Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

A Honey of a Homicide by John Land

“Buzzards,” Hiram Talbott said, his voice dripping contempt. “All gathered around waiting — or is it hoping? — for me to die.” He let his arrogant gaze sweep along the line of dinner guests; most of them flushed or turned pale; a few stared back with frank hatred — these last were the ones who felt they had nothing to lose.

His wife, a thin, raddled woman who kept her hands fluttering breast high as if to ward off expected blows, made a feeble protest.

“Really, dear,” she twittered. “I know you don’t mean a word of it, but—”

He cut her short with a barking laugh.

“Oh, don’t I? Ask them — they know. Ali my loving relatives and prospective heirs, drooling at the thought of my millions. This is going to hurt them more than it does me, but hear this: the doctor says my heart attack was slight, and didn’t do much damage. If I’m careful, I can still make eighty or so. That means,” he added, with a tigerish smile, “another twenty-six years for them to wait. Of course, I could cross you all up, and leave my money to a college or hospital, but it’s more fun to watch your tongues hang out for good, long spell. And maybe I’ll spend it all by then — who can tell?”

A second cousin, wildly daring, because he estimated his take at approximately zero, said cheerfully: “What’s a cousin’s share, Hiram?”

Talbott peered at him almost approvingly.

“Shares, hell!” he snorted. “It doesn’t work that way. Nothing automatic or mathematical. The ones I like best — or rather, the ones I detest least — get the most.” His bulging blue eyes twinkled with malice. “So keep on buttering me up; I know it’s opportunism and hypocrisy, but at least I admire competence and intelligent slyness. The best phony may bet the biggest slice in the end.” He paused, then added ambiguously. “In the end!”

“Really, dear,” his wife said. “Not at dinner.”

He ignored her, and she smiled weakly at the guests, still warding off imaginary blows with her weaving hands.

“Perhaps I ought to announce your present ratings,” Talbott said, obviously relishing the notion. “Then you’ll have twenty odd years to improve them. Some of you may not live that long, but there are always children — a fresh crop of little buzzards waiting for the old man’s carcass. Not that I blame you for being greedy; I was that way myself, and still am. Only I fought my way up and satisfied that greed by action — not by being a jackal. If one of you had the guts to go out and make one measly million by some judicious bluffing, lying, cheating, or even wangling it from Uncle Sam — which is shooting at a sitting bird! — I’d have some respect for him. I’ve never believed in dirty money; it’s the only stuff that never soils to the point where people turn it down. You could take a thousand dollar bill from any sewer, and fifty jokers would be glad to snap at it with their teeth, if you gave ’em the chance.” He eyed his relatives again, and shook his big head in disgust. “Bah! I’m wasting my time. If one of you found a million dropped by mistake from a Brink’s truck, like that clown a while back, you’d return it, too. Not out of simple-minded honesty, but fear that somebody might’ve seen you pick it up, and cause trouble.”

He cut a large piece of fillet, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it vigorously, his heavy jaw-muscles working like cables under a load.

After swallowing, he gulped some wine, and without warning pointed a finger at the couple to his right.

“You, two!” Talbott snapped. “My oldest son and his missus. Ready for your rating?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Dad,” the man said. He was short and thick, with heavy jowls; his forehead was beaded with perspiration, and he reaised a soft, well-manicured hand in a gesture reminiscent of his mother. His, wife, plump and dowdy, in spite of her expensive clothes, muttered something in his ear. Their host laughed.

“Telling you to take it, hey Malcolm? Don’t cross the old man. Wait him out; get your cut of the loot. Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Talbott,” he added jeeringly. “Respectable attorney; not about petty chiseling, but too gutless to go after the real loot among politicos and crooks. Rating? About third from the bottom, I’d say. Nowhere to go but up — that’s a comforting thought, yes, Malcolm?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to another couple at his left, just beyond Mrs. Talbott, who immediately blocked a whole series of jabs, even though she held a knife and fork.

