Kurt glanced upward. “Thanks, Max, but I’m okay.”
Max was having none of it. “Dehydration leads to lethargy, inefficient thinking and irritability. If you intend to perform at optimal levels of functioning, I suggest a full liter of water to rebalance your system.”
Kurt’s brow wrinkled. He turned to Hiram. “When did Max become a doctor?”
Hiram started to reply, but Max interrupted. “I have the entire storehouse of Western medical knowledge in my data banks. I have optical and infrared sensors that see better than human eyes and have the ability to cross-reference symptoms at a speed of four-point-seven billion bits of information per second. By all rational standards, I’m far superior to any human doctor.”
“Except for her bedside manner,” Hiram joked.
Kurt laughed. “In that case, I’m glad all I have is a little dehydration.”
The doctor wasn’t done. “You also seem to be favoring your right leg, suggesting injury to your knee or ankle. This is in addition to areas of raised surface temperature suggesting bruising and inflammation on multiple parts of your body. You really should learn to take better care of yourself, Kurt.”
“I took a bad step,” Kurt replied.
“More than one, I suspect.”
“Sorry,” Hiram said. “I’ve installed biometric sensors in Max’s camera grid. They were supposed to be for security purposes only, but Max put them to her own use.”
As Hiram finished explaining, he opened a small fridge at his feet and pulled out two bottles of purified water. He handed one to Kurt and put the other one on the desk. “Just take it. Otherwise, she’ll never stop.”
Kurt laughed, raising the water bottle. “To your health,” he said. “Or mine, apparently.”
Max seemed genuinely pleased. “Thank you, Kurt. Ready to report on Jake Melbourne.”
“Go ahead.”
“Jake Melbourne, pilot. Born March 5th, 1901, Louisville, Kentucky. Learned to fly by the time he was fifteen, ran away from home at sixteen and then lied about his age in order to enlist in the Army. He was sent to Europe in 1917 when the United States entered World War One on the side of France and the United Kingdom.
“Being a trained pilot, he was quickly transferred to the Army Air Corps. He flew in two different squadrons during his time in Europe, shooting down seven German planes during his first three weeks of deployment. This qualified him as the youngest ace pilot in the war. Melbourne was eventually given credit for nineteen kills and also survived being shot down twice himself.”
As Max spoke, photos of Jake with his squadron appeared on the screens in front of Kurt and Hiram. He looked older than his age, which probably helped him get through enlistment without getting caught. By the end of the war, his blond hair was already growing into a mane. Apparently, as an ace, he didn’t have to keep it high and tight.
Max continued her report. “Melbourne returned to the United States after the Armistice and became a barnstormer. After traveling all across the country and flying in shows, he was briefly connected with several Hollywood moguls. During the early twenties, he appeared in three movies and performed flying stunts in a total of seven. After being photographed with the wife of a well-known director, Melbourne moved away from Los Angeles and left the movie business behind.”
Max paused, not to take a breath but to allow the humans time to soak up the information. When she continued, a new photo appeared on the screen. It was an older, filled-out version of the same man. He wore a red leather jacket and ostrich-skin boots.
“After leaving California, Jake Melbourne began to perform internationally, flying in both Europe and South America. He developed a reputation for mischief. In particular, he was known for drinking, gambling and womanizing. In 1926, he publicly pledged to win the Orteig Prize. With the help of an East Coast aircraft builder, he designed and built a plane specifically for the contest, naming it after his own persona, the Golden Ram. Following several test flights proving it airworthy, Melbourne readied for his attempt.
“On May 12th, 1927, he took off from Roosevelt Field in New York. After crossing Long Island, the aircraft was last seen flying in a northeast direction out over the Atlantic. It was never seen again.”
“Apparently, you haven’t uploaded our discovery,” Kurt said. “Melbourne’s plane has been found. By us.”
“I’m aware of your discovery,” Max said. “It’s quite an accomplishment. I am merely restating the preexisting historic record.”
