"You're early," old Dr. Sam Hawthorne said, holding open the door.

"I suppose you're anxious to hear about the time I almost left Northmont.

Let me pour us a little brandy to keep out the cold and I'll tell you about it. It wasn't one of my prouder moments, but the story of my years as a country doctor wouldn't be complete without including it."

It happened in the early autumn of '32 (Dr. Sam went on), during the worst of the Depression and the growing excitement of the presidential campaign. Of course, people were talking about what would happen if Roosevelt won the election and there was much speculation about the end of Prohibition being near since both major candidates had called for its repeal. But on the day this began I wasn't thinking about politics or Prohibition. I was at Pilgrim Memorial Hospital attending to a little boy named Tommy Forest, who had contracted a bad case of polio during the late summer and had just taken a turn for the worse.

"He needs help in breathing," I told his parents, Mavis and Mike Forest. They'd moved to Northmont the previous summer and he was now teaching at our new elementary school.

Mavis was a lovely young woman and it almost tore my heart out when she asked me, "Will he be paralyzed, Doctor?"

"I'm afraid there might be some lingering paralysis," I told her honestly, "but it's too soon to tell how extensive it could be. Right now we're fighting to save his life."

"What can be done for him?" Mike asked, anguish in his face.

"Tommy's respiratory nerves are being destroyed by the poliomyelitis. It's very difficult for him to breathe by himself and it may soon become impossible. There's been success recently with a device called a Drinker respirator—or iron lung. It was invented four years ago by a man named Slaw Drinker. It's a large pressure tank that encloses the entire body except for the head. A motor increases and decreases the air pressure, causing air to move in and out of the patient's lungs."

"Could it help Tommy?"

"It's the only thing I know that might save his life now. They have one in Stamford, but I don't know if it's in use. I'll phone the hospital there."

The doctor in Stamford told me their machine was out of service while they repaired the motor. "Maybe it'll be available by tomorrow," he said, sounding dubious. "Try calling me in the morning, before noon."

"Tomorrow might be too late for my patient. Do you know of any other Drinker respirators in the area?"

"They have one in Boston." He gave me the name of the hospital and I thanked him.

It took me only ten minutes to learn that Boston's sole iron lung was in use, keeping alive a girl only a few years older than Tommy. I put in a call to my nurse April and asked her to try the largest hospital in New York City. "Where will you be if I need to reach you?" she asked.

"I have to finish my hospital rounds. There's still Mrs. Decker and Major Fox to see." The previous year, an unused wing of the hospital had been converted to doctors' offices. It was much more convenient to have my office there than in town, especially since more and more of my patients were entering the hospital for treatment. And the days when most people entered and departed this world at home were fast fading. More than half of Northmont births were at the hospital now, and many terminally ill patients were treated there, too.

Mrs. Decker and Major Fox were typical examples of my practice. She had given birth the previous day to a plump baby boy. He was an aging war veteran whose lungs had been ruined by a German mustard-gas attack in 1918. There was little any doctor could do for him. I poked my head in to say a few words to Mrs. Decker and her proud husband, thinking as I did so of Mr. and Mrs. Forest down the hall with their terribly ill child. The Deckers would be taking their baby home in a few days to start a new life. For the Forests, whatever the outcome, life would never be the same.

Major Fox had always been a tough old bird and I hated to see him suffer. He lay propped up in bed, a man in his mid-sixties who appeared much older. There was a visitor when I arrived—Clint Wainwright, president of the Northmont Merchants' Council. Major Fox's sporting-goods store on Main Street had always been a popular meeting place, especially during the hunting season, and the major had stimulated business for other merchants with a number of small but useful inventions—a gadget to open cans, another to prolong the life of lightbulbs. He'd even developed some small amplifiers to help the hard-of-hearing.

"How's the patient today?" I asked with a smile, glancing at the chart at the foot of his bed.

"Awful tired, Doc," he managed to say.

"I told him we need him back on Main Street," Wainwright said, trying to be cheerful. He was an ambitious man in his late thirties, a haberdasher by trade. His wavy hair made people kid him about resembling a movie star. "He'll be back soon enough," I said, sounding more hopeful than I felt.

