"Crazy!" Crippens cried in mock horror. "I get a raise right before we get married and she says crazy."
"Well, it doesn't make sense."
McLeod turned to the Internal Affairs page of the Star-Times. With the newspaper profession supplanting Hollywood fifty-odd years ago as the world's most glamorous, articles on internal affairs had evolved from small islands of type in a sea of advertisements to a place of importance with their own daily page and special editor.
"Three column head," Crippens said proudly. "Liberal quotes from the King himself. Maestro Overman."
"That's what I mean," Tracy repeated. "Crazy. Only yesterday, he was chewing you out."
The article said that a new star was on the Star-Times horizon, and went on to discuss all the successful assignments Crippens had handled. There was no mention of his wrongos which, McLeod knew, were considerable. A two-column cut of Crippens at his thinkwriter was included and the caption rendered a thumb-nail biography. The article concluded by mentioning a raise in salary which gave Crippens more than Tracy and almost what McLeod earned.
"That's great," McLeod said, finding it difficult to maintain his enthusiasm. Damn Overman, he didn't miss a trick. Fattening the calf for slaughter.
"Now the girl's got to marry me," Crippens declared. "I earn more money than she does." He was flip, building effusively in the best newspaperman fashion. He was not the serious, intent Crippens McLeod had always known, although, on closer examination, McLeod realized that the owlish eyes looked quite sober.
"Quit your kidding," McLeod told him. "Harry Crippens would probably celebrate by discussing his next assignment, or making a study of the moral factors involved. What's the matter?"
"Not a thing," Crippens assured him easily. "Here, have a drink. It's your whisky."