How Like an Angel by Margaret Millar Read Free Book Online

middle of one a white oleander bloomed, and in the middle of the other stood an orange tree bearing both fruit and blossoms at the same time. A boy’s bicycle leaned carelessly against the tree as if its owner had suddenly found something more interesting to do. The windows of the small stucco house were closed and the blinds drawn. Someone had recently hosed off the sidewalk and the porch. Little puddles steamed in the sun and disappeared even as Quinn watched.
    The front door had an old-fashioned lion’s-head knocker made of brass, newly polished. Reflected in it Quinn could see a tiny crooked reflection of himself. In a way it matched his own self-image.
    The woman who answered the door was, like the house, small and neat and no longer young. Although her features were pretty and her figure still good, her face lacked any spark of interest or animation. It was as if, at some time during her life, she had stepped outside and had never been able to find her way back in.
    Quinn said, “Mrs. O’Gorman?”
    â€œYes. But I’m not buying anything.”
    She’s not selling either, Quinn thought. “I’m Joe Quinn. I used to know your husband.”
    She didn’t exactly unbend but she seemed faintly interested. “That was you on the telephone?”
    â€œYes. It was kind of a shock to me, suddenly hearing that he was dead. I came by to offer my condolences and apologize if my call upset you in any way.”
    â€œThank you. I’m sorry I hung up so abruptly. I wasn’t sure whether it was a joke or not, or a piece of malice, having some­one ask for Patrick after all these years. Everyone in Chicote knows that Patrick’s gone.”
    Gone. Quinn registered the word and her hesitation before saying it.
    â€œWhere did you know my husband, Mr. Quinn?”
    There was no safe reply to this but Quinn picked one he considered fairly safe. “Pat and I were in the service to­gether.”
    â€œOh. Well, come inside. I was just making some lemonade to have ready for the children when they get home.”
    The front room was small and seemed smaller because of the wallpaper and carpeting. Mrs. O’Gorman’s taste—or per­haps O’Gorman’s—ran to roses, large red ones in the carpet, pink and white ones in the wallpaper. An air-conditioner, fitted into the side window, was whirring noisily but without much effect. The room was still hot.
    â€œPlease sit down, Mr. Quinn.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œNow tell me about my husband.”
    â€œI was hoping you’d tell me.”
    â€œBut that isn’t how it’s done, is it?” Mrs. O’Gorman said. “When a man comes to offer condolences to the widow of his old war buddy, reminiscences are usually called for, aren’t they? So please start reminiscing. You have my undivided attention.”
    Quinn sat in an uneasy silence.
    â€œPerhaps you’re the shy kind, Mr. Quinn, who needs a little help getting started. How about, ‘I’ll never forget the time that—’? Or you might prefer a more dramatic approach. For instance, the Germans were coming over the hill in swarms and you lay trapped inside your wrecked tank, injured, with only your good buddy Pat O’Gorman to look after you. You like that?”
    Quinn shook his head. “Sorry, I never saw any Germans. Koreans, yes.”
    â€œAll right, switch locales. The scene changes to Korea. There’s not much sense in wasting that hill and the wrecked tank—”
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, Mrs. O’Gorman?”
    â€œWhat’s on yours?” she said with a small steely smile. “My husband was not in the service, and he never allowed any­one to call him Pat. So suppose you start all over, taking some­what less liberty with the truth.”
    â€œThere isn’t any truth in this case, or very little. I never met your husband. I didn’t know he was dead. In