“My youngest son,” Talbott said. “And his wife.” He examined her inch by shrinking inch. True, she looked like a B-girl, and had on enough of the wrong perfume to suggest an aroused civet cat, but actually Julie Talbott — Mrs. Morton Talbott — was a virtuous and kindly girl, even if she didn’t have enough brains to equip a sparrow.

Her husband paled with anger, and put his hand over hers.

“Morton Talbott,” Hiram said. “Would-be artist. Makes junk from old iron, broken dishes, and dried soupbones. When he’s through, they look exactly like old iron, broken dishes, and dried soupbones. Luckily his mother — my generous wife — subsidizes him from the household money.” His wife redoubled her fluttery guard motions, and her eyes showed anxiety. “I’ve always known about it,” Hiram continued relentlessly. “I find it amusing that a grown man will fritter away his life on such stuff while living on crumbs from my table, even though I offered him a chance to do something worth-while.”

“Like building cheap houses that fall down in a year?” Julie snapped, her brown eyes full of fire.

“Is that what I wanted you to do, Morton?” Talbott asked, his voice wickedly soft.

“Julie didn’t mean that,” Morton said. “She doesn’t understand business. I’d be glad to try—”

“Sure, now you would!” his father said coldly. “But I warned you there would be no second chance. You chose soupbones and Art; now you can wait like the others to pick my bones in twenty-six years. Your rating is just about Malcolm’s, mainly because your wife, even if she’s a little nicompoop, has some guts — even to snap at me. Probably she picked you, instead of the reverse — God knows why — so she belongs in your credit column, I figure.”

He studied his guests again, and said: “Who’s left? A nephew; still a bachelor; and one second cousin on his second wife, I believe. You two have the advantage,” he added, “that I don’t know you too well. I know that you haven’t done anything of importance, considering your ages, which means you probably never will. My nephew, William Davis,” he told the others, “is almost thirty, and still drives all over California trying to sell ladies’ underwear: that’s a career for you! But I’ll rate him a little above Morton at that, because he’s had sense enough to stay single. That way,” he said, giving his wife a crooked smile, “he can’t get the kind of sons — and daughter — like mine.”

At this mention of a daughter, all the company came to attention. It was obviously a slip, and they were curious about the cover-up to follow. But their hostess managed to draw the lightning.

“If you are serious about all this inheritance talk,” she broke in eagerly, “you really ought to do something about poor Cyrus; after all he’s so badly crippled, and June did love—”

“I told you not to mention either of them in this house ever again!” her husband said, all the playful malice gone from his voice, to be replaced by a kind of pathological anger.

“But you brought it up,” she countered weakly. “You did say ‘daughter,’ and I thought—”

“You did not think; you never have, and you don’t now!” was the brutal reply. “You don’t have the equipment, Martha, so please be quiet.”

“That’s a terrible way to talk,” Julie Talbott said, her voice shrill. “If I were you, Martha — stop it!” she added fiercely, as Morton tugged at her arm. “I’m not afraid of the old tyrant!”

“Of course, you’re not,” Hiram said, playfully malicious again. “As I said, you have nerve, but not much brains or imagination. You can’t understand what Morton knows so well — that a million dollars is worth any kind of insult — that you can lick boots for it, and then wash the polish off your tongue with champagne. With enough champagne, you can rinse the taste of anything at all off your tongue. Right, Morton?”

There was no reply. Julie glared at him; but Morton squeezed her arm until it hurt, and she settled back in her chair, flushed and breathing heavily.

“Now we come to Cousin Jerry,” Talbott said. “And his second wife, Lucy. His first one left him for greener pastures — a very sensible woman, that — and this one, I suspect, married him for me. In other words, she smelled money in the family, and even though Jerry is a clod — a beer-drinking, baseball-happy, TV-addicted clot — who’ll never make more than a hundred dollars a week — she hoped he might inherit a bundle in the not-too-distant future. I give this much to Jerry; he’s almost too much of a clod even to ponder that angle. Rather, he was; now she has him convinced.”

Jerry Simmons, a thin man with an enormous nose, reddened angrily, and started to get up, fists clenched; but his wife held him down. She was bigger and heavier than he, and had stronger features. Her eyes were grey, cold, and seemed able to pierce flesh like daggers. They met Talbott’s large blue ones in a clash of stares, and the old man gave her a wry twist of his lips by way of a left-handed compliment.

