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Chapter I. I Buy A House · The House of Skulls

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  Chapter one of House of Skulls by H. Bedford Jones. This is a
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  LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information
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  or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Ben Tucker.
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  House of Skulls by H. Bedford Jones, Chapter one, I Buy a
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  house. I met Balliol as a result of answering an advertisement in a Los
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  Angeles paper. It looked just like what I wanted. Here is the ad
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  to speak for itself. For sale, twenty acre ranch, fine house,
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  complete equipment, ten acres, walnuts, eight pears, electricity, water,
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  abundant income five thousand dollars, but will sell cheap for cash, near Lake
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  north of San Francisco. John Balliol met me by appointment for luncheon at a
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  downtown hotel. Instantly I saw that something was very wrong with him. He
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  was a fine looking young fellow, but was terribly nervous. He must have
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  smoked ten cigarettes with the meal that, if you can have to know,
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  is purely a city habit. Then he had a way of glancing swiftly over
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  his shoulder, as though afraid something were about to come at him, and
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  his eyes wandered, flitted with lurking suspicion. He was afraid of something,
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  but he was a gentleman, a man of education. One or two things
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  he said gave me the idea that he was a Harvard Man. But he
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  kept very close mouthed about himself. He had a queerly aggressive manner, the
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  manner of one who fights yet knows that he is licked. Also, he
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  wanted to sell and get his money at once before the following night. But
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  you're not a rancher, mister Desmond, he said, suspicion in his eyes.
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  Why are you interested in my property? I laughed, largely because it's
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  a sacrifice for cash, I replied. I'm no rancher, but a sedate
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  artist of a sort. Being a bachelor. I practice interior decoration, but
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  I paint pictures as a preferential occupation. In the past year, I've made
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  so much money through supplying really worthless but gorgeously ended in terriers to war profiteers
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  that my general physical condition has gone fluey, if you get my meaning.
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  The New York Medicos sent me to California. The Los Angeles Medicos have ordered
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  me to get on a ranch up north, where the climate is more bracing
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  and not so deadly monotonous. I get you, he nodded, briefly,
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  know anything about ranching. I can stretch an easel between rows of pear trees,
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  can't I. At that, he laughed, and for a moment lost
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  his nerve tensed expression. I need money, he said, after a bit.
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  I need it badly before tomorrow night. I got the ranch several years
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  ago. I've been improving it steadily in the house and property are now in
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  first class shape, and I've spent a lot of money on it. Reason
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  for selling, I inquired, strictly private. He looked slightly flurried, but
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  his eyes remained steady, merely because I need the money, and need it
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  more badly than I can tell you. It's a grand place up there,
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  mister deasmon deer are a nuisance. You can shoot wild hogs any time if
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  you like fishing. Clear Lake has the best in the state. In two
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  or three years, after they get the boulevard through from Frisco, the whole
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  valley will be opened up and land will be out of sight. At present,
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  it's twenty miles from the railroad, and I can't honestly brag of the
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  roads. He got out a map of Lake County and showed me the lay
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  of the land. When I saw that the lake was thirty miles long,
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  that his place was only a few miles from Lakeport, the county seat,
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  that it was in the heart of the hills, and within easy distance of
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  the big trees, and of San Francisco itself. I warmed up to the
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  subject. Well, I said, what's the price, lowest cash? Ten
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  thousand cash, if I can get it before tomorrow night. That looked queer
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  to me. Ten thousand for a place bringing in five thousand a year.
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  You want the money by tomorrow, I said, thoughtfully. I have an
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  old friend in one of the banks here. He'll handle everything for us.
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  He can make thorough inquiries as to the title and so forth by wire.
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  If it's as you say, and if the title's clear, we can know
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  by tomorrow noon, and I'll take it otherwise not he drew a long breath.
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  I'm satisfied, mister Desmond. By the way, if you put through
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  the deal, would you consider buying a car? I drove down here in
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  mine a paragon fore passenger roads to her. I'll not need it, and
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  I am already offering it for sale. If you haven't a car, you'll
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  find it the best bargain on the market. Cost me five thousand about four
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  months ago, and I'll take a thousand cash before tomorrow night. All right,
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  I assented cautiously, if you're willing to have the Paragon agency here give
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  her the once over. He was willing to have any kind of investigation made,
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  either of the ranch or of the car. Inside of an hour,
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  my bank had the ranch matter in hand and promised me a complete report.
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  The following morning, John Balliol and I went to the Paragon Agency on Olive
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  Street, where his car was laid up, and I found no report was
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  needed. The car was strictly a beauty in first class shape. She was
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  not exactly an economical car, but she would give good service for years,
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  a nifty high class job all around. As the Paragon Agency described her.
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  I liked her so well that I bought her on the spot, ranch or
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  no ranch, and I've never had cause to regret the bargain. That night,
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  I spent a good deal of time wondering about my friend John Balliol.
