Diagnosis: Impossible: The Problems of Dr. Sam Hawthorne Page 2

  “I know,” Millie called back. “He goes so fast we can’t keep up with him.” When the cows were gone I speeded up, still following the track of Hank’s buggy in the snow. As we rounded the next corner I thought we’d see him, ‘cause the road was now straight and the woods on both sides had ended. But there was only the covered bridge ahead, and the empty road runnin’ beyond it to the O’Brian farm.

  “Where is he?” Millie asked, puzzled.

  “He must be waitin’ for us inside the bridge.” From our angle we couldn’t yet see through it all the way.

  “Prob’ly,” she agreed with a chuckle. “He always says that covered bridges are kissin’ bridges, but that’s not true at all.”

  “Where I come from—” I began, and then paused. The interior of the bridge could be seen now, and no horse an’ buggy were waitin’ inside. “Well, he certainly went in. You can see the tracks in the snow.”

  “But—” Millie was half standing now in her seat. “Something’s there on the floor of the bridge. What is it?”

  We rode up to the bridge entrance and I stopped the horse. There were no windows cut into the sides of this covered bridge, but the light from the ends and from between the boards was enough to see by. I got down from the buggy. “It’s his jar of applesauce,” I said. “It smashed when it fell from the buggy.”

  But Millie wasn’t lookin’ at the applesauce. She was starin’ straight ahead at the unmarked snow beyond the other end of the fifty-foot bridge. “Dr. Sam!”

  “What is it?”

  “There are no tracks goin’ off the bridge! He came into it, but he didn’t leave it! Dr. Sam, where is he?"

  She was right, by gum! The tracks of Hank’s horse an’ buggy led into the bridge. Fact is, the damp imprint of the meltin’ snow could be seen for several feet before it gradually faded away.

  But there was no horse, no buggy, no Hank Bringlow. Only the broken jar of applesauce he’d been carrying.

  But if he hadn’t disturbed the snow at the far end of the bridge, he must be—he had to be—still here! My eyes went up to the patterned wooden trusses that held the bridge together. There was nothing—nothing but the crossbeams and the roof itself. The bridge was in remarkably good shape, protected from weathering by its roof. Even the sides were sturdy and unbroken. Nothin’ bigger than a squirrel could’ve fit between the boards.

  “It’s some sort of trick,” I said to Millie. “He’s got to be here!”

  “But where?”

  I walked to the other end of the bridge and examined the unmarked snow. I peered around the corner o’ the bridge at the frozen surface of Snake Creek. The skaters had not yet shoveled off the snow, and it was as unmarked as the rest. Even if the horse an’ buggy had passed somehow through the wooden floor or the sides o’ the bridge, there was no place they could’ve gone without leavin’ a mark. Hank had driven his buggy into the bridge with Millie an’ me less than a minute behind him, dropped his quart jar o’ applesauce, and vanished.

  “We’ve got to get help.” I said. Instinct told me I shouldn’t disturb the snow beyond the bridge by goin’ forward to Millie’s house. “Wait here an’ I’ll run back to Rumsey’s farm.”

  I found Walt Rumsey in the barn with his cows, forkin’ hay out of the loft. “ ’Lo, Doc,” he called down to me. “What’s up?”

  “Hank Bringlow seems to have disappeared. Darnedest thing I ever saw. You got a telephone here?”

  “Sure have, Doc.” He hopped down to the ground. “Come on in the house.”

  As I followed him through the snow I asked, “Did Hank seem odd in any way when he went past you?”

  “Odd? No. He was bundled up against the cold, but I knew it was him. I kept my cows to the side o’ the road till he passed.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No, just waved.”

  “Then you didn’t actually see his face or hear his voice?”

  Walt Rumsey turned to me. “Wae-el, no. But hell, I’ve known Hank mosta my life! It was him, all right.”

  An’ I s’pose it had to be. No substitution o’ drivers could’ve been made anywhere along the road, and even if a substitution had been made, how did the substitute disappear?

  I took the phone that Walt Rumsey offered, cranked it up, and asked for the Bringlow farm. One of the twins answered. “This is Dr. Sam. We seem to have lost your brother. He didn’t come back there, did he?”

