Undersea Quest

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.

The man did not appear to be paying any attention to me. He asked some sort of question of the clerk at the desk and got a short answer; whereupon he nodded and drifted over to a side of the room, staring thoughtfully out the window. His eyes were hidden beneath the broad red brim of his hat; white-gloved fingers were tapping on the window ledge.

But I was morally sure he saw every move I made.

I bought a newstape at the stand in the Ferry Building, and strode out the door. There was no looking back, either the man followed me, or he did not.

I headed down toward the water, walking at a brisk pace. It was now full dark; I had a few hours yet before the Isle of Spain’s sailing at midnight, but little time to waste. The sky was a dome of dull yellow light, the city’s lights reflected back from the blanket of fog. Bright, hazy haloes clung to street lamps and beacons. All to the good!

I swung around a dark corner in an almost deserted street, near the docks that once had been so tumultuously busy night and day and now were nearly abandoned, and ducked into a doorway.

The man in the white suit fell neatly into the trap. He came quietly around the corner; I didn’t hear him until he was almost before my doorway. I stepped out, hand in my pocket to make it look as though I had a gun, and said:

“Hold it!”

He showed no surprise. He stared at me from under the red brim for a moment. Then he said evenly, “Don’t shoot.”

His breathing was slow; he was not at all excited. For a moment the thought had crossed my mind: Suppose I was wrong?

Suppose he was a harmless pedestrian—suppose he cried out and the police came? The natural presumption would be that I was a hold-up man; no doubt I could clear myself, but I certainly would miss my ship—and one experience of missing a ship was enough for me!

But this man was no harmless pedestrian. It was almost as though he expected trouble. He didn’t move a muscle as he said:

“Take it easy, boy. Careful with the gun.”

“Careful!” I said angrily. “What are you following me for? Hurry up—talk!”

He said with mock-innocence, “What in the world are you talking about?”

I said hotly, “You know! Don’t waste my time—come across or I’ll shoot!”

Naturally, I had no intention of shooting—even if I had had a gun to shoot with! Whether he knew that I will never know; he turned to face me more squarely, moved his lips as though he were about to speak. His mouth opened a little…

Too late I saw the tiny, glittering metal thing he held between his teeth.

The tiny stream had already jetted from it as he crushed it between his teeth, forced the spurt of its contents. I felt the cold little drops strike my cheek. Instantly the chillness changed to a stabbing sensation of heat. Searing flame flashed over the side of my face; hot needles stabbed into my brain.

I should have known, I told myself dazedly in that split-second of realization—I should have known he would protect himself. The anesthetic-capsule was an old trick; I should have thought of it…

Sheets of blinding light were flickering before my sight. They faded.

Then there was only darkness. I felt myself falling as the anesthetic struck home.

It must have been an hour or more before I came to.

I got stiffly to my feet, muscles aching from the damp ground.

I was in the doorway still; no one was in sight. Leaning against the wall for support, I took quick inventory of my pockets.

I had been searched; that much was obvious. My wallet was on the ground, my passport hanging half out of it.

But nothing seemed to be missing. Not my passport; not my I.D. card; not my money or my watch. It had been no simple robbery, that was certain; I carried quite a lot of money, and not a penny of it was gone.

I tried to brush off my sodden clothing and staggered to the corner. I had no idea of the time; all I could think of was the sailing of the Isle of Spain at midnight.

Luck was with me. An empty cab cruised by overhead; I hailed it, and it settled to the curb beside me with a gentle whir of its rotor blades.

I thought briefly of the police; certainly I should report this…

But, by the dashboard clock in the helicab, I had just time to make the sailing.

I ordered the cab pilot to take me to the slip where the Isle of Spain was waiting. Fortunately my bags were already aboard; nothing, at any rate, had been lost by my unfortunate encounter with White Suit.

At least, that is what I thought at the time…