Please. Johnny...”
He didn’t look at her. He went to the desk against one wall and opened a drawer, took a nickel-plated revolver out of the drawer and dropped it into his coat pocket.
She said: “If you do this insane thing — I’m leaving.” Her voice was cold, brittle.
Doolin went to the outer-door, went out, slammed the door.