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Chapter II. I Meet A Lady · The House of Skulls

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  Chapter two of House of Skulls by H. Bedford Jones. This LibriVox recordings
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  in the public domain read by Ben Tucker, Chapter two, I meet a
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  lady. It happens to be the case in California that the Los Angeles newspapers
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  circulate north and the San Francisco papers circulates south until they overlap and die.
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  They circulate swiftly too. I was up and out of Santa Barbara before seven
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  o'clock and had the last Los Angeles edition in my pocket when I went to
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  breakfast. The point of this digression will arrive in its proper place beyond glancing
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  over the headlines of my paper. I did not look through it, but
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  jammed it into my overcoat pocket for later consumption. If only I had read
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  that paper, things might have happened otherwise, or they might not. All's
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  for the best. I got off in a drenching fog and drizzle of rain,
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  which I was assured was the usual southern California high fog. There were
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  no speed cops out at this time of day, so in half an hour
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  I was finishing the twenty odd miles of Boulevard north of the city, by
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  which time the fog was breaking and the sun streaming forth gloriously. The worst
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  road I ever took, or ever hoped to take, befell me than and
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  there It was a detour, and there were miles of it alongside the newly
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  constructed but unfinished boulevard. Then I swung into a bit of presumably finished road
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  with unfinished culverts at the bottom of each hill. The first one nearly took
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  my head off when we struck. Then more miles and long miles of plain
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  road about as bad as the detour, Then boulevard again, Thank Heaven that
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  lasted. This took me until eleven in the morning. Consulting my road maps,
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  I found that I was close to a town the name I have forgotten,
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  and should reach San Luis Obispo for Luncheon with fair road. Most of
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  the way. Being in a hurry, I stopped in the town long enough
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  to buy a gasoline, and I happened to stop at the first gasoline sign
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  I saw, which was near the railroad station. Recalling the circumstance later,
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  I remembered that my car was headed north quite obviously. While the tank was
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  being filled, a northbound train passed through without a stop, and the garage
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  man said that it was the flier from Los Angeles. It had left there
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  some time the previous night and passed here regular as clockwork. Naturally, at
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  the moment I thought nothing whatever of the incident. Good highway all the way
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  to San Louis, observed the man while he made change for me. No
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  speed cop out to day neither. The boy got run into day before yesterday.
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  So burn her up if you won't, but keep your eye skin north.
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  The San Louis partner gosh, say, ain't this car real creole?
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  Though thanking him, I climbed in and proceeded to burn her up. The
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  bad roads of the morning had delayed me, and I was anxious to make
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  time. I made such good time that I passed the limited train just before
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  reaching San Louis, and finding that it was still on the good side of
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  the moon, I determined to push on to Passo Roebel for Luncheon. About
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  twelve thirty I was in Passo Robles, still untouched of any speed cop leaving
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  my car before the garage in the main street, I began to skirt the
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  block from storefront to storefront in search of Luncheon. Now I do not want
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  to pain the good citizens of Passo Robles. But I was too ignorant to
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  go back a block to the big hotel. I merely asked for a restaurant
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  and was directed accordingly, so I had no kick coming. At last,
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  on the other side of the block, I found a place, settled down
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  to a table, and to my surprise, found the food really endurable.
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  As i ate, I continued my perusal of the morning paper. It was
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  the only Los Angeles paper in those parts, I imagine, for I saw
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  no other there or north of there. The paper was in two sections,
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  and on the front page of the second section was a photograph of John Balliol.
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  As I glimpsed that picture, I felt a premonition, a fore warning.
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  Beneath it was his name and nothing more. But to the left was
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  a three column story entitled scion of prominent Eastern family a suicide. Above this
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  heading, after the custom of that particular paper, was another heading, and
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  a very small type being the quotation one more unfortunate. It was just as
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  well that I had about finished my meal, for now I was past eating.
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  The thing stupefied me, left me blankly dazed, and to think that
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  I had carried this paper with me all the way from Santa Barbara. I
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  plunged into the story, eager and horrified. There seemed to be no mystery
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  at all in the affair, so far as the newspaper was concerned, except
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  that there was no mention of Balliol having any money. He had merely plugged
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  up his room and turned on the gas. This he had done shortly before
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  midnight. An hour later, the thing had been discovered, and the story
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  had broken in time for the newspaper to cover it fully. In the last
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  edition. Friends of Balliol had volunteered that he had left a sister whose whereabouts
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  were totally unknown, and an uncle in Boston. Balliol's father had been a
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  prominent Boston lawyer who had died some years previously, leaving his family absolutely nothing.
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  Balliol himself had made a little money after leaving college, and some years
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  before had gone on a ranch in the northern part of the state. There,
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  he had struggled along, fighting a losing game against the lean wolf,
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  poverty, and so forth. In desperation, he had come to Los Angeles,
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  had tried to sell his ranch, and had committed suicide. The story
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  was played up absolutely as that of a man wary of striving against the world,
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  and had evidently been obtained from friends of Balliol. For that very reason
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  left me dazed and bewildered. Four months previously, John Balliol had bought a
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  five thousand dollars car, a fact of which the newspaper was ignorant, that
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  did not look like the grim wolf stuff. He had expressly told me that
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  the car cost him that amount, not that it had been presented to him.
