The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 4

  “Here,” she answered, and her hand found his.

  “Go on,” said Duane. “Go on, and leave us alone, feller. It’s all over—”

  * * * *

  And so it was, as Stratolines later learned. All over except one thing, that is; but you have undoubtedly guessed that already. And if you ever meet Mrs. Jim Duane, you will know why her husband looks, and is, the happiest man in the world.

  And today, the miraculous Buddha of the Monastery of Eternal Peace is the most famous place of pilgrimage in all eastern Asia. As it should be.

  THE HOUSE OF SKULLS

  CHAPTER I

  I Buy a House

  I met Balliol as result of answering an advertisement in a Los Angeles paper. It looked like just what I wanted. Here is the ad to speak for itself:

  FOR SALE—Twenty-acre ranch, fine house, complete equipment. Ten acres walnuts, eight pears. Electricity. Water abundant. Income, five thousand dollars, but will sell cheap for cash. Near lake north of San Francisco.

  John Balliol met me by appointment for luncheon at a downtown hotel. Instantly I saw that something was very wrong with him.

  He was a fine-looking young fellow, but was terribly nervous; he must have smoked ten cigarettes with the meal. That, if you happen to know, is purely a city habit. Then, he had a way of glancing swiftly over his shoulder as though afraid something were about to come at him; and his eyes wandered, flitted with lurking suspicion.

  He was afraid of something.

  But he was a gentleman, a man of education. One or two things he said gave me the idea that he was a Harvard man, but he kept very close-mouthed about himself. He had a queerly aggressive manner, the manner of one who fights yet knows that he is licked. Also, he wanted to sell and get his money at once—before the following night.

  “But you’re not a rancher, Mr. Desmond,” he said, suspicion in his eyes. “Why are you interested in my property?”

  I laughed. “Largely because it’s a sacrifice for cash,” I replied. “I’m no rancher, but a sedate artist of a sort. Being a bachelor, I practice interior decoration; but I paint pictures as a preferential occupation. In the past year I’ve made so much money through supplying really worthless but gorgeously blended interiors to war profiteers, that my general physical condition has gone flooey, if you get my meaning! The New York medicos sent me to California. The Los Angeles medicos have ordered me to get on a ranch up north, where the climate is more bracing and not so deadly monotonous.”

  “I get you,” he nodded briefly. “Know anything about ranching?”

  “I can stretch an easel between rows of pear-trees, can’t I?”

  At that he laughed, and for a moment lost his nerve-tensed expression.

  “I need money,” he said after a bit. “I need it badly—before tomorrow night. I got the ranch several years ago; I’ve been improving it steadily, and the house and property are now in first-class shape. And, I’ve spent a lot of money on it.”

  “Reason for selling?” I inquired.

  “Strictly private.” He looked slightly flurried, but his eyes remained steady. “Merely because I need the money, and need it more badly than I can tell you. It’s a grand place up there, Mr. Desmond! Deer are a nuisance; you can shoot wild hogs anytime. If you like fishing, Clear Lake has the best in the State. In two or three years, after they get the boulevard through from Frisco, the whole valley will be opened up and land will be out of sight. At present it’s twenty miles from the railroad, and I can’t honestly brag of the roads—”

  He got out a map of Lake County and showed me the lay of the land. When I saw that the lake was thirty miles long, that his place was only a few miles from Lakeport, the county-seat, that it was in the heart of the hills, and within easy distance of the big trees and of San Francisco itself, I warmed up to the subject.

  “Well,” I said, “what’s the price? Lowest cash.”

  “Ten thousand cash—if I can get it before tomorrow night.”

  That looked queer to me. Ten thousand for a place bringing in five thousand a year!

  “You want the money by tomorrow?” I said thoughtfully. “I have an old friend in one of the banks here; he’ll handle everything for us. He can make thorough inquiries as to the title, and so forth, by wire. If it’s as you say, and if the title’s clear, we can know by tomorrow noon—and I’ll take it. Otherwise, not.”

