The Enemy at Home

Eleven blocks from Nora’s house, in the Roanoke neighborhood, two women in their early twenties shared a garage apartment. They both worked as ship welders at Todd Dry Dock and Construction on Harbor Island.

Anne Farnsworth was married with a husband in the navy, currently stationed in Australia. Her roommate, Gloria Dunbar, dated a lot of different guys. One of them was due over at any moment to take her out for lunch. Gussied up in a flower-print dress that Anne had loaned her, Gloria stood in front of the bathroom mirror “putting her face on.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Anne said, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. She wore a bathrobe, and her long auburn hair was piled up on her head, secured with clips and bobby pins. “Now, may I please get in there so I can take a shower? The bond rally starts at two thirty, and I want to get a good spot.”

Gloria rolled her perfectly made-up eyes. “In this rain? If it doesn’t get canceled, I’m sure the rally won’t start on time. Those movie stars are always late anyway.” She carefully applied some rouge to her cheeks. “Just give me another sec here. Not everyone is a natural beauty like you, Annie.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Anne groaned.

The doorbell rang.

“Ye gads, that’s Bert! Be an angel. Go down and let him in.”

“You’re completely ready, and I’m in my bathrobe,” Anne pointed out. “Are you nuts? Let him in yourself . . .”

With an exasperated sigh, Gloria tore herself away from the mirror and wordlessly brushed past Anne.

“Have fun!” Anne said, ducking into the bathroom and closing the door. She locked it.

“And you have fun at the bond rally!” Gloria called back. “Say hello to Bob Hope for me!”

Anne could hear her trotting down the stairs to the garage apartment’s front door.

It seemed as if a different guy—usually a serviceman—dropped by every day for Gloria. This was especially true since the landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Alford, had gone to visit their married daughter in St. Louis ten days ago. The older couple, who lived in the main house, usually watched all of Anne’s and Gloria’s comings and goings. They were pretty strict with their house rules, which irked Gloria. “A couple of drips from Dripsville,” she’d once said, describing the Alfords.

Gloria was taking full advantage of the Alfords’ absence. Earlier in the week, she’d even had one of her dates spend the night on the living room sofa. With all the visitors, Anne felt like a USO hostess. She couldn’t wait for Mr. and Mrs. Alford to get back from their trip next week.

Anne took off her robe and hung it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Past the rain outside, she could hear Gloria downstairs opening the front door to the apartment. Then Anne heard Gloria let out a strange, startled yelp.

Anne figured Bert or whatever-his-name-was must have jumped out and surprised Gloria or grabbed her as a joke.

Before she turned on the shower, Anne waited for the sound of her roommate’s laughter. But all she heard was the front door shutting—and the steady rain outside. Anne wondered if they were necking at the bottom of the stairs. It was one of Gloria’s favorite spots for that. Or maybe they’d left already.

Anne turned on the water, stepped under the shower and pulled the curtain shut. She decided Gloria and her date couldn’t have left already. Not enough time had passed for them to come back up to the apartment so that Gloria could grab her umbrella and purse. With some guy Anne didn’t know in the apartment, she was glad for the lock on the bathroom door.

Soaping herself under the warm spray, Anne decided to take her time. She didn’t want some stranger gaping at her when she emerged from the bathroom in her robe. Maybe by the time she finished showering, Gloria and her date would be gone.

Anne’s friend, Tess, was due over at one thirty. They were going to the bond rally in Victory Square—at University and Fourth downtown. Anne had heard that Bob Hope and Irene Dunne would be there, selling war bonds. She’d set aside twenty dollars for the rally and hoped to talk to Irene when she bought a bond—if the event didn’t get canceled because of the rainstorm. Then again, maybe the downpour would keep the crowds away, and she’d have more time to converse with Irene or Bob. It wasn’t patriotic to hope for a poor turnout, but she wanted to ask Irene Dunne what brand of shampoo she used and what it was like kissing Cary Grant.

The ceiling light flickered in the bathroom.

Anne paused, hoping the storm wouldn’t knock out the power.

Past the sound of the shower, she thought she heard Gloria laughing. Or was she screaming? What was going on?

Poking her head outside the shower curtain, Anne listened for a few moments. But she didn’t hear anything—just the rushing shower water. Then, as soon as she closed the curtain and stepped back under the spray again, Anne could have sworn she heard a rumbling noise somewhere inside the apartment. Was it Gloria and her date running down the stairs? Or maybe it had been a clap of thunder outside. Under the shower, sounds played tricks sometimes.

The light flickered again.

“Damn it,” Anne muttered. It was unsettling. If they lost power, how long would it be before the lights came back on again?

