Nothing Is Impossible: Further Problems for Dr. Sam Hawthorne

by Hoch Edward D.

  “It is,” I conceded.

  The other doctors consulted again, then Wolfe said, “I think we have all the facts. There will be a ten-minute recess.”

  The three men remained at the table while the rest of us filed out.

  Mary was waiting in the hall. “What happened?”

  “They’re considering the verdict,” I told her.

  “What do you think?”

  I patted her arm. “It doesn’t look too good.”

  Sheriff Lens joined us, nervously unfolding his package of chewing tobacco. “I don’t see how they can do anything to you, Doc. They got no evidence. All they’re saying is that they don’t know how she died, so you musta been responsible.”

  I was annoyed at everyone just then, even the sheriff. “Where did you pick up this habit of chewing tobacco all of a sudden?”

  He put it away, looking chagrined. “Well, Sam, I was just tryin’ to relax.”

  Dr. Wolfe appeared at the door to motion me inside. The others remained in the hallway.

  When I was seated at the table, he began to speak. “Dr. Hawthorne, as I stated at the beginning, this is not a trial but an inquiry. Nevertheless, we have found sufficient circumstantial evidence that the death of Betty Willis could only have been caused by the mistaken administration of—”

  Chewing tobacco.

  I was remembering Sheriff Lens and his chewing tobacco. It was like chewing tobacco, in a way. The flavor mattered more than anything else.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Dr. Wolfe,” I said, “but I’ve just thought of something.”

  “Unless it has a bearing on Mrs. Willis’s death—”

  “It does.”

  “Proceed, then.”

  I leaned forward on the desk. “Betty Willis had one small vice. She always kept a bag of hard candy next to her bed. It was there as recently as the Friday before her death, when her lawyer, Seth Rogers, paid a visit, but it wasn’t there on Monday when I came to see her. Only a glass of water with her false teeth was on the bedside table.”

  “If her teeth were out, she couldn’t have eaten anything, anyway,” Wolfe pointed out.

  “She could have had a piece of hard candy. She could simply have sucked on it and let it dissolve in her mouth. And that’s how she was poisoned. The cyanide was injected into the center of the hard candy. It was dissolving into her mouth all the time I examined her without my knowing it. When it dissolved enough to release the cyanide, she died.”

  “Do you have any proof of this theory?”

  “The absence of the traditional bag of hard candy is proof enough for me. Freda Ann Parker had to remove it after Mrs. Willis took a piece of it because she’d probably poisoned it and couldn’t risk my examining it.”

  “Why Freda Ann and not her husband?”

  “She’s the one who tended to Betty. She would have offered the candy, and only she could have removed the bag. Nat was rarely in the room, and his presence would have been suspicious. And it was Freda Ann who phoned and urged me to come out because the woman was dying. She wanted Betty to die in my presence, to remove any blame from herself. She didn’t realize the odor of the poison would be immediately obvious to me.”

  “Why would she do such a thing if Mrs. Willis was dying, anyway?”

  “That’s just the point—she wasn’t dying. Her condition had been fairly stable, and Seth Rogers found her as well as usual on Friday. His visit, on a minor matter, is what triggered the fatal events. Freda Ann must have feared her aunt was about to change her will. She knew it hadn’t been done yet because there were no witnesses to sign any document, but she decided to tell me that Betty Willis was dying, and then make the lie come true. Maybe Betty asked the lawyer out there to frighten her deliberately, never knowing it would lead to her murder.”

  Dr. Wolfe looked perplexed. “How will we ever prove this?”

  “I suggest we begin by calling Sheriff Lens in to our meeting,” I said. “It was him and his chewing tobacco that made me remember Betty Willis and her hard candy.”

  “The rest of it was easier than I could have hoped for,” Dr. Sam Hawthorne concluded. “Freda Ann had given her husband the bag of hard candy to burn with the rubbish, but he was suspicious and held it out. He turned it over to Sheriff Lens and we found poison in four other pieces. Freda Ann received a long prison term—I don’t recollect what ever happened to Nat.

  “The good folks of Northmont more than made up to me for their suspicions during that terrible week. I went to Mary Best’s picnic on the Fourth of July and it was a happy day without the hint of a crime. In fact, it wasn’t until late that summer— But, no—I have to save something for next time.”

  THE PROBLEM OF THE PROTECTED FARMHOUSE

  “Toward the end of the summer of ’35, there was an unusual murder in Northmont,” Dr. Sam Hawthorne began, warming to his subject before he’d even finished pouring the traditional libation. “I know I’ve told you about a lot of unusual murders over the years, but this one struck me as especially bizarre. It occurred in a farmhouse that was completely unapproachable—a true fortress. As it turned out, the method of murder wasn’t nearly as bizarre as the motive behind it.”

  I’d been making my weekly rounds (Dr. Sam continued) to the few rural patients who still needed house calls, and I’d made a special point of stopping off at the Crawley house. Young Bill Crawley’s hay fever was especially bad at that time of year, but there was little I could do for him beyond prescribing one of the new antihistamines just coming on the market. I was mainly interested in the progress of his training for the ’36 Olympics to be held in Berlin the following summer. He was the first Northmont resident ever to have a chance at the Olympic team and we were cheering him on.

