Эдвард Хох - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 1. Whole No. 791, July 2007

When she wakes up, she is in a hospital bed. The patient in the next bed has the evening news on, and a solemn anchorman is intoning: “The death toll continues to mount in the tragic fire at the Timmons Free Elementary School. Police and fire officials are puzzled as to why veteran teacher Margaret Wentworth led her charges to the second floor and away from a safe exit. Six children were critically burned, another six died of smoke inhalation.” The announcer’s voice turns fatuous. “Among the survivors is ten-year-old Basil Bates, shown here with his friend Edgar Belliveau. Basil and Edgar managed to make it out the front door of the school and alert authorities as to the whereabouts of the missing children and their teacher. Firemen say they might never have found the group otherwise.”

The scene cuts to an on-the-spot reporter. “How's it feel to be a hero, Basil?” But Margaret Wentworth mercifully loses consciousness again before she can hear the little twit’s reply.

When she wakes a second time, a tall blond doctor is standing at the end of her bed. He takes her vitals, asks how she’s feeling. Margaret Wentworth’s eyes fill with tears.

The doctor pats her hand sympathetically. “The police want a few words with you, but I told them you weren’t ready yet.”

Margaret Wentworth nods. It’s too painful to speak. The doctor pats her hand again. You’ve been through a horrible ordeal, little lady. He looks at her meaningfully. You and I both know that the full story will never come out, that the wolves are always waiting in the wings to criticize. It’s highly probable that Basil and Edgar, those two ruffians, set the fire themselves so they could bask in the spotlight. But why ruin young lives, even heinous ones? You, my dear Ms. Wentworth, will take the blame. But it won’t be for naught. I’ve been searching all my life for a woman like you, tough, dauntless, dare I say noble? This summer, I plan to leave my lucrative practice and go to darkest Africa. The need for medical attention has never been greater there. Might I dare ask, might I dare hope, that you—the incomparable Margaret Wentworth—will accompany me?”

© 2007 by Brenda Joziatis

A scroll winner in the 2006 EQMM Readers Award competition, Edward D. Hoch has provided countless hours of entertainment for this magazine’s readers and editors. The Dr. Sam Hawthorne series, to which this new tale belongs, gives us a tantalizing glimpse of the beloved series sleuth on his eightieth birthday. More than thirty years after the first Dr. Sam case appeared, it’s not only the masterful impossible-crime plots but the series characters that continue to surprise us.

It was a sunny day in 1976 and plans were well under way for Dr. Sam Hawthorne’s eightieth birthday party. He’d grumbled about all the fuss, preferring to spend the day quietly, but that was not to be. His visitor was a familiar one, always a joy to see. “You tell stories to old friends but never to me. Now it’s my turn. You promised me one for your eightieth birthday and this is it. I want to know about that summer of nineteen forty-four.”

He smiled and said, “I usually supply a bit of libation to go with my stories. How about a glass of sherry?”

“I’d prefer scotch if you don’t mind. Scotch and water would be fine.”

It was an exciting summer (Dr. Sam began, after he’d supplied the refreshments). The Allies had stormed the French beaches on June 6th, landing in Normandy at dawn following an airborne attack further inland. Despite heavy casualties, the landings were successful and a second wave of troops quickly followed. Back home in Northmont things were relatively quiet as I awaited the birth of our first child. Annabel’s baby was due in late July and she’d already decided if it was a boy it should be called Sam Junior. I wasn’t too happy with the idea and it was still under discussion.

Annabel had turned over the daily routine at the Ark to her assistant when her pregnancy reached the eight-month mark in late June, though she insisted on remaining on call for any unusual veterinary problems. I readily agreed with her suggestion that we wait out the final month at a cottage on Chester Lake just a few miles from town. It was peaceful there, though I still made a few house calls and my nurse April knew how to reach me in an emergency.

Chester Lake was a placid body of water about a mile wide and five miles long, named after an early landowner in the area. I’d spent a summer there in 1929 when I’d solved a mystery involving some people who vanished from a houseboat and it was there, at the age of 33, that I’d fallen in love for the first time. Her name was Miranda Grey and I often wondered what became of her.

We’d barely unloaded the car for our month-long stay before Annabel started kidding me about her. “Too bad we couldn’t have rented the cottage where Miranda Grey stayed with her aunt and uncle. I’ll bet it would have brought back fond memories.”

All I could give her was a sigh. “I should have known better than to tell you about Miranda. It only lasted a few months.”

All the small one-story cottages at Chester Lake were similar, and as soon as I entered the one we’d rented I was transported back to 1929. The entire front half of the house was given over to the living room with a small fireplace. There was a single bedroom in the left rear. The kitchen and bathroom occupied the right rear, with a back door leading out to the gravel driveway. If there were more than two people staying overnight someone had to sleep on a foldaway bed in the living room. It was a perfect place for the two of us since it discouraged unwanted visitors.

“I guess it’s like a second honeymoon,” Annabel said, settling in. “Or it would be if it weren’t for this bump.” She patted her stomach fondly and gazed up at the living room ceiling. “I wonder what that hook is for.”

“Probably a hanging plant. I doubt it’s for any erotic activity.”

“Sheriff Lens mentioned there’d been some burglaries up here last summer. If we catch a thief we can hang him by his wrists.”

“You should be thinking only nice thoughts these days,” I suggested.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And the sheriff did tell us they’d installed new locks on all the cottage doors this season.”

That was when we heard a knocking on the screen door and I went to answer it. A smiling man of about my age stood there, wearing bathing trunks and an undershirt. “Dr. Hawthorne, you probably don’t remember me.”

“Well, I—”

“Raspin, Jerry Raspin. I was one of the trustees at Pilgrim Memorial Hospital a few years back.”

“Of course!” I told him, because I did remember him then. He had a real-estate business that had been fairly profitable before the war.

“Probably didn’t recognize me without my suit on. I have the cottage next-door.”

“Come in,” I urged, trying to make amends for my hesitation.

He followed me in, as Annabel hurriedly wrapped a robe around her bulging belly. “I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said. “I’m your neighbor for the month of July. The wife and I have the next cottage.”

“How nice,” Annabel said.

“We may not be here the entire month,” I explained. “My wife is expecting our first child in a few weeks.”

“Well, congratulations! That’s great news.” He helped himself to a seat on our sofa.

“Do you take a cottage here each summer?” Annabel asked.

Jerry Raspin nodded. “The wife likes it, and there’s nowhere else to go with this gas rationing. I sure hope the war ends soon. My old clunker of a car won’t last much longer.”