  He drew a long breath. “I’m satisfied, Mr. Desmond. By the way, if you put through the deal, would you consider buying a car? I drove down here in mine—a Paragon four-passenger roadster. I’ll not need it, and I’m already offering it for sale. If you haven’t a car, you’ll find it the best bargain on the market. Cost me five thousand about four months ago, and I’ll take a thousand cash—before tomorrow night.”

  “All right,” I assented cautiously. “If you’re willing to have the Paragon agency here give her the once-over.”

  He was willing to have any kind of investigation made, either of the ranch or of the car. Inside of an hour my bank had the ranch matter in hand, and promised me a complete report the following morning. John Balliol and I went to the Paragon agency on Olive Street, where his car was laid up, and I found no report was needed.

  The car was strictly a beauty, in first-class shape. She was not exactly an economical car, but she would give good service for years—a nifty, high-class job all around, as the Paragon agent described her. I liked her so well that I bought her on the spot, ranch or no ranch; and I’ve never had cause to regret the bargain.

  That night I spent a good deal of time wondering about my friend John Balliol. He had all the earmarks of a gentleman; but for all I knew he might be a rank fraud. Not a word had he said about himself, other than I have set down here.

  If he had not been in a hurry, and if his ranch was as described, he could have obtained twenty thousand for it—easily. And his car was salable for double the price I had paid. He was obviously in the position of one who is madly sacrificing all that he has in order to raise quick money—“before tomorrow night,” he had said. Of course, it was none of my affair aside from the business end of it.

  At ten the next morning I went to the bank, where Balliol was already waiting. The cashier beckoned me into his private office and spread several telegrams before me.

  “Everything looks correct, Mr. Desmond,” he stated. “In fact, everything is correct. The title is flawless, and the land is worth much more than is asked.”

  “And this Mr. Balliol himself?” I said. “Will you satisfy yourself that he’s what and whom he says he is?”

  The cashier grasped this somewhat involved query and nodded. Then he summoned Balliol to join us. At first Balliol was inclined to be insulted; then we made him realize that to hand out ten thousand in cash to a man without identification was somewhat risky. He immediately calmed down, and not only produced all kinds of papers, but had himself identified by one of the largest banks in the city, just around the corner from my own bank. In short, John Balliol was all to the good.

  “You attend to the transfer,” I said, when Balliol produced the deeds to the property and handed them to the cashier. The latter nodded and left us alone.

  “Now, Mr. Balliol,” I said, when I had written the check as was waiting for it to dry, “this deal is going through. I wish, as between gentlemen, that you’d tell me anything you know against the property—why you’re giving it away.”

  He turned a little white under his healthy tan, and fished for a cigarette.

  “Can’t do it, Mr. Desmond,” he responded. “It’s—well, it’s private, absolutely. Nothing whatever against the property, upon my word! I got into a bit of trouble, however, and had to have the money. That’s all.”

  Of course I asked no further questions, and the deal was concluded on that basis. I had made out the check to him personally, and he did not cash it, but took it away with him. He did not even ask the bank about my standing, which made me feel rather ashamed of my insistence regarding him. But, as
we separated with mutual expressions of good will, I saw him walk away—and glance again over his shoulder with fear in his eyes.

  He had two checks, amounting to eleven thousand of my money; and I had his ranch and his car. And that little Paragon boat, believe me, was a wonder! It was a distinctive car, with a specially built body, and the color was bright canary-yellow—light enough not to show dust easily. The top had plate-glass and solid curtains, and was a deep maroon in hue. Taken all in all, the car could be recognized several miles away as the only one of its kind on earth, particularly as the wire wheels were a bright pea-green. The top was low and deep, of the back-curved variety which effectually hides the driver and passengers.

  Speaking for the New York decorator, I could not say that Yorke Desmond was exactly wild about the color-scheme of that car. I forgot this in the beauty of her performance, however. Later on, perhaps, I would have the paint changed.