“You’re the best man in this whole bunch,” he said. “If you were of my own blood, damned if I wouldn’t leave all the money to you.”

“You can do that anyhow,” she said levelly. “Anything Jerry gets I’ll have to manage; you know that, and so does my husband.”

“Ah, knock it off, Lucy!” Jerry said uneasily. “I don’t get any of this jazz tonight. Just a lot of crazy talk.”

“So,” Hiram said, watching them, “again I have to credit a husband with his wife’s merits, so to speak. I should think you two come second.”

“Who’s first?” Lucy asked promptly.

“My wife,” Talbott answered without hesitation. “And that’s so not on her sterling qualities, but merely because I picked her. You others were wished on me. I picked her,” he added, brutally frank, “as a stepping-stone. Her father was President of National Electronics, and the marriage gave me a leg-up. None of you had as much sense, I’m afraid.” He let his eyes pass over the group again, and said: “That concludes the ratings. Now you will be free to change my mind, if you can.” He looked down at the table, and frowned. “Where the devil’s my comb-honey?”

“Oh, dear,” his wife twittered. “I forgot to have it brought in from the hive.” She jumped up. “I’ll go get it now.”

“You will not,” her husband said. “Since the servants have gone for this evening, I’ll just call on some of these ‘waiters’! Since they are waiting for my money, let them wait on us. Any volunteers? It might help somebody’s rating,” he added cynically.

“I’ll go,” Malcolm said. “Not that I’m trying to curry favor.”

“Ingenious,” his father said. “You figure that so obvious an attempt to curry favor will be taken as a frank disavowal of such an intention. Or did I lose you.”

“I’ll go, too; I haven’t seen the hives for a long time,” Davis said.

“Two will be enough,” Talbott said. “One comb isn’t very heavy. Put on the yard-lights. You know which hive, Malcolm — the one farthest from the patio. Matter of turn,” he explained.

It was hardly necessary to explain; they all knew of his fondness for fresh honey from the comb. There were a dozen hives on the estate, much to the annoyance of the help and Talbott’s visitors.

While Malcolm and William Davis were gone, Talbott drank more wine, and tried to stir up some general conversation, but his previous comments had not left his guests in a good mood. They fiddled with their dessert, and waited for the ordeal to end. The unexpected invitation, a few weeks after Talbott’s illness, had brought their hopes to new heights. Surely it was time for the old man to tell them where they stood. Maybe he might even relent and distribute some money now; after all, he had about fifteen million bucks, and didn’t live very high himself. Power, not money, was his staff of life.

Malcolm and Davis came in with a comb-of honey; Mrs. Talbott took it from them, put it on a saucer, and laid the dish before her husband. With an oddly greedy look, he began to gobble the golden sweet. After several large spoonfuls, he sighed with pleasure, and seemed about to say something. Then, they saw his face turn beet-red, and the cords of his neck swell monstrously. With bulging eyes he clawed at his throat, breath stertorous as he fought for air. He thrashed about like a wounded animal, finally rolling to the floor.

Mrs. Talbott screamed; the others milled about helplessly.

“Call a doctor!” Julie shrieked, and Lucy Simmons, grey eyes luminously steady, bent over the stricken man, and attempted to breathe into his mouth. But it was all over too fast; Hiram Talbott, his face blue and congested, coughed spasmodically for a few seconds, and was still.

“I think he’s dead,” Lucy announced, her voice flat and dull.

“No!” Mrs. Talbott whimpered. “God, no!” Morton just managed to catch her as she crumpled.

“It was his heart,” Julie said in a hushed voice.

“I doubt that,” Malcolm said. “That last attack was quite different. This is more like—” he hesitated.

“Like what?” Lucy demanded.

“Allergy — real bad allergy. He looked like this that time Doctor Wilson gave him penicillin. If the doctor hadn’t been right with him, he said Dad would’ve died for sure. They have a name for it — some kind of shock.”

