The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Read online

  Realizing all of a sudden that I was outstaying the noon hour and my welcome, I paid the waitress and asked to use a telephone. By dint of paying the fee in advance, I got Los Angeles by long distance, and presently was speaking with the cashier of my bank.

  “Yorke Desmond speaking,” I informed him. “I’m in Paso Robles and going north to the ranch I bought. Just saw the paper about Balliol. Did he cash my checks?”

  “No, Mr. Desmond,” returned the cashier. “If they are presented, we’ll take every step to verify the endorsement of course. It seems to be quite a mystery.”

  “All right, thanks. Address me at Lakeport in case of need.”

  I rang off and left the place, stuffing the newspaper into my pocket. One thing was certain: the reporter had got the wrong steer from Balliol’s friends! Balliol had not killed himself because of poverty—not in the least. Why, he had told me that he had furnished his ranch house with all electric appliances and the best furniture he could get in San Francisco! No; his grim struggle had been one fine little myth. But it had satisfied the press, and had evidently been meant to satisfy the press—why? To keep the real truth concealed, of course. His friends were shielding him.

  It was none of my business, but I could not help checking up on my private convictions. First, John Balliol had been afraid of something—either something in his past, such as disgrace which was hounding him, or something tangible and terrible in his present. Second, this fact was known to those in most intimate touch with him, and was being kept quiet.

  Thinking thus, and being more or less absorbed in my trend of thought, I came back to the main street and my bright-hued car. A crowd of natives were standing about in admiring comment, which tended to make me want to get away from there. I jumped in and released the brake, pressed the starter, and was off. Regardless of warning signs, I went through town on second at a pretty good clip, then eased down into third and hit for San Francisco at an even thirty.

  “Damn the whole affair!” I said aloud. “What if those checks were stolen from him last night—”

  As the words left my lips, I heard a subdued gasp, then an exclamation. It came from the rear section of my car! I flung one startled glance over my shoulder, then I switched off the mag and put on the brakes. As we came to a halt, I half turned in my seat and stared blankly at the young lady and the suitcase.

  She was staring at me just as blankly—more so, in fact; she seemed undeniably frightened. She had the suitcase on the short rear seat beside her, and it was a very good suitcase, of expensive make.

  “Who—who—what are you doing in this car?” she stammered, anger creeping into her voice.

  I was up against it, somehow; just how, I was not at all sure. She seemed perfectly sane, and I liked her voice immensely. I liked her face, too. It was a healthy, sensible sort of face, and it was exquisite into the bargain. She was dressed in a traveling suit which spelled something better than California tailoring.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, half startled and half angry. “Answer me! What are you doing with this car?”

  “Driving it, madam,” I answered. “I—er—I trust you don’t mind?”

  She stared at me again. I removed the big, yellow goggles, pushed up my cap, and threw open my duster.

  “Now,” I said comfortably, “we’re on an even basis. Since you wear gloves, I presume you are not a Californian—probably a mere Californiac. I hope you won’t think me offensive when I say that this is literally a charming surprise! Probably there’s been a mistake somewhere. I don’t see possibly how I can have got into the wrong car—”

  “Stop that nonsense!” she cried out; and I observed that he had very blue eyes, and remarkably pretty eyes. “Drive this car back instantly!”

  “Back—where?” I inquired. “Back—”

  “Have you stolen this car?” she flung at me as if she really thought I had.

  “No,” I said, and laughed. “No, madam. This car is protected from theft by reason of its color. No thief would attack it! The car belongs to me, it really does,” I went on, for her appearance of fright sobered me. “If you doubt it, look at the prescribed card here by the dash, which was legally affixed before I left Los Angeles. It bears my name and the car’s number—”

  “Do you dare pretend that you are John Balliol?” she flashed out scornfully.

  “Heaven forbid!” I said gravely. “Balliol’s dead. I bought the car, madam, day before yesterday. Only an hour ago I saw in the paper an account of his death—”

  I curse the impulsive words. For she stared at me, her eyes slowly widening in horror, the color ebbing out of her face; then she collapsed in a dead faint.