  According to John Balliol, I would have nothing on earth to do except to sit around while my walnuts and pears grew, and rake in the shekels when they were ripe. Everything was bought on the hoof, as it were, so I did not even have to pick the fruit. This suited me, naturally. Of course, explained Balliol, the ground had to be cultivated once or twice a year, and the pear-trees had to be sprayed in the summer, but all equipment was on the place. Such mild diversions would but relieve me from the monotony of having nothing to do.

  As they say just off Broadway, it listened good.

  It was noon when the sale was consummated, as I have described. Within an hour I had two extra cord tires reposing on the hind end of my new car, and a complete outfit of maps from the automobile club, and an outfit of suitcases on the running board. By two o’clock I had packed up my belongings, shipped my artistic impedimenta by express to myself at Lakeport, and at two-five I was heading toward Hollywood and the coast highway north.

  My mental attitude was precisely that of a child with a new toy. I wanted to drive that Paragon bus for all she was worth, and only the fear of speed cops held me down. I was wild to get up to my new ranch and see how the walnuts and pears grew. So, having nothing particular to keep me in Los Angeles, I got on my way without delay. Either I had bought a wondrously good thing, or I had somehow got wondrously stung—and the chances were that I had not been stung!

  By six o’clock that evening I was safely in Santa Barbara for the night. Ahead of me were the alternated patches of boulevard and most abominable detouring which constitute the State highway to San Francisco, and I was supremely happy in the way the Paragon rustled along.

  That canary car, with the green wheels and maroon top, certainly attracted attention; this was the only fly in my ointment. I am essentially a modest and retiring man, and I abominate being taken for some ornament of the film industry. Anyone who had ever seen that car would remember it to his dying day, and I never passed a car on the road that my rear-sight mirror did not show me the occupants craning forward for another eyeful of my beauty. All this bothered me, but caused me no particular worry.

  I could not forget, however, the peculiarity of John Balliol’s manner. I felt sorry for the chap; felt rather as though I had taken advantage of a man when he was down. Elated as I was over my bargain, I thought to myself that if the ranch panned out, I’d send him an additional five thousand later.

  But I could not forget him as I had last seen him—glancing over his shoulder as though half expecting something to pounce on him.

  CHAPTER II

  I Meet a Lady

  It happens to be the case in California that the Los Angeles newspapers circulate north, and the San Francisco papers circulate south, until they overlap and die. They circulate swiftly, too. I was up and out of Santa Barbara before seven o’clock, and had the last Los Angeles edition in my pocket when I went to breakfast. They point of this digression will arrive in its proper place.

  Beyond glancing over the headlines of my paper, I did not look through it, but jammed it into my overcoat pocket for later consumption. If only I had read that paper, things might have happened otherwise—or they might not. All’s for the best!

  I got off in a drenching fog and drizzle of rain, which, I was assured, was the usual Southern California “high fog.” There were no speed cops out at this time of day, so in half an hour I was finishing the twenty-odd miles of boulevard north of the city, by which time the fog was breaking and the sun streaming forth gloriously.

  The worst road I ever took, or ever hoped to take, befell me then and there. It was a detour, and there were miles of it, alongside the newly constructed but unfinished boulevard. Then I swung a bit of presumably finished road, with unfinished culverts at the bottom of each hill; the first one nearly took my head off when we struck. Then more miles, and long miles, of plain road—about as bad as the detour; then boulevard again, thank Heaven, that lasted! This took me until eleven in the morning.

  Consulting my road maps, I found that I was close to a town—the name I have forgotten—and should reach San Luis Obispo for luncheon, with fair road most of the way. Being in a hurry, I stopped in the town long enough to buy gasoline, and I happened to stop at the first gasoline sign I saw, which was near the railroad station. Recalling the circumstance later, I remember that my car was headed north, quite obviously.

  While the tank was being filled, a northbound train passed through without a stop, and the garage man said that it was the “flier” from Los Angeles. It had left there sometime the previous night, and passed here “regular as clockwork.” Naturally, at the moment I thought nothing whatever of the incident.

