Blue Face by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1942-02-18T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER IX. DEATH IN BLUE

HOWARD BLAIR wasn't exactly drunk. But neither was he exactly sober. He smiled owlishly at James Whorter, as he poured out more drinks from a bottle of very expensive whiskey.

"I am feeling no pain whatever," Whorter chuckled.

Their faces were flushed. They had been discussing topics that appealed to both of them. Race horses, yachts, polo ponies, lovely ladies.

Whorter was trying to interest Blair in a fishing cruise to the Gulf of Mexico. That was why he had called on his fellow playboy this evening. The living room of the apartment was filled with maps and guide books on tropical fishing. The rest of the apartment was dark.

It was from one of these dark rooms that an unlooked-for interruption came. A vase fell from a table and crashed to pieces on the floor.

"What the devil was that?" Whorter asked. "The wind must have blown something over."

"There's no wind to blow anything," Blair replied. "All the windows in there are closed."

Whorter yawned, and displayed no further interest. But Blair looked alarmed. He had drunk as much as his visitor, but he could hold his liquor better.

"Sounds like a burglar," he growled. "I'm going in and have a look."

He got to his feet. In his mind was an uneasy remembrance that there had been a lot of burglaries lately. The papers had been full of news about a marijuana-crazed criminal who had wounded a lot of people, and killed a few, too, in order to steal a few paltry dollars in loot.

Blair walked unsteadily toward a desk, where he kept a small automatic pistol. He never reached it. A voice from the doorway of the dark room beyond was rasping an ominous order.

"Stand still!"

Blair whirled. So did Whorter. Then both men uttered a choked cry of alarm. Their hands lifted in terror above their heads.

They were staring at a hideous-looking intruder. His head and face looked like the shriveled skull of an Egyptian mummy. A helmet of blue plastic material, like wrinkled Cellophane, fitted closely over the burglar's skull. Unlike Cellophane, it couldn't be seen through. It merely emphasized the sharp jut of nose and ears and chin behind the opaque covering.

Twin slits permitted the man to see. His hidden eyes gleamed like flame.

He wore dark-blue clothing. In one hand he gripped the gun that was aimed ominously at the two men he had surprised. In his other hand was a lighted cigarette.

The odor from the cigarette made Blair and Whorter sniff sharply. Their faces paled. They knew what sort of cigarette the burglar was holding. A "reefer"!

The identity of the burglar was clear to these two frightened nephews of David Barfield. They shuddered as they remembered the fate of their fellow heir, Charles Clee.

"Take it easy," Blue Face snarled, in a high-pitched whine that was obviously a disguise. "I want money!"

"We don't have much cash," Blair faltered. "Matter of fact, neither of us has more than a few dollars in our wallets."

Blue Face snickered.

"Your wallets will do. Don't you read the newspapers? I'm just a cheapskate.

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