The Bee on the Finger

"I see you've noticed my ring, young man. Yes, it is striking, isn't it?" said the lean, gray-cheeked man in the seat by the window.

Bunting's eyes had been closed since the turbulent take-off from New York. He opened them. "Pardon?" he asked.

The man had the flawless smile of cheap false teeth. "I said: 'I see you've noticed my ring, young man. Yes, it is striking, isn't it?'" he repeated, holding out his hand. The ring was a large bee done with considerable detail in some kind of gold metal or other. "But I'm afraid you're out of luck. I wouldn't sell it for all the world."

Bunting opened a magazine. "Nice," he said in a flat tone.

"I see you aren't wearing a ring," added the man.

"No," Bunting said without looking up and studying an advertisement with great concentration.

"You don't approve of them for men," said the man. "In fact, you consider them effeminate."

Bunting shrugged and read on.

"West Point graduates wear rings," insisted the man. "Surely you can't dismiss the entire U. S. officer corps just like that."

Bunting closed the magazine. It would be 40 minutes before they landed in Toronto. If he couldn't break off the conversation, perhaps he could redirect it. "You an Army man?" he asked.

"Not all warriors wear uniforms," observed his traveling companion. "Some don the black parachute to fight with invisible ink, false mustaches, code books and microdots behind the lines."

Bunting grinned with disbelief. "You're a spy."

"Did I say that?" protested the man in a whisper, his eyes flitting from side to side.

"But I guess if you were, you wouldn't admit it," said Bunting thoughtfully.

The man narrowed his eyes and nodded with admiration. "And to think I almost underestimated you for despising my ring."

Bunting laughed modestly. "I'm just not big on bugs."

The man cocked an eyebrow. "You despise the bee?" he asked with chill astonishment. "Symbol of industry. Emblem of the great Napoleon Bonaparte himself, a military genius who overcame the physical handicap of shortness to become the Emperor of France, cradle of Western culture? You——" He hung his head, too moved to go on. After a moment, he said, "I apologize for my little outburst. I feel things deeply, you see. I imagine your generation considers that old-fashioned." He sighed. "In addition, I've been recently visited by adversities." He slipped the ring off his slender finger and held it up for display. "Is your manhood so insecure that wearing this ring would make you feel effeminate?" he asked, taking Bunting by the wrist.

"Of course not," said Bunting.

"Good," said the man and, sliding the ring onto Bunting's plump, white ring finger, he forced it over the knuckle.

"Hey!" hissed Bunting through his teeth.

"A bit snug," the man conceded. "But handsome." Bunting grunted and tried to pull the ring off. "As I said," said the man, "I wouldn't consider selling, but I have had reverses."

Red-faced, Bunting balled his fist around the finger and tugged. "Listen," he panted, "I don't want to buy your damned ring, understand?"

"Perhaps if I told you something of its history," offered the man. "It was crafted in the Seventeenth Century by Ibrahim of Ferrara at the request of Rhea, Countess d'Iverno, who——"

"Miss?" said Bunting, following a passing stewardess. "Perhaps you can help me. I've gotten this gentleman's ring stuck on my finger."

A few minutes later, Bunting was back in his seat, the ring still in place. "Did she try soap?" asked the man. When Bunting nodded, the man shook his head. "Here in North America, you consider soap the answer to everything. But look, your knuckle is swollen. Give it a rest for a bit. Listen to the story of the ring." When Bunting settled back fretfully, the man continued: "Now, two of the symptoms of the growing madness of Lorenzo, Count d'Iverno, were his coldness toward his beautiful wife, Rhea, and a fear of being poisoned, which haunted his waking hours. Desperate and determined to secretly administer her husband a love potion, the countess commissioned Ibrahim, the hunchbacked goldsmith, to make this ring with a compartment that opened by a spring to hold the drug. But Ibrahim conceived a great passion for his lovely customer. She, of course, rejected his declaration as grotesque. In a rage, the scorned hunchback showed the ring to Lorenzo and told him that the countess plotted to poison him. Lorenzo's baroque imagination concocted this fiendish revenge: The ring's mechanism was redesigned so that when the compartment was sprung, a deadly poisoned needle would bite deep into the finger that wore the ring. And so the Countess Rhea died of the sting of the bee. But not before she had told her husband of her real intent. Realizing the treachery of the hunchback, Lorenzo burst into his atelier, forced him to deny his God and slew him with a dagger. Then, mad with grief or what have you, he threw himself on the swords of the countess' vengeful brothers and so perished. Perhaps you're familiar with Monterossi's opera based on this story, now remembered only for its overture." He hummed a few bars of music.