Major Fox coughed and tried to shift to a more comfortable position. "I don't know, Doc. I think that German gas is finally going to finish me off."

I checked his vital signs, taking his pulse and blood pressure and listening to his heart. He was no better than the previous day, but no worse, either. It was almost noon when I finished, and we could hear the nurses bringing around the lunch trays for the patients. "I'd better be going," Clint Wainwright said, getting to his feet. "Take care of yourself now, Major. If you're still here on the weekend I'll stop out to see you again."

"Thanks for coming, Clint," Major Fox replied. As the nurse entered, he started coughing again and she set down his tray and went to adjust the pillows behind his head.

Wainwright and I walked down the corridor together. "What are his chances?" he asked frankly.

I shrugged. "He'll never recover fully. Whether or not he pulls through this attack remains to be seen."

"I feel sorry for him, without a family or anything."

"Who's taking care of his store?"

"He's got a young chap named Bill Bringham who works there as a clerk. Do you know him?"

I shook my head. "The town's growing so fast I can't keep up with all the new arrivals."

"I haven't seen you around the clothing store lately, Doc. We're having a clearance sale right now."

"Thanks, Clint. I might drop by."

I left him in the lobby and went down the corridor to my office. April handed me some messages and said, "I checked with New York.

The only two iron lungs I've located are both in use. Do you want me to try some cities farther away?"

I shook my head. "He'd never make the trip. We'll have to hope he hangs on long enough for the Stamford unit to be repaired. That's our best bet."

April went to lunch and I finished up some paperwork before starting my house calls. I'd promised to look in on Mrs. Higgins and see how her gout was coming along. Before I could leave, however, there was a phone call from Sheriff Lens. "Doc, I need your help."

"I was just leaving on some calls, Sheriff."

"Tess Wainwright's been murdered. I'm at the Wainwright house now."

"Tess? I can't believe it! I saw her husband at the hospital not an hour ago."

"I need you here, Doc. Can you come right out?"

"I could stop on my way to the Higgins place," I told him.

By the time I arrived, Clint Wainwright was on the scene, summoned from his store. He was nearly prostrate with grief and I did my best to comfort him before joining Sheriff Lens.

He stood in Tess's small studio overlooking the wooded back yard of the house. She was slumped in a chair at the easel where she painted. A long paint-spattered cloth had been knotted around her throat. There were signs that she'd tried to struggle—an overturned vase holding flowers, a broken fingernail on one hand—but death appeared to have come with a swift finality.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Tess liked to do her painting in here," the sheriff replied, indicating the easel with a half finished watercolor of the vase of mums. "Clint left her a little before eleven, just as Mrs. Babcock, the cleaning woman, arrived. Mrs. Babcock was working out in the living room the whole time. The studio door was closed. She swears nobody entered the room, yet you can

see for yourself that all the windows are locked."

I moved to each of the three windows in turn. All were firmly latched on the inside, and there was no other door. "There are at least two obvious explanations, of course," I said. "Either Clint killed his wife before he left or Mrs. Babcock is lying."

"She claims she heard Tess moving around—turning on the radio, answering the phone—after her husband left. And I guess I believe her, Doc. That's why I called you."

I'd known Mrs. Babcock for a few years, mainly through running into her at my patients' homes. She was a woman in her early fifties, sturdy and reliable, with a reputation as a hard worker. Widowed for the past ten years, she'd taken a number of weekly cleaning jobs to help support herself and her teenaged daughter.

"Tell me everything that happened from the time you arrived," I said.

Mrs. Babcock's eyes were red from crying, but she seemed to have pulled herself together following the gruesome discovery. "I arrived about ten minutes to eleven, like I always do on Wednesdays. Mr. Wainwright said his wife was painting in her studio and I started cleaning the living room here, right outside the door. He went to the basement to bring up a spare tire for his car and I heard her turn the radio on, as she often did when she painted. I went about my business. About twenty minutes after Mr. Wainwright left, the phone rang and she answered on the first ring."

"Could you hear who she was talking to?"

"No, the door's too thick to carry voices. I just heard it ring once. Then there was nothing else until just before noon." Mrs. Babcock clenched her handkerchief. "I knocked on the door to ask her if she wanted lunch. The radio was still playing, so I figured she didn't hear the knock. I opened the door to ask her again and I found her like that."

