THE SCI-FI COLLECTION OF EDGAR WALLACE. Edgar Wallace
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In a few words Tim told of the interview which he had witnessed, and the detective frowned.
“It can only be a coincidence that the man was found on his estate,” he said. “Mr. Hildreth is a very rich man and a Justice of the Peace.”
Nevertheless, he did not speak with any great conviction, and Tim had the impression that Bennett’s view of Hildreth was not such an exalted one as he made out.
Borrowing the old motor-bicycle of the science master, he rode over to Bisham and broke the news to Chap West and his sister. The girl was horrified.
“But, Tim, it doesn’t seem possible!” she said. “Why should they do it? The poor old man!”
When Chap had recovered from the shock of the news, he advanced a dozen theories in rapid succession, each more wildly improbable than the last; but all his theorising was silenced when Tim told him of Colson’s will.
“I’m only a kid, and absolutely unfitted for the task he has set me,” Tim said quietly; “but I am determined to go on with his work, and shall secure the best technical help I can to reconstitute the apparatus which has been destroyed.”
“What do you think is behind it?” asked Chap.
Tim shook his head. “Something beyond my understanding,” he replied. “Mr. Colson made a discovery, but what that discovery was we have to learn. One of the last things he told me was that he had written out a full account of his investigations, and I am starting an immediate search for that manuscript. And then there is the stone in the grounds, with all those queer figures and letters which have to be deciphered.”
“Have you any idea what the nature of the discovery was?” asked Chap.
Tim hesitated.
“Yes, I think I have,” he said. “Mr. Colson was undoubtedly in communication with another planet!”
Chapter V
“Then it was Mars!” cried Chap triumphantly.
“Of course it was not Mars,” interrupted his sister scornfully. “Mr. Colson told us distinctly that there was no life on Mars.”
“Where is it, Tim?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Tim shook his head. “I have been questioning his assistants — there were two at the house — but he never took them into his confidence. The only hint they can give me is that when poor Mr. Colson was listening-in to these mysterious voices he invariably had the receiving gear directed towards the sun. You know, of course, that he did not use the ordinary aerial, but an apparatus shaped like a convex mirror.”
“Towards the sun?” gasped Chap. “But there can’t be any life on the sun! Dash it all, I don’t profess to be a scientific Johnny but I know enough of physics to see that it’s as impossible for life to exist on the sun as it would be to exist in a coke oven! Why, the temperature of the sun is umpteen thousand degrees centigrade…and anyway, nobody has ever seen the sun: you only see the photoscope…”
“All this I know,” said Tim, listening patiently, “but there is the fact: the receiving mirror was not only directed towards the sun, but it moved by clockwork so that it was directed to the sun at all hours of the day, even when the sky was overcast and the sun was invisible. I admit that the whole thing sounds incredible, but Colson was not mad. That voice we heard was very distinct.”
“But from what planet could it be?” insisted Chap, pushing back his untidy hair and glaring at his friend. “Go over ’em all: eliminate Mars and the Sun, of course, and where is this world? Venus, Mercury, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune — phew! You’re not suggesting that it is one of the minor planets, are you? Ceres, Pallas, Juno, Vesta…?”
Tim shook his head.
“I am as much puzzled as you, but I am going to spend my life onwards looking for that world.”
He went back to the house. The body of the old man had been moved to a near-by hospital, and the place was alive with detectives. Mr. Stamford was there when he returned, and placed him in possession of a number of names and addresses which he thought might be useful to the young man.
“I don’t know that I want to know any stockbrokers,” said Tim, looking at the list with a wry face.
“You never know,” said Mr. Stamford. “After all, Mr. Colson expected you to carry on his work, and probably it will be part of your duties to continue his operations. I happen to know that he paid minute attention to the markets.”
He indicated a number of financial newspapers that lay unopened on the table, and Tim took up one, opened it and glanced down the columns. In the main the items of news were meaningless to him. All he saw were columns of intricate figures which were so much Greek; but presently his eye caught a headline:
“BLACK SEA OIL SYNDICATE. CHARLES HILDRETH’S GLOOMY REPORT TO THE SHAREHOLDERS.
“A meeting of the Black Sea Oil Syndicate was held at the Cannon Street Hotel yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Hildreth, Chairman of the Company, presiding, said that he had very little news for the shareholders that was pleasant. A number of the wells had run dry, but borings were being made on a new part of the concession, though there was scarcely any hope that they would be successful.”
Tim frowned. Black Sea Oil Syndicate…? Hildreth? He put a question to the lawyer.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Stanford. “Hildreth is deep in the oil market. There’s some talk of his rigging Black Seas.”
“What do you mean by ‘rigging’?” asked Tim.
“In this case the suggestion, which was made to me by a knowledgeable authority,” said Mr. Stamford, “is that Hildreth was depressing the shares issuing unpromising reports which would induce shareholders to put their shares on the market at a low figure. Of course, there may be nothing in it: Black Sea Oils are not a very prosperous concern. On the other hand, he may have secret information from his engineers.”
“Such as — ?” suggested Tim.
“They may have struck oil in large quantities on another part of the property and may be keeping this fact dark, in which case they could buy up shares cheaply, and when the news was made known the scrip would go sky-high and they would make a fortune.”
Tim read the report again. “Do you think there is any chance of oil being found on this property?”
Stamford smiled. “I am a lawyer, not a magician,” he said good-humouredly.
After he had gone, Tim found himself reading the paper: the paragraph fascinated him. Black Sea Oil…
Suddenly he leapt to his feet with a cry. That was the message which Mr. Colson had written on the paper — the Oilfields of the Inland Sea!
He ran out of the room and went in search of Stamford.
“I am going to buy Black Sea Oils,” he said breathlessly. “Will you tell me what I must do?”
In a few moments the telephone wire was busy.
Mr. Hildreth had not been to his office that day, and when he strolled in to dinner, and the footman handed him his paper, he opened the page mechanically at the Stock Exchange column and ran his eyes down the list of quotations. That morning Black Sea Oils had stood in the market at 3s. 3d., and almost the first note that reached his eye was in the stop-press column.
“Boom in Black Sea Oils. There have been heavy buyings in Black Sea Oil shares, which stood this morning in the neighbourhood of 3s., but which closed firm at 42s. 6d.”
Hildreth’s face went livid. His great coup had failed!