  Bill was a slender, muscular lad of nineteen who’d just completed his first year at Boston University. He’d be going back in a week as a sophomore, and I suppose I was especially interested in his career because he’d mentioned his interest in some pre-med courses. He was a hard worker, whatever he did, and he’d spent the summer, when he wasn’t training, working at Kasper’s Kennel, cleaning up after the dogs. His parents, Amy and Charles, were proud of Bill, just as they were of his older sister, who was about to enter her final year at Skidmore.

  “How’s it going?” I called out from the car toward the field next to the house, where Bill was practicing high jumps on a sandy track he’d constructed.

  “Fine, Doc,” Bill replied, brushing himself off as he strolled over. “I’m right up to the mark.”

  I got out of the car and walked over to shake hands. “How long before they pick the track-and-field team?”

  “Not till the spring, but I’ve got a good chance.” He smiled. “My folks have got the money all saved up.”

  “Berlin is a long way from here, Bill. Some people say Hitler may be starting a war.”

  “Not before the Olympics, he won’t. I’ve been reading about it. He wants the Germans to win everything and prove the superiority of the master race.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “I don’t know, Doc. Some people around here, like old man Frankfurt, think Hitler will be good for the German people. I heard him say he’s giving them back the sense of pride they lost after their defeat in the war.”

  “That’s rubbish,” I told him. I had no liking for Rudolph Frankfurt, a paranoid little man who lived behind an electrified fence and locked doors, guarded by a dog, in the belief that an American anti-Nazi element was out to kill him. But there was no point in pursuing unpleasant subjects. “How are your folks?” I asked him.

  “Fine. Dad’s gone into town for some wood.”

  Charles Crawley was a carpenter, much in demand among Northmont’s homeowners trying to keep things together in the face of the Depression. Although his work provided a reasonably steady income, it was still a wonder that he’d been able to save enough to send his son off to the Olympics.

  “Give them my best, will you?” I said. As I was getting ba
ck into the car, I asked, “The hay fever bothering you much?”

  “Not today. It comes and goes.”

  “Good—maybe you’re growing out of it. I’ve had patients who have, you know.” As I drove away, I could see him strolling back to the sandy track to continue his practice.

  My route back to town took me right by Frankfurt’s farmhouse fortress, as Sheriff Lens liked to call it. It was the old Muller place, with fields unworked in a decade, but folks still thought of it as a farm and resented Frankfurt’s decision to let it stand idle. The little man seemed to have no gainful employment, which led to the wildest of notions. Some said he was a spy or a member of the Bund, planted here by Hitler himself for the day when America and Germany would again be at war.

  I didn’t worry much about those stories. Rudy Frankfurt was no friend of mine, but he was an occasional patient and he’d always been civil enough. I thought the fence and dog and locked doors made him more of a victim than an enemy, and certainly no one to be feared.

  Driving past that day, I slowed down at the locked gate, noticing a car parked behind the bushes across the road. There was someone in it, and that seemed odd, but I hardly gave it a second thought. The flag on Frankfurt’s mailbox, mostly invisible from the waiting car, was down. No mail today, unless it had been picked up already. I’d been hoping to spot Frankfurt in the yard, if only to confirm that his health was good. He had no telephone to summon me if he needed a house call, though he was in pretty good shape for a man of fifty-one. I stopped by the mailbox and got out for a moment, walking back to check that the gate was really locked. I glanced at the curtained windows of the house some hundred feet away, then walked back to my car and got in.

  There was the beep of a horn behind me and Paul Nolan went by, driving his delivery truck from Spiggins’ Grocery. We exchanged waves as he kept going, throwing up a trail of dust from the dry roadbed. I smiled and shook my head, remembering Sheriff Lens’ complaints about young Paul driving too fast on the back roads. Seeing him reminded me that I had to stop at the grocery myself. I’d promised my nurse, Mary Best, that I’d pick up some oranges and eggs to save her a stop on the way home. The old general stores had passed from the scene in Northmont. They’d been replaced by the more specific grocery and hardware and feed stores, and big Mike Spiggins had been in the right place at the right time. The Depression hadn’t hurt him a bit, because people always had to eat.

  Paul’s delivery truck was already in its parking place next to the store when I pulled in. I drew a line with my finger through the coat of dust on its side as I walked into the grocery and picked up one of the wicker baskets Mike kept near the entrance for his customers. Picking up the oranges and eggs for Mary and some bread and milk for myself, I carried the basket up to the cash register.

  Mike Spiggins glanced up from a note he was reading. “What do you make of this, Doc? It came in the mail from Rudy Frankfurt. He wants some groceries delivered an’ he even sent along the key to the front gate.”

  “I just passed his place and didn’t see any sign of him,” I said. I took the note and read the handwritten shopping list of a dozen or so items on a sheet of beige paper with Frankfurt’s name and address printed at the top. Beneath the list was typewritten CAR LAID UP. PLEASE DELIVER. USE KEY FOR FRONT GATE. BEWARE OF DOG.