  “No. Isn’t he with you?”

  “Not right now. Your pa around?”

  “He’s out in the field somewhere. You want Momma?”

  “No. She should stay in bed.” No need to bother her yet. I hung up an’ called the O’Brian farm with the same results. Millie’s brother Larry answered the phone. He’d seen nothin’ of Hank, but he promised to start out on foot toward the bridge at once, searchin’ for buggy tracks or footprints. “Any luck?” Rumsey asked when I’d finished.

  “Not yet. You didn’t happen to watch him after he passed, did you?” Rumsey shook his head. “I was busy with the cows.”

  I went back outside and headed for the bridge, with Rumsey taggin’ along. Millie was standin’ by my horse an’ buggy, lookin’ concerned. “Did you find him?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Your brother’s on his way over.”

  While Rumsey and I went over every inch of the covered bridge, Millie simply stood at the far end, watchin’ for her brother. I guess she needed him to cling to just then. Larry O’Brian was young, handsome, an’ likeable—a close friend of both Hank Bringlow an’ Walt Rumsey. My nurse April told me that when Walt inherited the farm, after his folks’ death, both Larry and Hank helped him with the first season’s planting. She’d also told me that despite their friendship Larry was against Hank marryin’ his sister. P’raps, like some brothers, he viewed no man as worthy of the honor.

  When Larry arrived he had nothing new to tell us. “No tracks between here an’ the farm,” he confirmed.

  I had a thought. “Wait a minute! If there aren’t any tracks, how in heck did you get over here this mornin’, Millie?”

  “I was with Hank at his place last night. When the snow started, the family insisted I stay over. We only got a couple of inches, though.” She seemed to sense an unasked question, and she added, “I slept with the twins in their big bed.”

  Larry looked at me. “What d’you think?”

  I stared down at the smashed quart of applesauce which everyone had carefully avoided. “I think we better call Sheriff Lens.”

  Sheriff Lens was a fat man who moved slowly and thought slowly (Doctor Sam continued). He’d prob’ly never been confronted with any crime bigger than buggy stealin’—certainly nothin’ like the disappearance from the covered bridge. He grunted and rasped as he listened to the story, then threw up his hands in dismay. “It couldn’ta happened the way you say. The whole thing’s impossible, an’ the impossible jest don’t make sense. I think you’re all foolin’ me—maybe havin’ an April Fool joke three weeks early.”

  It was about then that the strain finally got to Millie. She collapsed in tears, and Larry and I took her home. Their pa, Vincent O’Brian, met us at the door. “What is this?” he asked Larry. “What’s happened to her?”

  “Hank’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? You mean run off with another woman?”

  “No, nothin’ like that.”

  While Larry helped Millie to her room, I followed Vincent into the kitchen. He wasn’t the hulkin’ ox of a man that Jacob Bringlow was, but he still had the muscles of a lifetime spent in the field. “Hank wanted me to come along,” I explained. “Said you’d hurt your foot.”

  “It’s nothin’. Twisted my ankle choppin’ wood.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No need.” But he pulled up his pants leg reluctantly and I stooped to examine it. Swellin’ and bruisin’ were pronounced, but the worst was over.

  “Not too bad,” I agreed. “But you should be soakin’ it.” Glancing around
to be sure we weren’t overheard, I lowered my voice and added, “Your first thought was that Hank Bringlow had run off with another woman. Who did you have in mind?”

  He looked uneasy. “Nobody special.”

  “This may be serious, Mr. O’Brian.”

  He thought about it and finally said, “I won’t pretend I’m happy about my daughter marryin’ a non-Catholic. Larry feels the same way. Besides, Hank fools around with the girls in town.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance Gert Page at the bank. Wouldn’t be surprised he run off with her.”

  I saw Millie comin’ back downstairs and I raised my voice a bit. “You soak that ankle now, in good hot water.”

  “Has there been any word?” Millie asked. She’d recovered her composure, though her face still lacked color.

  “No word, but I’m sure he’ll turn up. Was he in the habit of playin’ tricks?”

