The Mystery of the Scar-faced Beggar - M. V. Carey [1]
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.
The man disappeared into an alley behind a row of stores. Bob followed.