  “He’s left me lists like this before, while he shopped in town,” Spiggins ­worried, “but he never mailed me one along with his key. Maybe he’s sick. Why else couldn’t he come down and open the gate himself?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said, remembering the strange car I’d seen parked across the street from the farmhouse.

  Paul Nolan came out of the storeroom carrying a carton. He was a gawky young man who’d graduated from high school with Bill Crawley. His folks didn’t have the money to send him to college, so he’d gotten a job at the grocery. “Where do you want the chicken soup, Mr. Spiggins?” he called out.

  “Put it there in the corner. I’ll shelve it later. We got an order here from Rudy Frankfurt. Came in the mail. You got time to run it up there later today?”

  “Sure, Mr. Spiggins.”

  “What time will that be?” I asked. “Maybe I should follow you out, Paul—see if he’s all right.”

  He thought for a moment and then shrugged. “Around four?”

  “I’ll be back then,” I told him.

  The whole business seemed strange to me, and I was more concerned than ever about the man I’d seen watching Frankfurt’s farmhouse. I wondered if there really was something wrong with his car or if he was just afraid to come out. Of course, he must have come as far as the gate to leave the letter in his box for the postman to pick up.

  I was passing Grayson’s, the only decent garage in town, and decided to stop. “Heard anything about Frankfurt’s car?” I asked when the mechanic slid out from under a Buick he was working on. His name was Tyler and he had thick black hair on his arms.

  “Sure—it’s all ready. He hasn’t picked it up yet, though.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “Trouble with the gear shift.”

  “When did he bring it in?”

  “Two days ago. Wednesday afternoon around four.”

  If Frankfurt’s car was ready, I wondered why he couldn’t pick it up and then go for his own groceries. Of course, he had no phone, so maybe he didn’t know it was ready. I thought about that as I drove back to my office, enjoying the cool sunshine of a New England afternoon at summer’s end.

  Mary saw me pull into my parking space and came out to meet me. She looked as attractive and efficient as ever, but the slight flush of her cheeks warned me that something was wrong. “I was hoping you’d get back, Sam. There’s a patient waiting to see you.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Gretchen Pratt, the girl Bill Crawley’s been going out with.”

  I was hardly one to keep up with the town’s latest teenage romances, but I did know the Pratt girl. She’d graduated from high school with Bill Crawley and was often out at his folks’ place while he trained for his shot at the Olympics. Apparently they’d remained friendly even during his year away at college. “What’s the matter with her?” I asked.

  “She thinks she may be pregnant. She’s very upset.”

  Mary hadn’t exaggerated. As soon as I saw the girl’s tear-stained face I knew she was really suffering. “Hello, Gretchen.” I patted her shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

  Through her tears, I finally got the whole story—of her deep love for Bill and her missed period and the terrible effect this might have on his chances for the Olympics.

  “Does Bill know about it?” I asked her.

  “Not yet. I don’t know how to tell him.”

  “Well, let’s do some tests first and make sure it’s true. You may be worrying over nothing.”

  She was a pretty blonde girl who’d been a cheerleader in high school. Like so many in her class, she hadn’t gone on to college but had taken a job instead. Hers, at a local insurance agency, I knew didn’t pay well, and in a town like Northmont all she had to look forward to was marriage to some local boy. Most girls would have jumped at the chance of trapping Bill Crawley into walking down the aisle, but she was too decent for that. She was thinking only of Bill, and of how this new life might affect his future. While I examined her, she even murmured something about an abortion, but I chose to ignore that.

  “We’ll know tomorrow,” I said finally, labeling the test tube.

  “Not until then?”

  “It takes time. We have to inject a sample of your urine into a rabbit. If the rabbit’s ovaries show signs of pregnancy, the test is positive. Fortunately, the hospital lab in this building keeps rabbits for the A-Z test. Otherwise we’d have to send your specimen away.”

  “Why do they call it that? Because it’s the start and finish?”

  “It’s not the finish of anything, Gretchen,” I told her. “The test is named for a pair of German doctors who developed
it—Aschheim and Zondek.”

  She stood up. “Will you call me as soon as you know?”

  “Either Mary or I will call you.”

  She left the office with a downcast expression that could have broken your heart. I wanted to make it right for her, make her an innocent child again, but that wasn’t something I could do.

  “How did it go?” Mary asked me.

  “How do you think? Did you see that look on her face? Take this over to the hospital lab for an A-Z. I have to ride out to Rudy Frankfurt’s place.”

  “What’s wrong with him?“

  I had to smile at her tone.

  “Nothing, I hope,” I said.

  As I pulled up behind Spiggins’ Grocery, Paul Nolan was pitching a stone at a stray mutt sniffing around his truck. He had all Frankfurt’s groceries in a single cardboard box which he placed in the open back of the truck next to a roll of canvas and a set of golf clubs. “You stop for a few holes at the Country Club?” I asked him.

  “The town course is more my speed,” he said. “I was afraid that mutt was going to grab one of them. He’s always around here for handouts. Mr. Spiggins called Kasper’s Kennel, but they haven’t come after him yet.” The kennel served as the town’s dogcatcher in addition to supplying trained police dogs like the big German shepherd at Rudy Frankfurt’s place.