Bunting smiled uneasily. "It isn't loaded, is it? I mean, there's no danger of it going off by accident?"

"Before I answer your first question, tell me this," said the man. "Are there still situations where death is better than dishonor?"

"Like 'Give me liberty or give me death'?" asked Bunting.

"Spoken like a true patroit," said the man. "And other examples readily suggest themselves. For the ladies, the possibility of a fate more horrible than death. For myself, the constant, hellish fear of betraying my country and comrades in the dank interrogation cells deep in the bowels of secret-police headquarters. So, of course, the ring is loaded. But it can't go off by accident." He took Bunting's wrist. "Here," he said, touching the left wing of the bee with his finger tip. "This is the safety catch. While it's on, the ring is just a ring. But now...." There was an audible click when he pressed the ring. "Now it's a lethal weapon." When Bunting stiffened, the man clamped down hard on his wrist. "But what are you afraid of? If you are who you say you are, why would I trigger it?"

"What do you mean: if I am who I say I am?" demanded Bunting. "My name's Bunting. I buy things cheap in New York and sell them dear in Toronto, and vice versa."

"Ingenious," said the man. "But suppose, just suppose that you were really Inspector Buckingham, the energetic and smiling chief of Canadian counterintelligence who is known in the world of espionage by the code name Bucky Beaver. And suppose again," he smiled, "that I was your deadliest adversary, Colonel Marco, the Albanian master spy, code name Big Bad Wolf. And suppose that inscribed on that celebrated photographic memory of yours were the secret plans for the Royal Canadian Naval Magneto."

Bunting gave a nervous laugh. "That sounds like something out of the Thirties."

The man nodded. "A shrewd people, the Canadians. Bland and colorless on the surface. But underneath, they're steel. Steel and pure adamantine intelligence." He tapped the ring for emphasis.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Bunting.

"I'll bet you do," smiled the man. "Anyway, there the Canadians sit with the deadliest weapon afloat, one that will give them complete mastery of the Great Lakes, and they name it the Royal Canadian Naval Magneto. Why? So you'll laugh like you just did and think it can't be anything serious. But, as I was saying, let's suppose you are Bucky Beaver and I the Big Bad Wolf and I have this ring on your finger that I can trigger at my pleasure. Then I bet you'd be more than willing to draw the secret plans for me."

Bunting turned white. He jumped up and bolted back toward the toilets. The man followed and crowded into the tiny compartment after him. He watched over Bunting's shoulder as the young man poured water on the ring. "Good," he approved. "Cold water makes the metal expand. Or is it hot water? Physics was never my subject."

Bunting, his forehead beaded with sweat, was struggling to force off the ring without touching the bee. "Listen," he insisted, "I'm not your Bucky Beaver."

"You?" laughed the man. "I should say not. Look at those chubby cheeks, that baby fat, those soft hands. Inspector (continued on page 221)Bee on the Finger(continued from page 144)

Buckingham has the hands of a man. Like these." He turned up his palms. They were heavily callused. "Once, using nothing but a brass candlestick fashioned into a crude digging tool, these hands tunneled through forty feet of masonry and dirt to freedom. Yes, along with health, family life and fortune, I've sometimes even had to sacrifice my freedom for you and your generation. This ring is among the few things left to me. Must you take that, too?"

Bunting stared at the ring as though it were a malignant growth on his finger. "But when we reach Toronto, I'll get it cut off," he promised.

The man shook his head. "How do I know you won't make a break for it when we land and try to escape through the crowd? Oh, I have ways of stopping you. But they would attract attention and I don't want that. No, be realistic. There's only one way." He opened a small, pearlsided penknife whose blade showed the mark of the whetstone. "The finger has to go at the knuckle," he said.

"The hell it does!" insisted Bunting loudly. "I——" But his mouth snappedshut and his eyes became large buttons of terror when the man seized the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

"It won't hurt as much as you might think," he said, signaling with the knife for Bunting to sit down on the commode. "Because of the shock, you see. Later it will hurt like the blazes, but not now. And if you get to a doctor soon enough, sometimes he can even sew the finger back on." The knife poised for the cut.

