The Tesla Legacy Page 4

  ‘Dark blue Maxwell sedan!’ exclaimed Mick.

  He stared at the newspaper pages for a moment before carefully folding them and replacing them in the briefcase. Just as carefully, he took the letter out of the envelope. The writing was the same as on the paysheets, solid and straight up and down—possibly written by somebody who was left-handed. The letter began:

  Dear Preston,

  How are you? And how is your fine wife and family? All well, I hope. Well, excellent news, the project is finally finished. And in only seven months, one month ahead of schedule. I daresay this was because of Mr Slate’s generosity with pay and bonuses. He gave each man one hundred pounds on completion and as well as the new car I received one thousand pounds. I was quite taken aback, I can tell you. I know I have been somewhat reticent about this project, but Mr Slate swore us all to secrecy and I respect his wishes. But I will say this: despite my finding Mr Slate to be both a most intelligent person and a gentleman whose integrity is absolutely beyond reproach, at times the man could be quite odd. For example, he was a very serious man, not prone to laughter. Yet one morning, Mr Slate and I overheard one of the workmen say, ‘Mr Slate would make a good mad scientist in a horror film.’ Instead of being offended by what I considered a somewhat distasteful remark, Mr Slate fell about laughing for a considerable period of time. The gentleman carries a most beautiful leather briefcase with him. Yet, when I innocently queried him about the initials N.T. on the front, he claimed the briefcase was on loan from a friend. Why would a man of such obvious wealth and taste need to borrow a friend’s briefcase? The project site has the biggest deposit of copper ore I have ever seen. It is almost pure copper. Millions of pounds worth on the current market. Naturally, I pointed this out to Mr Slate, who simply shrugged it off saying he would look into it some other time. There are numerous other idiosyncrasies, too many to put into a letter. But I promise to tell you more when I visit you at Christmas and Mr Slate is back in America. I will finish now, Preston, because tomorrow I am driving Mr Slate into Muswellbrook to finalise his activities with the bank before he leaves and I wish to get this into the post. I must say though, these last months have been both the most amazing and lucrative of my life.

  Until I see you and your family, Preston, I remain, your loving brother.

  Lander.

  Mick stared at the name on the letter. Lander. Preston Oldfield’s brother. The initials on the key tab he’d left with Jimmy Nise back at the garage were L.O. Mick put the letter back in the brown briefcase, clicked it shut and turned to the black one with the initials N.T.

  The black briefcase was even more beautifully crafted than the brown one, and the attachments weren’t brass, they were gold. Mick pushed the locks and grinned again when they clicked straight open. Inside was a long, narrow leather bag with a foldover at one end, a black leatherbound diary dated 1925, and a number of sheets of foolscap paper with sketches and notes on them. Mick picked up the leather bag and felt something heavy. He decided to open the bag first.

  It contained two thick Allen keys each ten centimetres long. Only instead of being L-shaped, the ends were formed into rings. Mick felt the weight of the Allen keys in his hand, then put them back in their bag and picked up some of the papers. The sketches were technical and like nothing Mick had ever seen, and the writing was almost indecipherable. But Mick managed to make out Electro-Dynamic Induction Tube, Disruptive Discharge Coil and Earth Wide Oscillating Vibrator Mounting. Mick shook his head, replaced the papers and picked up the diary.

  The pages up to May 9th were blank. Then, in the same spidery handwriting, it started with a brief summary of the weather on top of the page.

  Sunny. Cool. South-west wind.

  Finally arrived in Newcastle, Australia. Now I can start my diary. Possibly I was being overcautious, but this is absolutely imperative and I still believe the first mate was a little too nosy for my liking. I would not have been the least bit surprised if he had friends in the FBI.

  Newcastle is colder than I imagined, but nothing compared to winter in New York. Mr Oldfield was waiting on the wharf when the Margarita docked and I found Lander to be a thorough gentleman, exactly as Schuyler Brunton described him. He is also well-versed in his profession and quite keen to begin work. Already he has organised the twenty men I will need, and everyone accepts I am here to pioneer a new method of mineral exploration and they agree to my desire for secrecy.

