Kurt sat at the desk near the front of the luxurious accommodations, studying his computer. Morgan sat in the adjoining room on the bed, looking at messages on her own laptop, while Joe was lying across the sofa, facing the fireplace, examining the pages of the logbook, hoping to find any information that would help them pin down the make and model of the missing plane or the pilot who’d flown it.
After hearing Kurt’s announcement, Morgan looked up from her screen, bewildered. “Mudville?”
“Baseball reference,” Kurt said. “From an old poem. The hero strikes out despite being supremely sure of himself.”
“Something that never happens in real life,” Joe said with a smirk.
Morgan’s look remained blank. “Where, exactly, is Mudville?”
“It’s not a real place,” Kurt said.
“Then why bring it up?”
“You’re missing the point,” Kurt said. “What I’m trying to tell you is, after an exhaustive search our computer and records experts have found nothing to indicate the crash of any aircraft in any of the areas we’ve suggested they look during December of 1927. How’s that for clarity?”
“Much better,” Morgan said, smiling. “But a crash may not have been recorded if the area was rural.”
“Perhaps not,” Kurt agreed. “But a missing plane would be noted by the company flying it or by the operator of an aerodrome waiting for the plane to return. And if not by them, then at least by relatives of the missing pilot. Hiram and his crew have found nothing of the sort. They’ve even searched obituaries listing pilots. But they’ve . . . struck out.”
“Ah,” she said. “Now I understand. It’s like getting bowled. Or ending up as batsmen with a sticky wicket.”
Kurt stared blankly. “I’d say yes, but I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Joe burst out laughing. He needed to. Despite hours of trying to glean anything from the pages Morgan had stolen, he’d learned nothing new. He’d been over them a dozen times. He’d used a magnifying glass and then a special light that helped reveal faded ink. He’d even felt for indentations caused by something else being written over them.
Aside from the cryptic words, written by the injured and possibly feverish pilot, the notations were simple and irrelevant. Spark plug timings were noted, along with fluid levels and other mechanic’s entries. The descriptions on the second and third pages referred to overhauls, misfiring cylinders and oil changes. They had nothing to do with the lost ancient writings.
Kurt looked his way. “What about you, Joe? Getting bowled or having a sticky wicket?”
“Neither,” Joe said. “It was definitely a crash. Which makes me think Hiram is searching in the wrong place.”
“He’s covered all of Europe,” Kurt said. “Where else can he look?”
Joe sighed. He had no idea. There was nothing to suggest where, just a description of an arid part of Europe with a high bluff and a river down below.
Ready to take a break, Joe sat up and allowed his mind to wander. He found his eyes resting on a small desk calendar. They’d done so much running around in the last week, he wasn’t sure what day it was.
Studying the date, a realization came to him suddenly. He went back through the notes and the logbook entries. Once he realized what he was looking for, it became obvious. And he wondered how he’d missed it in the first place.
“Maybe we’re looking in the right area,” he said, “but the wrong time.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting . . . time travel?”
Joe shook his head. “August 1st, 2019,” he said. “How would you abbreviate that?”
“Eight-one-nineteen,” Kurt replied.
Joe grinned, pleased with himself. “Morgan?”
She looked up from her computer. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“How would you abbreviate August 1st, 2019?”
“One-eight-nineteen, of course. Why?”
“Day, then month, then year,” Joe confirmed. “European-style.”
Morgan nodded.
“Has it always been that way in Europe?”
“As far as I know,” she said. “I have a card from Granddad to my mum dated that way. Why do you ask?”
“Because you said the crash was on December 5th, 1927,” Joe said. “We gave that date to Hiram to use in his computer records search. But if the plane—or the pilot—were American, then the notation five-twelve-twenty-seven would be May 12th as the crash date, not December 5th.”
“What makes you think it’s an American pilot?” Kurt asked.
“Because it’s an American plane,” Joe said. “And in those days that would almost certainly mean an American flyboy or -girl—er, -woman.”
“You’ve figured out what kind of plane we’re looking for?” Kurt asked.
“Not exactly,” Joe said. “But I know what side of the Atlantic it was manufactured on.”
Wanting to show them what he’d discovered, Joe brought the papers over to the desk. Morgan joined them. “Look at this,” he began. “It’s an entry regarding the maintenance on the engine. It includes a note about adding nine quarts of oil. Quarts, not liters or milliliters.”
“It might have been a British plane,” Morgan suggested. “In those days we used the imperial system too. The UK only changed to metric in the sixties. And if you ask my dad, that was a big mistake.”
“Okay,” Joe said, “but the oil is described as MHE 150 Aero-Oil. MHE is an abbreviation for Mohawk Eastern. Back in the twenties, Mohawk Eastern made oils for boats, cars and planes. They began production around the turn of the century and went out of business during the Depression. I have a vintage sign of theirs in my garage.”
“You’re sure that’s the same company.”
