Diagnosis: Impossible: The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne

  Diagnosis: Impossible

  The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne

  EDWARD D. HOCH

  BOOKS BY EDWARD D. HOCH

  The Shattered Raven

  The Judges of Hades

  The Transvection Machine

  The Spy and the Thief

  City of Brass

  Dear Dead Days (editor)

  The Fellowship of the Hand

  The Frankenstein Factory

  Best Detective Stories of the Year 1976-81 (editor)

  The Thefts of Nick Velvet

  The Monkey's Clue & The Stolen Sapphire (juvenile)

  All But Impossible! (editor)

  The Year's Best Mystery and Suspense Stories 1982-95 (editor)

  The Quests of Simon Ark Leopold's Way

  Great British Detectives (coeditor)

  Women Write Mysteries (coeditor)

  Murder Most Sacred (coeditor)

  The Spy Who Read Latin and Other Stories

  The Night My Friend

  The People of the Peacock

  *Diagnosis: Impossible, The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne

  Twelve American Detective Stories (editor)

  *The Ripper of Storyville and Other Ben Snow Tales

  *The Velvet Touch

  *These three books are available from Crippen & Landru, Publishers.

  Crippen & Landru Publishers Norfolk, Virginia © 2000

  Copyright ©1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1996 by Edward D. Hoch

  “Dr. Sam Hawthorne: A Chronology of His Cases” copyright © 1996 by Marvin Lachman

  Cover copyright © 1996 by Crippen & Landru, Publishers

  Cover painting by Carol Heyer; cover design by Deborah Miller

  Crippen & Landru logo by Eric D. Greene

  ISBN: 0-7394-1896-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Crippen & Landru, Publishers P. O. Box 9315 Norfolk, Virginia 23505-9315 USA

  FOR MARV AND CAROL LACHMAN

  Table of CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  THE PROBLEM OF THE COVERED BRIDGE

  THE PROBLEM OF THE OLD GRISTMILL

  THE PROBLEM OF THE LOBSTER SHACK

  THE PROBLEM OF THE HAUNTED BANDSTAND

  THE PROBLEM OF THE LOCKED CABOOSE

  THE PROBLEM OF THE LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE

  THE PROBLEM OF THE CHRISTMAS STEEPLE

  THE PROBLEM OF CELL 16

  THE PROBLEM OF THE COUNTRY INN

  THE PROBLEM OF THE VOTING BOOTH

  THE PROBLEM OF THE COUNTY FAIR

  THE PROBLEM OF THE OLD OAK TREE

  DR. SAM HAWTHORNE: A CHRONOLOGY OF HIS CASES

  INTRODUCTION

  Sometimes it’s not easy to remember the origins of a series character, but in the case of Dr. Sam Hawthorne I remember the circumstances quite well. It was in January of 1974 and I’d just gotten a new wall calendar to hang by my typewriter. The page for each month showed a different watercolor painting of country life in the past, and the January illustration was of a covered bridge in winter.

  I stared at that illustration all through January, and pretty soon I got to wondering what would happen if a horse and carriage went in one side of the bridge and never came out the other side. Some pondering over the next day or two produced a solution and a plot to go with it. All I needed was a detective.

  Since the story had to be set in the past, I needed a new sort of sleuth, a new series character. I decided on a country doctor named simply Dr. Sam, probably with memories of the recently notorious Dr. Sam Shepherd still in mind. My Dr. Sam was young, just a year out of medical school, and his prized possession was a 1921 Pierce-Arrow Runabout that his folks had given him as a graduation gift. The story went off to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine as virtually all of mine do to this day. Frederic Dannay, who was half of “Ellery Queen” and who edited the magazine, liked it immediately but suggested a couple of changes.

  First, my Dr. Sam would need a last name to avoid confusion with Lillian de la Torre’s Dr. Sam Johnson series, something which had never occurred to me. Fred suggested two or three names and I immediately chose Hawthorne. What better name for a New England sleuth? His second suggestion was a bit more unsettling to me. He wanted old Dr. Sam, in narrating the story, to speak more in a country dialect, dropping his final letters and such. Although I’d had some of the other characters doing this, especially Sheriff Lens, I’d avoided it with Dr. Sam. Finally I agreed, and most of these changes were made by Fred Dannay himself. Gradually over the next several stories the use of this country dialect decreased, and finally Fred told me he thought the stories worked just as well without it.