“Please continue,” Hiram said.
“An international search conducted in the weeks after the disappearance found no sign of wreckage. Melbourne and his aircraft were declared lost at sea. Controversy erupted several weeks later when Melbourne’s body was found in a Brooklyn icehouse. Because the cold temperatures acted to preserve his tissue, it was impossible to determine how long he’d been dead. This, combined with his reputation, led to speculation that Melbourne had been involved in a scheme to win the prize by hoax or to ditch his plane, fake his death and collect the insurance money. The second of these two schemes was presumed to include an unknown partner who subsequently killed Melbourne, hoping to keep all the proceeds for him- or herself.”
Max paused to allow for questions.
“Any truth to that?” Hiram asked.
“The evidence suggests insurance fraud was unlikely to be a motivating factor,” Max said. “A policy with New York Mutual paid out ten thousand dollars, but most of that was distributed among his creditors. No individual benefactor received more than two hundred dollars.”
“No point in faking your death for two hundred bucks,” Kurt said. “Even back then.”
“Not when landing in Paris would have given you twenty-five thousand,” Hiram added. “And a lifetime of fame to cash in on. Were there any other suspects in his death?”
“Melbourne had several enemies,” Max said, “including the husband of a prominent New England socialite with whom he was having an affair. In addition, Melbourne was known to have substantial gambling debts with the Irish Syndicate in New York, though he was photographed in public the week before his flight with a prominent member of the gang known as Bags Callahan.”
Max displayed the picture showing two men in period clothing having lunch outside a tavern. There appeared to be smiles on both faces.
“Looks pretty friendly to me,” Hiram said.
Kurt agreed. “More importantly, dead men don’t pay off markers. Even if he owed them money, Melbourne was worth more to the Syndicate alive than he was dead. Anyone else?”
“There are no other suspects listed in any official or speculative record.”
“Might be time to activate the illogical logic program,” Kurt said.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Max replied.
“What if there were two planes?” Hiram asked. “One in America and one shipped to Europe. Melbourne takes off in America, hides the plane somewhere and the next day—after allowing an appropriate amount of time to pass—the second plane takes off from Spain and lands in Paris. The idea being, Melbourne collects the prize, sells his famous aircraft to the Smithsonian and spends the rest of his life getting rich by endorsing products and giving commencement speeches, having never risked the dangerous flight.”
“It wouldn’t work,” Kurt said. “In 1927 there was no way for Melbourne to get from New York to Europe in time to appear in Paris. And considering all the pandemonium and press surrounding the prize, he couldn’t hope to keep the ruse a secret. Lindbergh was photographed repeatedly once he landed. He met all the dignitaries over there and appeared in multiple newsreels. Melbourne would have gotten the same treatment. Unless he had an identical twin, he could never pull off a stunt like that.”
Hiram raised an eyebrow. “Max, any chance Melbourne had a twin?”
“Melbourne had one sister eight years younger than him,” Max reported. “No medical or historical records suggest a twin or close-aged relative who could pass for him.”
&
nbsp; “What if Melbourne was already in Europe,” Kurt suggested, “and the hoax was perpetrated on this side of the Atlantic? Easier to fake the takeoff than the landing.”
“In that case, his body would have wound up in Spain, not on ice in Brooklyn,” Hiram said.
“Good point,” Kurt replied. “Maybe I am dehydrated. I should have put that together.”
Kurt took another drink of water as Max gave them more information regarding the flight.
“All aircraft involved in attempts to win the Orteig Prize were required to carry a sealed barograph. This device recorded atmospheric pressure and altitude as the aircraft traveled, preventing any hidden landings, takeoffs or other interruptions of the flight. The barograph also recorded duration of flight. The U.S. National Aeronautic Association and Aéro-Club of France were used to certify that all barographs were not tampered with. This precaution would preclude the type of hoax you’ve suggested.”