“Shouldn’t we be calling a doctor, instead of jabbering?” Jerry Simmons asked querulously.

“It’s all happening so fast,” Julie said

“I’ll call Dr. Wilson,” Malcolm said.

Lucy was standing very straight, a half smile on her face. “Now we can stop worrying about his money,” she said coolly. “The pie will be cut up, and each of us will know his share — if any.”

“This is no time—” Malcolm began; and Morton, horrified, said: “Money? At a time like this. Really, Lucy.”

But Julie giggled.

“Twenty-six years he said we’d wait. It was nearer twenty-six minutes.”

The expressions of disapproval and shock faded; they looked at each other, faces suitably grave; but eyes were feverishly bright. A multi-million pie was about to be cut up and distributed to the hungry. Nobody remembered that Talbott’s death was still unexplained, and that society would not leave the matter like that.

“You gonna call a doctor or not?” Simmons demanded, looking at Malcolm. “Maybe the old guy’s not even dead.”

For a moment Malcolm seemed bewildered; then he went slowly to the phone and began to dial.

“How convenient that Talbott should die like this,” Lucy said cryptically. “It’s pretty clear he’s left a will, and that all of us will get something. I can use mine now a lot better than in twenty-six years. None of us is getting any younger. Very convenient,” she repeated.

“What’re you getting at?” Morton asked. “Dad must’ve worked himself into a apoplexy, he had such a hate on against us. As ye sow,” he added, “so shall ye reap.”

“Look who’s getting pious!” Julie said. “He hated all his relatives, but they hated him back. And he was your father, Morton.”

“He was their master — and jailer,” Lucy said, battering the younger woman with her grey eyes. On the couch, where she had been dumped rather unceremoniously, Martha Talbott stirred and moaned. Julie went to her, and murmured soothingly. Soon Martha was sobbing.

“When you said ‘convenient’,” Jerry said, “I got your drift, Lucy. You figure the cops might think he was killed — by one of us, maybe.”

“That’s what they’ll think,” Lucy said, “until they know different. Me, I’m betting it was no accident.”

“It looked just like a stroke to me,” Morton objected. “What do you think, Mal? The doctor coming?”

“Be right over,” Malcolm said. “He wouldn’t give any opinion on the phone — you know Wilson — but he seems pretty sure it was Dad’s heart. That bothers him, too, I could tell, because he told him the attack was mild and needn’t happen again. Still, Dad was pretty excited with all that rating stuff. He liked to see us squirm, all right,” Malcolm added bitterly.

“I wonder,” Lucy said in a sly voice, “if we hadn’t better clear the table — and give all the dishes a good washing.”

They stared at her blankly.

“Now?” Julie demanded. “The help will be back tomorrow? Since when are we supposed to do their work?”

“I was just thinking that the police may want to examine all that stuff,” Lucy said. She paused meaningly. “In case of poison.”

There was a pregnant silence for several seconds, then Martha gave a whimpering cry of protest: “Oh, Lucy — no! Not poison! They couldn’t think that.”

“They could — if Dr. Wilson isn’t a hundred per cent sure it’s a heart attack.”

Just then the bell rang.

“Too late,” Lucy sighed. “That must be the doctor now. He won’t let us touch a thing, and anyhow it wouldn’t be smart with him as a witness.” She shook her head. “I’ve a feeling this place will be crawling with the gendarms by tomorrow.”

Sheriff Pete Denton didn’t believe in murder. This was true in two senses. He didn’t believe in it as a solution to anybody’s problem; and he didn’t believe in it until all possibility of accident or suicide had been ruled out.

Unlike many lawmen, he hated the crime far more than the criminal, considering the latter to be either foolish, panicky, or — as an anti-climax — badly brought up.

He was tall and wire thin, and, to a casual observer, melancholy of temperament. He was never known to laugh, and seldom to grin, but his eyes smiled often; and he had a soft chuckle that was more contagious than any bellow of glee.

