The Mystery of the Scar-Faced Beggar Read online

  The drive dipped into a hollow where a small stream of water ran across. Then it climbed again. On the far side of the rise the boys stopped. There was a gully in their path which might have been dry in summer, but which was now a torrent of brown water. And beside the road on the left, almost at the edge of the muddy wash, there was a shabby, barnlike old building with dormer windows in the second story. Neon tubing ran along its eaves. A sign across one end proclaimed that it was Charlie’s Place.

  “A restaurant?” said Bob.

  Jupe took the wallet out of his pocket and looked again at the driver’s licence. “Number 2287,” he said. “That’s the number on that new mailbox out in front.”

  The boys heard a car on the road behind them. They moved aside, and a red sports car came splashing slowly through the little stream they had already forded. A thin man with greying hair and a lined, somewhat sad face passed without seeming to notice the boys. He turned into the muddy yard that was the parking lot of Charlie’s Place, stopped his car, got slowly out, and took a cane from the floor of the vehicle. Then he went slowly up sagging steps into the ramshackle building, letting a dilapidated screen door slam behind him as he disappeared.

  “He’s got a limp!” exclaimed Pete. “Hey, Bob, didn’t you say that the beggar limped when he ran off last night?”

  “Well, he limped after he got hit by the car. Who wouldn’t limp?”

  “Could that man be the beggar?” said Jupe. “Is he at all like the beggar?”

  Bob shrugged. “He’s about the same size, and I guess he’s about the same age, but there must be a million guys like that.”

  “Very well,” said Jupe. Suddenly he was brisk and businesslike. “I’m going in there.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Pete. “Go in and buy a hamburger?”

  “I may,” said Jupe. “Or I may simply ask for directions. But one way or another, I’ll find out who that man is. Bob, you had better keep out of sight. If that man was outside the bank in Santa Monica last night, he might recognize you—and he might get nasty.”

  “I’ll wait with Bob,” said Pete. “I’m allergic to guys who might get nasty.”

  “Chicken!” Bob taunted.

  “I’m only ambitious,” said Pete. “My ambition is to live until I am very, very old.”

  Jupe chuckled. Leaving his friends standing beside the road, he pushed his bicycle into the parking area of Charlie’s Place. He leaned the bike against the wall of the building and went up the steps. He crossed the little porch, put his hand on the screen door, and pulled. The door opened.

  Jupe stepped out of the sunlight into a place that was dim. He saw polished hardwood floors and dark wood panelling. Straight ahead through a wide doorway was a large, empty room. Its front wall was made entirely of windows, which looked out through the trees to the sparkling ocean beyond. Jupe guessed this room had once been the main dining room of a restaurant. The restaurant was clearly out of business now.

  Jupe was standing in a wide passageway that was really a sort of lobby outside the huge room. To the left of the lobby was an area that was a dusty jumble of coffee urns and counters and stools and booths. Jupe realized that this had once been a coffee shop. He looked to the right and saw a wall with several doors in it. There were cartons and crates piled in the coffee shop and more cartons piled up in the lobby. Several crates stood on the hardwood floor of the big room. One crate was open, and packing material overflowed and drifted down its side.

  Jupe moved forward slowly. He was about to call out when he heard the sound of a telephone being lifted from its cradle. He stood still and listened. Someone out of sight in the big, bright room ahead of him dialled a number.

  There was a pause, and then a man said, “This is Sebastian.”

  After another pause the man spoke again. “Yes,” he said, “I know it will be expensive, but everything has its price. I’m prepared to pay for it.”

  At that moment something small and hard pressed into Jupe’s back just above his belt.

  “Please to reach for the sky,” said a soft voice. “If you move I make you in two pieces!”

  3

  A Man of Mystery

  JUPITER RAISED HIS HANDS above his head. He could feel his scalp prickle.

  “I only wanted …” he began.

  “Please to be quiet!” said the person behind him.

  There were footsteps on the hardwood floor. The grey-haired man who had driven up a few minutes before appeared in the doorway to the big room. He stood leaning on his cane, looking at Jupe with his head slightly to one side, as if he were puzzled.

