The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
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 fainting-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—”
I was relieved to find that he had effected no damage, beyond a hole in the casing that had not yet reached the breaker strip. Taking for granted that he had had a drop too much, I climbed into the car and departed.
Within no long time I had reached the village of Hopland, my destination on the highway. From here a toll-road ran over the hills to Lakeport, and I turned off without pause in the village, thankful that the end of my trip was in sight—as I thought.
That road was a brute—thick with dust, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and with crumbly edges and a sheer drop at that, and a steep up-grade for five solid miles! In places it was a very beautiful road, winding up between forested growths of redwoods and giant conifers. As I nursed the Paragon up that road at fifteen miles an hour I had plenty of time for reflection.
Back to questions again. Out of the general muddle these had resolved themselves into certain distinct and coherent queries; and they fell under two heads:
John Balliol:
1. Whom had he been afraid of, and why? Unknown.
2. What had brought him to suicide? Not poverty, certainly.
3.