M. V. Carey
The Mystery of the Scar-Faced Beggar
A Word from Hector Sebastian
Welcome aboard, mystery lovers!
I’m pleased and proud that The Three Investigators have asked me to introduce their latest adventure. It’s a baffling case with international complications, involving a lost wallet, a bank robbery, and a band of terrorists–all connected by a scar-faced blind man.
I don’t want to say more, for fear of giving away the story. If your curiosity is aroused, turn to Chapter 1 and begin reading. But if, by chance, you haven’t met The Three Investigators before, you’ll want to know that these young private eyes live in Rocky Beach, a small community on the California coast. Jupiter Jones is the leader of the group. He has a photographic memory, a brain like a steel trap, and an air of self-confidence that is amazing in one so young. Pete Crenshaw, the second investigator, is athletic, steadfast, and much more cautious than Jupe. Bob Andrews is in charge of records and research, and he also likes to go adventuring and do some sleuthing of his own.
I have never introduced an adventure for the boys until now, and you may wonder who I am, and what I am doing at the front of this book. Read on, and you’ll find out.
HECTOR SEBASTIAN
1
The Blind Man Runs
“IF IT DOESN’T STOP SOON, I’ll scream!” said the woman in the raincoat.
A gust of wind whirled up Wilshire Boulevard. It snatched at the woman’s umbrella and turned it inside out. Then it rushed on, sending raindrops spattering against the shop windows.
For an instant Bob Andrews, standing at a bus stop, thought the woman really would scream. She glared at her ruined umbrella. Then she looked accusingly at Bob, as if he were to blame. Then, quite suddenly, she laughed.
“Darn!” she said. She tossed the umbrella into the trash basket that stood at the kerb. “Serves me right for coming out in a California rainstorm.” She sat down on the bench next to the bus-stop sign.
Bob shivered and hunched his shoulders against the chill and the wet. It had been the rainiest April he could remember. Now, at nearly six o’clock on Easter Monday, it was cold, too, and already dark because of the storm. Bob had come to Santa Monica earlier that afternoon, bound for a fabric store to get a dress pattern for his mother. He hadn’t minded giving up some of his spring vacation to do the simple errand, but now the wait for the bus back to Rocky Beach seemed endless. He impatiently wiped his glasses dry for the umpteenth time.
“Oh, here comes the blind man,” said the woman on the bench.
Bob looked up the street. Over the sound of rain on the pavement he heard the tap-tap of a cane and the rattle of coins being shaken in a metal cup.
“Poor soul,” said the woman. “He’s been around this neighbourhood a lot lately. I always try to give him something when I see him.”
She fumbled in her purse as the blind man came closer. Bob saw that he was quite thin, and he stooped as he walked. His collar was pulled up around his ears and a cloth cap was pulled down over his brow. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and a neatly lettered sign was pinned to the front of his windbreaker. It was covered with plastic and it read, “God bless you. I am blind.”
“Nasty night,” said the woman. She stood up and dropped a coin into his cup.
“Argh!” said the blind man. His white stick rapped against the kerb, then banged on the bench. He tapped back and forth along the edge of the bench, then sat down.
Bob and the woman watched the blind man for a moment, then turned away and stared at the lighted windows of the bank across the street.
The cleaning people in the bank had just finished their chores. The counter-tops gleamed and chairs were placed in precise order. There were two cleaners–a man in bib overalls who wore his grey hair long and shaggy, and a short, stout woman. They waited at the door that led from the bank out to the lobby of the office building in which the bank was located.
A uniformed security man with a bunch of keys hurried forward from the back of the bank. He exchanged a word or two with the cleaning people, then unlocked the bank door and let them out.
As the cleaning people crossed the lobby and disappeared into an elevator, Bob glanced down at the blind man again. He could see grey hair at the edges of the man’s cloth cap, and a Stubble of neglected beard on the man’s cheeks. A broad, ugly scar ran from the man’s jaw to his cheekbone. The accident that caused the scar must have been a terrible one, thought Bob. He wondered whether that accident was what had cost the man his sight.
The beggar leaned forward, as if to get up from the bench. His foot somehow caught on his cane and he lurched sideways, half-sitting and half-standing.
“Oh!” cried the woman. She seized the beggar’s arm to steady him.
The metal cup fell to the ground and bounced away. Coins scattered in all directions.
“My money!” cried the beggar.
“We’ll get it!” said the woman. “Don’t you move.”
She crouched to pick coins off the wet pavement and Bob began to fish in the gutter for the money. The woman retrieved the metal cup, which had rolled against the trash basket, and dropped the coins into it.
“Have you got it all?” said the blind man. “It took me all day to get that much.”
Bob dropped a wet quarter and two dimes into the cup. “I don’t think we missed any,” he said.
The woman handed the cup to the blind man, who dumped the coins out into his palm and fingered them over. He made a wordless, guttural sound, then said, “Yes. It’s all right.”
“Are you waiting for the bus?” said the woman. “I think I see it coming now.”
“No,” said the man. “Thank you, lady. I live near here.”
Bob glanced across the street. The cleaning man had appeared again in the lobby. He stood rattling the bank door. The security man was coming from the back of the bank with his keys out. He opened the door and there was a brief exchange between himself and the cleaning man. Then the cleaner went into the bank.
The blind man got up and started away, tapping at the pavement with his stick.
“Poor soul,” said the woman. “I hope he doesn’t have far to go.”
Bob watched the blind man’s slow progress down Wilshire.
“Oh, he’s dropped something,” said the woman.
“Hey, mister!” called Bob. “Wait a second!”
The beggar didn’t hear him. He tapped on down the street.
“Wait!” called Bob. He trotted forward and scooped a wallet from the pavement.
The blind man reached a side street now. He stepped to the kerb, felt his way with the cane, and stepped out on to the road.
The beggar’s thin figure was caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. A car was coming up the side street, a little too fast. As it braked for the stop sign, it skidded on the wet surface. The woman at the bus stop screamed, and Bob shouted. Brakes squealed. The blind man twisted and tried to dodge away from the car that sped down upon him. Then there was a thud, and the beggar was rolling on the road.
The car stopped. The driver leapt out. Bob ran, and so did the woman. All three reached the fallen man at the same time.
The driver went down on his knees beside the blind man and tried to take his arm.
“No!” screamed the beggar. He struck at the man with his fist and the man pulled back.
“My glasses!” The beggar groped wildly.
The woman picked up the dark glasses. They had not broken, and she handed them to the beggar.
The blind man put the glasses on and felt for his cane.
The driver of the car was a young man. Bob saw in the glow of the headlights that his face was white with shock. He picked the cane up and put it into the blind man’s hand.
Slowly the blind man got up. He turned his head in a searching way, as if he could see if only he tried hard enough, and he started off down the side street. He was limping now. As he went he gasped with pain.
“Mister, wait a second!” cried the driver.
“We ought to call the police,” said the woman. “He must be hurt!”
The blind man went on, striking out with the stick, limping, gasping, yet moving almost at a trot.
Bob ran after him, calling for him to wait.