I lifted my eyes to Sheriff Lens, who was standing behind her. "Was the radio on when you arrived, Sheriff?"

"No."

"I turned it off when I called him. It was right by the phone."

"And you didn't actually see Tess Wainwright alive before then?"

"Well, no."

"And you heard no sounds of a struggle?"

"No, but the radio was pretty loud."

"You touched nothing in the room except the radio and the telephone?" "Nothing."

"And you'll swear no one entered the room while you were out here?" "No one."

Sheriff Lens sighed. "You see how difficult you're making it for yourself, don't you, Mrs. Babcock?"

"I'm only telling the truth."

We left her and went to the kitchen to speak with Clint Wainwright.

He stood up as we approached, his face reflecting more anger than grief.

"Who could have done it?"

"That's what I was going to ask you," the sheriff told him.

"Clint," I said, "was Tess expecting any visitors this morning?"

"Not that I know of."

"What time did you leave her?"

"It must have been around quarter to eleven. I went downstairs and got a tire I wanted repaired and dropped it at the garage. Then I went to the hospital to see Major Fox. I reached his room a little after eleven."

"You weren't at your store this morning?"

"No. I have a young woman who handles things when I'm away."

"Did Tess have any enemies you know of?"

"Everyone loved her."

"Was there ever any sort of trouble between her and Mrs. Babcock? Did she ever catch her stealing, for example?"

"No. There's been nothing like that."

Some neighbors arrived, attracted by the sheriff's car out front. One of them was Bill Bringham. I remembered the name. "You're the young fellow who works at Major Fox's sporting-goods store, aren't you?"

"That's right, sir," he answered politely. He was a handsome, muscular young man in his mid-twenties, barely a decade younger than me, but the thick glasses he wore made him appear a bit older.

"You live around here?"

"Across the street, a few houses down."

"Did you happen to be home a little before noon?"

"No, sir. I was at the store. How's the Major coming along?"

"As well as can be expected."

"I hope he'll be better soon."

Major Fox would never be much better, but I didn't tell him that. I asked, "Have you ever noticed any visitors to this house during the day when you were at home?"

The sheriff and the others were out of earshot and he looked at me shyly.

"Boy friends, you mean? While her husband was at the clothing store?"

"I didn't mean that, necessarily."

"No, I never noticed anyone. Except Mrs. Babcock, of course. She came every Wednesday."

The body had been removed when I returned to the studio. I glanced at the telephone and the overturned vase of flowers, then turned my attention to the unfinished painting. The vase and flowers had been sketched in, and some of the watercolors—bold strokes of red and green—applied to the leaves and petals.

Sheriff Lens joined me with another of the neighbors. "Doc, you remember Heidi Miller, don't you?"

She was a pleasant woman of about Tess Wainwright's age. I'd treated her two children for the usual round of preadolescent illnesses. "How are you, Heidi? I'd forgotten you live on this street."

"I was over to visit Tess last night. I can't believe this could happen in this neighborhood." She brushed hair away from her eyes, looking distraught.

"You saw her last night?" I asked with interest. "Was her husband here?"

"Clint? Yes—he was going over the store's books. I said hello, but I'd come to see Tess. We were in here, talking about her paintings."

I motioned toward the easel. "She was working on this still life?"

"The flowers, yes. I see she added some color to it since last night."

"You were close to her, Heidi. Did she ever hint that her life might be in danger?" "No."

"What did you talk about last night?" Sheriff Lens asked.

"Her painting, my children. She was always interested in my boys, probably because she had no children of her own. We visited each other often. I can't believe she's gone."

"Do you employ Mrs. Babcock, too?" I asked on a hunch.

"Yes. She does my house on Tuesdays."

"Is she trustworthy?"

"Oh, yes."

"You've never had any problems with her?" "Never."

There was little more to be done and I walked out to my car with Sheriff Lens. "Do you have any idea who might have called her between eleven and twelve?"

The sheriff shrugged. "Maybe we should talk to Milly Tucker at the exchange. She might remember who she plugged in."

"I'll let you handle that. I've got patients waiting."

"I sure would appreciate any help you can give me, Doc. Clint Wainwright's an important man with the local merchants. I gotta solve this one real quick."

