The Black Ball Of Death

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STEVE HUSTON, ace reporter for the Clarion, heard the Cadillac’s powerful engine choke and miss. Twice, on the way back from the newspaper convention in Baltimore, the car had acted up. Now, close to midnight, again it sounded as if about ready to stop entirely.

Frank Havens, wealthy owner of the Clarion and a string of coast-to coast newspapers, roused himself. His gray eyes turned in Steve’s direction. “Same thing?”

Huston, small, redheaded, and wiry, nodded. “I guess so. I’m no mechanic, but I’ve got a hunch the timing’s wrong, or the generator isn’t working.”

“Where are we?”

Steve glanced out of the open window beside him. The road they were on was some alternate route back to New York. Havens, who didn’t like traffic, had told him to take it. In the moonlight it stretched away between open farm fields, woods, and general desertion.

“We’re somewhere in lower Jersey.”

The motor caught, pulsing rhythmically, and Havens relaxed on the upholstered seat. But Steve wasn’t deceived. Twice since they bad left Baltimore the car had performed in that same manner.

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