As it turns out, the message is only a bill from a restaurant. 2 asparagus soup, 1 turbot, 1 sirloin rare, Stilton & pear, 1 bottle Margaux, 1 brandy, 1 anise. The number at the bottom is only the total, 18/6. Dinner for two, possibly before heading to the theater for Apple Sauce, a pleasant night out in wartime. I tuck it back in the pocket of Thorpe’s suit and sniff the collar. (Again, no hint of him.)

There’s a small writing desk that offers no more than a couple of fountain pens and a pile of blank stationery, and a bookcase containing Trollope, Ovid, Goethe, and a couple of authors I don’t recognize, modern stuff. In the bedside table, another pen, a laundry list, a box of matches, half-full. The very faintest whiff of tobacco.

As for the bed. The one on which I’m sitting, the one in which I slept last night like a corpse. The frame is narrow and made of iron, painted white, mattress hard, the kind of monastic bed suitable for a fellow who lives with his sister. Tuxedo curls in a ball atop the pillow. There are no ghosts in this bed, other than Thorpe, and for that small favor from the Almighty, I’m grateful.

When Margaret returns home at five minutes to six, I’ve got dinner simmering in pots and a bottle of wine uncorked on the table. She sets her hat on the stand and stares at the plates, the glasses, the folded napkins. Tuxedo gallops down the hall and tangles himself around her legs, miiaaaaow.

“You didn’t go out, did you?”

“I would’ve gone nuts if I didn’t. I hope you like rabbit. Game isn’t rationed, apparently.”

“You’re an idiot and lucky to be alive. Is that a Bordeaux?”

“I couldn’t resist.”

She casts me a withering look and heads down the little hallway into her bedroom, followed by the cat. The flat, if you’re curious, comprises a single floor of what might once have been a spacious family house. There’s a small kitchen with a gas range and an oven but no icebox, the parlor in which we sat and smoked last night, and the hallway leading to the two bedrooms and tiny bathroom. The entire place is immaculate, plain and polished, devoid of the usual knickknacks you find in the homes of spinsters. I’m just spooning the potatoes into a bowl when Margaret reappears, carrying a purring Tuxedo, wearing a housedress of navy serge and a thick cardigan, belted around her waist.

“Nice rags,” I say. “Did you wear that to Apple Sauce?”

She drops the cat and sits in her chair. “Apple Sauce? Is that a restaurant?”

I set the potatoes on the table. “Never mind. Wine?”

“What a terrible idea.”

“Under the circumstances, I think it’s an excellent idea.” I lift the bottle and fill her glass, then mine. “It’s good for morale.”