“Or of nerves either,” I added to myself, as I took the letter and picture which she handed me.
The picture was a kodak snapshot of a very angry young man shaking his fist at the camera. There was no doubt about his anger; a snarling, venomous rage was stamped all over him! As I recognized his face, however, an exclamation escaped me; for, beyond all question, it was the same swarthy young man who had tried to cut my tires at McGray’s Tavern.
“What’s the matter?” broke out Miss Balliol. “You know him?”
“I’ve seen him,” I commented. “Tell you about it in a minute.”
Beneath the picture was written: “John Talkso registering rage.”
Taking the letter, I read a marked paragraph. It dealt with the same John Talkso, a name whose very queerness made me wonder what nationality the young man could be. Balliol had not explained this, but had written:
Am having more trouble with the individual whose picture I enclose. However, I hope to obviate further trouble with him. The whole thing is so silly that one hesitates to write any explanation. Don’t worry about it.
That was finely indefinite, was it not? It was.
“About six months ago,” resumed Miss Balliol, “we got into terrible trouble, and I was afraid to write Jack about it, because we were trying so hard not to increase his worries. Mother was very ill and we had to mortgage the house again; then a private bank failed—a bank in which father had left us a block of stock. The stock had never been any good, and then on the failure of the bank we had to pay a tremendous assessment to secure the depositors—and that finished everything for us. Mother died suddenly. When it was all over, I wrote Jack what had happened. Then I went back to work.”
I did not hasten her recital, and she paused for a few moments. We were chugging merrily down the lake, and the heat of the sun was relieved by a cool breeze which brought stray locks of Martha Balliol’s hair about her face in distracting fashion.
“It was a hard blow to Jack, of course,” she went on. “Now, what has happened I don’t know and can’t discover, Mr. Desmond. He wired me a month ago to meet him in Los Angeles at once—he wrote little or nothing in the interim. I came to Los Angeles and he did not turn up; I could not get into touch with him at all. Then, one morning, he called me up on the telephone and told me to catch the night train to San Francisco, and to meet him at the station an hour before the train left.
“I felt that something terrible was happening, but he gave no explanation. When we met at the station, he was a nervous wreck, and he was frightfully mysterious about everything. He told me to go on to San Francisco and that I’d hear from him en route.”
“How did you recognize his car from the train?” I broke in. “You’d never seen it.”
“No, but he had sent us the colored picture when he had ordered it built, and he had sent photographs of it after he had received it—it’s such a distinctive car that no one could possibly mistake it!”
That was true enough, as I had discovered.
“Well, that night at the station,” she pursued, “Jack gave me an envelope and said to open it after the train had started; he made me promise him. Then he kissed me good-by and said not to worry, that he had fixed everything all right for me. That’s the last I saw of him, Mr. Desmond. Later—on the train—I opened his letter and found your check to him, with this note.”
She handed me a note in Balliol’s writing, which read as follows:
Dearest Sis:
The game’s up as far as I’m concerned; you’ll hear about it soon enough. They were too much for me at the ranch. They drove me out, to put it bluntly. If I hadn’t had too much cursed pride, I might have done otherwise; but I fought them, and now they’ll get me sure if I go back.
Besides this, I’ve got in bad with another deal. If I go through with it, then you’ll lose everything, and I can’t face it. I guess I’m pretty well broken down, sis. I’ve been a fool, that’s all. There’s only one way to secure to you what can be secured, and I’ve taken it. I’ve sold the ranch for ten thousand, which is far below its value, and enclose the check. Cash it immediately in San Francisco. Good-by, dear little sis, and make the best of it.
Jack
That was on the face of it a cowardly letter, considering that an hour later Balliol had killed himself; but I could not help remembering all that he must have endured and fought for in the past years.
“Still we haven’t solved the secret of the mysterious ‘they,’” I observed, “except that John Talkso, whoever he is, is concerned in it. This letter, too, speaks of another deal—vague and mysterious as ever. Miss Balliol, do you have any idea why your brother did what he did in Los Angeles?”
