Do Evil In Return Read Online Free

put it on herself. (She’d lost two before she caught on to the fact that you couldn’t make people trustworthy by trusting them. It was better to withdraw the temptation.)
    916 was a relic. Built to last, it had lasted stubbornly through sixty years and a major earthquake and a succession of owners and tenants.
    The present tenant, according to the crudely printed sign in the right front window, was Clarence G. Voss. The sign read, in full: clarence g. voss. phrenology and palmistry. fresh-out flowers for sale. piano lessons.
    Inside the house someone was playing, not a piano, but a harmonica, with brash inaccuracy. An elderly Italian sat rocking on the front porch, his hands pressed tight over his ears.
    Charlotte nodded and said, “Good evening.”
    He lowered his hands, scowling, “What’s that?”
    “I said, good evening.”
    “Cold and noisy.”
    “Perhaps you could tell me if Mrs. Violet O’Gorman is at home.”
    “I pay no attention to other people.”
    He replaced his hands over his ears and withdrew into his world of silence. He kept his eyes on her, though, as if there was a remote possibility that she might do something interesting.
    Charlotte pressed the doorbell.
    “Out of order,” the Italian said.
    “Thanks.”
    “Nobody fixes anything around here.”
    “I think the button is jammed.”
    “You’re wrong.”
    It was jammed. She fixed it in three seconds with a bobby pin while the Italian watched her with grudging approval.
    Inside the house the harmonica stopped abruptly at the sound of the bell.
    A man opened the door, a small, middle-aged man with a red baseball cap pulled down over his forehead. His ears jutted out from under the cap, extraordinary ears, pale as wax and enormous. His chin and nose were elfin and sharp, his eyes were like small black peas. Charlotte could see the outline of the harmonica in the pocket of his Hawaiian-print shirt.
    Charlotte didn’t smile or even attempt to look pleasant. He was the kind of man who would immediately construe a smile from a strange woman as an invitation to intimacy; a man as quick to take offense as to take liberties.
    “I’m looking for Violet O’Gorman. Is she at home?”
    “I don’t know.” He had a surprising voice for his stature, deep and resonant. “Who wants her?”
    “I do.”
    “Sure, sure, I know that, but what name will I say is calling?”
    “Miss Keating.”
    “Keating. Come inside and I’ll go see if Violet’s home.”
    She went in, showing none of the hesitancy she felt. He closed the door by giving it a shove with his foot. The hall smelled sour. In the light of an old-fashioned beaded chandelier Charlotte saw that the linoleum on the floor was grimy and split with age. Dust grew in the corners like mold, and the paint on the woodwork had alligatored.
    He stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes narrowed. “What did you want to see Violet about?”
    “A personal matter.”
    “My name is Voss. I’m her step-uncle.”
    “I thought so.”
    “Violet and me’ve got no secrets from each other. She’s one swell little kid, believe you me. Anybody’d harm a hair on her head I’d strangle him with my bare hands.”
    “I’m in rather a hurry,” Charlotte said.
    He hesitated, then swung round suddenly and skipped up the stairs, quick and neat as a cat.
    Charlotte lit a cigarette and wondered if she’d been wise in giving Voss her name.
    She wasn’t afraid of him, but the house made her uneasy. It had an air of decadent resignation, as if so many things had happened there that one more wouldn’t even be noticed.
    She could hear Voss whispering upstairs. What is there to whisper about, she wondered. Violet is in or she’s not in, there’s no need for secrecy.
    But the whispering went on, and the ceiling creaked faintly under the weight of cautious feet. She raised her eyes and caught a glimpse of a face peering down at her through the rails of the banister. The face drew back into the shadows so quickly