In eighteen years as sheriff, he had dealt with only six murders, all of them simple, brutal affairs requiring little skill as a detective. On the other hand, he had done well with lesser crimes of a more subtle nature, including the ubiquitous poison pen writer endemic to smaller communities. Ordinarily he was highly laconic, never using two words where one — or a semaphoric eyebrow — might do. But when working on a difficult case, he changed completely, becoming quite garrulous, and using one of his two young deputies as a sounding-board. The other was kept busy with leg-work, since Denton favored for himself reasoning over bird-dogging.

Although he had little formal education, the sheriff knew people, and loved the area itself, which was oppressively hot in season, chillingly damp at night, dry as an old law library, and had the kind of flora and fauna — skunks, lizards, oppossoms, cacti, snakes, sage, iceplant, crows, and coyotes — that only a self-deluded native could approve. But he loved it all, from the gaunt, messy eucalyptus trees fighting hopelessly against the drought to the buccaneer ravens croaking in the foothills.

Right now he stood in the Talbott home, where Dr. Wilson had summoned him.

“I just don’t like the look of this,” the doctor said bluffly. “It’s not heart, and not an ordinary stroke. It looks like anphyllatic shock.”

Denton raised an eyebrow; it wasn’t yet time for garrulity to set in.

“A very strong allergic reaction,” Wilson explained. “It can be a killer, and fast; awful fast if the victim’s sensitive enough.”

“Cause?” Denton asked gently.

“Can’t say, yet.” He looked squarely into the sheriff’s eyes. “The only think I know that affected him this way was penicillin; I almost killed him with it myself a couple of years ago.”

“Fast,” Denton said, half to himself. “Not by injection, obviously; not at the table.” He turned to Dave Hicks, the young deputy who had come with him to the house. “Get samples of all the food on the table. Coroner’s away,” he told Dr. Wilson. “Will you take over again?” The doctor often acted as a substitute for the official Medical Examiner, who liked special courses and conventions of fellow professionals.

“We all ate the same food,” Lucy said loudly.

“Except for the honey,” Julie corrected her. “He was hogging that.”

“Irrelevant,” Denton said, and then looked embarrassed. He never felt at ease with words having more than three syllables. “Penicillin wouldn’t hurt anybody ordinarily, would it Doc?”

“Of course not. These others — as far as I know — could eat a pound of it and never get more than a bellyache.”

While Hicks was gathering his samples, the sheriff began to question the family.

“I have no indication yet, except for Dr. Wilson’s opinion, that any crime has been committed; and you don’t have to answer my questions, but it might help later, if there was foul play.”

“We have nothing to hide,” Malcolm said stiffly. It was coming home to him, not unhappily, that he was now head of the house. Besides, as a lawyer, even if a mediocre one, he had a certain flair for words, and didn’t mind holding the center of the stage. He suspected that his brother and the other relations had no better opinion of him than his father. If so, maybe he could change that a little now, or at least make a start at it.

“If the rest of you don’t mind,” he said in a bland voice, “I’ll tell the sheriff what went on here tonight.” He coughed. “Without going too far into personalities,” he reassured them.

Denton listed in silence to Malcolm’s account of Hiram’s sadistic harangue. As a loving father and devoted husband, it pained him to hear of such relations among members of a family; but intellectually, if not emotionally, he was shockproof. Nobody involved with law enforcement can ever have any illusions about human perfection — nothing, from motherhood to warm puppies, is above suspicion to an experienced cop.

There was one point he asked about.

“This matter of Talbott’s daughter,” he said. “Naturally, I know something about it, but not enough. Of course, if you’d rather pass it by for now...”

“Not at all,” Malcolm said. “It was Dad’s taboo, not ours. To put it simply, our sister, Gloria, married a man Dad couldn’t stand. There were few he could,” Malcolm added sourly. “Anyhow, Dad did have some kind of need for Gloria; she was clever efficient, and a bit ruthless, like him. I think he hoped to keep her for a long time; but she fell for this fellow, a young scientist of sorts, poor as a churchmouse, and Dad, in his usual direct, brutal way disowned her. He even used his influence to mess up the kid’s career. And when Gloria broke down, and got sick, Dad wouldn’t even help her then. She needed help, because Dan — her husband — was horribly wounded in a lab explosion; he can just barely hobble. That’s why mother suggested tonight that Dan ought to get some money — for Gloria June’s sake; she loved him. She’s dead,” he added, as Denton looked blank. “Cancer. Dad blamed Don instead of himself; no sense to it, but that’s the way he was. Wouldn’t let us mention either of them after that.”