  CHAPTER III

  I Receive A Warning

  I had never had a fainting lady on my hands before, except once when Mrs. Wanderhoof, of Peoria, saw the Fifth Avenue apartment I had decorated for her, and looked at the bill. In that instance, Mr. Wanderhoof had assumed charge. But in this instance—

  We were out of sight of Paso Robles, and there was not a soul nor a house in view. There was no water to throw on the girl’s face—she was no more than a girl, I judged—and the radiator water was apt to be dirty. So, not knowing what else to do, I swung over into the rear seat beside her and set her slim, drooping body upright against the cushions. As I did so, I was relieved to see her blue eyes flutter open.

  Then I remembered a flask of whisky in the door-pocket, and produced it. I got the screw-cup to her lips, but at the first taste she pushed it away.

  “Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “I—I am very well now.”

  She seemed unable to take her eyes from me; the color slowly crept back into her cheeks, but in her eyes I read a bewildered fear.

  Then she said something strange:

  “You said—they killed Jack after all!”

  I was puzzled. Jack! Oh, she must mean John Balliol. The poor girl—I must have given her a stiff jolt!

  “No,” I said gently. “No one killed Balliol, madam. I have the paper here with an account of it; it was suicide. May I ask if you are a friend of his?”

  She seemed to shudder slightly, and drew a long breath.

  “Yes. I am a—a friend,” she said in a low voice, and flushed. I had the uneasy conviction that she was lying to me. “Your words were—a shock. I saw him only last night, before my train left—or, rather, yesterday afternoon.

  “When this car passed the train this morning I felt that it was he; I knew we were ahead at Paso Robles, so I left the train and waited—and I saw the car and got in. When you came along, I thought it was Jack—and meant to surprise him—and when you spoke I discovered—”

  She broke off, the words failing her. That told me the whole story, of course. Even from the train she had not been able to mistake this accursed car!

  “But it was only six last night when I saw him! And my train did not leave until nearly midnight—there’s been a wreck somewhere, and the trains were all held up. It never occurred to me that he was not in the car—”

  She broke off again, starting at me.

  “My name is Yorke Desmond,” I said, trying to make matters smooth. To my dismay, I saw her eyes widen again with that same startled expression. I could have sworn that she had heard my name before.

  “I met Mr. Balliol two days since, on business. I bought a ranch from him, in fact, and bought this car to boot. I’m on my way up to the ranch now. If, as I presume, you were en route to San Francisco, I shall be very glad to place the car at your disposal.”

  She looked away from me, looked at the horizon with a fixed, despairing gaze. My dismay became acute when I perceived that she was going to cry. And she did.

  “Oh!” She flung up her hands to her face suddenly. “Oh—and to think that it took place last night—right afterward! And now it’s too late—”

  A spasm of sobbing shook her body. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling that I had been a blundering ass, I went for a walk and let her cry it out. All my m
arried friends tell me that crying it out is the only solution.

  As I paced down the roadside, I found myself extremely puzzled, even suspicious. She had admitted to me that she had seen Balliol the previous evening. But first, when she had not been on guard at all, she had cried out: “They killed Jack after all!” Upon hearing that Balliol was dead, she had immediately taken for granted that “they” had killed him! Things looked rather badly.

  The initials on her suitcase, which I had seen, were M. J. B. Was she a Balliol? No; she had said that she was a friend, and had distinctly said “friend,” not “relative.” And she had been lying about it, somehow; a minute later she had lied when she told of seeing Balliol the previous night. For her train had not been late! It had left Los Angeles a little before midnight, on regular schedule. “Regular as clockwork,” had said the garage man as the train had passed us. I remembered that incident now.

  This girl must have known Balliol pretty well. She had seen him last night, and he had gone from her to his suicide. And, by Heaven, she knew it! She was lying!