Joe nodded. “Absolutely. The thing is, Mohawk was a regional company. They never operated beyond the northeastern United States. In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find any sales outside of New York, New England and Pennsylvania. They never went west of Ohio. And they certainly weren’t exporters. So if the mechanic is adding Mohawk Eastern Aero-Oil, then it had to be an American outfit flying the missing plane. That means the logbook would use American dates, not European. And that means the last flight took place on May 12th, not December 5th.”
Morgan asked the obvious question. “What would an American plane be doing in Europe in 1927? Transatlantic flights hadn’t even begun then.”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe they were operating with a traveling air show or a barnstorming team. They might have been part of a cross-country race. Who knows? Back in the early days of aviation, pilots made money where they could. Wealthy big shots often held competitions or even invited performers to their cities, sponsoring air shows and other events. I’ve read about performers taking their planes over to Europe by steamship to work the summers on the Continent before heading back to the States in the fall. That would fit perfectly with the May date.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Kurt said. “I’ll tell Hiram to run a new search using May as the focal point.”
“Tell him to look for aircraft and pilots that were known to have operated on both continents. There can’t be too many of those in the twenties.”
As Kurt nodded and began to type the message, Joe stacked the pages and handed them back to Morgan, looking proud of the day’s work.
“Thanks,” she said absently while walking back to her computer.
“Something wrong?” Joe asked.
She folded the screen flat before responding.
“Professor Cross has completed his study of the hieroglyphics. He found nothing to indicate where the treasure was taken, only that the fleet passed Memphis and entered the Mediterranean. His suggestion is, look into the family who owned the Writings of Qsn. The DeMarses. Their descendants live in southern France.”
“My cale
ndar is open,” Joe said, “no matter what dating system you use.”
Kurt finished his message to Hiram and joined the conversation. “It’s worth a try. And at the moment, as you said, we have nothing better to do.”
Chapter 23
Southern France
After a quick flight down from London, Kurt, Joe and Morgan picked up a rented Peugeot in Toulouse and drove out to the DeMars estate. As they went west, the number of homes and businesses thinned out, giving way to sprawling farms and open country.
After they had been driving for an hour, Kurt’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Hiram.”
“You mean, the Mighty Casey,” Morgan said.
“Exactly,” Kurt said with a smile. “One and the same.”
He answered the call.
“I have something for you,” Hiram said. “But not what you might have been expecting.”
“Mind if I put you on speaker?” Kurt asked. “Only the three of us in the car.”
“Be my guest,” Hiram said. “Quite frankly, it wouldn’t matter if the bad guys were riding in the backseat.”
Kurt switched to speaker and put the phone down. “You’re on, Hiram. Give us the bad news.”
Hiram cut directly to the chase. “I ran a search based on the new information. But as you might guess from my tone, we’ve come up empty once more.”
“How empty?” Joe asked.
“Are there different degrees?” Morgan asked.
“Sometimes,” Kurt admitted. “What do you say, Hiram? Did you find anything we can use?”
“You be the judge,” Hiram said. “We found twenty-four documented plane crashes in Europe in the month of May 1927. I say ‘documented’ because many of the German and French records were destroyed during World War Two, while Iberian records suffered a similar fate during the Spanish Civil War.”
“Twenty-four is a significant number of crashes,” Morgan noted.
“Planes weren’t very reliable back then,” Joe noted.
“Correct,” Hiram said. “We found some pilots crashing twice in the same month and living to tell about it. Obviously, we ruled those incidents out. We also ruled out incidents where the wrecks occurred in or near a populated area. Finally, we narrowed it down by focusing on American pilots or American-made aircraft. That gave us three possibilities.”
“Sounds less empty than I was expecting,” Kurt said.
“One plane burned to cinders, another went into a lake and the third was a minor accident on a grass runway where the plane was repaired within a week and sent up again. How does that information make you feel?”
“Empty,” Kurt admitted. “What about American pilots in Europe who didn’t crash in 1927?”
“Well, there’s Lindbergh,” Hiram joked. “But not too many others.”
Kurt laughed. “Keep searching. There has to be some trace out there. Maybe you can dig up the records of Mohawk East and see who they sold oil to.”
“I wouldn’t even call that grasping at straws,” Hiram said. “But I’ll give it a shot.”
“Call us if you find anything.”
“Enjoy the wine country,” Hiram replied. “My jealousy meter is hitting level nine right about now. Yaeger out.”
“Does this Hiram friend of yours ever find anything in his searches?” Morgan asked politely.
“He literally never fails,” Joe said.
“Hence, the Mighty Casey reference.”
“But Casey did strike out,” she said, sounding perplexed.
Kurt shook his head in resignation. “I’m just going to let you read the poem.”
They were in the wine country now—vineyards had replaced the farms—and were closing in on their destination. After riding for several miles along winding roads, they came upon the Château DeMars perched atop a gently sloping hill.
“Now, that’s what I call a château,” Joe said.
The imposing Renaissance-style building rose four stories at its center and included turrets on its four corners. A garden maze of hedgerows could be seen from the road, while a vineyard covered the left flank of the hill and a pasture dotted with grazing horses occupied the right. A twelve-foot brick wall surrounded the property.
“Nice digs,” Kurt said. “I’d hate to pay the electric bill.”
