The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

Paragon agent described her. I liked her so well that I bought her on the spot, ranch or no ranch; and I’ve never had cause to regret the bargain.

      That night I spent a good deal of time wondering about my friend John Balliol. He had all the earmarks of a gentleman; but for all I knew he might be a rank fraud. Not a word had he said about himself, other than I have set down here.

      If he had not been in a hurry, and if his ranch was as described, he could have obtained twenty thousand for it—easily. And his car was salable for double the price I had paid. He was obviously in the position of one who is madly sacrificing all that he has in order to raise quick money—“before tomorrow night,” he had said. Of course, it was none of my affair aside from the business end of it.

      At ten the next morning I went to the bank, where Balliol was already waiting. The cashier beckoned me into his private office and spread several telegrams before me.

      “Everything looks correct, Mr. Desmond,” he stated. “In fact, everything is correct. The title is flawless, and the land is worth much more than is asked.”

      “And this Mr. Balliol himself?” I said. “Will you satisfy yourself that he’s what and whom he says he is?”

      The cashier grasped this somewhat involved query and nodded. Then he summoned Balliol to join us. At first Balliol was inclined to be insulted; then we made him realize that to hand out ten thousand in cash to a man without identification was somewhat risky. He immediately calmed down, and not only produced all kinds of papers, but had himself identified by one of the largest banks in the city, just around the corner from my own bank. In short, John Balliol was all to the good.

      “You attend to the transfer,” I said, when Balliol produced the deeds to the property and handed them to the cashier. The latter nodded and left us alone.

      “Now, Mr. Balliol,” I said, when I had written the check as was waiting for it to dry, “this deal is going through. I wish, as between gentlemen, that you’d tell me anything you know against the property—why you’re giving it away.”

      He turned a little white under his healthy tan, and fished for a cigarette.

      “Can’t do it, Mr. Desmond,” he responded. “It’s—well, it’s private, absolutely. Nothing whatever against the property, upon my word! I got into a bit of trouble, however, and had to have the money. That’s all.”

      Of course I asked no further questions, and the deal was concluded on that basis. I had made out the check to him personally, and he did not cash it, but took it away with him. He did not even ask the bank about my standing, which made me feel rather ashamed of my insistence regarding him. But, as we separated with mutual expressions of good will, I saw him walk away—and glance again over his shoulder with fear in his eyes.

      He had two checks, amounting to eleven thousand of my money; and I had his ranch and his car. And that little Paragon boat, believe me, was a wonder! It was a distinctive car, with a specially built body, and the color was bright canary-yellow—light enough not to show dust easily. The top had plate-glass and solid curtains, and was a deep maroon in hue. Taken all in all, the car could be recognized several miles away as the only one of its kind on earth, particularly as the wire wheels were a bright pea-green. The top was low and deep, of the back-curved variety which effectually hides the driver and passengers.

      Speaking for the New York decorator, I could not say that Yorke Desmond was exactly wild about the color-scheme of that car. I forgot this in the beauty of her performance, however. Later on, perhaps, I would have the paint changed.

      According to John Balliol, I would have nothing on earth to do except to sit around while my walnuts and pears grew, and rake in the shekels when they were ripe. Everything was bought on the hoof, as it were, so I did not even have to pick the fruit. This suited me, naturally. Of course, explained Balliol, the ground had to be cultivated once or twice a year, and the pear-trees had to be sprayed in the summer, but all equipment was on the place. Such mild diversions would but relieve me from the monotony of having nothing to do.

      As they say just off Broadway, it listened good.

      It was noon when the sale was consummated, as I have described. Within an hour I had two extra cord tires reposing on the hind end of my new car, and a complete outfit of maps from the automobile club, and an outfit of suitcases on the running board. By two o’clock I had packed up my belongings, shipped my artistic impedimenta by express to myself at Lakeport, and at two-five I was heading toward Hollywood and the coast highway north.

      My mental attitude was precisely that of a child with a new toy. I wanted to drive that Paragon bus for all she was worth, and only the fear of speed cops held me down. I was wild to get up to my new ranch and see how the walnuts and pears grew. So, having nothing particular to keep me in Los Angeles, I got on my way without delay. Either I had bought a wondrously good thing, or I had somehow got wondrously stung—and the chances were that I had not been stung!

      By six o’clock that evening I was safely in Santa Barbara for the night. Ahead of me were the alternated patches of boulevard and most abominable detouring which constitute the State highway to San Francisco, and I was supremely happy in the way the Paragon rustled along.

      That canary car, with the green wheels and maroon top, certainly attracted attention; this was the only fly in my ointment. I am essentially a modest and retiring man, and I abominate being taken for some ornament of the film industry. Anyone who had ever seen that car would remember it to his dying day, and I never passed a car on the road that my rear-sight mirror did not show me the occupants craning forward for another eyeful of my beauty. All this bothered me, but caused me no particular worry.

      I could not forget, however, the peculiarity of John Balliol’s manner. I felt sorry for the chap; felt rather as though I had taken advantage of a man when he was down. Elated as I was over my bargain, I thought to myself that if the ranch panned out, I’d send him an additional five thousand later.

      But I could not forget him as I had last seen him—glancing over his shoulder as though half expecting something to pounce on him.

      CHAPTER II

      I Meet a Lady

      It happens to be the case in California that the Los Angeles newspapers circulate north, and the San Francisco papers circulate south, until they overlap and die. They circulate swiftly, too. I was up and out of Santa Barbara before seven o’clock, and had the last Los Angeles edition in my pocket when I went to breakfast. They point of this digression will arrive in its proper place.

      Beyond glancing over the headlines of my paper, I did not look through it, but jammed it into my overcoat pocket for later consumption. If only I had read that paper, things might have happened otherwise—or they might not. All’s for the best!

      I got off in a drenching fog and drizzle of rain, which, I was assured, was the usual Southern California “high fog.” There were no speed cops out at this time of day, so in half an hour I was finishing the twenty-odd miles of boulevard north of the city, by which time the fog was breaking and the sun streaming forth gloriously.

      The worst road I ever took, or ever hoped to take, befell me then and there. It was a detour, and there were miles of it, alongside the newly constructed but unfinished boulevard. Then I swung a bit of presumably finished road, with unfinished culverts at the bottom of each hill; the first one nearly took my head off when we struck. Then more miles, and long miles, of plain road—about as bad as the detour; then boulevard again, thank Heaven, that lasted! This took me until eleven in the morning.

      Consulting my road maps, I found that I was close to a town—the name I have forgotten—and should reach San Luis Obispo for luncheon, with fair road most of the way. Being in a hurry, I stopped in the town long enough to buy gasoline, and I happened to stop at the first gasoline sign I saw, which was near the railroad station. Recalling the circumstance later, I remember that my car was headed north, quite obviously.

      While the tank was being filled, a northbound train passed through without a stop, and the garage man said that it was the “flier” from Los Angeles. It had left there sometime the previous