I paused by the car. "I can't help thinking about Clint's perfect alibi. If we believe Mrs. Babcock, at the time Tess was being murdered he was sitting in that hospital room with Major Fox. I saw him there myself. I'm always suspicious of perfect alibis."

"You think Clint hired someone to strangle his wife?" Sheriff Lens asked, his tone of voice reflecting his doubts.

"I don't know. That wouldn't solve the problem of Mrs. Babcock swearing no one entered the room, would it?"

The sheriff shook his head. "Could you talk to Milly at the telephone exchange for me? I want to get the autopsy started as soon as possible."

I agreed with reluctance. I was already late for my house call on Mrs. Higgins, but her condition was nothing serious. I could always drive over in the morning.

Wainwright's Haberdashery was only a block from the telephone building and I decided to stop there first. I remembered the young woman Clint Wainwright had mentioned. Lottie Gross was an attractive brunette who'd been popular with the boys ever since high school.

"Dr. Sam," she greeted me. "Mr. Wainwright's not here now. You probably heard the awful news about his wife."

"I just came from there. It's a terrible tragedy."

"They were so close. He'll take it awfully hard."

"Was he in the store at all this morning, Lottie?"

"No, I think he went right to the hospital from home, to visit Major Fox. I opened at ten and he got here a little after twelve, just before the sheriff phoned him."

"Thanks, Lottie," I said. "I'll be seeing you."

I went down the block to the telephone exchange and climbed the stairs to the second floor where Milly Tucker and another girl worked the switchboards. Both had been out of high school only a few years. Milly was a wild young woman who'd been born a little too late to be a flapper, but she had the reputation of livening up a party with her rendition of the Charleston.

"Hello, Milly. How are you today?"

"Dr. Hawthorne! What are you doing up here?"

The other operator shoved a plug into a lighted hole and spoke the familiar request. "Number, please."

"You heard what happened to Tess Wainwright this morning?"

"Someone killed her. It's horrible!"

"As near as we can tell, she died between eleven and noon. Mrs. Babcock, the cleaning woman, heard the phone ring once during that time. Is there any chance you could remember who called her?"

"Gee, Dr. Hawthorne, we get so many calls during the day. Rose and I just plug and unplug without paying much attention." Her board was beginning to light up and she made a few quick connections before turning back to me. "I wish I could help you. Rose, do you remember a call to the Wainwright house between eleven and twelve?"

The other girl thought about it. "It seems like there was one. Maybe from

Mr. Wainwright at his store?"

I shook my head. "He wasn't at the store."

"I guess I can't remember, then."

"Thanks anyway, girls. If anything comes to you, let me or Sheriff Lens know right away."

When I got to my office, April was frantic. "I've been calling all over trying to find you. Millie Tucker said you just left there. The Forest boy is worse."

"I'll go right out to see him."

"The Stamford hospital called. The respirator is fixed. I told them to send it as fast as possible."

"How long ago was that?"

"Just after one. I tried to reach you at the Higgins place but they said you never arrived there. Where've you been?" There was something like accusation in her tone.

"Mrs. Wainwright's been murdered. The sheriff needed my help."

"What about Mrs. Higgins? She's wondering when you'll be out to see her."

"Call and tell her tomorrow morning."

I hurried down the hospital corridor to Tommy Forest's room. When I reached it I saw a staff doctor and a nurse at his bedside with Tommy's parents. The doctor glanced up as I entered. "I've got a respirator on the way from Stamford," I said.

He shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Sam. We couldn't keep him going. He died a few minutes ago."

Mavis Forest turned toward me from the bed. "Where were you? Tommy was crying for you to help him."

"I'm sure Dr. Cranston here did everything he could."

"If the respirator had gotten here in time—" Tears were running down Mike Forest's cheeks.

"I'm sorry." It was all I could say.

Cranston followed me out of the room. "April couldn't reach you anywhere."

"I was helping Sheriff Lens with something."

His lips tightened into a grim line. "Excuse me for saying it, Sam, but our job is to treat the living. We're not policemen."

"There was nothing I could have done."

"You could have been here."

April found me in the office, my hand on the telephone. "Tommy Forest died," I told her.

"I know."

