The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Very well,” said Spence. “Master Roberts, lay the course for the Azores, and we’ll try our fortune for home!”

  A cheer echoed up from the crew. Spence turned to the girl—met her grave regard.

  “Well, Mistress Betty! Will you be saddened in heart to see the hills of Boston over our bow instead of the chalk cliffs of Dover?”

  A smile lightened in the eyes of the girl as her hand crept into his.

  “Dear Patrick! Hast never read your Bible, then? Dost not remember what Ruth said to the man in whose hand her own lay—even as mine lies in yours?”

  And Patrick Spence laughed out as he looked with her to the west, and the ship swung about to the wind.

  SKULLS

  I

  The entire affair occupied an incredibly short space of time, considering what was involved. It happened in a corner of the smoking room of the Empress of China, the evening before we were to dock in San Francisco.

  Looking back on it now, I suppose it is impossible to convey the full shock which accompanied the ghastly dénoumement of Larsen’s story. Larsen was sharing my stateroom; we were friends. He was returning after spending a year away out in western China, gathering specimens for some museum. A thin, dark, sallow man, he possessed that rare charm which comes of deep, strong character. He was full of surprises; and, I have since thought, full of an inexorable, grim puritanical sort of righteousness, as well.

  Mainwaring, who occupied the odd chair in our corner of the smoking room, had taken a liking to Larsen from the start, and stuck with us the whole voyage. We liked him, also. He was lonely and homesick, poor devil, anxious to be back home. He had spent several years in the Orient, in the silk business; a big chap he was, bearded, with gently imaginative blue eyes and a great reticence of manner.

  We had the place pretty much to ourselves that evening, since everyone was packing. Mainwaring showed us a couple of very fine old netsukes, abominably indecent, which he meant to bring past the customs in his pocket. At this, Larsen flushed slightly and rose.

  “I’ll show you chaps something interesting,” he said, and left us.

  He returned presently, bringing a small Chinese box. This he opened, and took from wads of cotton two shallow, oval bowls, handing once to each of us. I examined mine. At first I took it for rhinoceros horn; it had the same rich brown coloring and feel. Then I perceived the lines upon it, and knew the thing for what it was—the top of a skull.

  “Hello!” exclaimed Mainwaring with interest. “You must have been up in Tibet to get hold of these, eh? I’ve heard the lamas use human skulls for bowls.”

  “Yes and no.” Larsen lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair, smiling oddly. “I got these at a lamasery, right enough, but it was across from the Tibetan border—up in the Lolo country in northern Yunnan.”

  Mainwaring glanced up from the skull in his hands. His brows lifted in quick interest.

  “Oh! By the way, did you ever hear of an expedition that got lost up in that country a couple of years ago? Three Americans—I can’t recall their names. I heard something about it at the time, but never learned whether they got out.”

  Larsen nodded. His eyes held an air of singular intensity, yet his words were calm.

  “Yes. Oh, yes! The Bonner party, eh? I knew old Bonner very well indeed, years ago. And his nephew Stickley; a fine chap, and an excellent botanist, Creighton was the third of that party. Yes, I got the whole story from the lamas up there. Rather interesting, in connection with these skull-bowls.”

  “They got out, then?” questioned Mainwaring.

  “No,” said Larsen, inspecting his cigar ash. “No. They’re still there—in parts.” An indescribable gleam flashed in his eye as he said this.

  “Yes, of course,” I put in carelessly. “It was quite a famous case at the time—they were murdered by the Lolos or by bandits. If you’ve learned the truth of it, Larsen, I suppose you’ll take it up with the government? Washington should do something about it.”

  Larsen looked at me, and his dark eyes held a devil.

  “What do you really suppose, now,” he drawled, “that Washington would do about it? Saint Paul mentioned two kinds of faith, I believe. You’ve just been up in Assam? Well, if some native had stuck a spear into you, what would have been done about it? No, no; I believe in faith through works, not in faith through notes. I shan’t trouble poor Washington.”

  Mainwaring leaned forward. “Tell us about it, will you?” he asked quickly. His blue eyes were alight with eagerness, “What happened to them?”