  Well, this conclusion gave me quite a jolt, to be frank. That girl did not look like an ordinary liar, and she did not lie with practiced ease. Why should she deliberately set out to deceive me? I could not see any light whatever. And the mysterious “they” whom she took to be Balliol’s murderers!

  The whole affair was strictly none of my business. As I walked back to the car, I took out my pipe and filled it. This girl was in trouble, and my best course was to mind my own affair and ask no questions.

  When I had regained the car, I found that the girl had composed herself and was now staring at the horizon again—a poor, crumpled bit of exquisite femininity. I removed my cap and addressed her.

  “Madam, it seems that there has been a mistake somewhere. Please consider me at your service in any way possible! If you want to get to Frisco, we can reach there tonight, I believe.”

  Her gaze came to me for a moment, and she drew a deep breath.

  “Thank you, Mr. Desmond,” she said quietly. But she did not give me her name. “Jack told me of selling his ranch to you, but did not mention the car. That was how my mistake came to be made.”

  Her lips quivered, and she looked down. Then she forced herself into calm again.

  “If—if it would not be asking too much, will you take me on to San Francisco with you?” she pursued. “I’m very sorry indeed to have made this terrible blunder.”

  “It will be entirely my pleasure, madam,” I returned rather pointedly. But she did not take the hint, and obviously intended to keep her identity to herself. So I got into the car, and, as I did so, removed the paper from my pocket.

  “Here is the newspaper in question,” I added, handing it to her.

  She took it in silence and leaned back again.

  I started the car, and we went on.

  For the remainder of the afternoon the two of us exchanged scarcely a word. Once or twice I attempted to divert her thoughts by comments upon the road or the country, but she discouraged my efforts quite visibly. I was too occupied with the road, which again alternated good with bad, to let my mind dwell upon the mystery of the girl.

  We made time, however. I took the chance of speed-cops, and let out the Paragon on the good stretches. To my satisfaction, we got into Salinas a trifle before seven o’clock, with fine boulevard all the rest of the way to San Francisco.

  “We have about a hundred and twenty miles ahead,” I remarked to my companion as we rolled into Salinas. “We had better get a bit to eat here, for we can’t make Frisco before ten or eleven o’clock. I imagine you had no luncheon,” I added hastily, seeing a refusal in her eye, “so I must really insist that you eat something.”

  She had been crying again, but assented composedly to my request. We located a Greek restaurant, and went in together. After a cup of execrable coffee and some alleged food, we felt better.

  “Now for the last lap!” I said cheerfully as we came out again to the car. “I haven’t much faith in the speed-cop myth, so we’ll let her out while the going’s good. All set?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she responded, settling herself in the rear.

  We started north, and the Paragon flitted along like a bat out of purgatory. She was a sweet boat for speed. When it got gloomy I threw on the headlights and the big spotlight which formed a part of her equipment, and we zoomed past the California landscape in the finest fashion imaginable. These vast stretches of country were entirely different from driving around New York, and I liked the change immensely; it was intoxicating!

  Then we came to the extraterritorial suburbs of San Francisco, after getting through San Jose and Palo Alto and safely past the military camp. I am not at all certain where the spot was, but I know the Paragon was hitting a pretty good clip when into the cone of light beside and ahead of us flashed a man on a motorcycle. He passed us like a flicker, then he slowed down and extended his hand.

  “Good night!” I remarked, with sinking heart. “There was a basis for the myth after all.”

  When we were halted, the motorcycle planted itself at my elbow, and the officer took out his pencil and pad.

  “Know how fast you were going?” he inquired.

  “I’m afraid to guess,” I said meekly. “Your word’s good, officer.”

  “I made it fifty-eight,” he observed. “Also, there’s a headlight-law in this State and you’ve got a blaze of lights there that would blind a shooting star. And your taillight is on the bum. That’s three counts. You seem to be sober.”

  “Thank Heaven, I am!” I returned. “Anything else?”