"I'll buy it," whispered Bunting quickly. He nodded his head. "I'll buy the ring."

"You'd pay two thousand dollars for a finger?" said the man with a twinkle in his eye. "Why, that's ten thousand dollars a hand. That's forty thousand dollars just for a set of fingers and toes. Come, young man, where's your sense of humor? Why, my profession places less value on a whole human life than you do on one of your little pinkies or piggies." He waved the knife. "Let's get the messy business over with."

"Sold for two thousand dollars," gasped Bunting. "I'll write you a check."

"No checks," said the man quite firmly. "A British secret-service major and I, both feeling our whiskey and sodas, once bet to see who could hang the longest by his hands from the battlements of Hdratyi Castle. I recall, incidentally, that as the major's fingers started slipping, he muttered 'Oh, bother' and fell without another sound into the dry moat. Unfortunately, his stake was in the form of a check and his estate stopped payment. So no checks. Just my luck, by the way, that after the body and effects had been shipped home, I learned the major always carried twenty gold sovereigns sewn into his belt."

"I've only got three hundred and seventy-two dollars on me," said Bunting hoarsely. "Honest." He pulled his belt out of its loops and handed it over. The man gave him a skeptical look and sawed through the belt with the knife. Nothing. He smiled regretfully and tossed the pieces into the corner.

"My watch," remembered Bunting, struggling to get the expansion band over his hand without touching the bee. "I paid four hundred dollars for it."

The man looked at the watch. "Ah, what a coincidence, it's a Labelle. I'm afraid you were cheated. The Labelle movement is counterfeit Swiss made in Albania. The Albanians smuggle them abroad to finance their espionage operations." He laughed. "What a joke if you turned out to be the Big Bad Wolf and I, Inspector Buckingham. But, of course, you're not. Why, you're positively trembling like a leaf and you're all clammy. No, Colonel Marco might be terrified, but he'd never show it. He has flair, has Marco."

"My grandfather's lucky cuff links," pleaded Bunting, working them out of his shirt. "Solid silver with garnets."

The man frowned. "You youngsters are really something," he said. "You'd bargain away your grandfather's lucky cuff links?"

Bunting was almost in tears. "I never even knew my grandfather," he insisted.

"All the more reason to treasure his cuff links!" shouted the man. "Doesn't the past have any value to you people at all?" He gave Bunting a contemptuous look. "So your finger means that much? All right, I accept your offer, just to be done with you." Bunting heaved a shuddering sigh of relief. The man pocketed the money, watch and cuff links. Then he pointed to the ring. "Since it's yours now, let me show you how to trigger the bite."

"No," said Bunting abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't want to know."

"I thought perhaps you wouldn't," said the man. "Maybe it's just as well. Let's go back to our seats, then."

Horrified, Bunting shook his head in wild arcs. "I'm staying right here. If anybody bumped me, I could be a dead man."

"But this is a public toilet," said the man disdainfully. "Try not thinking of yourself all the time." Then he paused and tapped his chin. "Well, maybe I can help you out." He poked his head out the door and spoke to a stewardess. A moment later, she handed through to him a short-necked plastic baby bottle and a roll of adhesive tape. With Bunting sucking in his breath apprehensively, the man inserted the trembling finger with the ring on it into the bottle. Then he taped the bottle securely to Bunting's wrist. "A bit makeshift," he said. "But better than nothing." When Bunting looked down at the bottle unhappily, the man added, "I've just saved you from spending the rest of your life in a toilet. But don't thank me."

"Thank you," said Bunting meekly.

The man helped Bunting up onto unsteady legs and out the door. "Now, pull yourself together," he said. "People will be watching. Be a man." Bunting tucked the bottle close to his body and staggered stiffly down the aisle, holding his pants up with his elbow. He took the seat by the window and huddled there, guarding the bottle between his legs. The man sat down in the seat by the aisle. "Do you want your magazine?" he asked.

Bunting was breathing through his mouth. "No," he whispered.

The seat-belt sign came on. "We're landing," said the man, buckling Bunting's seat belt for him. "All you've got to worry about now is customs."

Bunting swallowed. "Customs?" he asked.

"A bottle taped to a wrist is bound to interest them," said the man. "And unless you have a convincing story, they'll probably start poking around the ring."

