He glanced briefly at the neat gold-leaf lettering on the door as he closed it. His lips curled in a wry smile as he read:
Opening an office in Jackson City had been Meg’s idea. He’d given up his Chicago practice when he joined the Marines, and after Korea he felt he didn’t want to open up in the city again. “Let’s settle down in some small town and raise a family while I’m building a practice,” he said. “A place that’ll be a real home for the kids.”
Then Meg had seen that ‘Office for Rent’ ad. “The people of this town are bound to remember your name. Dr. Harry Jackson of Jackson City. It’s a good omen.”
Omens and hunches governed most of Meg’s activities, although they’d never yet produced any especially good results. They were as much a part of her personality as her fly-away blond hair and breathless manner.
Well, the Jacksons had been in Jackson City almost a year, and the good omen hadn’t paid off. He’d hardly made a dent in this town, and even happy-go-lucky Meg was becoming discouraged.
With a sigh, he walked back through the waiting room, pausing absently to straighten a neat pile of magazines that needed no straightening, and to switch off a couple of lights.
Entering the inner office his eye took in the large adjusting table in the middle of the room. He was reminded that the guard on the release catch was stuck. Better fix this before Meg comes in again, he thought, and grinned as he recalled her warning words of yesterday. He dug out some tools and set to work.
The phone rang when he was lost in work. It was Meg.
“Are you still there?” she asked in a fighting voice.
“I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, hon,” he said, “and I won’t complain if the dinner is burnt or eaten up.” The door chime sounded before she could answer.
“Hold on, someone just came in.” He put the receiver down and strode to the waiting room.
A tall, burly, fortyish man was standing near the outer door. His body was slouched to one side and he had his hand jammed deep into his topcoat pocket. He was clean-shaven but swarthy, and in the dimmed room his face had a menacing look.
“Are you alone, Doc?” His voice was harsh but low.
“What can I do for you?” countered Dr. Jackson. He spoke calmly but a foreboding chill enveloped him.
“I wanna talk to you for a minute.”
“Be with you right away — busy on the phone.” He stepped back quickly into the inner office, closing the door, and picked up the receiver.
“Look, honey, someone just came in and I may be held up for a while.” He grimaced at the accidental pun.
“Your voice sounds funny,” she said. “Who on earth is it at this hour?”
“I don’t know. A man. He wants to see me.” He tried to sound casual but his throat felt dry.
“You’re worried,” she said, nervously. “Hang up and I’ll call the police. I’ve got a hunch that—”
“You and your hunches!” he interrupted furiously. “Let me handle it my way. Just relax and I’ll call you back as soon as he’s gone.” He hung up and returned to the waiting room, reassured by his own boldness.
The man was now sitting in a chair, fingering a cigarette. Dr. Jackson motioned to him and he arose with difficulty. Watching him, Dr. Jackson became conscious of a welcome loosening in his own limbs. No doubt about it, the man had trouble with his back. Meg and her hunches!
At his desk he jotted down the man’s case history. He’d had a flat tire just outside of town; while lifting the spare onto the wheel he’d felt a snap and a severe pain at the base of his spine. His name was Charles Jones and he lived in Pilotsville, fifty miles away.
Dr. Jackson had him strip to the waist, then step on the platform of the adjusting table. He advanced the lever on the side of the table to accommodate the more than two-hundred pound weight of the man. Gently he pulled the table down to the horizontal position, making sure that the catch at the head of the table caught, because he hadn’t yet finished working on the safety guard.
With sensitive fingers he palpated the patient’s spine. It was an obvious case of sacroiliac strain. He deftly adjusted the distorted areas, working quickly and surely.
He had finished giving the adjustment, and was about to check the results when the door chimed. Another late patient? He stepped out to the waiting room, closing the door behind him, then stopped in open-mouthed dismay.
Three policemen with drawn guns seemed about to pounce on him. One of them, noting his white office coat, spoke up. “What’s goin’ on, Doc?”
“Nothing... nothing at all, Officer.” He felt his face redden in embarrassment.
“But your wife called,” the policeman said. “Your wife said to hurry, you’re being held up.”
“Oh no... no!” His hands flew involuntarily to his head. “My wife — she’s very impulsive. She was... nervous, about a late patient. It’s a mistake and I am sorry.”
“But you’re sure everything’s alright?”
“Quite sure, believe me.”
Looking slightly disappointed the policemen left, and he returned to his patient who was lying relaxed on the table.
“Another late one, Doc?”
“Uh — yes — I made an appointment for tomorrow.” He was glad the man hadn’t heard. Well, so the hunch had gotten the better of Meg. Poor Meg! She was a sweetheart, if only she could forget those hunches and omens.
The phone screamed. Meg’s voice was frightened. “Everything alright, darling?”
“Oh, everything’s fine.” Sure, when he finally did get a new patient in, Meg had to sic the cops on him.
“Did the — they come? The police?”
“They did.” His voice was righteously icy.
“Darling, I was frightened. I had a hunch—”
“Yes, I know. Look, I’m busy. We’ll discuss it later. Goodbye now.” His face had softened but his voice had not.
The man on the table was fidgeting. “My back feels better, Doc, and I think I’ll be going.”
“Sure. Have you out in a couple of minutes. Just want to check back.”
His hands slid down the patient’s spine for a comparison check of the sacroiliac. The chime sounded. His heart sank. What now? He opened the door to the waiting room and stuck his head out.
A police sergeant stood there, report book in hand. Dr. Jackson stepped into the waiting room and quickly shut the door behind him.
The sergeant eyed him grimly. “What’s the joke, Doc? You know you’ve got four police cars outside and a hungry mob waiting to see the body?”
Dr. Jackson’s arms lifted slightly and dropped again in a gesture of helplessness. “I’ve already explained—” he said. “My wife—”
“I know,” said the sergeant gruffly. “I’ve got one myself.”
He paused to scribble something in his book, then shutting it, said, “I’d better call this back to headquarters. Mind if I use your phone?” He started for the inner office, but Dr. Jackson barred the way.
“Please, Officer, my patient doesn’t know what a ruckus he started. If you phone from inside, well, it’ll be embarrassing for both of us.”
The sergeant looked doubtful, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Okay, I understand — I think.” He made for the outer door. “Tell the missus to take it easy next time,” he called back from the door.
What a nightmare, Dr. Jackson breathed as he returned to his patient. But the man was no longer lying docilely on the table. Instead he was standing beside it with a small automatic in his hand.
“What’s goin’ on, Doc? I saw the cop.”
Dr. Jackson was stunned, his eyes fixed hypnotically on the gun.
“You did a good job, and I would’ve paid you well. But you had to play detective and call the cops. And I don’t like cops.”