"I just called Stamford to cancel the respirator."

She came over to the desk. "Why don't you go home? You look terrible."

"Cranston says I should have been with my patient instead of out helping

Sheriff Lens."

"Don't pay any attention to him."

"He might be right."

I went home to my apartment and brooded. Sheriff Lens phoned once to talk about the case, but I told him I wasn't in a talking mood. The killing of Tess Wainwright had all but passed from my mind. I was thinking instead of Tommy Forest and Mrs. Higgins and the rest of my patients.

Had I let them down?

Did I deserve to be a doctor in Northmont?

I slept very little that night, weighing my future. Solving the mysteries that Sheriff Lens brought me had become an important part of my life, but if I was to remain in Northmont that could no longer be. I was a doctor first. It was time to get my priorities straight, even if it meant leaving Northmont and setting up a new practice in another town.

In the morning I made my hospital rounds, avoiding the empty room where Tommy Forest had been. Major Fox was feeling a little better and I sat with him longer than usual, listening to him reminisce about the war. It was there Sheriff Lens found me. "I been lookin' all over for you, Doc."

I said goodbye to the major and stepped into the hall. "I'm thinking of retiring from the crime-solving business, Sheriff."

"What?"

"A boy died of polio yesterday. I couldn't have saved him by being here, but it might have been some comfort to him and his family."

"What about the people whose lives you save by bringin' killers to justice?"

"We don't get too many repeat offenders around here."

"What about the Wainwright case? Suppose the killer goes free and strangles someone else?"

"I think Tess Wainwright knew her killer. Otherwise he couldn't have gotten behind her to strangle her so easily. You don't turn your back on a burglar."

"How'd he get into the room?"

"Maybe he was there all the time. Maybe Tess had a lover she let in after her husband departed. She could have opened the window for him and relatched it after he entered."

"How'd he get out again?"

"He was still there, hiding behind the door, when Mrs. Babcock entered. He slipped out while she was phoning you."

"I suppose it's a possibility," the sheriff conceded, sounding doubtful. "But wouldn't he have slugged Mrs. Babcock over the head as she entered rather than risk being seen?"

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Sheriff. I have to make a house call. On the way back, I'll meet you at the Wainwright house and we'll see if my theory could work."

"Can you make it in an hour? Around noon?"

"I'll try."

I called on Mrs. Decker and her baby, who were doing fine, and then drove out to the Higgins house. They were pleasant enough to me, though Mrs. Higgins did say, "We expected you yesterday. I baked a cake and you could have had a piece."

"I'm sorry I missed that. Something came up."

"Milly Tucker says you're helping the sheriff with the Wainwright killing."

"I was, but I'm too busy with patients to give much more time to it."

When I left, I drove immediately to the Wainwright house. Sheriff Lens was waiting outside.

"Find anything interesting?" I asked.

"Just that your theory wouldn't work, Doc. Come take a look."

I followed him into the house, which was silent now and strangely lifeless. "She's being waked this afternoon," the sheriff explained. "Everyone's at the funeral parlor."

We entered the studio off the living room and I saw at once what he meant. The door opened inward to the right, and the telephone was on a table by the right-hand wall. Mrs. Babcock had to go that way to phone for help after finding the body. Even more fatal to my theory, a stack of finished paintings was stored behind the door, leaning against the wall. No one could have hidden there—and even if they'd tried, Mrs. Babcock would have spotted them when she made her call. "I'm convinced," I said.

"Any other ideas, Doc?"

"Not a one." I flipped through the unframed canvases. "She seemed to prefer flowers and still life. Look at the delicate strokes on those petals and leaves. She was a good artist."

"If you say so. I like more action in my pictures."

I started for the door. "I have patients to see."

"Doc, you know who killed her, don't you?"

"There's one possibility," I admitted. "Let's drive over to the funeral parlor."

I followed him in my car and left it parked down the road. Though it wasn't quite time for visiting hours, a crowd had already gathered. We said hello to several people as I searched for the person I wanted. It was a long shot, I knew—a bluff—but it might pay off. "There she is," I said to Sheriff

Lens. "Come on."

"Hell, Doc, she can't be the killer! That's—"

"Lottie!" I called out. "Lottie Gross! Could I see you for a minute?"

