Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 2, July 1959

The Defenders by C. B. Gilford

Neighborliness in Suburbia may have its advantages... when crime comes knocking.

Neither Kit nor Tony Foster noticed the strange car that morning. They had no reason to pay any particular attention to it. It was parked way up at the corner, five houses away. And they certainly didn’t notice, at that distance, that a man was sitting in it. Besides, they were concentrating on each other.

Kit went as far as the front stoop with her husband. It was a summer morning, already warm, and she wore only a halter and shorts, the customary “uniform” for the subdivision’s matrons.

She gave Tony another small peck out there in the broad daylight. It was not at all like the more passionate farewell embrace they’d had indoors. But she loved him very much, and wanted to kiss him at every opportunity.

“I hate to leave you alone all day,” Tony said, still holding her hand.

She knew what he meant. A husband for less than a year, he begrudged every moment he had to spend away from her. So from that point of view she liked to hear him say it. But he also meant that he worried about her — here alone in this new little subdivision house. And that, of course, was ridiculous. She might be separated from him, but she certainly wasn’t alone. In fact, the total absence of solitude was her principal complaint.

But she didn’t tell him so. She wanted him to think that her happiness in her new home was complete, perfect. “Don’t be silly, darling,” she said. “I’ve been getting along fine.”

“Well, I like that,” he said, putting on a wry face. “I want you to miss me.”

That gave her an excuse for another tiny kiss. “I’ll try to think of you every once in a while,” she promised, and pushed him laughingly away.

She lingered there on the stoop while he walked to the car port and climbed into the car. She watched him back their four-year old sedan down the drive, then waved at him as he turned and headed up the street. Neither of them, however, noticed the strange car as he passed it. They still had no reason to.

When Tony’s car was out of sight, Kit went quickly back into the house again. There was so much to do, and she wanted to get an early start. It took so much work to get really settled in a new house. There were the drapes, and that furniture to re-finish — she could list a hundred things.

The thought that her hair needed attention, too, stopped her as she passed the hall mirror. She ran her fingers through it. It was getting straggly, which meant a trip to the beauty shop, and she didn’t have time for that these days.

Wait a minute, Mrs. Foster, she chided the image in the mirror. You’ve got a husband to keep interested, you know. Interested not just in his home, but in you too. She surveyed herself more closely in the mirror. Oh, you’re all right, Kit, she thought. The hair is dark and glossy, even if it is a bit straggly. Your eyes are still blue — Tony likes blue-eyed gals — and you’ve still got the kind of pert little nose that is Tony’s favorite kind of nose. And although you’ve been working hard on the house and eating too much at noontime, you’ve still got your figure.

The halter and shorts were such that any figure-fault would have been immediately apparent. She backed up a little for a better look. No faults. No bulges around the bare midriff. Hips slim. Well, she didn’t spend much time sitting down, she remembered.

Like any attractive woman, she would have been content to spend more time at the mirror, but the breakfast dishes beckoned. She went into the kitchen, tied an apron around her waist, and started on them.

At least Naomi Simpson wouldn’t interrupt her dish washing this morning. It was a happy thought, but slightly disturbing, too. She still had the nagging, uncertain feeling that she hadn’t done the right thing about Naomi. But then — what else could she have done?

What it all boiled down to was that she hadn’t been quite prepared for life in a subdivision. Their apartment in the staid old neighborhood had been so different. Besides, she’d still had her secretary job then and they’d led very private lives, Tony and she. And it was awfully hard to live a private life in a subdivision.

Naomi made it especially hard. As soon as her own husband left in the morning, as soon as she was sure Tony had left too — slipping over for that second cup of coffee. And sometimes a third and fourth cup. And discussing all of her business, including even her very personal relationships with her husband. And expecting similar confidences in return. Well she, Kit, had too much work to do to waste time that way. Besides, she had no intention of broadcasting her personal life to the neighborhood.

Of course, that hadn’t been the whole of it — just those early morning visits from Naomi. All the women were like Naomi. Their little subdivision was an isolated sixteen-house community in a completely new, still rural area, and all the other fifteen women had their hearts set on living together like one big happy family. There were the afternoon sessions too — sunbathing on the lawns, drinking cokes and talking about husbands and babies. All very uninteresting to Kit, and all very time-wasting. She didn’t have any babies yet, and she didn’t want to talk about her husband with other women.

So she’d finally had it out with Naomi. With Naomi only — because Naomi was the principal offender as far as she was concerned, and had taken such an extra special interest in her. It had been quite a little scene — two days ago — and she still hadn’t had the nerve to tell Tony.