“Something tells me they can afford it,” Morgan said.
Kurt didn’t doubt that. A half mile on he found the entry gate, complete with a guardhouse and security cameras. The gate itself was made of twin horizontal poles, welded together and filled with cement—a setup sturdier than it looked. The driveway was equipped with a line of raised metal spikes designed to blow out an intruder’s tires if the gate failed to do its job.
“Someone doesn’t like visitors,” Kurt said.
“Actually, the château is used to host visitors all the time,” Morgan said. “It’s trespassers they’re worried about.”
“Which category do we fall into?”
“Let’s find out.”
They pulled up to the gate and Morgan spoke to the guard in fluent French. She offered their credentials, smiled and quickly persuaded him to call Monsieur DeMars and request an audience.
He stepped into the guard shack and picked up a white phone. After a brief conversation, punctuated by a few nods and a glance at each passport, the guard hung up, came outside and returned their papers. “You may park in the breezeway between the carriage house and the main residence. Someone will meet you there.”
“Merci,” Morgan said, taking their credentials back.
Kurt put the car back in gear as the gate’s poles went up. They passed beneath it and over the now retracted spikes. “Next time I get a speeding ticket I want you to handle it.”
She looked his way, smiling again. “Are you saying you don’t obey the traffic laws of your country?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind having a few autobahns in America.”
Despite Kurt’s penchant for speed, he found himself keeping the Peugeot in check. The driveway was a bumpy cobblestone road that looped around the property, past the vineyard and up to the house. They arrived at the crest of the hill and passed a stable large enough for twenty horses before nearing the majestic residence.
Pulling into the breezeway, Kurt parked directly across from a tall, slim man with wispy blond hair. The man wore a zip-up black sweater, riding pants and boots. He nodded politely as Kurt opened the door. “Bonjour. Welcome to the Maison D’être, our Home Away from Home.”
Kurt recognized Francisco DeMars from photos they’d downloaded. He was the grandson of the man who’d found the Writings of Qsn. “At a home as splendid as this, one often meets a butler or a footman first.”
“Most of my employees have gone back to their own homes,” DeMars said. “And I prefer to greet my guests. Especially when they are—how do you say?—unscheduled arrivals. Do any of you speak French?”
Kurt stepped out of the way and Morgan came forward. They spoke briefly in French before DeMars reverted to English.
“I’m honored that both of your governments are interested in the work my grandfather did. It has been a long time since his efforts were given the proper attention. I will help you anyway I can. Please, come inside. Perhaps you’d like something to eat as well. It must have been a long journey.”
He led them into the château and down a long hallway replete with tapestries, paintings and other works of art. They passed a formal dining room, one of its long walls covered by a mural depicting scenes from the French Revolution. Finally, they entered a smaller parlor.
After suggesting they sit, DeMars called a servant, who arrived with a tray of puff pastries flavored with Gruyère cheese, baguettes of freshly baked bread and a wheel of soft Brie. Another servant brought a bottle of red wine and a bottle of Évian.
Kurt spread
some of the Brie on a slice of the warm bread and took a bite. The entire creation melted on his tongue. “Heaven.”
Joe was enjoying one of the pastries. “You’ll have to try one of these next.”
DeMars nodded. “Try one of each,” he insisted. “As the saying goes, a meal without cheese is like a day without sun. Now, how can I help you?”
Morgan deferred to Kurt for the moment. “We’re looking for information about a set of ancient Egyptian texts known as the Writings of Qsn. Your grandfather coined the term, I believe, after he found several stones with inscriptions on them.”
“Yes,” DeMars said. “That’s correct. But they were lost to us during the war. The Germans took them and they were never returned to us. They seemed to have vanished. Why do you ask?”
“They may have reappeared,” Morgan said.
DeMars’s eyes grew wide. “I should be most interested to see them.”
“Perhaps that’s possible at some future point, but for now they’re in safekeeping.”
“Why?”
Morgan explained the threat that the Bloodstone Group presented and the hope that cutting off the supply of antiquities flowing to them would reduce the spread of illicit arms to the rest of the world.
DeMars took the news very soberly. “A worthy effort. How can I assist?”
Kurt went straight for it. “By telling us where your grandfather found the stones. Those details don’t seem to be part of the historical record.”
DeMars took a deep breath and sighed. “Because they have been kept secret.”
“Why?”
“My grandfather’s work was controversial. He believed the Egyptians had colonized Europe, settling the coasts of France and Spain, a thousand years before the Romans. He spent half his life searching for the proof, especially for a mythical fleet he believed foundered in French waters and for a pyramid he claimed had been constructed in the coastal area of Spain.”
DeMars took a sip of wine, then continued. “To some extent, wild theories were common for the time period. I’m sure you know of the Nazi suggestion that Europeans, at least the Teutonic people, had all descended from that famous Aryan master race. A race that never existed. They spent years, and trunkloads of Reichsmarks, searching the Himalayas for their mythical origins. My grandfather spent years and half the family fortune looking for his mythical pyramid, never to find it. Today our family finds that parallel uncomfortable.”
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 13