  Lander and I had an excellent fish lunch at a waterfront café, then I spent a pleasant afternoon while he drove me around Newcastle. Not that there was much to see apart from a fine harbour and some delightful coastline. Fashion has not caught up here, either. I will stay on the ship tonight then find suitable lodgings in Newcastle until we leave for Muswellbrook. I will also buy Mr Oldfield a more desirable vehicle. Earlier I made note of a Maxwell dealer near the city.

  Relaxed and read in my cabin then had dinner with the captain. Played a few rubbers of bridge. Read for a while. Retired, nine-thirty.

  Mick was absolutely amazed at what he had found and keen to find out more. But the handwriting was very difficult to read, so he skipped ahead to the last page.

  Hot. Sunny. North-east wind.

  After seven months, the project is finally completed. A month ahead of schedule, even with the problems we had getting the bulk of the parts from Europe. Now it is sealed and I can get back to America and away from these wretched flies. I’ve seen nothing like them. But for all its drawbacks and lack of sophistication, I will surely miss Australia. Particularly Lander. He treated me like visiting royalty. And the men have been marvellous. Excellent workers, fiercely loyal and well worth every penny I paid them. A rough lot, I might add. And although I rarely displayed my emotions, I did like their unique sense of humour.

  I’m hoping I don’t have to return and activate the machine. But even with the limited amount of news available to me out here, between man’s greed and lust for power, I can see no alternative. You would think after the dreadful carnage in Europe they would have learned. I deeply regret having lied to Guglielmo. If it had not been for his generosity after we settled our differences I could never have accomplished Project Piggie. Now what he thinks will increase his wealth will, in all reality, ruin him. But we did make a terrible mistake at Tunguska. I know one thing: if I do activate the machine I will extract great delight in getting back at J. Pierpont Morgan. What he and the FBI did to me at Wardenclyffe was despicable. All the good I could have done for the world. Now Mr Slate, ‘the mad scientist,’ will most likely do the opposite. But that is my legacy. Strange that so much power could be placed in the hands of one man.

  In the meantime, I must put all this aside. Tonight I am buying the men a slap-up dinner and afterwards they can drink to their hearts’ content. ‘My shout,’ as they say in Australia. Then tomorrow Lander and I are off to Muswellbrook to finalise matters at the bank. After that it’s on to Newcastle. I must say, I’m looking forward to relaxing by the coast for a few days before I sail for New York. Now I must ready myself for dinner. Honestly, where does the time go?

  Leaving the briefcase open, Mick put the diary back and slowly sipped the last of his coffee. He’d worked out a couple of things about the car and Mrs Hedstrom’s uncle. But Klaus Slate was a total enigma. But to find out more about him, Mick knew he’d have to read the diary’s every page. And that would take ages. However, there was one person Mick knew who wouldn’t have that problem. And that same person would kill to get their hands on something like the old diary. Mick rinsed his mug in the sink then walked over and picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello, Eye Full Tower Bookshop,’ came a cheerful voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Mick, ‘my girlfriend’s just had an overdose. Have you got a copy of the Tibetan Book of the Dead there?’

  ‘Ha-ha! Very funny, Mick. How are you…darling?’

  ‘Good, Oz. How are you?’

  ‘Great,’ replied Jesse. ‘So how did you go with the ol
d car? Was it any good?’

  ‘Was it any good?’ echoed Mick. ‘Ossie. You are not going to believe this.’

  Mick told Jesse about buying the car from Mrs Hedstrom, the condition it was in and what he’d found back at the garage. He read Lander Oldfield’s letter out to her, what he’d found on the sheets of foolscap and parts of what he’d read in the diary.

  ‘And besides all that,’ concluded Mick, putting everything back in the briefcase and closing it, ‘the pressure plates are compatible. So I’ll have the Buick back on the road tomorrow.’

  There was a lengthy silence at the other end of the line. ‘Hello? Jesse?’ said Mick. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jesse finally replied, quietly. ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mick.