  He grinned, and took down more information about me than would have filled a passport. Then he gave me a slip and told me to report to a certain San Francisco judge at ten in the morning.

  “Isn’t there any way out of the delay?” I queried. “I’m trying to get north in a hurry.”

  “So I judged,” he retorted. “Too much of a hurry. Well, I must say you’ve took it like a gent—Tell you what! Run along with me, and we’ll drop in on a justice of the peace. This is a first offense, so you can give bail—and forget it. See? Of course, we’re not supposed to give this info, but—”

  “But you’re a gentleman,” I added, “and I’ll make it right with you. If you can fix that taillight of mine, I’d appreciate it.”

  Half an hour later we were once more on our way, with full instructions as to the proper rate of speed; and I was minus fifty-five iron men, and lucky to get off that cheaply. But the whole thing had delayed us so that it was hard on midnight when we saw the gay white way of Van Ness Avenue off to our left. I halted the car and turned around.

  “Asleep, comrade? No? Well, if you’ll be good enough to give me orders, I’ll take you wherever you’re going.”

  M. J. B. gave me the name of a hotel on Sutter Street where she was known favorably, it seemed, and instructed me to drive up Van Ness. She appeared quite at home in the city. I followed her instructions, and ten minutes later drew up before the doorway of a quiet family hotel. I helped her out of the car with her suitcase, but she refused to let me take it inside for her. She held out her hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness,” she said earnestly. “And—I’ve been trying to think over what’s right to do. Would you take some very serious advice from me?”

  “I’d take anything from you,” I said smiling. “Shoot!”

  “I am not joking, Mr. Desmond,” she made grave response. “Please, please do not go to the ranch! I can’t give you any reasons; but I mean it deeply. For your own sake, do not go on to the ranch! Not until the end of the month at least. Good-by!”

  She picked up her suitcase and was gone, leaving me staring after her.

  CHAPTER IV

  I Hear a Bullet

  Out of sheer decency, I had to seek another hotel, naturally. I did not pay much attention to M. J. B.’s warning. At midnight, after a tremendously hard day’s ride in a car, after a stiff shock and a faint
ing-spell, the girl would be in pretty bad nervous condition. I took for granted that she was overwrought, and let it go at that.

  As I wanted to reach Lakeport the next night, and had a plentitude of bad roads ahead, I was up and off at seven the following morning. Ferrying over to Sausalito delayed me, and before getting to San Rafael I was off on a detour which took me around nearly to Petaluma. The road was fair, but outside Petaluma I picked up a tenpenny-nail held upright by a scrap of wood, and it took one of my cord tires in a jiffy. Fixing that held me up a little while.

  I got to Santa Rosa in time for an early luncheon, and discovered that I was going to make Lakeport in the afternoon, barring accidents. This was good news. I also discovered that the last place I could get any liquid refreshment was at the famous tavern kept by one McGray, on ahead. So, about one o’clock, I drew up before the wide-spreading place, in the shade of the immense oaks that shade the tavern-grounds, and went in to get a long, slim drink.

  In view of the after-developments of that same day, it might be well to set down that I had one drink, and one only. Upon returning to my car, I came to an abrupt halt in some astonishment. A young man was standing by the off rear wheel, and he was not observing me at all. He was well dressed, but rather swarthy in complexion; this country was full of Italian, French, and Swiss grape specialists, as I had learned coming north, so there was no stating the antecedents of the young man. What interested me, and seemed to be absorbing him, was the fact that he had a knife in his hand and was industriously pecking away at one of my rear tires!

  At times I yield to impulse, and this was one of the times. I reached that young man in two jumps and banged him solidly into the car, then jerked him upright and planted my fist rudely against his nose, allowing him to sprawl in the dust.

  He picked himself up and went away in a hurry, swearing as he went.

  “Of all the infernal deviltry!” I exclaimed as he vanished among the trees. “That fellow certainly had his nerve—”