Bill Barnes Air Adventurer, July 1935 — page 95: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AIR ADVENTURER 93 Skip’s lips tightened, but he shook his head. Nunn was in league with the bandits, all right, but he wasn’t the man higher up. There were others in this gang. An idea tossed at the back of his brain. Thoughtfully he stared at Nunn, who stood smiling maliciously down upon him. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked at last, watchfully scanning his co-pilot’s beady eyes. “You know too much for your own good to let you go here,’ Nunn replied importantly. “We're heading for Mexico with the coin and you’re coming along so you won’t spread any alarm until after we’re in a safe country where there’s no extradition.”’ “Like hell he is!” A harsh voice knifed into the con- versation. Skip cursed the thongs that bound him as he wrenched around violently to glimpse the speaker. His blood froze at the sight of the two desperadoes who had approached so silently. The mark of the killer was written in both faces. Both bandits kept their hands ominously hidden in the pockets of leather flying coats. The one who had spoken was hawk- faced, with a nose like a saber, three livid knife gashes under a chill-gray eye twisting his face into a horrible leer, and a thin, blue, cruel mouth: His companion had the gross, heavy, emotionless face of a butcher. Fishlike blue eyes looked out from a masklike face. “Scarface” spoke again, spitting out the words bitingly. “When did you muscle in as the big shot, Nunn?” he snarled. ‘‘You’re not making any plans for any one in this outfit, get me? This mug’s not going to Tiajuana with us. He’s on the spot. You should have bumped him off last night. But you turned chicken and failed. It’s up to you right now. Make it snappy; we've got to be on the lam and he knows too much. Come on, drill him!’ Nunn’s face went white at the cold- blooded order. All the arrogant assurance of a mo- ment before vanished. His lips quiv- ered ; he shook feverishly, recoiling from Scarface as from a viper. “Don’t!” He wrenched out the word, held shaking hands in front of him, “I can’t murder. Murder! JI can't. I won’t. I won’t, J tell you!” “Oh, yeah For the first time the fish-eyed killer spoke, growling out the words. Skip Davis read the murderous in- tent in the killer’s snakelike movement of the hand. A strangled shout of warning—too late—burst from his sud- denly blanched lips. Nunn screamed once in reply, to the accompaniment of a single shot. Then he clawed horribly at his stomach and sprawled limply in the grass, face down. His legs twitched spasmodically. In a moment he lay still. ‘“Fisheyes” lowered his still-smoking gun. His queer eyes were flat, lusterless, devoid of all expression. “What the hell did you do that for?” Scarface snarled, whirling on his accom- plice. “Why mot?” Fisheyes growled heavily. He nudged the still form at his feet. “He was sounding off too much. And I’ve got an idea for an alibi.” “What do you mean?’ demanded Scarface, eyes still glittering danger- ously. “Listen,” said Fisheyes, his basilisk gaze intent on Skip. ‘“‘What’s going to happen when they find this air-mail plane here, the money sacks gone, and the co-pilot dead oe “Spring it.” “Suppose the pilot 1s missing?” Be eyes continued calculatingly. “The co- pilot is dead, the money gone, and the pilot missing. Who’ do they suspect? oO COLA) Ghook CO