a case of suspicion analysis
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He threw back the covers and sat up on his bed, his feet feeling along the cold floor for his house slippers, the telephone ringing insistently a little distance away.
He turned on the light and picked up the phone.
"This is Doctor Benson," he said.
The November wind was bringing sounds of winter as it blew around the little white house. The doctor got into his clothes. He went to the table and stared a moment at his watch, his spirit complaining at the job ahead of him.
Two o’clock. His mind also complained at the horrible hour and he wondered why children always had to be born at such improper times. He took up two small satchels: the short pill bag, as the people of the town knew it, and the long obstetrical case—the baby bag they called it.
Doctor Benson stopped a moment to light a cigarette, then put the pack of cigarettes in his overcoat pocket. The wind felt like a surgeon’s knife at his face as he opened the door and ran, bending low, around the driveway to the garage.
His car started with difficulty, coughed a half-dozen times as he drove down the driveway but then he began to run more smoothly as he turned down Grass Street and on to the deserted highway.