She shook her head. His suicide was still a mystery to her.
I told her about my encounter with John Talkso, and with the shot from the hills. She had warned me in San Francisco merely on impulse, for she had felt that there was something vaguely but distinctly hostile about that ranch; also, she had been distrustful of me, for she had imagined that I might have been concerned in some conspiracy to beat down the value of the ranch and get it cheap. There is the contradiction of woman for you!
Well, inside of twenty minutes we were on solid footing of friendship. I managed to convince her as to my entire ignorance of the trouble; and I could see that the poor girl had been driven nearly wild by the mystery which had shrouded Balliol’s latter days.
As we drew up the lake, I suggested to Martha Balliol that she might care to stop at the ranch and look over the house.
“There may be books or other personal belongings of your brother’s that you’d like to keep,” I explained. “Really, Miss Balliol, I’d feel much relieved if you’d go through his effects and take everything that you’d like to have. I’ve felt very badly over the deal, because I’ve seemed to take undue advantage of his circumstances; and I feel as though some reparation and expiation were due you.”
Later, I thought, I’d add at least five thousand to the purchase price of the ranch, but of course this was not the moment to broach such a matter. Since it was early in the afternoon, Miss Balliol thanked me and consented to stop in at the ranch, for Dawson’s lay just across the bay and we could run over there in ten minutes.
Accordingly, we ran in to the dock, and on this occasion there was no red flare in the skull-sockets. Nor did I say anything to her about the skulls, for the subject was not a very pleasant one to bring before the girl’s mind. I was careful to steer her up the hill and then around to the side of the house, and as we reached it, I heard a bell buzzing away.
“Hello!” I ejaculated. “I ordered the telephone unplugged this morning—the instrument was in, of course. Someone’s calling to see if the line’s working, maybe. Go right in and make yourself at home, Miss Balliol—I’ll answer the call.”
The telephone was in the kitchen, and a moment later I was at the instrument.
“Yorke Desmond speaking!” I said. “Hello?”
It was my friend the banker at Lakeport speaking; and what he had to say was one little earful—it certainly was! What he wanted from me was the address of John Balliol, for no one in these parts seemed to know that Balliol was dead. I wanted to know why he wanted it.
Being a banker, he was mighty hard to pin down and hold on the mat; but at last I made him cough up the information. It appeared that some time previously Balliol had gone on the note of a friendly rancher to the tune of six thousand dollars. Fire had wiped out the rancher’s property—this was over in High Valley—and the man himself had broken both legs in an accident; and it was up to John Balliol to make good the six thousand, now overdue.
“What date was it due?” I demanded. The banker told me. That note had become due the day after I had bought the Balliol ranch!
“You listen here,” I said, thinking fast. “I’ll come in to Lakeport tomorrow and see you; and I’ll make good that sum. Savvy? Never mind my reasons. I owe Balliol that money, so I’ll explain further tomorrow.”
I rang off and dropped into the nearest chair.
Light on the subject? I should say so! This was the “other deal” to which Balliol had referred; and he sure had been a fool to endorse the other man’s note. He knew it, also, and knew that to make it good would wipe him out. That was why he had given up the fight.
He had sold out his ranch to me at a give-away price, in order to secure the ten thousand to his sister. He had given her the money, then had killed himself. He had left no estate whatever. Whether or not the law could reach that ten thousand, I did not know; at all events, he had, of course, figured that it was safe to Martha. The banker had told me that Balliol had sent back one thousand from Los Angeles—the thousand which I had given him for his car, of course.
This explained Balliol’s haste to get the money. It did not explain the enmity which had existed between Balliol and this John Talkso, but of that I took little heed at the moment. Instead of giving Martha Balliol the extra five thousand, I would pay it over to the bank, clear Balliol’s name, and square myself with the dead man, as I looked at it. Martha Balliol need never know of it.