The ambulance Dr. Wilson had phoned for came, and when the body had been removed, the sheriff and Hicks left with their samples. They would be sent to the crime lab in Los Angeles, which was the nearest city big enough to have one.

The next day, having sent one deputy — Bill Alvarez this time — to gather more information about the Talbotts, Denton put his feet on the scarred desk, and began to talk “at” Hicks. The young deputy knew his part in this procedure: to nod, look wise, and at rare intervals, comment.

“We don’t know yet that it’s murder,” the sheriff said. “If Talbott was killed by penicillin in the food, maybe it was an accident. Sometimes, I’ve heard, feeders give cattle drugs. Could be that steak had natural penicillin.”

Hicks cocked his head, started to nod, and then frowned. Clearly he didn’t find this a convincing theory. Denton sighed. Much as he hated the idea, accident probably was not the explanation, and murder was.

“On motive,” the sheriff continued, “there’s all we need. Talbott was a lousy father, and both sons hated him. So did their wives. We know that the sons were weak but kinda stubborn. Talbott wanted them to work with him, but they had to get free, and tried to go it alone. When they goofed off, and came crawling back, it was too late. He wouldn’t forgive them. All they ever got was a few handouts from the mother, and a dinner now and then so the old guy could insult them for the hell of it.”

“They all knew he was allergic to penicillin. Anybody could spike his food without the chance of hurting the others. Much better than arsenic or cyanide; you don’t have to be allergic to that.’

Hicks coughed. That meant Denton was getting obvious.

“Well,” the sheriff said. “We both got other work to do, at least until we hear from Los Angeles.” He sank back, and closed his eyes. Hicks got the message, stood up with a groan, and went to his own cubby-hole, where a million papers awaited his attention. The sheriff, perhaps because he couldn’t spell, hated paperwork.

The news from Los Angeles came at three; it confirmed the sheriff’s worst fears. Hiram Talbott had been killed by penicillin — in his comb honey.

“In a way that makes it easier,” he told Hicks, summoned back to provide a pair of captive ears. “And in a way, worse. First thing, though, is to get Bill over to the house to check the rest of that comb, if it’s still there. I goofed not taking it last night.”

Hicks looked puzzled, so the sheriff said: “Either that one comb was spiked, or all of them — or some of the others, let’s say. Question is, how? You can’t just rub penicillin into a honeycomb; it’s fragile stuff.” He thought for a moment. “Injected, maybe.” He squirmed uneasily. “Alvarez is out to hell-and-gone; you better go get that comb — no, bring the whole hive, too; take the station wagon. That’ll leave me with walls to talk to. Can’t solve cases that way. Cussed if I don’t need a third deputy, but just try to get one from that cheap Council of ours. What’re you waiting for — scat, boy!”

When the deputy had left, Denton looked around guiltily for a moment, then went to a file case. Groping far in back, he came out with a battered figurine, one of those comic dolls that represent certain human foibles. This one was female, bent over a phone, and displayed an enormous rear. The caption at the base read: “I’m all ears, Darling.”

With a watchful eye on the door, in case anybody came in, Denton addressed himself to the figurine. He had to have a listener, and this was better than none.

“Okay, Hilda,” he began. “Where was I? Penicillin in the honey; probably injected. If so, needle marks. I’ll have Hicks check that; his eyes are a mite younger and sharper than mine. Besides, I think the whip even keeps a microscope at home. I don’t knock it,” he added hastily. “I’m all for science in crime detection; just ain’t my style, and I’m too old to change, now. Anyhow, Malcolm and that cousin, Davis, went out to the hive. It didn’t seem premeditated; my guess is the stuff was spiked before they got there. Who in the house had penicillin lately; Bill is working on that; he’d better be.”