“I don’t have an hour to waste every morning,” she’d said, “and I don’t want to be part of the afternoon sewing circle either. Just because we happen to live close to each other doesn’t mean we have the same interests, you know. I just want to be left alone.”

She’d been so wrought up about it that she’d gotten kind of nasty, and said things she’d never really meant to say. So she really had no right to blame Naomi for getting mad.

“That suits me!” Naomi had flung back. “I guess I know when I’ve been insulted! I guess I know when I’m not wanted!”

Naomi had stormed out then, and the morning visits had stopped. Which was good, which was exactly what Kit had wanted. Except that she would have preferred to have accomplished it in a nicer way. She had abandoned the afternoon group too, and she was quite sure that indignation against her was pretty general. But anyway, she’d had a lot more time to herself in the past two days — and done a lot of things to make their new little ranch home cozier and more liveable...

When she heard the sound at the front door she thought at first that it must be Naomi. But it wasn’t a knock, and Naomi always knocked at least. One of the kids perhaps. Some of them weren’t too well-behaved. They’d been known to walk into people’s houses just as if they were running in and out of their own homes.

She left the water running, and started to dry her hands on her apron as she left the kitchen. She was all the way into the living room when she saw the man.

She wasn’t afraid in that first second — only surprised. He was standing just inside the front door, gazing around the room. It occurred to her for an instant that maybe he’d intended to enter some other house, and — because the houses looked so much alike — had gotten into this one by mistake. He seemed young, about twenty or so, and rather small. He wore a white T-shirt and dark-colored trousers. His expression was vacant, and innocent of guile.

But it started to change the moment she entered, and he turned to face her. His eyes were very pale, and as soon as they focused on her they seemed to get larger, and to roam over her with frank admiration.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

He looked her straight in the eye and smiled. Then, for an answer, and without saying a word, he reached out behind him and swung the door shut.

“I’ll scream,” she told him. “All the windows are open and everybody in the neighborhood can hear me.”

Fear was somewhere in the back of her mind now, but still not pressing. He was small, almost frail looking and she was sure that in a struggle she could more than protect herself.

His smile faded. With a smooth, unhurried gesture, he reached behind him again — to his belt, she thought — and brought out a switch blade knife.

“I’ll kill you,” he said, “if you make any noise.”

Now finally — a few seconds too late perhaps — she was afraid. She knew what kind of man this was, she knew what he wanted, she knew that she was not bigger than he was. Worst of all, she knew that he was quite capable of killing her if she resisted.

Yet despite her sudden and complete fear, she refused to succumb to panic. She did not know exactly what to do, but she knew that there must be something that could be done.

“My husband...” she began.

“Your husband,” the man said, “has just left for work, and he won’t be home for hours.”

Her throat was so tight and constricted now that she could scarcely choke out any words at all. But she had to try, she had to. “He’ll be back any minute,” she lied, desperately. “He forgot something.”

“What?”

“His... his brief case.”

The man smiled, seemingly almost in admiration. “That could be true,” he conceded softly. “But I didn’t see him carrying a brief case when he left. Show it to me, and maybe I’ll get scared and leave.”

She could have wept in her chagrin. The man must have read the disappointment in her face, because his smile grew wider. “Are you expecting any other company?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” she replied quickly, instinctively. “My next-door neighbor comes over for coffee every morning.” Oh, dear, wonderful Naomi — how welcome she’d be if she’d come to visit now! But she wouldn’t. There was no possibility of it.

The man nodded. “That could be true too,” he said. “A woman, huh? Well, that doesn’t worry me. I could handle her. Do you know something? I sat in my car down at the end of the block and counted ’em. There are sixteen houses here, and I counted sixteen men leaving for work.”

Kit’s fear had become almost terror now. And terror is blind, unreasoning, helpless. Oh, Naomi, I’m so sorry...

“But even if it’s only a woman,” the man was saying, “I wouldn’t want to be interrupted.”

He reached behind him with his free hand, and turned the lock on the door. Then he tested the knob to make sure.

You don’t need to do that, she thought despairingly. Nobody will be coming to that door. They’re all angry with me. They all hate me. They wouldn’t come to my door if they were starving, or if the house was on fire.

“You got any more funny stories, lady?” he asked her.

She shook her head numbly. He took his first step toward her then.

She thought she was going to scream, automatically, despite the threat of the knife. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. For an instant she had the desperate idea of flinging herself past him toward the door or trying to dive through one of the screened windows. But her body seemed incapable of any such big, demanding effort. She could only back away a step, to match the step he had taken, to keep the original distance between them. But he came on.

When her back encountered the wall, she knew she had to turn. And she chose to retreat down the hallways because in that direction she could retreat farther. Only then did a desperately slim chance of escaping him occur to her. There was a lock on the bathroom door. Could she get inside, close and lock the door before he reached her?

