Tales of Terror Mystery | Page 5

Wiesbaden district.
"It was the disappearance of the airmen that first set me thinking. Of
course, everyone said that they had fallen into the sea, but that did not
satisfy me at all. First, there was Verrier in France; his machine was
found near Bayonne, but they never got his body. There was the case of
Baxter also, who vanished, though his engine and some of the iron
fixings were found in a wood in Leicestershire. In that case, Dr.
Middleton, of Amesbury, who was watching the flight with a telescope,
declares that just before the clouds obscured the view he saw the
machine, which was at an enormous height, suddenly rise
perpendicularly upwards in a succession of jerks in a manner that he

would have thought to be impossible. That was the last seen of Baxter.
There was a correspondence in the papers, but it never led to anything.
There were several other similar cases, and then there was the death of
Hay Connor. What a cackle there was about an unsolved mystery of the
air, and what columns in the halfpenny papers, and yet how little was
ever done to get to the bottom of the business! He came down in a
tremendous vol-plane from an unknown height. He never got off his
machine and died in his pilot's seat. Died of what? `Heart disease,' said
the doctors. Rubbish! Hay Connor's heart was as sound as mine is.
What did Venables say? Venables was the only man who was at his
side when he died. He said that he was shivering and looked like a man
who had been badly scared. `Died of fright,' said Venables, but could
not imagine what he was frightened about. Only said one word to
Venables, which sounded like `Monstrous.' They could make nothing
of that at the inquest. But I could make something of it. Monsters! That
was the last word of poor Harry Hay Connor. And he DID die of fright,
just as Venables thought.
"And then there was Myrtle's head. Do you really believe--does
anybody really believe--that a man's head could be driven clean into his
body by the force of a fall? Well, perhaps it may be possible, but I, for
one, have never believed that it was so with Myrtle. And the grease
upon his clothes--`all slimy with grease,' said somebody at the inquest.
Queer that nobody got thinking after that! I did--but, then, I had been
thinking for a good long time. I've made three ascents--how
Dangerfield used to chaff me about my shot-gun--but I've never been
high enough. Now, with this new, light Paul Veroner machine and its
one hundred and seventy-five Robur, I should easily touch the thirty
thousand tomorrow. I'll have a shot at the record. Maybe I shall have a
shot at something else as well. Of course, it's dangerous. If a fellow
wants to avoid danger he had best keep out of flying altogether and
subside finally into flannel slippers and a dressing-gown. But I'll visit
the air-jungle tomorrow--and if there's anything there I shall know it. If
I return, I'll find myself a bit of a celebrity. If I don't this note-book
may explain what I am trying to do, and how I lost my life in doing it.
But no drivel about accidents or mysteries, if YOU please.

"I chose my Paul Veroner monoplane for the job. There's nothing like a
monoplane when real work is to be done. Beaumont found that out in
very early days. For one thing it doesn't mind damp, and the weather
looks as if we should be in the clouds all the time. It's a bonny little
model and answers my hand like a tender-mouthed horse. The engine is
a ten-cylinder rotary Robur working up to one hundred and
seventy-five. It has all the modern improvements--enclosed fuselage,
high-curved landing skids, brakes, gyroscopic steadiers, and three
speeds, worked by an alteration of the angle of the planes upon the
Venetian-blind principle. I took a shot-gun with me and a dozen
cartridges filled with buck-shot. You should have seen the face of
Perkins, my old mechanic, when I directed him to put them in. I was
dressed like an Arctic explorer, with two jerseys under my overalls,
thick socks inside my padded boots, a storm-cap with flaps, and my talc
goggles. It was stifling outside the hangars, but I was going for the
summit of the Himalayas, and had to dress for the part. Perkins knew
there was something on and implored me to take him with me. Perhaps
I should if I were using the biplane, but a monoplane is a one-man
show--if you want to get the last foot of life out of it. Of course, I took
an oxygen bag; the man who goes for