How Like an Angel

by Margaret Millar

  “I’m no good at this kind of thing. You answer it.”

  “It’s not my duty.”

  “You knew his mother, I didn’t. Answer it.”

  “All right,” Quinn said. “But I prefer speaking to him alone.”

  “This is my office.”

  “It’s also your phone.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Lassiter said and went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Quinn picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Featherstone?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Quinn. I’m calling from San Felice, California. I’ve been trying to reach you for some time.”

  “I was out.”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Featherstone’s voice had the whine of a chronic complainer. “I never get any good news from that part of the country.”

  “Your mother died this afternoon.”

  For a long time there was no response. Then, “I warned her, I told her she was a fool to stay there, neglecting her health, never looking after herself properly.”

  “She didn’t die of neglect, Mr. Featherstone. She was poisoned.”

  “Good God, what are you saying? Poisoned? My mother poisoned? How? Who did it?”

  “I’m not sure of the details yet.”

  “If that hell-ranting maniac is responsible, I’ll tear that holy carcass of his apart.”

  “It was not his fault.”

  “Everything’s his fault.” Featherstone was shouting now, translating his grief into anger. “If it weren’t for him and that line of bull he shoots, she’d have been here, leading a decent life.” “Her life was decent, Mr. Featherstone. She did what she wanted to do, serve others.”

  “And these others were so full of gratitude that they poi­soned her? Well, it figures, from what I know of the place, it really figures. I should have suspected something funny was going on when I had a letter from her last week. I should have—should have acted.”

  He must have broken down at this point: Quinn could hear muffled sobs and a woman’s voice pleading, “Charlie, please don’t take it so hard. You did everything you could to reason with her. Please, Charlie.”

  After a time Quinn said, “Mr. Featherstone? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I— Go on.”

  “Before she died, she spoke your name. I thought you’d want to know that.”

  “I don’t. I don’t want to know it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “She was my mother. It was my duty to look after her, and I couldn’t do a thing once that madman got to her with a line that wouldn’t fool a two-year-old child. Other women lose their husbands, it doesn’t mean they have to stop wearing shoes.”

  “About that letter she wrote you—”

  “There were two letters,” Featherstone said. “One was a short note telling me she felt well and happy and not to worry about her. The other letter was in a sealed envelope which I was to post here in Evanston as a favor to her.”

  “Did she explain why?”

  “Only that the letter would clear up a situation that was making someone unhappy. I thought it was just some more of her religious nonsense so I posted it. It was an air-mail letter addressed to a woman named Mrs. O’Gorman, in Chicote, California.”

  “What about the handwriting?”

  “It wasn’t my mother’s. It looked more like a kid’s, third- or fourth-grade level, or perhaps it was other-handed writing.”

  “Other-handed?”

  “Written left-handed by a right-handed person, or vice versa. Or else whoever wrote it was semiliterate.”

  He was, Quinn thought. It must have been a chore for Brother Crown to have written the letter at all. Why had he done it? Fear of dying before receiving absolution? It hardly seemed possible. He appeared to be in excellent health, much better than any of the rest of them. If fear hadn’t motivated his confession, what had? Or who had?

  Quinn recalled his second visit to the Tower when he had gone to see Sister Blessing, in isolation for her sins. He had told her about Martha O’Gorman and her uncertainty over her hus­band’s death: “She deserves a break. Give it to her if you can, Sister. You’re a generous woman.” He had thought Sister Bless­ing wasn’t listening to him, but she must have heard, must have considered Martha O’Gorman’s plight and then gone to Brother Crown, demanding that he write the letter and set the record straight. She was a persuasive, strong-minded woman, and Brother Crown had agreed to her demand.

  That’s how it must have happened, yet the situation did not seem to Quinn either real or plausible. He could believe Sister Blessing’s part of it, but not Brother Crown’s. Brother Crown had made no secret of his antipathy toward the Sister, he was not dependent on her, like some of the others; he was stubborn and he was self-righteous. Such a man would be unlikely to write a letter confessing a murder, at the request of one woman, on behalf of another. No, Quinn thought, it’s not the situation that’s unreal, it’s the cast of characters. I can see Sister Blessing giving Crown an order, but I can’t see Crown obey­ing her. In their relationship the balance of power was in his hands, not hers.

  Featherstone had returned to his favorite subject: his mother had been duped by a maniac, the man should be arrested, the whole colony taken to a booby hatch, and the buildings burned to the ground.

  Quinn finally interrupted him. “I can understand your feel­ings, Mr. Featherstone, but—”

  “You can’t. She wasn’t your mother. You don’t know what it’s like to watch a member of your own family being hypnotized by a madman into leading a life not fit for a dog.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to see your mother before she died. Her life was a lot happier than you seem to realize. If she made sacrifices, she also had compensations. She told me that she had at last found her place in the world and that she would never leave it.”

  “That wasn’t her talking, it was him.”