  “Good highway all the way to San Luis,” observed the man, while he made change for me. “No speed-cop out today, neither. The boy got run into day ’fore yesterday, so burn her up if ye want! But keep your eye skinned north o’ San Luis, partner. Gosh! Say, ain’t this car a real oriole, though!”

  Thanking him, I climbed in and proceeded to “burn her up.” The bad roads of the morning delayed me, and I was anxious to make time. I made such good time that I passed the limited train just before reaching San Luis, and, finding that it was still on the good side of noon, I determined to push on to Paso Robles for luncheon.

  About twelve thirty I was in Paso Robles, still untouched of any speed-cop. Leaving my car before the garage in the main street, I began to skirt the block from storefront to storefront in search of luncheon. Now, I do not wish to pain the good citizens of Paso Robles; but I was too ignorant to go back a block to the big hotel; I merely asked for a restaurant and was directed accordingly. So I had no kick coming.

  At last, on the other side of the block, I found a place, settled down to a table, and to my surprise found the food really endurable. As I ate I continued my perusal of the morning paper. It was the only Los Angeles paper in those parts, I imagine—for I saw no other there or north of there.

  The paper was in two sections. And on the front page of the second section was a photograph of John Balliol.

  As I glimpsed that picture I felt a premonition, a forewarning. Beneath it was his name and nothing more. But to the left was a three-column story, entitled: Scion of Prominent Eastern Family a Suicide.” Above this heading, after the custom of that particular paper, was another heading in very small type, being the quotation: “One More Unfortunate.”

  It was just as well that I had about finished my meal, for now I was past eating. The thing stupefied me, left me blankly dazed; and to think that I had carried this paper with me all the way from Santa Barbara!

  I plunged into the story, eager and horrified. There seemed to be no mystery at all in the affair, so far as the newspaper was concerned, except that there was no mention of Balliol having any money. He had merely plugged up his room and turned on the gas; this he had done shortly before midnight. An hour later the thing had been discovered and the story had broken in time for the newspaper to cover it fully in the last edition.

  Friends of Balliol had volunteered that he had left a sister, whose whereabouts were totally
unknown, and an uncle in Boston. Balliol’s father had been a prominent Boston lawyer, who had died some years previously, leaving his family absolutely nothing. Balliol himself had made a little money after leaving college, and some years before had gone on a ranch in the northern part of the State. There he had struggled along, fighting a losing game against the lean wolf, poverty, and so forth. In desperation to sell his ranch, he had committed suicide. They story was played up absolutely as that of a man weary of striving against the world, and had evidently been obtained from friends of Balliol.

  For that very reason it left me dazed and bewildered! Four months previously, John Balliol had bought a five-thousand dollar car—a fact of which the newspaper was ignorant. That did not look like the grim wolf stuff. He had expressly told me that the car “cost him” that amount—not that it had been presented to him.

  Of course he had wanted money very badly on those two days when I had seen him. But he had got the money; so why the deuce had he killed himself? The paper stated that his hotel bill in Los Angeles, where he had been stopping five days, had been unpaid, and that his personal effects amounted to nil. What the deuce had he done with my eleven thousand dollars, then? The thing began to look queer.

  Investigating more thoroughly, I discovered that Balliol had been known at the bank which had identified him for me; but that he had no account there. One of the bank officers had known him in college. That was all. Nothing was known about his having sold anything to Yorke Desmond; my checks had not been found upon him, and neither had my money. By the time this information came out, the paper would hardly consider it worth reviving the affair. Balliol had killed himself, the present article made a plausible story, and nothing else mattered. He had certainly “gone west” of his own volition and act, and motives were unimportant.

  Yet I knew that he had not killed himself because of poverty! The man had been afraid of something—that was it! As I sat there and stared at the paper, I felt absolutely convinced that, if the truth were known, John Balliol had killed himself to escape from something that had made him a nervous, fear-filled wreck! What had happened last night to make him plunge over the brink?