Tyrone Fallon started the story out by saying that one thing his father always said, said the thing almost every time he spoke of a case, spoke of it like some mantra, was don’t believe everything you hear around or read in the damn newspapers. And Tyrone remembered that Marlin (let’s call him that for convenience, besides everybody except a few flames, including Fiona, called him the manly Marlin surname rather than the wimpy Michael Philip, Philip with one “l”) punctuated that remark, punctuated it by digging a finger into Tyrone’s chest about one Nick Charos, strictly a creation of the tabloids and society swells.
In all the uproar it turned out that Nick Charles, once he got sober enough to read, or have the newspaper read to him from what everybody heard about the wild parties at his place over at The Duchess Hotel where they were staying for their over-extended visit to the city, had been on a case for Winot back when he worked the New York City shamus streets. An industrial espionage case where Winot suspected an ex-partner, a guy named Livermore, of selling his plans to General Motors that Nick could never solve, but which gave him entrée with the Winot family. So between that big block of Ball tickets and his knowing the family Nick wormed his way into the case. (Apparently the Winot sisters were not the only ones with time on their hands or were looking for an off-handed thrill since Nora, charming, good-looking Nora, egged Nick on to take the case so they would have something to tell people at their next party, or something like that.)