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  Of course, he had wanted money very badly on those two days when
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  I had seen him, but he had got the money. So why the
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  deuce had he killed himself? The papers stated that his hotel bill in Los
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  Angeles, where he had been stopping five days, had been unpaid, and
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  that his personal effects amounted to nil. What the deuce had he done with
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  my eleven thousand dollars? Then the thing began to look queergating more thoroughly.
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  I discovered that Balliol had been known at the bank which had identified him for
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  me, but that he had no account there. One of the bank officers
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  had known him at college. That was all. Nothing was known about his
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  having sold anything to York Desmond. My checks had not been found upon him,
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  neither had my money. By the time this information came out, the
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  paper would hardly consider it worth reviving the affair. Balliol had killed himself.
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  The present article made a plausible story, and nothing else mattered. He had
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  certainly gone west of his own volition, and act and motives were unimportant.
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  Yet I knew that he had not killed himself because of poverty. The man
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  had been afraid of something that was it. As I sat there and stared
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  at the paper, I felt absolutely convinced that if the truth were known,
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  John Balliol had killed himself to escape from something that had made him a nervous,
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  fear filled wreck. What had happened last night to make him plunge over
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  the brink. Realizing of a sudden that I was outstad the noon hour and
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  my welcome, I paid the waitress and asked to use a telephone. By
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  dint of paying the fee in advance, I got Los Angeles by long distance,
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  and presently was speaking with the cashier of my bank, York Desmond speaking.
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  I informed him I'm at Passo Robles and going north to that ranch I
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  bought. Just saw the paper about Balliol. Did he cash my checks?
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  No, mister Desmond returned the cashier. If they are presented, we'll take
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  every step to verify the endorsements. Of course, it seems to be quite
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  a mystery, all right, Thanks address me at Lakeport. In case of
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  need, I rang off and left the place, stuffing the newspaper into my
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  pocket. One thing was certain the reporter had got the wrong steer from Balliol's
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  friends. Balliol had not killed himself because of poverty, not in the least.
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  Why he had told me that he had furnished his ranch house with all
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  the electric appliances and the best furniture he could get in San Francisco. No,
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  his grim struggle had been one fine little myth, but it had satisfied
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  the press, and had evidently been meant to satisfy the press. Why to
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  keep the real truth concealed? Of course, his friends were shielding him.
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  It was none of my business, but I could not help checking up on
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  my private convictions. First, John Balliol had been afraid of something, either
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  something in his past, such as disgrace which was hounding him, or something
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  tangible and terrible in his present. Second, this fact was known to those
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  in most intimate touch with him, and was being kept quiet. Thinking thus
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  and being more or less absorbed in my trend of thought. I came back
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  to the main street in my bright hued car. A crowd of natives were
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  standing about an admiring comment which tended to make me want to get away from
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  there. I jumped in and released the brake, pressed the starter, and
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  was off regardless of warning signs. I went through town on second at a
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  pretty good clip, then eased down into third and hit for San Francisco at
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  an even thirty. Damn the whole affair, I said aloud, what if
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  those checks were stolen from him last night? As the words left my lips,
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  I heard a subdued gasp, then an exclamation. It came from the
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  rear section of my car. I flung one startled glance over my shoulder.
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  Then I switched off the mag and put on the brakes. As we came
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  to a halt, I half turned in my seat and stared blankly at the
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  young lady in the suitcase. She was staring at me just as blankly,
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  more so, in fact, she seemed undeniably frightened. She had the suitcase
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  on the short rear seat behind her, and it was a very good suitcase
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  of expensive mate. Who who what what are you doing in this car?
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  She stammered, anger creeping into her voice. I was up against it somehow,
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  just how, I was not at all sure. She seemed perfectly sane,
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  and I liked her voice immensely. I liked her face too. It
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  was a healthy, sensible sort of face, and it was exquisite into the
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  bargain. She was dressing in a travel suit, which spelled something better than
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  California tailoring. Who are you, she demanded, half startled and half angry,
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  answer me, what are you doing with this car? Driving it?
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  Madam? I answered, I I trust you don't mind. She stared at
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  me again. I removed the big yellow goggles, pushed up my cap,
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  and threw open my duster. Now, I said, comfortably, we're on
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  an even basis. Since you wear gloves, I presume you are not a
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  Californian, probably a mere Californiac. I hope you won't think me offensive when
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  I say that this is literally a charming surprise. Probably there's been a mistake
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  somewhere. I don't see possibly how I can have got into the wrong car.
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  Stop that nonsense, she cried out, and I observed she had very
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  blue eyes and remarkably pretty eyes. Drive this car back instantly, back where
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  I inquired back, Have you stolen this car? She flung at me,
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  as if she really thought I had. No, I said, and laughed,
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  No, madam, this car is protected from theft by and of its
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  color. No thief would attack it. The car belongs to me, it
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  really does, I went on, for her appearance of fright sobered me.
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  If you doubt it, look at the prescribed card here by the dash,
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  which was legally affixed before I left Los Angeles. It bears my name and
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  the car's number. Do you dare pretend that you are John Balliol? She
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  flashed out, scornfully. Heaven forbid, I said, gravely. Balliol's dead.
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  I bought the car, madam, day before, yesterday, only an
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  hour ago, I saw in the paper an account of his death. I
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  cursed the impulsive words, for she stared at me, her eyes slowly widening
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  in horror, the color ebbing out of her face. Then she collapsed in
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  a dead faint. End of chapter two,