  ‘And you said the initials on the briefcase with the diary in it were N.T.?’ she asked.

  Mick checked the briefcase. ‘Yeah. That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Jesse.

  ‘Yeah,’ smiled Mick. ‘Pretty cool, eh.’

  There was another moment or two of silence before Jesse spoke. ‘Mick,’ she said shortly. ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘What?’ answered Mick.

  ‘I said, do you love me?’

  ‘Yes, Ossie. Of course I love you.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Jesse.

  ‘How much?’ Mick screwed his face up. ‘With all my soul,’ he said. ‘With every beat of my heart. Every breath I take, I’ll be…Shit! I don’t know.’

  ‘Then if you truly love me, Mick,’ demanded Jesse, ‘you’ll bring those two briefcases and the leather bag straight over to the bookshop. Now.’

  ‘Okay,’ shrugged Mick.

  ‘Well?’ said Jesse.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, what are you still doing there?’

  The line suddenly went dead and Mick replaced the receiver. Why do I love that woman? he smiled to himself. He turned his gaze to the view from his sundeck. The answer must be out there somewhere. Five minutes later Mick had freshened himself up and was pulling out of the driveway with the two briefcases sitting next to him.

  Traffic through the city was a little heavier than normal. But deep in thought, Mick was soon belting the Transporter up Stockton Bridge and before he knew it he’d pulled up on the driveway leading into Jesse’s backyard. Jesse’s battered old maroon Commodore was parked on the grass and a kookaburra that had been sitting on the roof flew off into a nearby tree at Mick’s sudden arrival, leaving a calling card on Jesse’s windscreen. That’s got to be a sign of luck, smiled Mick as he locked the van and walked round the front with the two briefcases.

  Jesse’s shop wasn’t all that big, but it was stacked from floor to ceiling with books and there were several tables full as well, spread around the old red carpet covering the floor. A door in the far corner led to the bottom half of the house, and in front of the door was a counter and a small open office where Jesse spent most of her time sitting behind the cash register working at her laptop. A white ceiling fan above the counter moved the air around, and to brighten the place up, Jesse had pinned posters for books around the walls and placed some indoor plants in the corners. Mick liked walking in the front door of Jesse’s shop, because instead of a bell she had a stupid, big plastic frog sitting above the flyscreen that croaked when the door opened. Mick pushed the door and ribet! ribet! sounded through the shop.

  ‘Hey, Oz,’ Mick called out as he stepped inside. ‘How are you?’

  Jesse was seated in the corner. As soon as she saw who it was, she jumped up from behind the counter and ran over in a blur of brown hair, faded jeans and a black FREE TIBET T-shirt.

  ‘Are these them?’ she said. ‘Give them to me at once.’ Jesse snatched the two briefcases from Mick, placed them next to the cash register and got back behind the counter.

  ‘Yeah. It’s good to see you too,’ said Mick, following her over.

  Jesse smiled at Mick then reached over the counter and gave him a quick kiss. ‘Hello, dear,’ she said, and quickly went back to the two briefcases. ‘And you found these in the old car?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Mick. ‘The diary’s in the black one. It’s not locked.’

  Jesse flicked the briefcase open and stared wide-eyed at the leather bag and the old diary. ‘My God!’

  ‘The letter’s in the other one,’ said Mick.

  Jesse flicked open the brown briefcase and stared at the contents. She took the envelope out and quickly read the letter then turned to the newspaper article Mick had told her about and read that too.

  ‘This is amazing,’ gasped Jesse, waving the pages around. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Wait till you see the old car with the bullet holes in the back.’

  Jesse replaced the items in the brown briefcase and closed it. After examining the initials on the front of the black briefcase, she took the diary out. After turning to where it started, Jesse read the first page then had a look at a couple of others and the last one.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said, placing one hand to her mouth.

  ‘I told you you’d like it, didn’t I?’ grinned Mick.

  Jesse closed the diary then came round from behind the counter and put her arm around Mick’s waist. ‘Mick,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a great idea.’