  “They died,” said Larsen. “I got their papers, some of them, from the lamas, and then got the whole story. Well, I don’t mind, if you fellows want to listen to a yarn; it has an intimate connection with those skull-bowls, as I mentioned.”

  We assured him that we did want to listen.

  II

  Bonner was an elderly man, fussy and crotchety—said Larsen—but a fine old chap in his way. Young Stickley, his nephew, was headed for the top notch in botanical fame; both of them were keen on exploring the Lolo country. Creighton, who joined their party, was after big game. He was a handsome brute, with plenty of money, and I understand he partly backed the expedition. Most people liked Creighton at sight.

  At all events, they reached the Clouds of Heaven lamasery, an isolated place up in the hills. They reached there alone, for the mafus had abandoned them for fear of the Lolo men, who were raiding the hill people about that time. The lamas were hospitable, put them up in a small outlying temple, and the three of them went to work at their own lines of endeavor.

  Third parties and accidents cause most of the trouble in this world. The third party in this instance was a Lolo woman, the daughter of a chief. She stepped out of the brush just as Creighton, who had seen her tiger-skin garment, thought he was being attacked by Stripes and let go with both barrels of his shotgun. You can imagine what the two loads did to the girl.

  I imagine this smashed Crieghton’s nerve completely. It would, you know, to bowl over a girl that way. Old Bonner took the matter in hand at once and paid over good indemnity to the Lolos; but indemnity would not satisfy the fellow who had been about to marry the girl. He swore death to the white men, and took to the brush with his arrows. The Lolo, like the Chung Miao, use a virulent poison on their barbs, you know.

  After that, Creighton probably fancied that he discerned this warrior lurking behind every bush and tree. He ceased his hunting trips, and only went out in company with Bonner and Stickley. The picture of the dead girl must have haunted him frightfully.

  Well, the end came very suddenly. The three of them went out to visit some traps Bonner had set for small animals. A mile or so from the lamasery, they were going up a narrow, steep hill-trail with one pack-mule. Creighton was ahead and beyond sight of the other two, trying to get a sambur they had seen when, abruptly, out of the brush stepped the warrior who had sworn to get them, the fiancé of the dead girl.

  Creighton might have warned his friends. He might have shot the man. He did neither. Instead, he gave one gasping, incoherent cry, threw down his rifle and fled. Broke for it—ran straight ahead like a madman.

  The Lolo calmly waited there until Bonner and Stickley came along, all unsuspecting.

  Then he gave them two arrows. They died there. The Lolo went on and caught Creighton by himself. From the story the priests told, he must have thrown Creighton over the cliffs, and at the last moment Creighton used his pistol. At all events, the lamas did not find Creighton’s body, while they did bring in the dead Lolo, Bonner, and Stickley.

  And that’s the whole story—the tragedy of Creighton’s broken nerve.

  III

  When Larsen had finished, he lighted a fresh cigar and leaned back in his chair.

  Mainwaring sat fingering the skull-bowl in his lap, pursing up his bearded lips and shaking his head as he listened. Presently he looked up, and his gentle blue eyes were wide, as though the tale of that tragedy had filled him with horror.<
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  “But you said,” his voice was husky, and he cleared his throat, “you said that there was some connection between the story and these skulls?”

  Larsen nodded. A flash darted in his eyes and was gone again.

  “Yes. Exactly. The bowl in your lap was made from Bonner’s skull. The other was made from Stickley’s.”

  Lord! How to describe the loathly horror that I felt at these words! It is one thing to play with the cranium of some forgotten, unknown savage; quite another thing to play with the brain-pan of a scientist, honored and revered, a man almost a friend.

  Mainwaring turned absolutely livid. His beard moved. You know how a cat’s fur erects? That way; his beard curled and writhed with the frightful feeling that was upon him. Sweat started on his brow. He reached out and laid the skull on the smoking stand, his fingers shaking. Then he came to his feet.

  “I think,” he said, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, “I think—it’s too much for me to stomach. I—I don’t like these ghastly stories.”

  He left us abruptly, striding out of the smoking room. Larsen looked after him, then turned his dark eyes upon me. I had set the other skull with the first.

  “Gave him quite a turn, didn’t it?” said Larsen. His voice was cold, brittle.

