I knew I was in by the way he was arguing instead of just telling me to go to hell.
“Then create one,” I said. “I don’t feel like going on the road any more, so I’ll take a two-week leave until the job opens. With pay, of course.”
For a long time he examined me coldly, the false camaraderie gone from his eyes. Then he said in a curt tone, “All right, Cavanaugh. I’ll arrange it. Now get the hell out of my office.”
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Copyright © 1964 by Richard Deming, Registration Renewed 1992
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4051-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4051-6
This Game of Murder Page 17