Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol.69, No. 5, August 13, 1932
- Автор: Bloomfield Howard V., Booth James W.
- Год: 1932
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol.69, No. 5, August 13, 1932». Краткое содержание книги:
Inside the paper was a thin box, in which was a bit of honeycomb. The end of the box, fashioned that morning, very early, in the basement of the Hall of Justice, could be slid up or down, enough to permit a bee to escape. And in the box were five bees, collected by the grandchildren of old Wang as the little insects had sought pollen from the white and yellow china lilies…
Five bees!
Would the little winged workers lead the way to the venomous Kong Gai?
Wentworth felt something soft crawl along his finger, inside the paper, and a moment later a bee crept out, remained motionless an instant, and then flew up. The detective-sergeant tried to follow the bee’s eccentric circles and oscillations. Each time, as the bee swung above the newspaper concealing the honey in the box, it seemed to sway to one side, so that the honey was at the edge of its circle instead of the center, as if the bee were throwing a loop about the sweet to make positive of its exact location. Then, in a straight line, it darted northeast.
Wentworth’s eyes instantly sought the clock on the old cathedral. Four minutes to twelve. He stood there quietly, reading his newspaper, as if waiting until twelve to go for his lunch.
A moment before the clock boomed the hour, a bee hovered over Wentworth’s head, and, after one swoop, again crawled to the concealed box in the newspaper. Wentworth could hear its excited humming and buzzing as it tried to enter the box, but he did not open the slide, lest another bee escape. Instead, he again glanced at the clock; one minute to twelve!
The bee had been gone three minutes. The bee expert said that a minute and a half was consumed by a bee delivering the pollen at the hive. That meant the bee had spent less than a minute going to… where?… and less than a minute returning. A bee could fly a mile in five minutes. Therefore the place where it went could be no more than a block or two away… in a northeasterly direction!
The captive bees, laden with honey, buzzed in the little box as Wentworth marched along his beat, as if he had decided to make one more round, and, as he often did, go to his lunch at one instead of twelve.
Wentworth paused the second time before the basket shop belonging to a member of the Wang family, where no questions would be asked, and repeated his performance. Again he timed the greedy bee, which, like its fellow, had difficulty in obtaining food in the city where it had been brought. Again he checked the direction of flight. Twice more he did this, until he had but one bee left.
Then he walked calmly along the street where the lines had crossed; where the bees seemed to be going. Even allowing a half minute leeway, it seemed probable to the detective that the location of the hive must be in the middle of the block somewhere, and as he reached it he let the last bee escape.
Again the bee circled, but this time darted straight up. Wentworth looked with an air of disinterest, and saw that the windows of the third story were boarded up. As if, according to Chinese custom, someone had died and the body had not yet been shipped to China. No unusual occurrence — except because of the flight of the bee! And as his eyes lowered, and he shoved his newspaper into his hip pocket again, he caught an opened wicket in a basement door across the street… ’binders, watching! Kong Gai’s men.
As if he had not seen them, Wentworth crossed the street, entered a drug shop, and, by pointing, was sold a packet of cigarettes. He put these in his pocket, and then strode leisurely up the street. When he turned the corner, he pulled out his watch — in case he was being spied upon — and then walked slowly up the long hill, out of the district, as if now going for food.
He waited until he was two blocks from the district, and then entered the first apartment house.
“A telephone, quick,” he told the switchboard operator in the lobby. “No, not one here. In an apartment. And if anybody comes in, or you see anyone looking in, you haven’t seen a cop come in. Get that!”
The operator took Wentworth to a ground-floor apartment, and the sergeant called Headquarters immediately.
He was given Dunand at once.
“It’s Number Ninety-one Ninety-two Fish Alley, sir,” said Wentworth eagerly. “No mistake about it. Three boarded-up windows, third story. Which makes the bee expert correct. He said the bees wouldn’t be active, nor sting, if they were kept in any cold dark basement…”
“We’re ready,” snapped Dunand.
“Tell ’em to go along Stockton street, chief. To Sacramento. Down two blocks. Left turn to Fish Alley. The seventh house. That’s the one. Middle of block, right hand side. I’ll swing on when they turn off Stockton.”
“Better get goin’,” ordered the gray haired captain. “I’m givin’ th’ order to start, boy!”
Chapter VI
Kong Gai Laughs
The blue-clad patrolman making his regular beat on Nob Hill saw the hurrying figure of a fellow officer, and ran to meet him; when he saw who it was he said:
“What’s up, sergeant?”
“Plenty,” said Jimmy swiftly. “When you hear a racket — you’ll hear it — come along and see!”
With that he hastened back toward Chinatown. At the corner of Stock-ton and Sacramento, near the mouth of the tunnel where he had once found a murdered flower girl killed by Kong Gai, he paused, and then turned northward, walking slowly along the pavement, stopping to play with a Chinese urchin in pink jacket and red pantaloons; he did this until he heard a sudden roar, coming from the tunnel.
A moment later hook-and-ladder Number Fifteen roared out of the tunnel, siren wailing and engine humming a high tune. Behind it Wentworth saw a red-and-gold hose wagon, with men in fireman’s blue hanging to the sides…
Chinatown gaped, wondering where the Fire God was striking. As the hook-and-ladder slowed, and swung around the corner, barely missing the lamp-post on the sidewalk, Wentworth leaped to the side.
Nobody would think anything of that. It was a policeman’s duty to get to a fire as rapidly as possible.
Wentworth heard someone next to him shout, “Nice goin’, sarge!”
The deep voice was that of Officer Reilly, holder of the department’s record for marksmanship, and no fireman at all. Only the driver, and the rear wheel-man, were from the fire department. Every other person in slicker, or in blue uniform, was a member of the riot squad…
Down one street! Left turn! The scream and squeal of brakes and tires, and a sudden noiseless operation that shot the first length of mechanically operated ladder into the air, in front of the windows of the house Wentworth had told about.
A spying ’binder popped his head out from the basement across the street. Officer Reilly waited until he saw the flash of metal, and the raising gun, before he drew trigger. The sound of explosion was covered by the roar of the hose wagon’s engine as it drew up beside the hook-and-ladder.
Men were already running up the ladder. The first two were axe-armed, and the raising ladder took them to one of the windows. As an axe crashed against the barrier, Wentworth, followed by other men, swung to the building-side of the ladder, and continued frantically up to the roof.
Wentworth’s head cleared the coping first, and almost the same instant his gun roared. He saw a ’binder leap high in the air; saw others turn and level drawn weapons, and then the riot squadman behind him had shoved the nose of the deadly chopper across the coping, and the rat-tat-tat of the little gun sprayed death over the Chinese.