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take them to church or to market—sitting ducks for muggers. ‘Pow!’ Some hood comes up behind them, socks them on the head with a baseball bat, grabs their pocketbook, and runs. Well, I’m sick of it. And I’m tired of talking about it. I’m going to do something about it!”
    â€œWhat do you have in mind?” Fenimore asked cautiously.
    â€œKarate.” Mrs. Doyle had become proficient in the martial arts while serving a stint in the Navy years ago.
    â€œFor little old ladies?”
    â€œCertainly. You just have to get them in shape. Teach ‘em the techniques. They’ll be a match for anyone. They have plenty
of guts, but no training. Now, here’s my plan. I’m going to hold classes for about twenty-five, three nights a week. When I have one class trained, they can branch out and train other groups. You know—the pyramid effect. Pretty soon we’ll have a network—enough to cover the whole city. I’ve even thought of a name for my organization.” She was so caught up with her idea, she didn’t notice that Fenimore had returned to reading his mail. “The ‘Red Umbrella Brigade.’ Or—RUB, for short,” she finished.
    â€œUmbrellas?” His interest was rekindled by the idiocy of it. “You’re going to defend yourselves against guns and knives and baseball bats—with umbrellas?”
    â€œOf course not. The umbrella is just a symbol. When each member of the class graduates, besides a diploma, she will be awarded a red umbrella. And whenever she goes out—rain or shine—she’ll carry it with her. As the reputaion of RUB grows, the hoods will learn soon enough to steer clear of my graduates—or anyone carrying a red umbrella.”
    â€œSort of a ‘Red Badge of Courage,’ eh?” He was half impressed. “Where are you going to hold these classes?” He knew Mrs. Doyle had only a small apartment.
    â€œWell, while you were in Seacrest, I went down into your cellar to see about the yard sale. And what a vast space you have down there, Doctor, once it’s all cleaned out. It’s a pity to let it go to waste. It would be just right for a class of about twenty-five.”
    â€œMrs. Doyle!”
    â€œYes, Doctor?”
    â€œYou plan to use my cellar as a karate training ground for a bunch of octogenarians?”

    â€œWell …”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo?”
    He went back to his mail.
    Mrs. Doyle slid a pink message slip under his nose.

    Call Mrs. Dunwoody (235-0539)
(Mugged at bus stop, 9 AM.)

    â€œWhen did this come?”
    â€œJust a few minutes ago.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me?” He reached for the phone.
    â€œIt’s not an emergency. She’s just bruised and sore.” Mrs. Doyle’s expression was grim.
    He dialed the Dunwoody number.
    â€œI hear you had an unfortunate accident—”
    â€œEuphemisms,” sniffed his nurse.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” Pause. “I’ll be right over. Now don’t leave your bed till I get there.” He hung up and began organizing the contents of his briefcase. (He had been forced to abandon his cherished doctor’s bag some years ago: too obvious a target for drugs.)
    â€œUh … about your cellar, Doctor—?” Mrs. Doyle handed him the otoscope he was searching for.
    He tucked it into his overflowing briefcase. As he zipped the briefcase shut, he said, “If you and Horatio can empty the cellar, the ladies are welcome to it. Just see that they’re out by midnight,” he added tersely.

CHAPTER 10
    DECEMBER
    D r. Fenimore always gave his full attention to whatever he was doing at the moment. While treating Mrs. Dunwoody’s cuts and bruises, the Pancoasts were far from his mind. But as soon as he was satisfied that he had done all he could for his patient, his mind returned to Seacrest.
    His two interviews—one with Carrie and one