  “What is it, Don?” he said. “Who is this?”

  Jupe frowned. There was something familiar about this man. Jupe could not be sure whether it was just the voice, or the tilt of the head. Had they met somewhere? If so, where? And when?

  “This person breaks and enters,” said the individual who was holding Jupe at gunpoint. “He stands and listens to you talk on the telephone.”

  “I only wanted to ask directions,” said Jupe. “The sign outside says this is Charlie’s Place. Isn’t it a restaurant? And I didn’t do any breaking and entering. The door was open.”

  “Well, of course,” said the grey-haired man. He came towards Jupe, smiling. “It used to be a restaurant, and the door is open, isn’t it?”

  Jupe saw that the man’s cheeks were ruddy, and that his high, thin nose had recently been sunburned. It was now peeling. The eyes under the thick, grey-black brows were very blue. “Relax, young friend,” said the man. “Don couldn’t shoot you even if he wanted to.”

  Jupe cautiously lowered his arms. He turned to look at the person called Don.

  “You think I have gun,” said the man with satisfaction. He was an Oriental, not much taller than Jupe, quite slim, with a smooth, pleasant face. He held a wooden mixing spoon with the handle pointed towards Jupe. “You see it is not really gun,” he said. “It is trick I see on television.”

  “Hoang Van Don came from Vietnam recently,” said the grey-haired man. “He is presently learning English by watching late-night television. I see now that he is also learning other useful things.”

  The Vietnamese man bowed. “If imprisoned in upper room, proper course to follow is to braid bedsheets into rope. If bedsheets not available, slide down drainpipe.”

  The Vietnamese bowed again and disappeared into the shadows of the coffee shop. Jupe stared after him with curiosity.

  “You wanted directions?” said the grey-haired man.

  “Oh!” Jupe started. “Oh, yes. A river crosses the road just beyond here.” Jupe pointed. “Does the road continue on the far side? Is there any place we can cross, or should we go back to the highway again?”

  “The road doesn’t go on. It dead ends just beyond the river. And don’t even try to cross that gully. It’s quite deep. You’d be swept off your feet.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jupe, who was not really listening. He was staring curiously at one of the cardboard cartons that stood in a corner of the lobby. Half a dozen books were piled on the carton, and all seemed to be copies of the same title. Jupe saw black dust jackets and brilliant scarlet lettering. The cover illustration on the top copy showed a dagger stuck through a document. Dark Legacy was the title of the book.

  “Hector Sebastian!” said Jupe suddenly. He walked over and picked up one of the books. Turning it over, he found a photograph on the back—a photograph of the man who now stood facing him in the dim little lobby.

  “Why, it is you!” said Jupe. For once the poise on which he prided himself completely deserted him. “You are the Hector Sebastian! I mean, you’re the one who’s been on television!”

  “Yes, I have,” said the man. “A few times.”

  “I read Dark Legacy,” said Jupe. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. It was high and excited. He was babbling like a star-struck tourist. “It’s a terrific book! And so is Chill Factors! Mr. Sebastian, you sure don’t need to rob any banks!”

  “Did you think I did?” said Hector Sebastian. He smiled. “Well, now, I don’t think you just wandered in here looking for directions. What’s this all about?”

  Jupe’s face got red. “I … I don’t even like to admit what I was thinking,” he said. “Mr. Sebastian, are you missing your wallet?”

  Sebastian started. He felt in the pocket of his jacket. Then he patted his hip pocket. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “It’s gone! Do you have it?”

  “My friend Bob has it,” said Jupe. Very quickly he told Sebastian of Bob’s adventure the night before. He described the blind man who had dropped the wallet, and he mentioned the bank robbery and the accident in which the blind man was hit.

  “Terrific!” said Mr. Sebastian. “It sounds like the beginning of a Hitchcock movie.”

  Jupe immediately looked crestfallen.

  “What’s the matter?” said Mr. Sebastian. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Not really,” said Jupe. “It’s only that Mr. Hitchcock was a friend of ours. When Bob wrote up our cases, Mr. Hitchcock used to introduce them for us. We felt very bad when he died, and we miss him.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Mr. Sebastian. “But I don’t understand. What sort of cases? And where is your friend Bob, who found my wallet?”

