“Oh, sure, I forgot that. As often as visiting hours will permit—three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday afternoons. Tomorrow’s Friday, so if you get in, the first time I’ll he able to see you is Monday.”
“Okay. Say, Charlie, did Candler even hint to you at what the story is that I’m supposed to get in there?”
Charlie Doerr shook his head slowly. “Not a word. What is it? Or is it too secret for you to talk about?”
He stared at Charlie, wondering. And suddenly he felt that he couldn’t tell the truth; that he didn’t know either. It would make him look too silly. It hadn’t sounded so foolish when Candler had given the reason—a reason, anyway—for not telling him, but it would sound foolish now.
He said, “If he didn’t tell you, I guess I’d better not either, Charlie.” And since that didn’t sound too convincing, he added, “I promised Candler I wouldn’t.”
Both glasses of beer were empty by then, and Charlie took them into the kitchen for refilling.
He followed Charlie, somehow preferring the informality of the kitchen. He sat a-straddle on a kitchen chair, leaning his elbows on the back of it, and Charlie leaned against the refrigerator.
Candler said. “Prosit!” and they drank, and then Charlie asked, “Have you got your story ready for Doc Irving?”
He nodded. “Did Candler tell you what I’m to tell him?”
“You mean, that you’re Napoleon?” Charlie chuckled. Did that chuckle quite ring true? He looked at Charlie, and he knew that what he was thinking was completely incredible. Charlie was square and honest as they came. Charlie and Marge were his best friends; they’d been his best friends for three years that he knew of. Longer than that, a hell of a lot longer, according to Charlie. But beyond those three years—that was something else again.