  From the beginning I’d planned the Dr. Sam series as one frequently involving locked rooms and other impossible crimes. Fred Dannay thought the same way, and when I submitted the second story in the series he suggested that all of them involve some sort of impossible crime. I was only too happy to oblige. There are all sorts of crime stories, but in the sub-species of the detective story there is nothing more intriguing, or more challenging, than a good locked room or impossible crime.

  The stories collected here are the first twelve of Sam Hawthorne’s fifty-two cases to date. They were originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine between December 1974 and July 1978. I set the first story in March of 1922 and they continued chronologically, except for one instance which may have been caused by a typographical error. The setting is the vaguely located town of Northmont which is most likely in eastern Connecticut though it’s been known to wander a bit. We do learn in a later story that the neighboring town is Shinn Corners, setting for Ellery Queen’s novel The Glass Village.

  In those days each story opened with old Dr. Sam welcoming a drinking companion for another narrative of his early years in Northmont, and most ended with a hint of the next case. Again, this was Fred Dannay’s idea and it worked well for a long time. Finally, in an attempt to speed up the stories a bit,

  I greatly shortened the opening and eliminated the closing preview entirely. These days I only write about two Dr. Sam stories each year and there seems • little point in coming up with the next idea six months before I’d be writing it.

  Although just about all of my numerous series sleuths have tackled impossible crimes at one time or another, I think the best of my work in this sub-sub-genre is in the Dr. Sam series. Looking over these first twelve, I note that “The Problem of the Covered Bridge” has been the most reprinted story in the series. And locked room expert Robert Adey has cited “The Problem of the Voting Booth” as “one of the most satisfying of the Hawthorne stories.” They seem to be good stories to include in this first collection of Dr. Sam's cases.

  I hope you enjoy reading these stories of a past era as much as I enjoyed writing them.

  Edward D. Hoch

  Rochester, New York November, 1995

  THE PROBLEM OF THE COVERED BRIDGE

  You’re always hearin’ that things were better in the good old days.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Certainly medical treatment wasn’t better. I speak from experience, because I started as a country doctor up in New England way back in 1922. That seems a lifetime ago now, don’t it? Heck, it is a lifetime ago!

  “I’ll tell you one thing that was better, though—the mysteries. The real honest-to-goodness mysteries that happened to ordinary folks like you an’ me. I’ve read lots of mystery stories in my time, but there’s never been anything to compare with some of the things I experienced personally.

  “Take, for instance, the first winter I was up there. A man drove his horse and buggy through t
he snow into a covered bridge, and never came out t’other end. All three vanished off the face of the earth, as if they’d never existed!

  “You want to hear about it? Heck, it won’t take too long to tell. Pull up your chair while I get us—ah—a small libation.”

  I’d started my practice in Northmont on January 22, 1922 (the old man began). I’ll always remember the date, ’cause it was the very day Pope Benedict XV died. Now I’m not a Catholic myself, but in that part of New England a lot of people are. The death of the Pope was bigger news that day than the openin’ of Dr. Sam Hawthorne’s office. Nevertheless, I hired a pudgy woman named April for a nurse, bought some second-hand furniture, and settled in.

  Only a year out of medical school, I was pretty new at the game. But I made friends easily, ’specially with the farm families out along the creek. I’d driven into town in my 1921 Pierce-Arrow Runabout, a blazin’ yellow extravagance that set my folks back nearly $7,000 when they gave it to me as a graduation gift. It took me only one day to realize that families in rural New England didn’t drive Pierce-Arrow Runabouts. Fact is, they’d never even seen one before.

  The problem of the car was solved quickly enough for the winter months when I found out that people in this area lucky enough to own automobiles cared for them during the cold weather by drainin’ the gas tanks and puttin’ the cars up on blocks till spring arrived. It was back to the horse an’ buggy for the trips through the snow, an’ I figured that was okay by me. In a way it made me one of them.