  “I’ll get him!” said Jupe. “He’s right outside.”

  Jupe barrelled out the door and trotted across the parking lot. “Come on!” he called. “Mr. Sebastian wants to meet you. You know who he is?”

  Bob and Pete looked at one another, and Pete shook his head. “Should we know?” he asked.

  Jupe grinned. “I should have known,” he said. “I should have recognized the name right away. My brain must be turning to oatmeal! He’s the one who wrote Da
rk Legacy and The Night Watch and Chill Factors. He’s been on all the television talk shows lately. Moorpark Studios just finished making a movie of Chill Factors, and Leonard Orsini is going to compose the score for the picture.”

  Pete suddenly grinned. “Oh yeah! I heard my father talking about Chill Factors. You mean this guy Sebastian is the writer?”

  “You bet he is!” said Jupe. His face was flushed with excitement. “He used to be a private detective in New York City, but he was hurt when the small plane he was piloting crashed. His leg was crushed. While he was waiting for it to mend, he began to work on a novel inspired by one of his cases. It was called The Night Watch, and it became a big-selling paperback. After it came out Mr. Sebastian wrote another book called Dark Legacy about a man who pretended to be dead so that his wife could collect his insurance, and that was made into a movie. Remember? And then Mr. Sebastian gave up completely on being a private detective and became a full-time writer. He wrote the screenplay for Chill Factors after the book was sold to Moorpark Studios. Come on! Don’t you want to meet him? Bob, have you got the wallet?”

  “I gave it to you,” said Bob. “Don’t you remember? Boy, you really are bowled over!”

  “Oh,” said Jupe. He patted his pockets, then grinned. “Yes. Okay. Come on.”

  Pete and Bob followed him back to the building, and when they were inside he introduced them to Mr. Sebastian. Sebastian ushered them into the big windowed room and motioned them to the folding chairs that were placed around a low, glass-topped table. It was the sort of table that is usually outdoors on a terrace or beside a pool. The table, the chairs, and a telephone were the only furnishings in the room.

  “Eventually we’ll have all sorts of luxury here,” said Sebastian. “Don and I moved in only last week, and we haven’t had time to do much.”

  “You’re going to live here?” said Pete.

  “I am living here,” answered Sebastian. He limped to the lobby and bellowed for Don. Presently the Vietnamese appeared with a tray on which there was a glass coffee server and a cup and saucer.

  “Something for the boys,” ordered Sebastian. “Do we have any soft drinks in the refrigerator?”

  “Lemonade,” said Don as he set down the tray. “Nature’s Own, for tree-ripe flavour.”

  Jupe smiled, recognizing the advertising slogan of one of the popular brands of lemonade. No doubt this was a bit of wisdom that Don had learned from his television watching.

  “Lemonade okay?” said Mr. Sebastian. He looked to the boys, who quickly nodded. Don went back to the kitchen, which was located in the far corner of the house, beyond the coffee shop.

  “I wish Don would watch some cooking programmes, instead of all those old movies with commercials stuck in every five minutes,” said Mr. Sebastian after the Vietnamese left. “Some of the meals that we have are unbelievable.”

  Mr. Sebastian then went on to talk about the old restaurant that he had just moved into, and the plans that he had for making it over into a home. “Eventually the coffee shop will be a formal dining room,” he told the boys. “There’s a storeroom next to the lobby that can become Don’s bedroom, and I’ll have a bathroom put in for him over there, under the stairs.”

  The boys looked towards the staircase that went up along the inner wall near the lobby. At the top of the stairs was a gallery that ran the length of the building, overlooking the huge room where Sebastian sat with the boys. The big room had a vaulted ceiling that was two stories high. The other half of the building—the front half occupied by the lobby, storeroom, coffee shop and kitchen—had rooms on the second floor, with doors opening on to the gallery.

