Champagne for One

"All you have to do is spill it about my faking a cold. No matter who you spill it to it will get to my aunt, and there I am." He unclasped his hands and leaned forward. "Here’s how it was. I’ve gone to those damn annual dinners on my uncle’s birthday the last three years and I was fed up, and when my aunt asked me again I tried to beg off, but she insisted, and there are reasons why I couldn’t refuse. But Monday night I played poker all night, and yesterday morning I was fuzzy and couldn’t face it. The question was who to tap. For that affair it can’t be just anybody. The first two candidates I picked were out of town, and the next three all had dates. Then I thought of you. I knew you could handle yourself in any situation, and you had met my aunt. So I called you, and you were big-hearted enough to say yes."

He sat back. "That’s how it was. Then this morning comes the news of what happened. I said I was sorry I got you into it, and I am, I’m damned sorry, but frankly, I’m damned glad I wasn’t there. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant experience, and I’m just selfish enough to be glad I missed it. You’ll understand that."

"Sure. Congratulations. I didn’t enjoy it much myself."

"I’ll bet you didn’t. So that’s what I wanted, to explain how it was so you’d see it wouldn’t help matters any for anyone to know about my faking a cold. It certainly wouldn’t help me, because it would get to my aunt sooner or later, and you know how she’d be about a thing like that. She’d be sore as hell."

I nodded. "I don’t doubt it. Then it’s an ideal situation. You want something from me, and I want something from you. Perfect. We’ll swap. I don’t broadcast about the phoney cold, and you get me an audience at Grantham House. What’s that woman’s name? Irving?"

"Irwin. Blanche Irwin." He scratched the side of his neck with a forefinger. "You want to swap, huh?"

"I do. What could be fairer?"

"It’s fair enough," he conceded. "But I told you on the phone I’m not in a position to do that."

"Yeah, but then I was asking a favour. Now I’m making a deal."

His neck itched again. "I might stretch a point. I might, if I knew what you want with her. What’s the idea?"

"Greed. Desire for dough. I’ve been offered five hundred dollars for an eye-witness story on last night, and I want to decorate it with some background. Don’t tell Mrs Irwin that, though. She’s probably down on journalists by now. Just tell her I’m your friend and a good loyal citizen and have only been in jail five times."