“I’m at a loss,” Hiram said.
“Because we’re focusing on the wrong pilot,” Kurt said. “It’s my fault. I came in here asking about Jake Melbourne, but he’s irrelevant.”
Hiram had found Kurt’s instincts to be sharper than most. Rather than disagree, he prodded Kurt to elaborate. “What are you suggesting?”
Kurt straightened up, sitting taller on the backward chair. “For ninety years, everyone thought Melbourne ditched his plane while trying to perpetrate some scam or because he chickened out. But we know that his plane was successfully flown to Europe even if it didn’t reach Paris. We know it crashed there and that whoever the pilot was, he died and got buried anonymously as a result of the crash. If Melbourne was trying to set up a hoax, he would have been the one in Europe. If he was going to collect insurance money, he wouldn’t have allowed that plane to go anywhere except into the depths of the Atlantic. The fact that the plane actually flew across the ocean without him means he wasn’t calling the shots, someone else was. And that means the Orteig Prize was no longer the goal of the flight. We keep looking at Melbourne when we should be trying to figure out who was actually flying the plane when it crashed.”
“You think the person flying the plane killed Melbourne and took his place,” Hiram said.
“It fits,” Kurt replied. “What do you say, Max? Is there any way to determine who was actually flying the plane when it went down?”
“Researching,” Max said, then added, “Photographic evidence of Jake Melbourne climbing into his aircraft on the day of the flight appears to show a man two or three inches shorter than Melbourne.”
“Well,” Hiram said, “that narrows it down to every living male in 1927 who was shorter than five feet nine inches.”
“Incorrect,” Max said. “The photograph does not rule out female pilots.”
Kurt often laughed at Hiram’s banter with Max, sometimes wondering if he’d made Max’s personality too close to that of his wife’s. “The parish records in San Sebastián list the burial of a young man,” Kurt said. “But male or female, whoever got in that plane in 1927 would have to be a pilot. Can you search the records for any pilots who went missing during the time Melbourne’s plane vanished?”
“Stand by,” Max said. In seconds Max accessed diverse records contained in various governmental databases and cross-referenced them with information from other sources. “No other federally licensed pilots went missing over a two-month period surrounding the disappearance of the Golden Ram. Eight died in crashes, but all bodies were recovered and identified.”
“What about someone else Melbourne might have been associated with?”
Another momentary delay, but this time Max gave them something to work with. “The only missing person report connected with Jake Melbourne during that time relates to a freelance mechanic named Stefano Cordova who worked at Roosevelt Field prior to Melbourne’s flight.”
“Prior to but not after?” Kurt asked.
“Correct,” Max said. “Cordova’s fiancée reported him missing eight days after Melbourne’s flight took off. But, according to the report, she hadn’t seen him in over a week. He was never found.”
Hiram looked at Kurt, who nodded. They were onto something.
Max spoke next. “By your rising skin temperatures, you obviously consider this an important fact.”
“Stop watching my skin temperature,” Kurt said. “And, yes, it’s definitely important. Tell us how Cordova was connected to Melbourne.”
“He was a known associate who worked on Melbourne’s aircraft. The missing person report suggested they were close friends and that his fiancée feared that Cordova had committed suicide after Melbourne’s plane vanished, perhaps blaming himself.”
“Could Cordova be the pilot in the photograph pretending to be Melbourne?”
“Uncertain,” Max said. “Cordova’s height was listed in the missing person report at five feet seven inches. That correlates to the height of the figure in the blurred photograph to an accuracy level of only seventy percent.”
“Add in the ostrich-skin boots and it’s a direct hit,” Hiram said.
“A valid assumption.”
Kurt turned to Hiram. “Did MI5 share the pages of the mechanic’s log with you?”
“They emailed copies to us. Why?”
“Max,” Kurt said. “Compare the handwriting of the mechanic’s entries in the early part of the logbook with the notes scribbled on the last few pages.”
