The remainder of your uncle’s estate comprises the seacar in which he was lost, which is extremely unlikely to be salvaged, and a few personal items, which are being sent you by sub-sea mail.
You may trust me to care for your interests as zealously as I have those of your uncle.
I shall await your radiogram authorizing me to proceed with the sale of the stock.
With deepest solicitude for you in your affliction,
I remain, faithfully your servant,
Wallace Faulkner
8
The Man in the White Suit
The death of Uncle Stewart was a painful shock to me—all the more since it followed so brutally fast on the heels of my forced resignation from the Academy. But I almost forgot my personal troubles when I read Faulkner’s letter, with its accompanying aching sense of loss. If only I had been able to complete the cruise, I thought; if only we had gone through the plan as scheduled, and I had seen him in Marinia… .
But there was no point in wasting tears over what was too late to mend. I talked it over with Bob Eskow, in New York, where I had flown from the Academy. He agreed with me that Faulkner’s letter raised as many questions as it answered, that perhaps I should not be too quick to accept the offer his unnamed client had made. But that meant so little to me, in comparison with the personal loss of my uncle, my last living relative.
For so many years I had been looking forward to exploring the wonders of Marinia in his company! The Sub-Sea Service would surely have based me near there; we would have been able to see each other often, to do so many things together.
It seemed incredible that he could be dead.
I decided to go to Marinia at once, to see if anything could yet be done to find my uncle’s body, then to take charge of the mining proposition in Eden Deep. “Impossible?” I hardly knew the word. After all, I was just seventeen!
I sent Faulkner a radiogram telling him that the shares of Marine Mines were not for sale, and that I was coming to Thetis at once, to claim the legacy.
His reply was immediate:
NOT NECESSARY FOR YOU TO COME TO THETIS. I WILL CARE FOR YOUR INTERESTS. MY ADVICE TO SELL SHARES AT ONCE. AM AUTHORIZED TO OFFER PAR VALUE FOR MY CLIENT. TOTAL PRICE THEREFORE EIGHTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. RADIO ACCEPTANCE IMMEDIATELY. TRUST ME.
WALLACE FAULKNER.
That was an exciting message. I showed it to Bob and he agreed. Strange that the unknown person who had so “reluctantly”
made the offer of thirty-two thousand dollars should so quickly and easily more than double it!
If it were worth so much to him, it should be valuable to me too. And I felt a vague distrust of Faulkner. If my uncle used him he must be honest, certainly. Still…
His protestations were hard to take. Too much talk of “trust” and “solicitude”; too few explanations. Why had he been in such a hurry for me to sell at thirty-two thousand dollars when, a matter of days later, he could get an offer of eighty?
Bob Eskow said it: “I don’t know whether he’s a crook or a bum businessman. Either way, I’d watch him!”
I replied:
SHARES NOT FOR SALE, ARRIVING ON ISLE OF SPAIN.
And I caught a jet transport to San Francisco to make contact with the giant submarine liner there.
I landed at the San Francisco harbor jet-field in a fog.
I had just time to confirm my reservations on the sub-sea liner, Isle of Spain, get my passport and spend a few hours sight-seeing.
The liner was to sail direct for Marinia; it was one of the finest vessels in the Pacific submarine service, and I looked forward to the trip with real joy and excitement. How quickly one can forget!
It was not yet a week since I had learned of Uncle Stewart’s death, only two weeks and a bit since I had suffered the worst disgrace imaginable by being asked to resign from the Academy—but I was already looking forward to adventure. I might as well admit that I was looking forward, too, to being taken seriously by Wallace Faulkner and the others at Thetis. After all, I would be the sole owner of a controlling interest in a corporation! True, the corporation might be as worthless as Faulkner indicated.
But I refused to believe that. As I say, I was only seventeen.
I wondered a bit who my unknown partner—the owner of the remaining twenty per cent of the stock—might be. Uncle Stewart had said nothing; and Faulkner had been bafflingly silent.
But all those questions would be answered in time…
I got my passport with no difficulty; since Marinia had become an independent nation under the United Nations trusteeship, many Americans went there as a matter of course, for vacations, for business or just for the trip. The Isle of Spain would have a large passenger list of vacationers, I knew; it would touch at Black Camp and little Eden Dome before going on to Thetis. With my passport I gathered together my I.D. card—actually, it was a booklet with my whole life’s history in it—from the Academy, and my birth certificate; I didn’t know what papers I would need to establish my identity as Stewart Eden’s heir, and I didn’t want to be caught short. I packed a small bag; the rest of my belongings I checked in the hotel baggage room.
The desk clerk had another radiogram for me, forwarded from New York:
YOUR COMING TO MARINIA UNNECESSARY AND UNWISE. IMPOSSBLE FOR YOU TO WORK MINING CONCESSION. I WARN YOU IT IS FOOLISH AND SUICIDAL. MY CLIENT MAKES FINAL OFFER OF TWICE PAR VALUE FOR SHARES. MUST BE ACCEPTED BY RETURN RADIO. POSITIVELY CAN SECURE NO BETTER BID.
WALLACE FAULKNER
A hundred and sixty thousand dollars!
I began to feel rich.
If anything had been needed to make me more anxious to get to Thetis at once—and more determined to turn down any offer that might come along—this was it. Why was Faulkner so anxious for me to stay away? What was his reason for harping on the “danger” in Eden Deep?
I repeated my previous radio.
And then, to add my confusion, I discovered I was being followed.
I was on my way downtown, riding the railed passenger express belt, on my way to the Ferry Building.
It was a chill, gloomy day, a dense sea-fog hanging over the city. Though it was still afternoon, the lights were on, gleaming red circles of yellow mist. The beacons from the jet port shone through the cold gray only dimly; the scarlet fog-lights on the low-flying helicopters used for suburban transit were moving red blurs in the gloom.
Coat buttoned high against the misty wind, I stood on the vibrating belt, leaning against a hand-rail, thinking of the trip before me. Quite by accident I noticed a big man lounging on the belt fifty yards behind me. I might have ignored him, but there was something vaguely unhealthy about him; soft, heavy, out of condition. He was dressed carelessly and in bad taste, I thought: White tunic and trousers, close fitting and a little soiled. A long blue cloak; a black cane with a silver head; a wide, high-crowned red felt sombrero on his head.
He looked “somewhat familiar, in the way that a stranger sometimes does. I thought I had seen him before quite casually, it seemed to me; but I couldn’t quite pin down where.
Then I reached my stop on the express belt and got off, dismissing him from my mind…
But not for long.
At the Ferry Building I joined the line at the sub-ship reservations desk and claimed my stateroom on the Isle of Spain. When I turned away with the confirmation in my hand, I saw that the man in white had been right behind me.
That was no coincidence!
I was certain of it; but I could prove it beyond any question of doubt if I chose. I made the effort.