  “I know this place is a wreck,” said Mr. Sebastian. “But it’s structurally sound. I had an architect and a building contractor look at it before I bought it. And do you know what it would cost me to buy a house this size so close to the ocean?

  “A fortune, I’m sure,” said Jupe.

  Sebastian nodded. “And think what a beautiful place this will be once it’s fixed up. This is a great room just the way it is—a fireplace at each end and all these windows facing the ocean! And the roof doesn’t leak. That’s the sort of thing you may take for granted, but I lived for twenty-three years in a Brooklyn apartment where the roof leaked regularly. I had to keep a collection of buckets and pans to set under the drips when it rained.”

  Mr. Sebastian grinned. “Who was it who said that he’d been rich and he’d been poor, and rich was better? Whoever it was, he knew what he was talking about.”

  Don came in then with the lemonade. As he served the boys, Sebastian picked up the handsome wallet that Jupe had put on the glass-topped table.

  “Dropped by a blind beggar, eh?” said Mr. Sebastian. He looked into the wallet. “He couldn’t have been a beggar in great need. He didn’t spend any of the money.”

  “But he was begging,” said Bob. “He had a tin cup with coins in it. He kept shaking the cup.”

  Mr. Sebastian looked thoughtful. “I wonder how he found the wallet?” he said. “If he was blind …”

  “Exactly,” said Jupiter. “Blind people don’t see things that are lying on the pavement. Of course he might have stumbled on it and picked it up. Where did you have it last, Mr. Sebastian?”

  “You sound very professional,” Sebastian told Jupe. “I almost expect you to whip out a pencil and pad and take notes. You mentioned Alfred Hitchcock a while ago. You said he used to introduce your cases? Are you boys learning to be detectives?”

  “We are detectives,” said Jupe proudly. He pulled out his own wallet and took a small card from one of the compartments. He handed the card to Mr. Sebastian. It read:

  THE THREE INVESTIGATORS

  “We Investigate Anything”

  ? ? ?

  First Investigator -

  Second Investigator -

  Records and Research -

  JUPITER JONES

  PETER CRENSHAW

  BOB ANDREWS

  “I see,” said Sebastian. “You call yourselves The Three Investigators, and you volunteer to investigate anything. That’s a rather brave statement. Private investigators can be asked to do some very odd things.”

  “We know,” said Jupiter. “We have encountered some highly unusual circumstances—even bizarre ones. That’s our speciality. We have often been successful in cases where ordinary law enforcement people have failed.”

  Mr. Sebastian nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “Young people have nimble minds, and they aren’t burdened with notions about what can happen and can’t.”

  Bob leaned forward. “We’re interested in the blind beggar because we wonder whether he might have something to do with the robbery at the bank,” he said. “Were you in Santa Monica yesterday? Did you drop the wallet there? Or could he have picked your pocket?”

  “No.” Mr. Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “I know I had the wallet yesterday morning. I remember putting it in my pocket when I left the house to go to Denicola’s. I never thought of it again until just now. Obviously I must have dropped it at Denicola’s, since that’s the only place I went yesterday, but it must have been an accident. I certainly didn’t get into any crowds where someone could have jostled me and picked my pocket—and I would have noticed a blind man.”

  “Isn’t Denicola’s the place up the coast where they have a charter boat for sports fishermen?” said Pete.

  Mr. Sebastian nodded. “I keep my speedboat there,” he said. “It’s closer than any of the marinas. When I want to use the boat, the boy who works for Mrs. Denicola rows me out to the buoy where it’s tied up. I had the boat out for a run yesterday. I must have dropped the wallet near the dock, or maybe in the parking lot there.”

  “And the blind man picked it up,” said Pete.

  “Then the blind man went to Santa Monica without saying anything to the people at Denicola’s about the wallet,” said Bob. “And he happened to be across the street from the bank at the exact moment the holdup men got in disguised as cleaning people. Maybe he even created a diversion by dropping his cup of coins so that the people at the bus stop wouldn’t guess what was going on.”

  “The cup of coins may have been slippery in the rain,” said Mr. Sebastian. “Or the man may have been tired. It could mean nothing at all that he dropped the cup.”