The man was obviously patient, and supremely confident of himself. He knew he had her trapped, and seemed even to enjoy her feeble efforts to keep him at a distance. Carefully, she tried to increase the few feet separating them. He followed her slowly, cautiously, constantly alert. As they passed the kitchen, his gaze flicked momentarily toward the running water in the sink.

She seized that small opportunity. She turned, flung herself desperately around the corner of the hallway. The suddenness of her movement did take him by surprise. In another second she was in the bathroom. She swung the door shut, fumbled with the lock and managed to get it turned.

But she had gained only an instant of relative safety, just time enough to stagger to the screen window and struggle frantically with the fastenings at its case. She heard the door knob rattle, violently and then — a single, hard, pounding thud as his fist crashed against the door frame in the vicinity of the lock, splintering it. The door flew open as if from a gust of wind... and then the man was standing there in the doorway, grinning at her with mockery in his eyes.

“See,” he said, “all you did was spoil a nice door.”

She didn’t quite faint then. But everything began to swim before her eyes — the room, the man, the knife. Her brain was numb, incapable of taking further action. She was terrifyingly aware of how surprisingly strong the man was, despite his slender build. He had battered down the door so easily.

She knew that she could do nothing to escape him. She could only hope now that in the end he would not kill her. But even that hope was dim, vague. She was not sure that she would want to live.

He had her by the wrist now, and he was dragging her toward the bedroom. She did not plead or beg, knowing instinctively that it would be useless.

And then, from somewhere, came a sound. She heard it. And the man heard it too, because he let go of her wrist and stood listening, tense, his shoulders hunched. Slowly, carefully, he turned away from her, and faced the bedroom doorway. The knife weaved in his hand, ready, waiting.

The sound came again, and she could identify it now. It was the back screen door opening. The back door was unlocked, she remembered suddenly. She hadn’t given a thought to the back door, and neither, apparently, had the man. But someone was entering by the back door now. There were footsteps in the kitchen. Hesitant, reluctant footsteps. Would they come this far?

She wasn’t sure she wanted them to come. Should she scream a warning? Even if by some miracle it was Tony coming back, she didn’t want him coming in here. He would have no weapon. He would be badly hurt, perhaps killed.

The man stood waiting. He crouched lower, and the weaving motion of the knife grew larger, wider, like the head of a snake rearing to strike. Waiting for the intruder, who was just a step away now.

Naomi! She stood there suddenly in the doorway, staring at them. Naomi, in halter and shorts, her round, plain face startled, her mouth hanging open.

They confronted one another in complete silence for a long moment, while the man hesitated. Then Naomi turned, and Kit had never seen her move any faster. Naomi ran back down the hallway, and at the same time she started to scream.

It all confused the man. Obviously he could not decide which way to go. Should he pursue the woman and stop her screaming, possibly with the knife, and by so doing risk leaving Kit alone in the bedroom? Or should he let the other woman escape and rouse the neighborhood, while he turned his attention swiftly back to his victim?

He hesitated until he no longer had any choice. They heard the back screen crashing open and Naomi’s scream becoming louder. It didn’t stop but went on and on. Then faintly, from a distance other voices began to answer.

The man turned back to Kit, his lips set in tight lines, his eyes feverishly bright. He was obviously still trying to decide how to cope with this unexpected turn of events. Slightly, ever so slightly, Kit dared to hope.

“I wouldn’t have time,” he said, “I wouldn’t have time... I want it peaceful and quiet.”

But he didn’t seem afraid. He continued to stare at her, his eyes narrowing to gleaming pinpoints.

“We’ll go somewhere else,” he said.

Then he lunged. He gripped her by the wrist and she found herself being dragged again. Out of the bedroom, down the hallway. Understanding his purpose now, she began to fight him.

She caught hold of a closet doorknob first, and it took him a moment to pull her away from it. She bounced against a wall, but felt no pain. Her groping free hand found another anchor, the doorless arch of the kitchen entrance. She held on frantically for another moment.

He stopped pulling and thrust his body against hers, putting his face close to her face. His breath, smelling of sour wine, nearly overpowered her. “You’re not going to get away from me, baby,” he said. “Not till I’m finished with you.”

She kicked at him then, and he answered by letting go of her wrist and slapping her hard with the open palm of his hand. Even that way, the blow nearly stunned her. Then he had her wrist again and was pulling her through the living room toward the front door. She fought as best she could. Her efforts delayed him but didn’t stop him.

He had a little trouble unlocking the front door, and then again as she was being dragged through it, she caught hold of the door frame and held on for a moment. He was cursing now, and his face was glazed with sweat. But his strength was irresistible.