I had figured this out to my own satisfaction as the best possible course, when from the front of the house I heard a cry, followed by a scream. Then I remembered that cursed pterodactyl, for the first time!
CHAPTER VIII
I Go Hunting
Martha Balliol had fallen against the cobbled chimney of the fireplace, and lay in a crumpled heap, arms outflung. To my horror, I thought her dead—then I saw, upon the floor, the muddy tracks of the flying dragon. She stirred a little, and at the motion, I leaped for the door.
The room was empty save for the girl, but I knew that the creature was somewhere close at hand—and I had left the shotgun in the boat!
I went down the path like a madman, secured the gun, tore open the box of shells, and as I ran back up to the house I loaded both chambers. As I came to the doorway, I saw that Martha Balliol was sitting up, holding one hand to her head. She stared at me.
“What—what was it?” she exclaimed.
“That’s what I want to know.” I turned my back on her, perhaps ungallantly, to seek some sign of movement from the yard. Nothing stirred. If the thing had been here, it had gone quickly; it had vanished among the trees. “I heard you scream—”
“Something—someone—came up behind and pushed me.” Martha Balliol was standing now, and anger was flashing in her blue eyes. “I heard nothing at all; the surprise made me scream, and I must have fallen against the stones, here—”
She suddenly saw the tracks upon the floor, and paused. Her eyes widened with a swift fear as she pointed to them. I nodded carelessly, then left the door and placed a chair for her.
Without exaggeration, but omitting nothing, I told her about the skull-eyes which I had seen only that morning, and also of the pterodactyl. She listened in silence, but her incredulous gaze made me squirm a bit.
“You speak as if you believe it,” she commented at last.
“Look at the tracks for yourself!” I countered. Then, getting her Balliol’s book, I showed her the illustration in question.
That shook her fine scorn of the story. She declared herself quite unhurt and refused to let the matter drop; but sat in thoughtful silence for a little.
“There’s something queer about this house!” she said at last, and rose. “Let’s look at those skulls, Mr. Desmond! I believe Jack said something about them in one of his letters, but I don’t remember the exact words—they were Indian relics, I believe. He did not say that he was building them into the house!”
Together we went outside, and while she inspected the skulls, I scrutinized the trees and shores, but vainly. The devilish thing had hidden itself absolutely, and I could see no particular sense in going to find it.
“I can’t honestly say that I care for this scheme of decoration,” declared Martha Balliol. “Jack was always given to odd notions like this, however. As for your story of the red eyes—well, I’ll pass on it when I see them for myself! Now let’s go up and look at the house; that is, if you still care to have me do so.”
“Do you still want to?” I queried, surprised by her coolness. “You’ve had a shock—”
“I’ve been very silly, you mean,” she corrected me severely, as we walked toward the steps. “About this prehistoric thing, Mr. Desmond—didn’t you say that the steps always came in to the center of the room, then ended? The footprints, I mean. Well, that does not look right to me. Of course, the creature might have come so far, then have flown away—”
“You admit there’s a creature, then?” I struck in.
“I admit there’s something to make those tracks,” she said, and laughed merrily. “I wish I had looked over my shoulder when I felt the shove!”
“Perhaps the confounded place is haunted,” I said gloomily.
We spent half an hour going over the house. Miss Balliol picked out a few pictures and other things which she would like to have, and I promised to pack them up for her. She was planning to stay for a week or two with the Dawsons.
Although she did not say it in so many words, I realized that her reason for coming here had been to settle the mystery which surrounded her brother’s death. And she would settle it. There was no doubt that within a few days she would find out about that note at the bank. The other trouble, the trouble which had smashed Balliol’s nerves and which was somehow concerned with John Talkso, whoever he was, lay in the background unsolved.