Bunting groaned helplessly. "A story? What kind of story?"

"How should I know?" said the man impatiently. "After a lifetime of concocting tall tales to get me into this country or out of that tough scrape, my imagination's exhausted. Now, let's see what the much-touted younger generation can do." He folded his arms and then he laughed. "We were talking before about the Big Bad Wolf, the Albanian master spy," he said. "Well, they say he started the rumor that concealed somewhere on his person—say in something like that ring—was a quantity of lethal, airborne bacteria powerful enough to destroy entire cities. Maybe it was a lie. Who knows? But it really discouraged people from searching him too closely. That's why the World Health Organization is so anxious to get its hands on him." He jabbed Bunting in the ribs mischievously. "Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf," he said. "Get it? W-H-O. The World Health Organization."

Bunting squeezed his arms across his stomach and rocked back and forth in his seat. Except for moist and windy sobs, he made no sound until the plane had taxied to a stop.

As the other passengers crowded down the aisle, the man stood up. "It would be better that you not be seen with me, so I'll go on ahead," he said. "But you really must get ahold of yourself. Frankly, I'd have to say that so far, you haven't stood up well at all. This is your last chance to redeem yourself. Walk through customs like you owned it. Come, I'll meet you in the terminal. We'll laugh about all this over a drink." He frowned and put his hand on Bunting's shoulder. "There, now, young man, don't cry."

• • •

Customs was a medium-sized room with a baggage-delivery area on one side and four aisles and counters manned by customs officers on the other. The man located his bags, two old-fashioned belted suitcases of dark leather worn tan at the corners, and took his place in the longest line. But baggage inspection moved briskly and he was soon apprehensive. There was still no sign of Bunting. With a courtly bow, the man allowed two little old ladies to precede him in the line.

Suddenly and with a loud moan that blended terror and the desperate challenge of a cornered animal, Bunting burst through the door. Wild-eyed and holding up his pants with one hand and with the other balled up in his raincoat and carried in the crook of his arm like a football, he dashed across the room. In a bound, he was up on one of the counters and might have high-stepped his way past the startled customs officer if he hadn't tripped over an open suitcase. The customs officer grabbed him by the ankle. But Bunting kicked him on the side of the head and scrambled on all fours to the end of the counter. There he was tackled by another customs officer and dragged to the floor. Bunting—his howl had become a roar—fought his way to his feet. But the third customs officer brought him down from behind, while the fourth scurried off for reinforcements.

Picking up his two suitcases and excusing himself as he went, the man moved quickly up the line as though going to help subdue the lunatic. Instead, when he reached the tangle of arms and legs on the floor, he turned and passed unobserved through the door and out into the terminal. The plastic baby bottle must have been torn from Bunting's finger in the struggle, for as the door swung closed behind him, the ring was triggered and he heard a tinkling, music-box rendition of Be My Little Baby Bumblebee.

A haggard old limousine was waiting at the curb. The man threw the bags into the back seat and followed them.

"Any trouble, Colonel Marco?" asked the chauffeur, a young man with hair the color of flax.

"I was afraid I'd been recognized on boarding," said the man. "A little diversionary action was necessary in case they wired ahead. It worked out just fine." He tapped a suitcase. "Another nine thousand counterfeit Swiss movements beneath the trusty false bottoms, Yanek." Still, he wished his people would find a handier way of financing their ventures. But at least now they were ready to move. The man smiled to himself. Watch out, Bucky Beaver and your precious Royal Canadian Naval Magneto. Here comes the Big Bad Wolf! Out loud he said, "Yanek, someday soon Albania will dominate the Adriatic."

"I hope so, sir," said Yanek, pulling out from the curb.

"By the way," said the man, relaxing against the seat, "that new receptionist, the shy, plump one who had just arrived at the consulate on my last visit, what was her name again? I bought her a little trinket. Unfortunately, I had to use it for my diversion."

"You mean Nadia, sir," said Yanek. "Nadia and I were married last week, sir."

"Congratulations, Yanek," said the man heartily, forcing a smile at the rearview mirror. Then he sighed to himself. Well, the spoils from Bunting he would transfer from the Nadia Entertainment Fund to the Colonel Marco Retirement Fund. Indeed, all of a sudden he did feel old. He stared at the flaxen whorl of the back of the driver's head. Ah, you young people, he thought, won't you ever leave us anything?