  “Confound you!” I answered, nettled. “It gave me a turn. It’d give anybody a turn!”

  “Take a cigar,” said Larsen, extending one. “There’s a bit more to the story.”

  I took the weed, but made a gesture of protest.

  “Never mind the rest of the story,” I said. “You’re too cursed fantastic as a storyteller, Larsen. I don’t fancy this Grand Guignol stuff myself in the least!”

  Larsen smiled. “I must confess, my dear fellow, that I told a beastly lie. If you’d examine those bowls, you’d see they are about a hundred years old—the patina shows it. I bought ’em at the lamasery. Bonner and Stickley were decently buried.”

  At this, you may judge how I stared at him!

  “Well,” I said, angered at the way he had played on my nerves, “all I have to say is that you told a lie in rotten bad taste! Those two men were friends of yours, weren’t they? Then—”

  “That,” he interposed cryptically, “was why I told the lie.”

  I did not understand in the least. There was a restrained tension in his manner that puzzled me. His fingers were nervous on his cigar.

  At this instant we heard a sharp sound punctuating the steady throb of the ship’s engines—a sharp, bursting sound about which could be no mistake. It was a shot.

  “Ah!” Larsen came to his feet and took the two brown skull-bowls in his hand. “Ah! There is the rest of the story, old man, as I promised.”

  “What the devil d’you mean?” I exclaimed.

  “That was our friend Mainwaring—shot himself. I thought he’d do it. That’s why I told the lie in question. You see, Mainwaring was not his real name. His real name was—Creighton.”

  And Larsen departed, leaving me to enjoy my cigar as best I could.

  THE OPIUM SHIP

  CHAPTER I

  THE FIDDLER

  Sir Gerald Fitzjohn de Courcy Desmond, K. O. M. G., D. S. O., late flight commander in that section of his majesty’s Royal Flying Corps operating in Papuan waters, was dead broke and knew it. What was more to the point, he was drunk and did not know it.

  This surprising, even tragic, event happened in Manila. Gerald Desmond had been in the city a week, upon his way home, without taking a drink; he was not what is termed a drinking man. Drinking men do not succeed in naval hydroplane work, at least to the extent of winning honors.

  But, upon this amazing afternoon, while Gerald Desmond was playing bridge at the English Club, in the Paco section of town, he had received a cablegram. This cable message informed him that his uncle’s fortune had departed; that his uncle, a worthy baronet of manufacturing fame in Dublin, had departed on the heels of the fortune; and that he, Gerald Desmond, was now a baronet without an income. He had resigned his commission when the war ended, and had now neither job nor money.

  Having settled his bridge score, he found fifty dollars in his pocket, and of this he devoted the major portion to the bar. Thus, at nine-ten upon that historic evening, he wandered to the cloakroom, pursued by a waiter with a forgotten drink.

  “Sure, I’ll take it,” said Desmond, smiling brightly when the waiter gained his attention. “Here’s good luck to ye, lad, and many tips. Will ye have a bit drink yourself, now?”

  The respectable China boy refused, with a blank stare.

  Desmond allowed the attendant to help him into his overcoat; it was a chilly night. A plain black scarf covered his neckwear and white shirtfront. A black crush hat concealed his awkwardly red hair. An ebony stick fell over his arm.

  “Will I call a cab, sir?” asked the attendant delicately. “Or a taxi?”

  “Ye will not,” said Desmond, shocked. “Would you insinuate that I cannot walk?”

  He left the attendant coughing apologetically, and made his way to the street. He was in a happy inward glow and did not feel a bit sorry for himself. Indeed, he felt rather rejoiced over the knowledge that he could follow a crack in the sidewalk with perfect accuracy and aplomb.

  “Thunder o’ Finn!” he exclaimed joyously. “There’s somethin’ in havin’ Irish blood, after all—to say nothin’ of havin’ a brewer for an uncle, rest his soul!”

