How Like an Angel

Twenty

At nine o’clock Quinn was still in the sheriff’s office waiting for the operator to put through a call to Charlie Featherstone on the sheriff’s private phone. When the phone finally rang, Lassitter glanced first at it, then at Quinn:

“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 Thorns 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.”