  ‘You have?’ said Mick, unexpectedly feeling himself being ushered towards the front door.

  ‘Yes. Why don’t you go home and leave everything with me. I’m going to close the shop for a bit. And I’ll call over to your place tonight.’

  ‘You sure you wouldn’t like me to stick around for a while?’ suggested Mick. ‘Rub your shoulders. Give you a little scalp massage? You like that.’

  ‘Nice offer. But no thank you,’ said Jesse. ‘I’ll see you back at your place.’

  ‘What time?’ asked Mick.

  ‘Nine. Ten. Something like that. Goodbye, precious.’

  Jesse gave Mick another quick kiss as ribet! ribet! sounded through the shop. She turned the OPEN sign over to CLOSED, pulled down the blind, and Mick found himself walking back to the van. When he got behind the wheel and wound the window down, Mick spotted the same kookaburra still sitting in its tree and motioned to Jesse’s car.

  ‘Hey,’ he called out. ‘Shit on it again.’

  Mick drove home via the beach and noticed, despite a brisk nor’easter blowing, there was a bloomfy, fun-in-the-sun, two-metre wave running right off the surfclub and no waxheads around. When he got inside Mick changed into his Speedos, boardshorts and a plain grey T-shirt. He tossed his mat and fins into the van, drove down to the beach and pulled up in the car park at the same time as his dark-haired postman mate Ray arrived in his old Ford station wagon. They walked down to their usual spot on the sand and found two other mates with their lids also getting ready to hit the surf. There were the usual greetings then Mick told everyone about buying the old Maxwell and how he’d have his Buick back on the road tomorrow. He didn’t mention the briefcases. The boys were happy for Mick and gave him a pat on the back, then they all splashed into the surf and spent the rest of the afternoon zipping through the good waves, getting chundered by the gnarly ones and having a good time in general.

  The beach was emptying and the sun had seen enough of the day too when the boys split up. Mick felt like his arms were going to drop off and he knew he’d sleep well that night. He drove down to the Oporto and got half a chicken, chips and coleslaw and ate that watching the ABC news with a bottle of mineral water. He would have liked a beer or three, but knew they’d put him on his backside and he didn’t want Jesse coming round to find him comatose on the lounge. Instead, Mick switched off the TV then went into his office and sorted out emails and other business. Although he wasn’t starting work again till Monday, there were five jobs waiting for him already. After sorting everything out, Mick was about to turn the computer off when there was a familiar knock on the door.

  Mick opened it and Jesse was standing there holding the t
wo briefcases. She was wearing the same clothes with a leather bag over her shoulder, and had an unusually serious look on her face.

  ‘Hello, Oz,’ said Mick. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘How’s things?’ echoed Jesse. She walked past Mick into the loungeroom, then turned around and waited as Mick closed the door and walked over to her. ‘Mick,’ she said. ‘Do you know what you’ve got here?’

  ‘I dunno,’ shrugged Mick. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Shit! I knew just by talking to you over the phone, you’d found something out of the ordinary. But, my God! I wasn’t expecting this.’

  ‘Expecting what? What are you on about?’

  ‘Mick. I’m talking about death rays. Doomsday machines. The end of the bloody world.’ Jesse started to get a bit excited. ‘Jesus…!’

  Mick placed a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. ‘Now come on, Oz,’ he said. ‘Calm down. You’d think you’d just found another crop circle.’

  ‘Mick,’ said Jesse. ‘Would you mind getting me a drink?’

  ‘Sure, mate. What do you want? Tea, coffee…?’

  ‘No. I mean a drink drink. Bourbon. Ice, slice. Mineral water.’

  ‘Coming right up,’ said Mick. ‘I might even have one myself.’

  While Mick took a bottle of Jim Beam from the cabinet to the kitchen, Jesse put the two briefcases on the tiled coffee table and sat down on Mick’s blue velvet lounge. Mick came back, handed Jesse her drink, clinked her glass and sat down in a matching lounge chair opposite her. They both had a sip; Jesse had a particularly good one.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mick, making himself comfortable. ‘Fire away.’