Know Thy Neighbor

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  Know Thy Neighbor

  By ELISABETH R. LEWIS

  Illustrated by Tom Beecham

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science FictionFebruary 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that theU.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  [Sidenote: _The terrors that inhabit the night may be even more awful indeceitful broad daylight!_]

  It began with the dead cat on the fire escape and ended with the greenmonster in the incinerator chute, but still, it wouldn't be quite fairto blame it all on the neighborhood....

  The apartment house was in the heart of the district that is known as"The Tenderloin"--that section of San Francisco from Ellis to Market andeast from Leavenworth to Mason Street. Not the best section.

  To Ellen's mind, it was an unsavory neighborhood, but with apartments sohard to get and this one only $38.00 a month and in a regular apartmentbuilding with an elevator and all--well, as she often told the girls atthe office, you can't be too particular these days.

  Nevertheless, it was an ordeal to walk up the two blocks from MarketStreet, particularly at night when the noise of juke boxes dinned fromthe garish bars, when the sidewalks spilled over with soldiers andsailors, with peroxided, blowsy-looking women and the furtive gamblerswho haunted the back rooms of the innocent-appearing cigar stores thatlined the street. She walked very fast then, never looking to left orright, and her heart would pound when a passing male whistled.

  But once inside the apartment house lobby, she relaxed. In spite of itslocation, the place seemed very respectable. She seldom met anyone inthe lobby or the elevator and, except on rare occasions like last night,the halls were as silent as those in the swanky apartment houses on NobHill.

  She knew by sight only two of her neighbors--the short, stocky young manwho lived in 410, and Mrs. Moffatt, in 404. Mrs. Moffatt was the essenceof lavender and old lace, and the young man--he was all right, really;you couldn't honestly say he was shady-looking.

  * * * * *

  On this particular morning, the man from 410 was waiting for theelevator when Ellen came out to get her paper. He glanced up at thesound of the door and stared. Quickly, she shut the door again. Shedidn't like the way he looked at her. She was wearing a housecoat overher nightgown, and a scarf wrapped around her head to cover thebobbypins--a costume as unrevealing as a nun's--but she felt as thoughhe had invaded her privacy with his stare, like surprising her in thebathtub.

  She waited until she heard the elevator start down before opening herdoor again. The boy must have aimed from the stairs; her paper wasseveral yards down the hall, almost in front of 404. She went down toget it.

  Mrs. Moffatt must have heard Ellen's footsteps in the hall. An old ladywith a small income (from her late husband, as she had explained toEllen) and little to do, she was intensely interested in her neighbors.She opened the door of her apartment and peered out. Her thin white hairwas done up in tight kid curlers. With her round faded-blue eyes andround wrinkled-apple cheeks, she looked like an inquisitive aged baby.

  "Good morning," said Ellen pleasantly.

  "Good morning, my dear," the old lady answered. "You're up early for aSaturday."

  "Well, I thought I might as well get up and start my house-cleaning. Ididn't sleep a wink after four o'clock this morning anyway. Did you hearall that racket in the hall?"

  "Why, no, I didn't." The old lady sounded disappointed. "I don't see howI missed it. I guess because I went to bed so late. My nephews--you'veseen them, haven't you?--They're such nice boys. They took me to a movielast night."

  "Well, I'm surprised you didn't hear it," said Ellen. "Thumping andscratching, like somebody was dragging a rake along the floor. I justcouldn't get back to sleep."

  The old lady clicked her tongue. "I'll bet somebody came home drunk.Isn't that terrible? I wonder who it was."

  "I don't know," said Ellen, "but it was certainly a disgrace. I wasgoing to call Mrs. Anderson."

  With the door open, the hall seemed filled with the very odd odor ofMrs. Moffatt's apartment--not really unpleasant, but musty, with thesmell of antiques. The apartment itself was like a museum. Ellen hadbeen inside once when the old lady invited her in for a cup of tea. Itstwo rooms were crammed with a bizarre assortment of furniture,bric-a-brac and souvenirs.

  "Oh, how's your bird this morning?" Ellen asked.

  In addition to being a collector, Mrs. Moffatt was an animal fancier.She owned three cats, a pair of love-birds, goldfish, and even a cage ofwhite mice. One of the love-birds, she had informed Ellen yesterday, wasailing.

  "Oh, Buzzy's much better today," she beamed. "The doctor told me to feedhim whisky every three hours--with an eyedropper, you know--and you'd besurprised how it helped the little fellow. He even ate some bird-seedthis morning."

  "I'm so glad," said Ellen. She picked up her paper and smiled at Mrs.Moffatt. "I'll see you later."

  The old woman closed her door, shutting off the musty smell, and Ellenwalked back to her own apartment. She filled the coffee pot with waterand four tablespoons of coffee, then dressed herself while the coffeepercolated. Standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, she tookthe bobbypins out of her hair. Her reflection looked back at her fromthe mirror, and she felt that unaccountable depression again. I'm notbad-looking, she thought, and young, and not too dumb. What have otherwomen got that I haven't? She thought of the days and years passing, themeals all alone, and nothing ever happening.

  That kind of thinking gets you nowhere; forget it. She combed her hairback, pinned it securely behind her ears, ran a lipstick over her mouth.Then she went into the kitchenette, turned off the gas flame under thecoffee pot, and raised the window shade to let in the sun that was justbeginning to show through morning fog.

  A dead cat lay on the fire escape under the window.

  * * * * *

  She stared at it, feeling sick to her stomach. It was an ordinary graycat, the kind you see in every alley, but its head was twisted back sothat its open eyes and open mouth leered at her.

  She pulled the blind down, fast.

  Sit down, light a cigarette. It's nothing, just a dead cat, that's all.But how did it get on the fire escape? Fell, maybe, from the roof? Andhow did it get on the roof? Besides, I thought cats never got hurtfalling. Isn't there something about landing on your feet like a cat?Maybe that's just a legend, like the nonsense about nine lives.

  Well, what do I do, she thought. I can't sit here and drink coffee with_that_ under the window. And God knows I can't take it away myself. Sheshuddered at the thought. Call the manager.

  She got up and went to the telephone in the foyer. She found the numberscribbled on the back of the phone book. Her hand was shaking when shedialed.

  "This is Ellen Tighe in 402. Mrs. Anderson, there's a dead cat on thefire escape outside my window. You'll have to do something about it."

  Mrs. Anderson sounded half-asleep. "What do you mean, a dead cat? Areyou sure it's dead? Maybe it's sleeping."

  "Of course I'm sure it's dead! Can't you send Pete up to take it away?It's a horrible thing to have under my window."

  "All right, I'll tell Pete to go up. He's washing down the lobby now. Assoon as he's finished, I'll send him up."

  Ellen set the phone back on its stand. She felt a little silly. What afuss to make over a dead cat. But really, outside one's window--andbefore breakfast--who could blame me?

  She went back into the kitchenette, carefully not looking toward thewindow, even though the shade was drawn, and poured herself a
cup ofcoffee. Then she sat at the table in the little nook, drinking coffee,smoking a cigarette and leafing through the paper.

  The front page was all about a flying saucer scare in Marin County. Sheread the headline, then thumbed on through the paper, stopping to readthe movie reviews and the comic page.

  * * * * *

  At the back section, she was attracted by a headline that read: "LiquorStrong These Days--Customer Turns Green, Says Bartender." It was a briefitem, consciously cute. "John Martin, 38, a bartender of 152 MasonStreet, was arrested early this morning, charged with drunkenness anddisturbing the peace, after firing several shots from a .38 revolver onthe sidewalk in front of his address. No one