“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.”