Outdoor she had a vague glimpse of a subdivision in turmoil. At least half a dozen women were screaming and shouting. She saw halter-and-shorts-clad figures running over lawns, but seemingly only in terror, without purpose. As the man had boasted, what could a bunch of women do?

The man was half pulling, half carrying her down her own front yard. His car was at the curb. He yanked open the door on the passenger’s side, and sent her reeling in with a blow on the back. Her head came into violent contact with the steering wheel. Again there was no pain, only a momentary blackness passing before her eyes.

Before she could try to escape again, he was around the car and into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the ignition. When she made a motion toward the door, the back of his right hand came crashing up against her face. This time she felt blood on the inside of her mouth. Her head snapped back and she could not seem to right it again. She knew somehow she could resist no more.

After that she was aware of events only as an indifferent spectator, not as an actor in them. The engine started and the car lurched forward. But something was wrong. The car rode with a strange jolting motion, and the man had to wrestle with the wheel. Finally he stopped, got out, and went around to the front of the car to investigate. There seemed to be some trouble with a front tire.

Vaguely then there came to Kit the consciousness that she was not alone. The women had not been running about aimlessly after all. They had been trying to help her. And one of them apparently had done something to one of the tires.

The man had gotten back into the driver’s seat again. But now there was activity in the street ahead. Two cars were there, completely blocking the way. Kit saw women running away from the cars. The man braked with a loud curse.

He got out again, and strode to the barricade. What he found apparently didn’t please him. He seemed to be searching for keys to the stalled cars with a desperate kind of urgency.

When he returned to Kit he had a wild look. She had had no opportunity to consider whether he was insane or not. But he certainly seemed to be at that moment. He screeched the car into reverse, and backed a few feet. Then he wrestled strenuously with the wheel and the car roared forward. He was taking to the sloping lawns to avoid the barricade. The car kicked and bucked as it hit the uneven ground, and the flat tire made matters worse. Kit had to hang on grimly to avoid being smashed against the dashboard.

Then he did what she had been afraid that he would do. As he swerved to get back into the street, the big elm in the Standish yard loomed up before them. A more skillful driver might have avoided it, but the man was in a panic by this time. The car slammed straight into the tree with a crunching of metal that sounded final and irrevocable.

Kit, who had seen it coming, saved herself from injury by leaping sharply back from the windshield.

The man sat there for a full minute after the crash, venting his fury in terrible oaths. Then he turned to her, a convulsive fury in his face.

“Your friends think they’re going to save you but they’re not!”

He had her by the wrist again and was pulling her out of the car on the driver’s side. Then he commenced to run, over the lawns, in the direction of the woods behind the houses. She couldn’t keep pace with him. She staggered and fell. For a few steps he simply dragged her along, then stopped to yank her back to her feet.

She didn’t know exactly how the next thing came about. She didn’t know whether the women had followed them and overtaken them, or whether they had anticipated the man’s action and were there waiting. But suddenly — they were there. Six or seven shouting, infuriated women. And every one of them brandished a weapon — a shovel, a pitchfork, an axe, a butcher knife.

The man screamed.

She saw and heard the end of it dimly, half-consciously. He had let go of her wrist and left her lying in the grass. And he had tried to run in another direction, only to be intercepted by a woman wildly swinging a grass sickle.

He tripped then and fell in a coil of garden hose. When he rose again, he was surrounded on all sides. He backed against the wall of a house and the pitchfork lunged forward to within an inch of his chest, and stayed there. She could hear him sobbing like a child.

Finally — and it was the last sound she was aware of — she heard the police siren. Someone had thought of that too.

When she came home the next morning with a few strips of adhesive tape covering her scars, every last one of them was there. They brought their own coffee and rolls, and had a breakfast party in her living room. What she had most on her mind was apologies and gratitude.

But there was something else that couldn’t wait either. She turned to Naomi Simpson, dear, chubby, wonderful Naomi. “We’d just had an argument,” she said. “We weren’t even speaking to each other. What on earth gave you the idea of coming into my house?”

“Honey, I’ve got a confession to make,” Naomi said, reddening. “I was plenty mad at you too. I guess I wanted to get even with you in some way. I was probably trying to convince myself you were so close-mouthed because you had something to hide. And then sure enough, as soon as your husband leaves for work, here comes this strange car and this strange man. Do you know what I thought, honey? I thought you had a boy friend on the side. So I came right in your back door. I was going to catch you. Of course when I saw him there with that knife... Kit honey, you’ve got a big, king-size apology coming from me!”

They all laughed at that, although it was almost not very funny.