The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
lord!” gasped Duane. “Yes, yes—Tuyok didn’t know about you—here, look out, look out—there’s hell to pay back there!”
A chorus of yells split the night behind them. He staggered forward, Parks helping him. Directly in front of them, just back of the opening into the roofless walls, towered something. A light flashed, a deep voice boomed out—Parks spoke hurriedly.
“The electronic system’s at work, hooked up to the power of the helicopter. That’s the electric eye greeting you—wait and we’ll switch on the lights—hurry, Wang!”
A soft, subdued glow leaped up. There stood the Buddha of bronze plastic, and the light lit up the courtyard. Duane halted, just inside the entrance, beside the Buddha. He shoved the others on, and turned as a vibrant shout of anger lifted, He knew that voice, and fumbled for the pistol in his pocket.
It was like a dream—the thick stream of figures pouring from the monastery, the tall lean shape leading them. Tuyok the Hound brought out a pistol as he ran forward, and a new yell of fury escaped him as the towering shape of the Buddha appeared.
Duane, without an atom of emotion, took careful aim and pressed the trigger. Tuyok leaped in air, came another step, another—and then crumpled up and fell face down on the stones. He had come just within the range of the electric eye, with his final step.
The glowing Buddha lifted an arm, a majestic booming voice came from his lips in a Mongol greeting, then he sat silent, smiling, motionless.
A deathly hush fell upon those red-robed monks crowding behind Tuyok.
They thronged together, staring. One stepped forward gingerly and said something. As though in response, the radionics worked anew; the arm of the Buddha moved in blessing, and the glow of light died into a gentle softness that lit only the smiling, serene face.
The monks, as one man, fell in prostration. Through their ranks came an old, gaudily attired shape. The cracked voice of Ming Shui made itself heard thinly. She advanced to the figure of Tuyok—and crossed the electronic beam. Again, in booming salute, the Buddha spoke and the lights gained in strength. With a howl, old Ming Shui toppled forward on her knees.
Duane felt Parks pull him back, behind the Buddha.
“Take over—take over, Parks,” he said. “Get Wang to interpret—catch ’em while it’s hot! Where’s Agnes Lawton?”
“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