  When the snow got too deep they got out the sleighs. This winter, though, was provin’ unusually mild. The cold weather had froze over the ice on Snake Creek for skatin’, but there was surprisin’ little snow on the ground and the roads were clear.

  On this Tuesday mornin’ in the first week of March I’d driven my horse an’ buggy up the North Road to the farm of Jacob an’ Sara Bringlow. It had snowed a couple of inches overnight, but nothin’ to speak of, and I was anxious to make my weekly call on Sara. She’d been ailin’ since I first came to town and my Tuesday visits to the farm were already somethin’ of a routine.

  This day, as usual, the place seemed full o’ people. Besides Jacob and his wife, there were the three children—Hank, the handsome 25-year old son who helped his pa work the farm, and Susan an’ Sally, the 16-year-old twin daughters. Hank’s intended, Millie O’Brian, was there too, as she often was those days. Millie was a year younger than Hank, an’ they sure were in love. The wedding was already scheduled for May, and it would be a big affair. Even the rumblings ’bout Millie marryin’ into a non-Catholic family had pretty much died down as the big day grew nearer.

  “ ’Lo, Dr. Sam,” Sally greeted me as I entered the kitchen.

  I welcomed the warmth of the stove after the long cold drive. “Hello, Sally. How’s your ma today?”

  “She’s up in bed, but she seems pretty good.”

  “Fine. We’ll have her on her feet in no time.”

  Jacob Bringlow and his son entered through the shed door, stampin’ the snow from their boots. “Good day, Dr. Sam,” Jacob said. He was a large man, full of thunder like an Old Testament prophet. Beside him, his son Hank seemed small and slim and a bit underfed.

  “Good day to you,” I said. “A cold mornin’!”

  “ ’Tis that. Sally, git Dr. Sam a cup o’ coffee—can’t you see the man’s freezin’?”

  I nodded to Hank. “Out cuttin’ firewood?”

  “There’s always some to cut.”

  Hank Bringlow was a likeable young chap about my own age. It seemed to me he was out of place on his pa’s farm, and I was happy that the wedding would soon take him away from there. The only books an’ magazines in the house belonged to Hank, and his manner was more that of a funlovin’ scholar than a hard-workin’ farmer. I knew he and Millie planned to move into town after their marriage, and I ’spected it would be a good thing for both of ’em.

  Millie always seemed to be workin’ in the kitchen when I made my calls. Maybe she was tryin’ to convince the family she could make Hank a good wife. By the town’s standards she was a pretty girl, though I’d known prettier ones at college.

  She carefully took the coffee cup from young Sally, an’ brought it to me as I found a place to sit. “Just move those magazines, Dr. Sam,” she said.

  “Two issues of Hearst’s International?” It wasn’t a magazine frequently found in farmhouses.

  “February and March. Hank was readin’ the new, two-part Sherlock Holmes story.”

  “They’re great fun,” I admitted. “I read them a lot in medical school.” Her smile glowed at me. “Mebbe you’ll be a writer like Dr. Conan Doyle,” she said.

  “I doubt that.” The coffee was good, warming me after the cold drive. “I really should see Mrs. Bringlow an’ finish this later.”

  “You’ll find her in good spirits.”

  Sara Bringlow’s room was at the top of the stairs. The first time I went in, back in January, I found a weak, pale woman in her fifties with a thickened skin and dulled senses, who might have been very close to death. Now the scene was different. Even the room seemed more cheerful, an’ certainly Sara Bringlow was more vividly alive than I’d ever seen her. Sittin’ up in bed, with a bright pink shawl thrown over her shoulders, she welcomed me with a smile. “See, I’m almost all better! Do you think I can git up this week?”

  Her illness today would probably be classed as a form of thyroid condition called myxedema, but we didn’t use such fancy words back then. I’d treated her, an’ she was better, an’ that was all I cared about. “Tell you what, Sara, you stay in bed till Friday an’ then you can get up if you feel like it.” I winked at her ’cause I knew she liked me to. “If truth be known, I’ll bet you been sneakin’ out of that bed already!”