  “It was your mother, telling me quite seriously what she really believed.”

  “The poor, crazy fool. A fool, that’s what she was.”

  “At least she was a fool in her own way.”

  “Are you sticking up for him?”

  “No, for her, Mr. Featherstone.”

  There was a groan on the other end of the line, then a woman’s voice: “I’m sorry, my husband can’t talk about this anymore, he’s too upset. I’ll have to make the arrangements about the—the body. There’ll be an autopsy?”

  “Yes.”

  “When it’s over, when she can be shipped here for burial, will you let me know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say right now except—well, please excuse Charlie.”

  “Yes. Good-bye, Mrs. Featherstone.”

  Quinn replaced the phone. His hands were shaking, and though the room was cold, sweat slithered down behind his ears into his collar. He wiped it off and went out into the corridor.

  Lassiter was standing just outside the door, talking to a severe-looking young man in a policeman’s uniform.

  He said to Quinn, “O.K. for Charlie?”

  “O.K. for Charlie.”

  “Thanks. This is Sergeant Castillo. He’s been working on those cartons we found in the storage shed. Tell him, Ser­geant.”

  Castillo nodded. “Yes, sir. Well, the clothes contained in the first one, labeled Brother Faith of Angels, have not been in there more than a week, perhaps much less.”

  “We know that,” Lassiter said impatiently. “They belonged to George Haywood. Go on, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. The contents of the carton labeled Brother Crown of T
horns haven’t been touched for several years. My estimate would be six years, based mainly on the amount of moth damage. Entomology is one of my hobbies. If you’d like me to go into detail about the life cycle of this particular kind of moth and how each generation—”

  “That won’t be necessary. We’ll take your word for it. Six years it is.”

  “Another interesting point concerns Brother Crown’s name on the carton. I’d say it was pasted on quite recently. When I removed it, there was evidence underneath that another label had been there previously and torn off. Only a trace of it re­mained.”

  “Any letters visible?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Thanks.” Lassiter waited for the sergeant to get out of earshot. “Six years. What does it prove, Quinn?”

  “That the clothes didn’t belong to Brother Crown. He joined the colony only three years ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Karma told me. She’s the young daughter of the cook, Sister Contrition.”

  “So we’ve tabbed the wrong man,” Lassiter said harshly. “Not that it makes any difference. No one’s seen hide or hair of any of them. The whole damn caboodle has disappeared, leaving me with a herd of cattle, a flock of sheep, five goats and some chickens. How do you like that?”

  Quinn liked it quite well, in a way, though all he said was, “Am I free to go now?”

  “Go where?”

  “To a restaurant for some dinner and a motel for some sleep.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that I don’t know. I have to find a job. Maybe I’ll head for L.A.”

  “Then again, maybe you won’t,” Lassiter said. “Why not stick around here for a while?”

  “Is that an order?”

  “It’s a nice little city, San Felice. Mountains, ocean, parks, beaches, harbor.”

  “And no jobs.”

  “You have to look for them, I’ll admit that. But the place is gradually opening up to a few smokeless industries. Try applying.”

  “Is that an order?” Quinn repeated. “I hope not, Sheriff. I can’t stay here. I have to go back to Chicote, for one thing. . . . Has anyone broken the news to George Haywood’s mother?”

  “I called the Chief of Police there. He’ll have done it by this time.”

  “Somebody had better tell Alberta, too,” Quinn said. “She might have something to tell in return.”

  “For example?”

  “Why she hired one of the Brothers to kill O’Gorman, and how Haywood found out about it.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Alberta Haywood lay staring up through black thoughts at the white ceiling. It was no ordinary ceiling, though. Sometimes it receded until it seemed as far away as the sky, and sometimes it closed in on her, its soft satin whiteness touching her face until she thought she was in a coffin. But even in her coffin she had no more privacy than she had had in prison. People moved around her, poked her in the chest and back, stuck tubes in her nose and needles in her arm, talked. If what they said was interesting, she responded; if not, she pretended to have heard nothing.

  Occasionally she asked a question of her own, “Where is George?”

  “Now, Miss Haywood, we told you that several days ago.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Your brother George is dead.”

  “Really? Well, he’ll have to find his own coffin. There cer­tainly isn’t any room in this one. I’m quite cramped as it is.”

  A medley of voices: “She’s still delirious.” . . . “But the pneumonia’s clearing up, her white count’s practically back to normal.” . . . “It’s been nearly a week now.” . . . “Continue the glucose.” . . . “Wish we could get a decent x-ray.” . . . “She keeps trying to take the tube out of her nose.” . . . “Apathy.” . . . “Hysteria.” . . . “Delirium.” . . .

  The voices came and went. She took out the tube and it was replaced. She pulled off the blankets and they were put back. She fought and was beaten.

  “Miss Haywood, there’s a man here to ask you some ques­tions.”

  “Tell him to go away.”