The sheriff kept on in this vein until Hicks returned with the remaining combs.

“You knew damned well I couldn’t bring a hive,” he growled accusingly. “I’m no beekeeper. I had the gardener pull out just the combs, and didn’t stay to watch how he did it, neither! He knows about the critters; I don’t.”

“I’m surprised,” Denton said mildly. “I thought a local boy like you understood bees. When I was your age, at home on my folks’ little ranch, we always kept bees.”

“That was fifty years ago,” Hicks said extravagantly. “I kept a hot-rod, a surf-board, and cute blonde who — never mind. What am I supposed to do with these combs? Got the one the old man was gobbling, too. That Lucy — she’s a sharp one — told Martha Talbott not to throw anything out yet.”

“Well,” the sheriff said. “We know there’s penicillin in the honey. Question is, how did it get there. Only way I can think of is by injection. So get busy with the magnifier you fuss with, and look for needle marks in the wax.”

Hicks flushed; he was a little self-conscious about his expensive doublet lens. And it was unfortunately true that up to now he’d never had the slightest use for it. So with the old man watching benignantly, he took the combs to a brighter corner of the office, and made a careful examination.

After half an hour of this, he got up, lips pursed, and shook his head.

“Nary a needle mark,” he announced. “Not in the hive-combs, and not in what’s left of the one Talbott was eating. Maybe only the part he ate had been injected.”

“Get samples from the untouched combs, and send ’em off to L.A. again,” Denton ordered him. “We gotta know if the whole hive was doctored. If it was,” he added darkly, “it musta been through that there Fourth Dimension you and Bill were arguing about last week. How the hell else can you put penicillin into a wax cell without leaving a mark?”

“Hot needle, maybe?” Hicks suggested.

“Not unless you’re blind with that lens. See any sign of tampering?”

“Absolutely not,” was the firm reply.

Bill Alvarez, dark and volatile came in. He patted his notebook.

“Got the life histories of all the Talbotts right here,” he said cheerfully. Ready for a rundown, boss?”

“Okay, Hicks; you’re relieved,” Denton drawled. “Get those samples oil to L. A. while Bill and I talk about the Talbotts.”

“Where do I begin?” Alvarez asked.

“Any of ’em use penicillin lately?”

“Three. Martha — for a chest infection; Malcolm, for a carbuncle; and Julie Morton for sinus trouble.”

“Pill or injection?”

“All injection. Wilson doesn’t care much for oral doses, it seems.”

“That tears it,” Denton said gloomily. “We just decided penicillin couldn’t have been injected into the honeycomb cells to begin with. But there wouldn’t be any around to be injected anyhow; it’s not like pills, where the patient might have several left. No chance to jab old Hiram at the table; he wasn’t the kind to hold still for that. He’d’ve swore, or yelped, or clouted somebody for sure. Besides, nobody went near him until the attack started. It’s clear at this point that only that one comb was poisoned, and Talbott gobbled the evidence of how it was done. He musta eaten all the cells that were doctored; Hicks couldn’t find a mark on the others. Well,” he concluded, “we’ll see what L.A. comes up with, even if I know already.” He closed his eyes. Then, dreamily, he said: “Kinda like to know about that crippled fella; he’s one more with a motive. Tomorrow you look him up, Bill.”

“Gracias, Patron,” was the ironical reply.

“For now, quitting time,” the sheriff said. “Both of you go on home. He folded his hands on his lap.”

When the second report from Los Angeles arrived, Sheriff Denton studied it in amazement.

“It can’t be!” he exclaimed to Hicks. “You and that damned magnifier. Every cell in every comb is loaded with penicillin. What good’s a lens if you can’t see any signs on all that wax. Hell, he might get into one cell without much of a trace, but nobody’s good enough to inject all of ’em without leaving marks.”

“I tell you,” Hicks said indignantly, “they haven’t been touched. I’ll stake my life on that.”

“Hmmph,” the sheriff said. “If you’re really sure...”

“I am. Damned sure.”

Alvarez came in, late and unrepentant. Again he produced the notebook.