Max didn’t disappoint. “Based on repeatable characteristics, I find a ninety-six percent probability that both sets of writing were done by the same person. The handwriting also matches Stefano Cordova’s known writing samples on his petition for a marriage license, filed in the Nassau County Courthouse on December 1st, 1926.”
Hiram beamed with pride. “Now use that powerful brain of yours to tell us why a mechanic who did work on Melbourne’s plane would have had reason to kill him and take his place.”
“Insufficient information,” Max said. “I’m brilliant, but I can’t pull answers out of thin air.”
“Can you speculate?”
“The most logical connection would be Stefano Cordova’s family,” Max replied. “He was the nephew of Carlo Granzini, a smuggler known to deal in stolen paintings, statuary and historical artifacts.”
“That’s damn fine speculation,” Kurt said. “If NUMA ever retires you—and you don’t want to be a doctor—I suggest you go work for the FBI.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Kurt said. “What else can you tell us about the Granzini family and their smuggling activities?”
“At the time of the flight, they were wanted by J. Edgar Hoover and the Bureau of Investigation.”
“For what crimes?” Hiram asked.
“Unknown,” Max said. “All records relating to the Bureau’s investigation into activities of the Granzini family are classified under the National Heritage Protection and International Stability Act of 1913. NUMA clearance levels are insufficient to access materials classified under that Act.”
Hiram fell silent. Kurt wondered if Max was playing a joke on them. Considering the computer’s personality, he couldn’t put it past her. But, Max said nothing more.
“What the heck is the National Heritage and whatever you said after that Act?” Kurt asked.
“The National Heritage Protection and International Stability Act, passed by Congress in 1913, signed by President Woodrow Wilson that same year. This Act allows the President to identify material important to American heritage and international stability. It grants the President the powers to classify such materials and all knowledge of them as a national secret without restraint of Congress or the Courts. Suggested time period of classification is fifty to one hundred years, but no upper limit is established. The Act expressly considers the possibility that the President be given the power to protect materials and secrets for a term without end.”
“Forever?” Hiram said.
“That would be my reading of th
e language,” Max said.
Kurt had worked in the government for most of his adult life. Both he and Hiram had top secret clearance, both of them had knowledge that went beyond what the public would ever know, but neither of them had ever heard of this particular Act nor had they ever heard of a secret being classified for all eternity.
“This sounds like we-faked-the-moon-landing kind of stuff.”
“It’s going to take some work to dig the truth out,” Kurt replied.
Hiram narrowed his gaze. “You have a plan for that?”
“The beginnings of one,” Kurt said. He got up and stretched. The way Kurt saw it, if a President could classify something, then perhaps a Vice President could unclassify it. Or at least find out what had been hidden and why.
“Not going to elaborate, are you?”
Kurt shook his head. “Thanks for the help,” he said. “And the water. I feel more alert and sharper already.”
“Where are you going?” Hiram asked.
“Home to take a nap,” Kurt replied. “Got up way too early this morning. And since I have a party to go to later, I want to look my best.”
CHAPTER 45
Cambridge, England
Morgan Manning pulled up to the cottage-style house in East Cambridge expecting the worst. Several police cars were already on-site, their lights bathing the neighborhood in continuous blue flashes.
A uniformed officer in a neon windbreaker stopped her from approaching. “I’m sorry, but this is a crime scene,” he said. “You’ll have to turn around.”
She held up her ID. “Section 5,” she said. “What happened here?”
“Break-in and assault, by the looks of it,” the officer said.
“Anyone inside?” she asked.
“No, mum. But it looks like a hell of a fight took place, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Morgan parked the car and got out. “Have your men begin a search of the surrounding area. Get any video you can find from the traffic cameras. I want to know who did this.”
She walked into the house and studied the damage. The living room had been torn apart, with the furniture flipped over and shredded and the shelves swept clean of books and trinkets, which now lay scattered about the floor.
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 22
