The Doctor Digs a Grave Read Online Free PDF Page B

dinner—they invited you to dinner parties.) She often invited a few younger staff members
to liven up the parties, and Fenimore, known even then for his witty repartee, was frequently included.
    Fenimore had early grown tired of the Hardwicks’ form of entertaining. By the time he was thirty, he preferred to spend his spare evenings at home with Sal and a good mystery. (That was before he met Jennifer, of course.) Now, Hardwick was a prominent surgeon. There wasn’t a prestigious board in Philadelphia that didn’t bear his name, and the only time Fenimore ever saw the famous surgeon was when he bumped into him at some medical meeting. Funny, he couldn’t remember his son, or any of his children, for that matter. Of course that was more than twenty years ago. The children would have been very young at the time and not permitted to eat with the grown-ups. They probably lived their small lives upstairs under the watchful eye of an expensive nanny.
    Fenimore pushed open the fire door and stepped into the foyer of the Police Administration Building. He captured a pay phone and dialed his office. After learning that there were no messages, he gave Mrs. Doyle her instructions. First, call Dr. Hardwick’s home and ask for Ted. If Ted answers, or is called to the phone, pretend to be doing a television survey and ask what program he’s watching. If the person who answers has never heard of Ted, say, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hang up. Second, call Dr. Hardwick’s office. If he’s in, ask how long he’ll be there. If he’s out, ask where he can be reached.
    While Fenimore waited for Doyle to call back, he jealously guarded his pay phone and surveyed the scene before him. Armed men in blue uniforms led scruffy, handcuffed youths in and out of a network of mysterious rooms. None of the offenders looked particularly upset. On the contrary, they had the air of being in a familiar place, following a well-known routine and being bored with the whole procedure.
    The telephone jangled in his ear. He grabbed the receiver to learn that Ted Hardwick had answered Ned Hardwick’s home
phone; he did not watch morning television. Dr. Hardwick was not in his office. He was on his way downtown to chair a meeting at the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons at 1:00.
    Fenimore glanced at his watch. 12:30. “Thanks, Doyle.” Dodging an assortment of police officers and alleged criminals, he reached the sidewalk and hailed a cab, a luxury he indulged only in cases of emergency. He gave the cabby the uptown address, “Eighteenth and Spruce.”
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    The home of the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons, or PSPS (pronounced “pisspiss” by some heretical nonmembers), was an imposing combination of brick, marble, and wrought iron, located in the once fashionable part of town near Rittenhouse Square. The doctors who had founded the society in 1789 had held monthly meetings there to parade their titles and degrees while partaking of tea, sherry, and elegant pastries. The present members carried on this time-honored tradition.
    But the society wasn’t entirely social. It had some excellent academic resources: a museum with such tantalizing exhibits as the largest tumor excised in the United States before 1900; a library containing a firsthand account by Benjamin Rush of the yellow fever epidemic; and a small but exceptional herb garden providing specimens of plants and herbs used for healing before the advent of pharmaceuticals. Finding these resources useful on occasion, Fenimore paid his annual dues and skipped the social gatherings.
    The wrought-iron gate stood open. He followed the brick path that wound through the herb garden. Strolling slowly among the beds, he could keep an eye on the gate without appearing to be overtly watching for someone. Now and then he stooped to read a label attached to a plant. “Marigold (ointment for ulcers).”