“I'm fond of Sue. But it was my job. When I told him what I was there for, he ran me out of his office, locked the door and shouted through the transom that he had a bottle of poison in his desk and would take it if I wouldn't agree to suppress the story. As if he'd planned exactly that scene for years.”
“Aha,” cried Hy—“melodrama.”
“Precisely. Melodrama. It was unpleasant.”
“You accepted the gentleman's proposition, I take it.”
“I dislike murders.”
Hy, considering this, stiffened up. “Say,” he cried, “what's the paper going to do about it?”
“I saw the assistant city editor this evening at the Parisian bar. He tells me they have decided to drop the story. But they dropped me first.” He looked shrewdly at Hy. “So don't worry. You can count on your raise.”
Hy's cigarette had gone out. He looked at it, tossed it out the window, lit a fresh one.
“Of course,” said he, “a fellow likes to know where he gets off.”
“Or at least that he is off,” said the Worm, and went to bed.