  “Sometimes he’d fool people with Susan an’ Sally. Is that what you mean?”

  “Don’t know what I mean,” I admitted. “But he seemed anxious for you to ride with me. Maybe there was a reason.”

  Gert Page was a hard-eyed blonde girl of the sort who’d never be happy in a small New England town. She answered my questions ’bout Hank Bringlow with a sullen distrust she might have felt towards all men.

  I stayed for lunch, and when no word came I headed back to town alone. The Sheriff and some others were still at the covered bridge when I rode through it, but I didn’t stop. I could see they’d gotten nowhere toward solvin’ the mystery, and I was anxious to get to the bank before it closed.

  “Do you know where he is, Gert?”

  “How would I know where he is?”

  “Were you plannin’ to run off with him before his marriage?”

  “Ha! Me run off with him? Listen, if Millie O’Brian wants him that bad, she can have him!” The bank was closin’ and she went back to countin’ the cash in her drawer. “B’sides, I hear tell men get tired of married life after a bit. I just might see him in town again. But I sure won’t run off with him and be tied to one man!”

  I saw Roberts, the bank’s manager, watchin’ us and I wondered why they kept a girl like Gert on the payroll. I ’spected she was most unpopular with the bank’s lady customers.

  As I left the bank I saw Sheriff Lens enterin’ the general store across the street. I followed and caught him at the pickle barrel. “Anything new, Sheriff?”

  “I give it up, Doc. Wherever he is, he ain’t out by the bridge.”

  The general store, which was right next to my office, was a cozy place with great wheels of cheese, buckets o’ flour, an jars o’ taffy kisses. The owner’s name was Max, and his big collie dog always slept on the floor near the potbellied stove. Max came around the counter to join us and said, “Everyone’s talkin’ about young Hank. What do you think happened?”

  “No idea,” I admitted.

  “Couldn’t an aeroplane have come over an’ picked up the whole shebang?”

  “I was right behind him in my buggy. There was no aeroplane.” I glanced out the window and saw Gert Page leavin’ the bank with the manager, Roberts. “I hear some gossip that Hank was friendly with Gert Page. Any truth to it?”

  Max scratched the stubble on his chin and laughed. “Everybody in town is friendly with Gert, includin’ ol’ Roberts there. It don’t mean nothin’.”

  “I guess not,” I agreed. But if it hadn’t meant anything to Hank Bringlow, had it meant somethin’ to Millie’s pa an’ brother?

  Sheriff Lens and I left the general store together. He promised to keep me informed and I went next door to my office. My nurse April was waitin’ for all the details. “My God, you’re famous, Dr. Sam! The telephone ain’t stopped ringin’!”

  “Hell of a thing to be famous for. I didn’t see a thing out there.”

  “That’s the point! Anyone else they wouldn’t believe—but you’re somethin’ special.”

  I sighed and kicked off my damp boots. “I’m just another country doctor, April.”

  She was a plump jolly woman in her thirties, and I’d never regretted hirin’ her my first day in town. “They think you’re smarter’n most, Dr. Sam.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “They think you can solve this mystery.”

  Who else had called me a detective that day? Sara Bringlow? “Why do they think that?”

  “I guess because you’re the first doctor in town ever drove a Pierce-Arrow car.”

  I swore at her but she was laughin’ and I laughed too. There were some patients waitin’ in the outer office and I went to tend to them. It was far from an ordinary day, but I still had my practice to see to. Towards evening, by the time I’d finished, the weather had turned warmer. The temperature hovered near 40 and a gentle rain began to fall.

  “It’ll git rid o’ the snow,” April said as I left for the day.

  “Ayah, it’ll do that.”

  “Mebbe it’ll uncover a clue.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t believe it. Hank Bringlow had gone far away, and the meltin’ snow wasn’t about to bring him back.

  The telephone woke me at four the next mornin’. “This is Sheriff Lens, Doc,” the voice greeted me. “Sorry to wake you, but I gotta bad job for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We found Hank Bringlow.”

  “Where?”

  “On the Post Road, about ten miles south o’ town. He’s sittin’ in his buggy like he jest stopped for a rest.”

  “Is he—?”