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  He had all the ear marks of a gentleman, but for all I knew
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  he might be a rank fraud. Not a word had he said about himself
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  other than I have set down here. If he had not been in a
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  hurry, and if his ranch was as described, he could have obtained twenty
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  thousand for it easily, and his car was salable for double the price I
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  had paid. He was obviously in the position of one who is madly sacrificing
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  all that he has in order to raise quick money. Before tomorrow night he
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  had said, of course, it was none of my affair, aside from
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  the business end of it. At ten the next morning, I went to
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  the bank, where Balliol was already waiting. The cashier beckoned me into a
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  private office and spread several telegrams before me. Everything looks correct, mister Desmond,
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  he stated, In fact, everything is correct. The title is flawless,
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  and the land is worth much more than is asked. And this mister
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  Balliol himself. I said, will you satisfy yourself that he's what and whom
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  he says he is. The cashier grasped this somewhat involved query and nodded.
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  Then he summoned Balliol to join us. At first, Balliol was inclined to
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  be insulted. Then we made him realize that the hand out ten thousand in
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  cash to a man without identification was somewhat risky. He immediately calmed down and
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  not only produced all kinds of papers, but had himself identified by one of
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  the largest banks in the city, just around the corner from my own bank.
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  In short, John Balliol was all to the good. You attend to
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  the transfer, I said. When Balliol produced the deeds to the property and
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  handed them to the cashier, the latter nodded and left us alone. Now,
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  mister Balliol, I said, when I had written the check and was
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  waiting for it to dry, the deal is going through. In fact,
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  it has gone through. I wish, as between gentlemen, that you'd tell
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  me anything you know against the property. Why you were giving it away.
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  He turned a little white under his healthy ten and fished for a cigarette.
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  Can't do it, mister Desmond, he responded, it's well, it's private,
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  absolutely nothing whatever against the property. Upon my word, I got into
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  a bit of trouble, however, and had to have the money. That's
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  all, of course. I asked no further questions, and the deal was
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  concluded on that basis. I had made out the check to him personally,
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  and he did not cash it, but took it away with him. He
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  did not even ask the bank about my standing, which made me feel rather
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  ashamed of my insistence regarding him. But as we separated with mutual expressions of
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  good will, I saw him walk away and glance again over his shoulder with
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  fear in his eyes. He had two checks amounting to eleven thousand of my
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  money, and I had his ranch in his car. And that little Paragon
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  boat, believe me, was a wonder. It was a distinctive car with
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  a specially built body, and the color was bright canary yellow, light enough
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  not to show dust easily. The top had plate glass and solid curtains,
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  and was a deep maroon and hue. Taken all in all, the car
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  could be recognized several miles away as the only one of its kind on earth,
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  particularly as the wire wheels were a bright pea green. The top was
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  low and deep of the back curved variety, which effectually hides the driver and
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  passengers. Speaking for the New York decorator, I could not say that York
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  Desmond was exactly wild about the color scheme of that car. I forgot this
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  in the beauty of her performance. However, later on, perhaps I would
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  have the paint changed. According to John Balliol, I would have nothing on
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  earth to do except to sit around while my walnuts and pears grew and rake
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  in the shekels when they were ripe. Everything was bought on the hoof,
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  as it were, so I did not even have to pick the fruit.
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  This suited me naturally. Of course, explained Balliol. The ground had to
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  be cultivated once or twice a year, and the pear trees had to be
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  sprayed in the summer, but all equipment was on the place. Such wild
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  diversions would but relieve me from the monotony of having nothing to do. As
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  they say, just off Broadway, it listened good. It was noon when
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  the sale was consummated, as I have described. Within an hour I had
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  two extra cord tires reposing on the hind end of my new car, and
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  a complete outfit of maps from the Automobile Club and an outfit of suit cases
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  on the running board. By two o'clock I had packed up my belongings,
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  shipped my artistic impedimenta by express to myself at Lakeport, and at two five
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  I was heading toward Hollywood and the Coast Highway North. My mental attitude was
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  precisely that of a child with a new toy. I wanted to drive that
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  Paragon bus for all she was worth, and only the fear of speed cops
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  held me down. I was wild to get up to my new ranch and
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  see how the walnuts and pears grew. So, having nothing particular to keep
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  me in line, Angelus, I got on my way without delay. Either
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  I had bought a wondrously good thing, or I had somehow got wondrously stung,
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  And the chances were that I had not been stung. By six o'clock
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  that evening, I was safely arrived in Santa Barbara for the night. Ahead
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  of me were the alternate patches of boulevard and most abominable detouring which constituted the
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  State Highway to San Francisco, and I was supremely happy in the way.
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  The Paragon rustled along. That canary car with the green wheels and maroon top
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  certainly attracted attention. This was the only fly in my ointment. I am
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  essentially a modest and retiring man, and I abominate being taken for some ornament
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  of the film industry. Any one who had ever seen that car would remember
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  it to his dying day. And I never passed a car on the road
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  that my rear sight mirror did not show me the occupants craning forward for another
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  eye full of my beauty. All this bothered me, but caused me no
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  particular worry. I could not forget, however, the peculiarity of John Balliol's
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  manner. I felt sorry for the chap, felt rather as though I had
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  taken advantage of a man when he was down. Elated as I was over
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  my bargain, I thought to myself that if the ranch panned out, I'd
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  send him an additional five thousand later. But I could not forget him,
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  as I had last seen him glancing over his shoulder, as though half expecting
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  something to pounce on him. End of Chapter one