  He directed his steps toward the Manila Hotel, which lies just beyond the Luneta, but the fresh night air gave him such an insidiously false idea of his condition that he changed his direction with the idea of getting a drink at the Elks’ or the Army and Navy. So he struck off down Calle Isaac Peral, but by the time he had passed the Cathedral he began to observe that there was something subtly and decidedly wrong with the sidewalk. Still he forged ahead, only to come to a halt when he reached the Del Pilar tramway line. There he leaned on his stick with patient resignation.

  Presently he became aware that someone was accosting him, hat in hand. With something of an effort, Desmond forced himself into coherent observation. The man had a violin case under his arm, and a wild tangle of black locks fell about his ears at odd angles; his face was pinched, his eyes very bright and sharp and erratic.

  “It’s a fine gentleman ye are, sir,” was saying the man in an admiring tone. “And a musician, as I can see by the face of you with me eyes shut. Now, then, would ye be refusing a brother musician, as one gentleman to another, a bit matter of a loan? Ye would not, as I can see plainly.”

  “Eh?” demanded Desmond. “What’s your name?”

  “My name, is it? Well, now, I’ll be tellin’ ye in confidence, between gentlemen, sir, that it’s from a great line I come! It is that, sir, though ye might not believe it to be lookin’ at me here. Michael Terence O’Sullivan, by your leave, sir—”

  “Aye,” said Desmond. “That would be the O’Sullivan Beare, now! ’Twas a great man he was and no mistake; but, my lad, if it’s comparing him to the Geraldines—”

  “Lord save us!” cried O’Sullivan, starting back. “You’re from the old country?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Desmond candidly. “I’m sure of nothing. Somethin’s happened in these parts since this afternoon; an earthquake, likely. Six times have I had the notion of crossin’ the street, and each time there’d come a rattling tram threatening to run the life out o’ me if I budged. Thunder o’ Finn! And look at the sidewalk, with the roll to it!”

  “Sure, now I’ll be taking ye home,” said the fiddler insinuatingly. “Then we’ll speak o’ that bit loan on the way.”

  “Loan, is it?” repeated Desmond. “Heaven help ye, lad! It’s no loan ye’ll get from me. For so long as me credit is good I’ll buy ye a drink or two—”

  “A fine gentleman like you, broke?” gasped O’Sullivan.

  “Divil take it, am I to blame if me uncle left me not a shilling?” demanded Desmond with indignation. “But wait! Give me your arm, O’Sullivan Bea
re, like a good lad, and leave it to me. Is that the band I hear playin’ over beyond at Luneta Park?”

  “It is,” returned the other bitterly. “And who’ll give a dime to hear O’Sullivan fiddle, when the band is playin’? They drownded me out, for a fact; drownded me out, they did—”

  “An insult!” declared Desmond with severity. “Your arm, me lad! Now hush. Not a word out of ye—not a word! Insult the O’Sullivan Beare, will they? A little brown constabulary band insult the O’Sullivan, and me standing by? Never! N-never! Sir Gerald Fitzjohn de Courcy Desmond will never—”

  “Holy Mother!” gasped the fiddler. “Sure, I thought the fine face of ye looked familiar; ’twas pictured in all the papers! But, sir, don’t be interferin’ with the crowd now; let me be takin’ you toward—”

  Desmond gripped the man’s arm firmly. “Not a word!” he said. “Hush your blather or I’ll smash that fiddle over your head! Guide me straight now, and mind none o’ those lamp-posts swing at ye as we pass.”

  The Luneta was crowded that evening, as usual. The constabulary band was playing from the stand, and along the oval strolled officers and ladies, business men and their families, bowing señors and mantillaed señoritas; brown and white of all degrees made up the gay throng, while the sea breezes lifted the band music in drifting waves across the chatter of tongues.

  On the outskirts of the crowd two men occupied a bench, and they were a strange couple. One was a native dressed in the most impeccable evening attire from silk hat to patent leathers; the pearl studs in his shirt were eloquent of wealth. The other man was roughly dressed and was dour of aspect. He pulled on a clay pipe as he talked, and his smooth-shaven features were stern and sour. There was nothing weak about them.

  “I tell you, Señor Arevalo,” said this second man, “that I’m done with it, understand? I’ll never run in another load o’ dope for you nor any other man alive. Otherwise, I’m willin’ to oblige. But if ye bring one card aboard I’ll throw ye over the side.”