“Data on Daniel Cummings, husband of the late Gloria June Talbott — the family, except for Martha — called her Gloria, by the way. To her mother, the girl was always June; I don’t know why.”

“Cummings,” Denton said gently.

“Huh?”

“Your stuff on Cummings, boy; let’s have it.”

“Right. Interesting; he lives just a couple of miles from the Talbott place; has a shack and a half-acre of scrub-brush. Gets by on some kind of disability insurance; just about enough live on, I guess. Crippled to hell; can barely hobble. Hated the old man; no hesitation about admitting it, either.” He gave Denton a sly glance. “Oddly enough, he had penicillin — pills — a few weeks ago. I spotted some in a bottle, and he told me about having an infected tooth.”

Denton stiffened in his chair.

“Forget it,” Alvarez said, grinning. “He’s across the creek, a mile from the nearest bridge. A loner. He couldn’t possibly have got to that hive. Besides, somebody would have spotted him limping along. It would take him hours.”

“Hardly the point,” Hicks objected. “Neither he nor anybody else fooled with those cells, I guarantee you that.”

“I believe you,” Denton said, his eyes shining. “Lemme see that honey, boy. I been a fool, using other people’s eyes in this business. My mistake.”

They gaped at him, and Hicks gingerly picked up a sticky comb.

“Be my guest.”

The sheriff sniffed at it; one eyebrow rose. He jabbed a finger into the wax, extracted a smear of honey, and put it on the tip of his tongue. He held the comb out to Hicks.

“Smell that.”

The deputy complied, a puzzled look on his face.

“Smells like honey to me. Penicillin has no smell, you know.”

Denton was disgusted. He held the comb out to Alvarez.

“You smell it.”

Wonderingly, the deputy did so.

“What’s it supposed to smell like?” he demanded, reasonably enough.

“Couple of idiots,” Denton said mildly. “Stuff reeks of orange.”

“So?” Hicks said.

“Twenty years ago, so nothing. Now, after all the subdivision, you know how far it is to an orange grove in this county? I’ll tell you — thirty miles!”

“I didn’t think a bee ever went thirty miles for nectar,” Alvarez said. “Or do they have freeways, too?”

“They don’t, and that’s the point. Don’t you know what happened?”

The two deputies looked at each other, exchanged shrugs, and held up their hands in surrender. It wasn’t the first time. They did all the work, and this old — came up with the solution. It was damned frustrating. Hell of it was, he was a great guy, so you couldn’t even get mad at him.

“This honey — the orange part — must have come from another part of the state, say San Diego County. That means it came here in a jar. The murderer, knowing about Talbott’s allergy, and his bee-keeping, was only two miles away; less, much less, by air across the creek. So he spikes this commercial honey from the market with penicillin from his bottle, and sets it out on his windowsill every day for a few weeks in season. Talbott’s bees, like all bees, don’t miss anything sweet. Like people, they prefer an easier way. Readymade honey is their dream. They sop it up — penicillin won’t hurt a bee — take it to their hive, and mix it with other stuff brought in by the gang. That’s why there were no marks on the cells. The spiking was done at Talbott’s end by the real experts — the bees themselves.”

“Holy jumping horned toads!” Hicks said. “Dan Cummings!”

“Beautiful!” Alvarez breathed. “Almost a shame to nail him.”

“Just how we gonna do that?” Hicks asked skeptically.

“First we find some of the honey at Cummings’ place,” Bill said. “If it’s made from orange blossoms—”

“Not enough,” Denton said. “Plenty of people have honey like that.”

“But it is,” Hicks said. Here was one point he could score against the old man. “With a spectroscope we can prove not just that it’s orange honey, but that it’s the same batch the stuff in Talbott’s hive came from. That should make our case.”

“Okay,” Denton said gently. “Don’t shout. You two get the evidence. I’m gonna get some sleep.” He lay back in the chair, eyes closed. Almost at once, his breath came wheezily.

Hicks looked at Alvarez, shaking his head in wonder.

“Damned if the old so-and-so isn’t asleep already!”

They tiptoed out. Denton opened one eye, gave his soft, melodious chuckle, and closed it again.