The girl from Wainwright's clothing store came over to us, looking puzzled. "Could you get in the car for a minute, Lottie? We have to speak with you."

"What about?" she asked, getting into the back seat while I held the door.

I slipped into the front seat with the sheriff and half turned to face her. "Lottie, Clint asked you to phone his house yesterday, didn't he? Between eleven and twelve? He asked you to let the phone ring once and then hang up."

"I—"

"Sheriff Lens is about to arrest Clint Wainwright for the murder of his wife. Unless you cooperate with him, you could be charged as an accessory."

Lottie Gross cried a great deal. The sheriff finally drove us down the road where we could talk without fear of interruption. What came through the tears was an overriding fear that her parents would discover she was having an affair with Wainwright. This seemed to her a far greater sin and disgrace than the fact that she'd played a role in helping Wainwright establish an alibi for his wife's murder.

"He never said he was going to kill her," she insisted. "He just asked me to make the phone call."

Sheriff Lens was still in the dark, though he was doing a good job of pretending to know all about it. Finally he asked me, "Could you run over it for Lottie from the beginning, Doc? Maybe then she'll see how serious it is."

"Wainwright strangled his wife in her studio shortly before Mrs. Babcock arrived at quarter or ten to eleven. He closed the door, knowing Mrs.

Babcock wouldn't disturb her at least until noon. To heighten the illusion that Tess was still alive, he did two things. He went to the basement on the pretext of picking up a tire to be repaired, and while he was down there he replaced a fuse he'd removed earlier from the fuse box. That caused the radio in Tess's studio to start playing, because he'd turned it on before he left the room earlier. Mrs. Babcock naturally assumed she was alive and had turned on the radio herself. Later, while he was establishing his hospital alibi by visiting Major Fox, he had Lottie here phone his house and let it ring just once, further heightening the illusion that Tess was alive and talking to someone."

"How did you know all this, Doc? How do you know Tess wasn't alive?"

"Mrs. Babcock told us she turned off the radio to call you because it was so loud. Are we to believe Tess would have answered the phone when it

rang without either turning the radio down or off?"

"I thought Mrs. Babcock said she heard her moving around."

"That part was simply her imagination. If the door was too thick to hear voices, she couldn't have heard any slight movements, either." Lottie Gross lifted her head.

"He said he'd marry me. I love him."

"You'll have to testify against him if you want to avoid a prison term," I warned her.

"Doc," the sheriff asked me, "how'd you stumble onto this?"

"It was that unfinished painting, I suppose. Those broad strokes of red and green were so unlike the delicate strokes on the petals and leaves of her other paintings. Of course, artists do change their styles, but Heidi Miller visited her the night before and saw the work before those unusual strokes were added. If Tess died earlier than we supposed, without having time for her painting, it would be obvious that her husband's alibi was no good. That got me thinking how the whole thing could have been faked. Rose at the telephone exchange thought the mysterious call was Clint calling home from his store. Her memory was half right in that the call was from the store. I knew it couldn't have been Clint and guessed he'd asked Lottie to place the call and then hang up."

"One thing I still don't understand," Sheriff Lens said. "Why did Clint make it difficult for himself by inventing a closed-room situation? Why didn't he leave a window unlocked, at least, to give a random killer access to the studio?"

"The answer to that is simple. Clint couldn't know that Mrs. Babcock would remain within sight of that door for all that time. He thought she'd be moving around the house, going to other rooms, allowing plenty of opportunity for a hypothetical killer to strike. Mrs. Babcock made the killing into an impossible crime by her movements—or lack of movements."

"Do you want to dictate a statement to me and then sign it?" Sheriff Lens asked Lottie.

"I don't want to hurt Clint."

"He killed his wife, Lottie. He has to be punished."

"Yes," she said finally. "I'll sign a statement."

Clint Wainwright was arrested later that afternoon. Two days later Tess was buried. I missed the funeral because Tommy Forest was buried the same morning and I went there instead.

"As it turned out," Dr. Sam concluded, "I stuck pretty well to my promise to devote more time to my patients. I stayed away from playing detective for more than a year. It wasn't until the night Prohibition ended that something happened in Northmont to make me break my vow. But I'll save that story for next time."