So, when she had finished with the house, I told her frankly what the banker had just telephoned to me. To be more exact, I told it with some additions and evasions, for I did not think it necessary to say that I was paying off the five thousand. I got around that by saying that the creditor had paid up, having unexpectedly gotten some money, and that the banker had phoned to let Balliol know it was all right.
Beyond question I got things a little involved, but Martha Balliol did not probe the story. To her mind, her brother might still have been living had he only learned in time that he would not have to meet the note. It was a sad business, of course. Out of justice to the dead chap, I felt in honor bound to relate his reasons for suicide, which did his heart better credit that his head.
Yes, taking it up and down, it was a sorry and sordid and a dashed brave little story. Balliol was a fool and a coward, perhaps, but the thing he did was done in a bravely silent fashion.
Martha Balliol cried a little, and tried to laugh a little; but she finished with a clear and sober understanding of why her brother had killed himself. Then she said that she thought I had better taken her on to Dawson’s by road, the sun being pretty hot on the water; so I went out and got the car ready. And I kept the shotgun handy.
The road, which ran down along the lakeshore, was very dusty—the dust was six inches deep in places. This did not trouble the Paragon, of course, and we hummed into the Dawson yard in fine fettle. Mrs. Dawson was there to receive us, and under her wing Martha Balliol vanished almost at once.
I paused to help myself to a few nectarines from a tree near the house, then set forth for home. I drove rather fast, for the road was good; and I got almost to my own place when something happened. Both front tires blew at the same instant!
Fortunately the Paragon was a heavy boat, or we’d have gone topsy-turvy; as it was, I almost went into the trees. Of course cord tires do not act as those had acted without very definite reasons. The reasons were in the shape of stout nails, set in scraps of board which had been buried in the dust. I am afraid that I said some very unscriptural things as I drove home on the rims.
Who was the miscreant? The thing was intentional; those bits of board had been planted since I had left home. I cursed some more, while I sat working on the tubes and then pumping up the refitted tires sufficiently to reach Lakeport and an air hose.
One thing was sure: I had inherited John Balliol’s enemies! Of this I had not further doubt. If someone were lurking about the place, it was a
case of catch or get caught! And the afternoon was young, or young enough, to do a good deal of catching in!
With these brilliant deductions crowding me into action, I began to use my head a little. Obviously, I had two sets of enemies—human and inhuman. The human type was very possibly the man John Talkso. The inhuman was the pterodactyl. I was as much concerned over one as over the other; and as I abandoned my tire labors and glanced up at the house, a sudden scheme struck me.
I picked up my shotgun and sauntered around to the front of the house. For a moment I stood at the lip of the bluff, watching the water and shore, planning just what I would do. Then I hurried down the path to the boathouse, and beneath its shelter laid the gun in the canoe and covered it with fishing tackle and some burlap. After this, I shoved out and paddled down the shore, away from Dawson’s.
Since I kept close in to the shore, I was in five minutes beyond sight of my place, and to anyone watching, was off for a fishing trip. But I jerked in to shore and landed before I had gone fifty feet farther. Pulling up the canoe, I stowed it among the bushes, took my shotgun, and struck directly up the steep slope.
It was a hard scramble, but I made it, and in fifteen minutes I gained the road, hot and puffing. I was not a mile from the house, and I went down the road at a good walking clip, certain of being unobserved. The trees to either hand effectually concealed me.
When at length the trees opened up to the left, I had an excellent view of my house and farmyard. I paused, made myself comfortable among the trees, got my pipe going, and began to watch, flattering myself that I had flanked the entire place very neatly. I was well placed to see whatever was going on. But nothing was going on, it seemed. Things happened around that place in bunches, and just now was a quiet moment.
I sat with the gun over my knees, and reflected that this had been a crowded day. It was very nice to think that Martha Balliol was just across the bay at Dawson’s farm. The neighborhood seemed very agreeable to me. Of course, the poor girl was overcome because of her brother, but this was a grief which lay in the past; she had nothing unhappy ahead of her. I wished that I were as sure of the same for myself—
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 8
