I said, pleasantly. “Shut up, will you!” he said savagely. “I’ve had enough of that from Sylvia. How the hell did I know this was going to happen? I don’t want to get old Effie of the dyed red hair in trouble. Good Lord! Thank the Lord they’ve killed it in the late morning edition.” “Yes,” Sylvia said bitterly. “And what about Pete? They’re going to kill that, are they?” “I can’t help that.” His voice was as bitter as hers. “If you’d let me tell him what everybody was saying two weeks ago, this wouldn’t have happened. The trouble with you, Sylvia, is you believe he writes that tripe. I don’t. You’re a friend of his and I’m not. He doesn’t take cracks at your stuff the way he does at mine. And still I don’t think he’d sell out, and you do.” He flicked the ash off his cigarette onto the floor. “Of course, darling, you know him better than I do.
What do You think about The Murder Of A Fifth Columnist?