  “Dead, Doc. That’s what I need you for. Somebody shot him in the back o’ the head.”

  It took me near an hour (Doctor Sam went on) to reach the scene, drivin’ the horse an’ buggy fast as I could over the slushy country roads. Though the night was mild, the rain chilled me to the bone as I rode through the darkness on that terrible mission. I kept thinkin’ about Millie O’Brian, and Hank’s ma only just recoverin’ from her lengthy illness. What would the news do to them?

  Sheriff Lens had some lanterns out in the road, and I could see their eerie glow as I drove up. He helped me down from the buggy an’ I walked over to the small circle of men standin’ by the other rig. Two of them were deputies, another was a farmer from a nearby house. They hadn’t disturbed the body— Hank still sat slumped in a corner o’ the seat, his feet wedged against the front o’ the buggy.

  I drew a sharp breath when I saw the back of his head. “Shotgun,” I said curtly.

  “Can you tell if it happened here, Doc?”

  “Doubtful.” I turned to the farmer. “Did you find him?”

  The man nodded and repeated a story he’d obviously told ’em already. “My wife heard the horse. We don’t git nobody along this road in the middle o’ the night, so I come out to look around. I found him like this.”

  In the flare of lantern light I noticed somethin’—a round mark on the horse’s flank that was sensitive to my touch. “Look here, Sheriff.”

  “What is it?”

  “A burn. The killer loaded Hank into the buggy an’ then tied the reins. He singed the horse with a cigar or somethin’ to make it run. Could’ve run miles before it stopped from exhaustion.”

  Lens motioned to his deputies. “Let’s take him into town. We won’t find nothin’ else out here.” He turned back to me. “At least he’s not missin’ any more.”

  “No, he’s not missin’. But we still don’t know what happened on that bridge. We only know it wasn’t any joke.”

  The funeral was held two days later, on Friday mornin’, with a bleak winter sun breakin’ through the overcast to throw long March shadows across the tombstones of the little town cemetery. The Bringlows were all there, ’course, and Millie’s folks, and people from town. Afterwards many of us went back to the Bringlow farm. It was a country custom, however sad the occasion, and many neighbors brought food for the family.

  I was sittin’ in the parlor, away from the others, when the bank manager
, Roberts, came up to me.

  “Has the Sheriff found any clues yet?” he asked.

  “Nothin’ I know of.”

  “It’s a real baffler. Not just the how, but the why."

  “The why?”

  He nodded. “When you’re goin’to kill someone you just do it. You don’t rig up some fantastic scheme for them to disappear first. What’s the point?”

  I thought about that, and I didn’t have a ready answer. When Roberts drifted away I went over to Sara Bringlow and asked how she was feelin’. She looked at me with tired eyes and said, “My first day outta bed. To bury my son.”

  There was no point arguin’ with a mother’s grief. I saw Max bringin’ in a bag of groceries from his store and I started over to help him. But my eye caught somethin’ on the parlor table. It was the March issue of Hearst’s International. I remembered Hank had been reading the Sherlock Holmes story in the February and March issues. I located the February one under a stack o’ newspapers and turned to the Holmes story.

  It was in two parts, and called “The Problem of Thor Bridge.”

  Bridge?

  I found a quiet corner and sat down to read.

  It took me only a half hour, and when I finished I sought out Walt Rumsey from the next farm. He was standin’ with Larry O’Brian on the side porch, an’ when he saw me comin’ he said, “Larry’s got some good bootleg stuff out in his buggy. Want a shot?”

  “No, thanks, Walt. But you can do somethin’else for me. Do you have a good stout rope in your barn?”

  He frowned in concentration. “I s’pose so.”

  “Could we ride over there now? I just read somethin’ that gave me an idea about how Hank might’ve vanished from that bridge.”

  We got into his buggy an’ drove the mile down the windin’ road to his farm. The snow was melted by this time, and the cows were clustered around the water trough by the side of the barn. Walt took me inside, past empty stalls an’ milk cans an’ carriage wheels, to a big shed attached to the rear. Here, among assorted tools, he found a twelve-foot length of worn hemp. “This do you?”