Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951
The Enemy
by Charlotte Armstrong
They sat late at the lunch table and afterwards moved through the dim, cool, high-ceilinged rooms to the Judge’s library where, in their quiet talk, the old man’s past and the young man’s future seemed to telescope and touch. But at twenty minutes after three, on that hot, bright, June Saturday afternoon, the present tense erupted. Out in the quiet street arose the sound of trouble.
Judge Kittinger adjusted his pince-nez, rose, and led the way to his old-fashioned veranda from which they could overlook the tree-roofed intersection of Greenwood Lane and Hannibal Street. Near the steps to the corner house, opposite, there was a surging knot of children and one man. Now, from the house on the Judge’s left, a woman in a blue house dress ran diagonally toward the excitement. And a police car slipped up Hannibal Street, gliding to the curb. One tall officer plunged into the group and threw restraining arms around a screaming boy.
Mike Russell, saying to his host, “Excuse me, sir,” went rapidly across the street. Trouble’s center was the boy, ten or eleven years old, a towheaded boy, with tawny-lashed blue eyes, a straight nose, a fine brow. He was beside himself, writhing in the policeman’s grasp. The woman in the blue dress was yammering at him. “Freddy! Freddy! Freddy!” Her voice simply did not reach his ears.
“You ole stinker! You rotten ole stinker! You ole nut!” All the boy’s heart was in the epithets.
“Now, listen...” The cop shook the boy who, helpless in those powerful hands, yet blazed. His fury had stung to crimson the face of the grown man at whom it was directed.
This man, who stood with his back to the house as one besieged, was plump, half-bald, with eyes much magnified by glasses. “Attacked me!” he cried in a high whine. “Rang my bell and absolutely leaped on me!”
Out of the seven or eight small boys clustered around them came overlapping fragments of shrill sentences. It was clear only that they opposed the man. A small woman in a print dress, a man in shorts, whose bare chest was winter-white, stood a little apart, hesitant and distressed. Up on the veranda of the house the screen door was half-open, and a woman seated in a wheelchair peered forth anxiously.
On the green grass, in the shade, perhaps thirty feet away, there lay in death a small brown-and-white dog.
The Judge’s luncheon guest observed all this. When the Judge drew near, there was a lessening of the noise. Judge Kittinger said, “This is Freddy Titus, isn’t it? Mr. Matlin? What’s happened?”
The man’s head jerked. “I,” he said, “did nothing to the dog. Why would I trouble to hurt the boy’s dog? I try — you know this, Judge — I try to live in peace here. But these kids are terrors! They’ve made this block a perfect hell for me and my family.” The man’s voice shook. “My wife, who is not strong... My stepdaughter, who is a cripple... These kids are no better than a slum gang. They are vicious! That boy rang my bell and attached...! I’ll have him up for assault! I...”
The Judge’s face was old ivory and he was aloof behind it.
On the porch a girl pushed past the woman in the chair, a girl who walked with a lurching gait.
Mike Russell asked, quietly, “Why do the boys say it was you, Mr. Matlin, who hurt the dog?”
The kids chorused. “He’s an ole mean...” “He’s a nut...” “Just because...” “...took Clive’s bat and...” “...chases us...” “...tries to put everything on us...” “...told my mother lies...” “...just because...”
He is our enemy, they were saying; he is our enemy.
“They...” began Matlin, his throat thick with anger.
“Hold it a minute.” The second cop, the thin one, walked toward where the dog was lying.
“Somebody,” said Mike Russell in a low voice, “must do something for the boy.”
The Judge looked down at the frantic child. He said, gently, “I am as sorry as I can be, Freddy..” But in his old heart there was too much known, and too many little dogs he remembered that had already died, and even if he were as sorry as he could be, he couldn’t be sorry enough. The boy’s eyes turned, rejected, returned. To the enemy.
Russell moved near the woman in blue, who pertained to this boy somehow. “His mother?”
“His folks are away. I’m there to take care of him,” she snapped, as if she felt herself put upon by a crisis she had not contracted to face.
“Can they be reached?”
“No,” she said decisively.
The young man put his stranger’s hand on the boy’s rigid little shoulder. But he too was rejected. Freddy’s eyes, brilliant with hatred, clung to the enemy. Hatred doesn’t cry.
“Listen,” said the tall cop, “if you could hang onto him for a minute...”
“Not I...” said Russell.
The thin cop came back. “Looks like the dog got poison. When was he found?”
“Just now,” the kids said.
“Where? There?”
“Up Hannibal Street. Right on the edge of ole Matlin’s back lot.”
“Edge of my lot!” Matlin’s color freshened again. “On the sidewalk, why don’t you say? Why don’t you tell the truth?”
“We are! We don’t tell lies!”
“Quiet, you guys,” the cop said. “Pipe down, now.”
“Heaven’s my witness, I wasn’t even here!” cried Matlin. “I played nine holes of golf today. I didn’t get home until... May?” he called over his shoulder. “What time did I come in?”
The girl on the porch came slowly down, moving awkwardly on her uneven legs. She was in her twenties, no child. Nor was she a woman. She said in a blurting manner, “About three o’clock, Daddy Earl. But the dog was dead.”
“What’s that, Miss?”
“This is my step-daughter...”
“The dog was dead,” the girl said, “before he came home. I saw it from upstairs, before three o’clock. Lying by the sidewalk.”
“You drove in from Hannibal Street, Mr. Matlin? Looks like you’d have seen the dog.”
Matlin said with nervous thoughtfulness, “I don’t know. My mind... Yes, I...”
“He’s telling a lie!”
“Freddy!”
“Listen to that,” said May Matlin, “wall you?”
“She’s a liar, too!”
The cop shook Freddy. Mr. Matlin made a sound of helpless exasperation. He said to the girl, “Go keep your mother inside, May.” He raised his arm as if to wave. “It’s all right, honey,” he called to the woman in the chair, with a false cheeriness that grated on the ear. “There’s nothing to worry about, now.”
Freddy’s jaw shifted and young Russell’s watching eyes winced. The girl began to lurch back to the house.
“It was my wife who put in the call,” Matlin said. “After all, they were on me like a pack of wolves. Now, I... I understand that the boy’s upset. But all the same, he cannot... He must learn... I will not have... I have enough to contend with, without this malice, this unwarranted antagonism, this persecution...”
Freddy’s eyes were unwinking.
“It has got to stop!” said Matlin almost hysterically.
“Yes,” murmured Mike Russell, “I should think so.” Judge Kittinger’s white head, nodding, agreed.
“We’ve heard about quite a few dog-poisoning cases over the line in Redfern,” said the thin cop with professional calm. “None here.”
The man in the shorts hitched them up, looking shocked. “Who’d do a thing like that?”
A boy said, boldly, “Ole Matlin would.” He had an underslung jaw and wore spectacles on his snub nose. “I’m Phil Bourchard,” he said to the cop. He had courage.