Mrs. Murphy said, "Mr. Smith, will you wait in the dining room?"
I picked up my purse and my gloves and retreated to the kitchen. An old lady with a rosary in her withered hands and a medal on a chain around her neck was sitting in a wheelchair by the stove.
"I'm Charlie's granny," she said. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mrs. Stugere," I said.
"You're German?" she said. "You've got the map of Ireland for a face."
"Oh, I'm Irish," I said. "My father's Michael Joseph McEnery. I was born and brought up in St. Vincent's parish."
"So you're Mike McEnery's girl," she said and gave me a toothless grin. "I knew Mike when he was a bit of a boy and lived on Haines Street."
I pressed this advantage quickly. "Granny, tell me, do you know where Charlie's going?"
"I know," she said. "But I can't tell. I promised Charlie." She cocked her head to one side and eyed me reflectively. "Still and all, since you're Mike's girl, I'll let you in on our secret."
She beckoned. "Come closer, dearie. I don't want herself to hear."