  “Now how would you know that, Doctor?”

  “When Sally met me at the door I asked how you were and she said you were up in bed but seemed pretty good. Well now, where else would you be? The only reason for her sayin’ it like that was if you’d been up and about sometime recently.”

  “Land sakes, you should be a detective, Dr. Sam!”

  “I have enough to do bein’ a doctor.” I took her pulse and blood pressure as I talked. “I see we had some more snow this mornin’.”

  “Yes indeed! The children will have to shovel off the ice before they go skatin’ again.”

  “The wedding’s gettin’ mighty close now, isn’t it?” I suspected the forthcomin’ nuptials were playin’ a big part in her recovery.

  “Yep, just two months away. It’ll be a happy day in my life. I s’pose it’ll be hard on Jacob, losin’ Hank’s help around the farm, but he’ll manage. I told him the boy’s twenty-five now—got to lead his own life.”

  “Millie seems like a fine girl.”

  “Best there is! Catholic, of course, but we don’t hold that agin’ her. ’Course her folks would rather she married Walt Rumsey on the next farm, now that he owns it an’ all, but Walt’s over thirty—too old for a girl like Millie. I ’spect she knowed that too, when she broke off with him.”

  There was a gentle knock on the door and Susan, the other twin, came in. “Momma, Hank’s gettin’ ready to go. He wants to know about that applesauce for Millie’s ma.”

  “Land sakes, I near forgot! Tell him to take a jar off the shelf in the cellar.”

  After she’d gone I said, “Your daughters are lovely girls.”

  “They are, aren’t they? Tall like their father. Can you tell them apart?”

  I nodded. “They’re at an age where they want to be individuals. Sally’s wearin’ her hair a mite different now.”

  “When they were younger, Hank was always puttin’ them up to foolin’ us, changin’ places and such.” Then, as she saw me close my bag, her eyes grew serious for a minute. “Dr. Sam, I am better, aren’t I?”

  “Much better. The thickenin’ of your skin is goin’ away, and you’re much more alert.”

  I left some more of the p
ills she’d been takin’ and went back downstairs. Hank Bringlow was bundled into a fur-collared coat, ready for the trip to Millie’s house. It was about two miles down the windin’ road, past the Rumsey farm and across the covered bridge.

  Hank picked up the quart jar of applesauce and said, “Dr. Sam, why don’t you ride along with us? Millie’s pa hurt his foot last week. He’d never call a doctor for it, but since you’re so close maybe you should take a look.” Millie seemed surprised by his request, but I had no objection. “Glad to. I’ll follow you in my buggy.”

  Outside, Hank said, “Millie, you ride with Dr. Sam so he doesn’t get lost.” She snorted at that. “The road doesn’t go anywhere else, Hank!” But she climbed into my buggy an’ I took the reins. “I hear tell you’ve got yourself a fancy yellow car, Dr. Sam.”

  “It’s up on blocks till spring. This buggy is good enough for me.” Mine was almost the same as Hank’s—a four-wheeled carriage with a single seat for two people, pulled by one horse. The fabric top helped keep out the sun and rain, but not the cold. And ridin’ in a buggy during a New England winter could be mighty cold!

  The road ahead was windin’, with woods on both sides. Though it was nearly noon, the tracks of Hank’s horse an’ buggy were the only ones ahead of us in the fresh snow. Not many people came up that way in the winter. Before we’d gone far, Hank speeded up and disappeared from sight round a bend in the road.

  “Hank seems so unlike his pa,” I said, making conversation.

  “That’s because Jacob is his stepfather,” Millie explained. “Sara’s first husband—Hank’s real father—died of typhoid when he was a baby. She remarried and then the twins were born.”

  “That explains the gap.”

  “Gap?”

  “Nine years between Hank and his sisters. Farm families usually have their children closer together.”

  Hank’s buggy was still far enough ahead to be out of sight, but now the Rumsey farm came into view. We had to pause a minute as Walt Rumsey blocked the road with a herd of cows returnin’ to the barn. He waved and said, “Hank just passed.”