She turned off the shower, and the pipes let out a squeak. All the rumbling she’d detected earlier suddenly stopped. Pulling open the curtain, Anne grabbed a towel off the rack and started drying herself off.

As she stepped out of the tub and onto the bathmat, she heard the floorboards creaking outside the bathroom door.

Swell, they’re still here, Anne thought, frowning. She tried to remember if she’d met this Bert person before.

The bathroom doorknob rattled.

Naked, Anne automatically pulled the towel in front of her. “I’ll be out in a few minutes!” she called.

There was no response from whoever stood on the other side of the door. But someone was still standing there; Anne could feel it.

“Gloria, is that you?”

Again, no answer.

Anne listened to the footsteps retreating. Was it Gloria’s date? How weird that he’d tried to open the bathroom door without knocking first. He certainly must have heard the shower earlier. He had to know someone was in here.

Uncertain, Anne stood perfectly still and clutched the towel in front of her.

Now it sounded as if someone was moving something around in the living room—and then in the kitchen. She didn’t hear any talking. Gloria was usually such a chatterbox. Why were they being so quiet? All Anne could hear was the rain starting to let up.

She quickly finished drying herself off and grabbed her robe off the hook on the back of the door. As she put it on, she heard footsteps outside the bathroom again. Anne backed away from the door. Her hands were shaking as she tied the sash to her robe. She stared at the doorknob.

She watched it turn from one side to the other. It didn’t make a sound this time.

“Gloria!” she yelled. “Gloria, are you out there?”

No response. The doorknob stopped moving.

“Who—” Anne was about to ask who was out there, but the words caught in her throat. All she could think was that Gloria and her date must have left, and someone had broken into the apartment. It would be just like Gloria to forget to lock the front door.

Anne stared at the bathroom door as it seemed to give a little—like someone was leaning against it on the other side. The door panel groaned under the pressure. The knob rattled and clicked.

“Gloria?” Anne called out, her voice quivering. “John’s due over any minute! Would you listen for him? Will you do that for me?”

Again, there was no response.

Anne kept a hand over her mouth. She wanted to scream. She wondered if the intruder believed her lie.

Or would he kick the door down?

Anne watched and waited.

Whoever was on the other side of the door stopped leaning against it. The panel let out one last squeak. The doorknob stopped turning. Past the sound of the rain, Anne listened to the footsteps retreating again.

For another five long, grueling minutes, Anne stood there in the bathroom, paralyzed with fear. She finally heard someone lumbering down the steps, and then the lock on the front door downstairs clicked. Anne could barely hear it. Was he leaving?

It was another minute before she heard the door shut.

Still, Anne didn’t move. She kept waiting for the next telltale sound. Had the intruder just pretended to leave in order to lure her out of the bathroom?

She had no idea how long she stood there. The rain seemed to die down.

Taking a few deep breaths, she warily moved to the door and then unlocked and opened it. The hinges yawned. The cool air hit her and a bit of steam escaped from the bathroom as she poked her head out into the now-vacant hallway. With trepidation, she moved to the top of the stairs and saw no one. The front door was closed.

Anne crept toward the living room and spotted her flower-print dress—the one she’d loaned to Gloria—in a heap on the living room floor. As she stepped closer to it, she noticed the garment was torn.

Then she saw something out of the corner of her eye—on the kitchen floor. It was Gloria’s shoe.

Anne headed toward the kitchen but recoiled in the doorway.

Gloria lay on the linoleum floor, her head propped up against the refrigerator. With her eyes closed, she might have been asleep—except for her bruised, purplish face and the strange lipstick smile smeared around her open mouth. A nylon stocking was tied so tightly around Gloria’s throat that only the tail ends from the knot were visible.

After tearing off her dress, Gloria’s killer must have tied the pink gingham apron around her waist. It was slightly awry—barely covering her tan-painted legs.

* * *

With its siren blaring and lights flashing, the first police car pulled up just short of the driveway to the Alford house. The girl was waiting there in her bathrobe, barefoot and crying in the slight drizzle. She’d been hysterical over the phone. She must have been screaming when she’d run outside, because a couple of neighbors anxiously hovered around her.

Officers Konradt and Cegielski in the first car would take care of her and get her statement.

The second cop car, followed by the ambulance, turned into the driveway and headed toward the garage. Officer John Martinsen was at the wheel. Sitting up front with him, twenty-seven-year-old Officer Christopher Lahart had been on the lookout for anyone suspicious in the area. As his partner brought the squad car to a quick stop, Officer Lahart noticed that the girl in the bathrobe had left the door open to the garage apartment. And past the slashing windshield wipers, he noticed something else.

There, by the door, on what must have been a flagpole holder, someone had hung a pair of slacks.