  But the man did not go away. He stood beside the bed, looking down at her with strange, sad eyes. “Did you hire anyone to kill O’Gorman, Miss Haywood?”

  “No.”

  “Did you give your brother’s clothes to a transient?”

  “No.”

  It was absolutely true. She’d done neither of those things. The man who asked such absurd questions must be an idiot. “Who are you?”

  “Joe Quinn.”

  “Well, you’re an idiot, Joe Quinn.”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “I don’t answer the door to transients, let alone arrange murders. Ask George.”

  “I can’t ask George. He was killed six days ago.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why do you say, ‘Of course,’ Miss Haywood?”

  “George interfered with people’s lives. Quite natural some­one should kill him.”

  “Did he interfere with yours?”

  “Every time he came here he tormented me with questions. He shouldn’t have done that.” Tears, some for George, some for herself, squeezed out from under her closed eyelids. “He shouldn’t have done it. Why couldn’t he let people alone?”

  “What people, Miss Haywood?”

  “Us.”

  “Who is ‘us’?”

  “Us people. All us people of the world.”

  She could sense, from the sudden quietness in the room, that she had made a bad mistake. To distract attention from it, she reached up and wrenched the feeding tube out of her nose. It was replaced. She threw off the blankets from the bed, and they were put back. She fought, even in her sleep, and even in her sleep she was beaten. There were no fresh sweet dreams left for her.

  It was the first time Willie King had appeared at the office since George’s funeral. Nothing in it had changed. On the floor, desks and chairs and wastebaskets were in the same position, and on the walls, Washington was still crossing the Delaware, and young Lincoln was still smiling inscrutably.

  She stared around her, filled with resentment that nothing had changed. She wanted to take a crowbar and vandalize the place, smash the windows and ash trays and telephone, demol­ish the chairs and desks, then everything would look the way she felt inside.

  Earl Perkins, hanging up his coat on the rack, gave her a small tentative smile. “Hello, Willie. You all right?”

  “Fine. Just fine, thanks.”

  “Gosh, Willie, I’m sorry. I mean, gosh, what can I say?”

  “Try shutting up.” She glanced at the pile of mail on Earl’s desk, some of it already opened. “Business as usual, eh?”

  “Mrs. Haywood’s orders were to keep going just as if George hadn’t died.”

  “That’s a laugh. She’s a very funny woman. I get hysterics when I think about her.”

  “Now don’t start that again, Willie.”

  “Why not?”

  “It won’t do any good. And after all, maybe in her own way she’s not as bad as you think.”

  “She’s worse.”

  “So all right, she’s worse,” Earl said in a resigned voice. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Yes, there is.” She went over to her desk and picked up the telephone. “I can call her, tell her a few of the things I couldn’t tell her when George was alive.”

  “You don’t want to do that, Willie.”

  “Oh, but I do. I’ve been planning it for days. Listen, you old harridan, I’ll say. Listen, you selfish, conniving old woman. You want to know who killed George? You did. Not last week, or last month, but years ago, years and years. You choked the life out of him with those scrawny claw
s of yours—”

  “Give me that phone,” Earl said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Stop arguing and give it to me.”

  She shook her head stubbornly and began to dial. George was dead. She didn’t care what happened now, there was no future for her. “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Haywood?”

  “Yes, this is Mrs. Haywood speaking.”

  How old she sounds, Willie thought with surprise. How very old and sick and defeated.

  “This is Willie, Mrs. Haywood. I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner. How are you getting along?”

  “Adequately, thank you.”

  “Perhaps you’d like me to come over one of these nights. We could keep each other company. I’m lonely, too.”

  “Indeed? Well, you cope with your loneliness, I’ll cope with mine.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  Willie put the receiver back on the hook and turned to face Earl. She had not particularly noticed him before except as a kid who shared the same office and had trouble with his diges­tion. He was a little young, perhaps, but he had a nice appear­ance and he worked hard. And if she could keep him on his ulcer diet—

  She said, “Thanks, Earl. I’m really grateful to you.”

  “What for? I didn’t do anything except stand here.”

  “Maybe that’s enough. You just keep standing there, will you?”

  “Well, sure. Only I don’t know what in heck you’re talking about.”

  “You will.”

  From the telephone in the hall, Mrs. Haywood went back to the kitchen and resumed her preparation of breakfast. Celery stalks, spinach, carrots, a head of lettuce, wheat germ, powdered protein and two eggs went into the blender and came out the thick gray-green mixture which started Mrs. Haywood’s dietary day.

  So far she hadn’t admitted to herself or to anyone else that George had been murdered. In her reconstruction of his death, George, standing at the top of the Tower, had suffered an attack of vertigo and fallen, due to poor eating habits and lack of proper exercise and rest. To Quinn, to Sheriff Lassiter, to the police officials of Chicote, to John Ronda, the local pub­lisher, she had reiterated this belief without attempting to explain why George had gone to the Tower in the first place or what he had hoped to accomplish there. On the subject of Alberta, she was silent.