'Correct. But not just any propeller blade. See here, there is a metal plate fastened to the propeller. Raymond Saulnier devised a true synchronizing gear early in 1914, which allowed him to fire a Hotchkiss machine gun through a spinning propeller. Ammunition would sometimes hang fire, so he fitted crude metal deflectors to the propeller blades.'
'I've heard of that. A low-tech solution to a complex problem.' 'After a few test pilots were killed by ricocheting bullets, the idea
was temporarily abandoned. Then came the war and with it the impetus to come up with new ways to kill your enemy. A French ace named Roland Garros met with Saulnier, and they fitted his plane with steel deflector plates that worked as designed. He had several kills before his plane fell behind enemy lines. The Germans used his system to develop the Fokker synchronizing gear.'
Austin picked up another photo and pointed to a small light-colored rectangle in the cockpit. 'What do you make of this? It looks like a metal plaque.'
'You have sharp eyes,' Grosset said with a smile. 'It is a manufacturer's code.' He passed over another photo. 'I enlarged the picture on the computer. The letters and numbers are a little fuzzy, but I enhanced the resolution and you can make them out well enough. I was able to match them with the records in the museum's archives.' Austin looked up from the picture. 'Were you able to trace its ownership?'
Grosset nodded. 'There were forty-nine Ns built. After seeing how successful Garros was, other French pilots obtained the plane and used it with deadly efficiency. The English bought some of these 'Bullet' planes, as they called the model, and the Russians as well. They performed better than the Fokker, but many pilots were wary of their high landing speed and sensitivity. You say you found this wreckage in the Alps?'
'Yes, at the bottom of a glacial lake near the Dormeur glacier.' Grosset sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. 'Curious. Some years ago I was called into that area to look over the wreckage of some old planes, scattered at various locations. They were a type known as an Aviatik, primarily used for scouting and reconnaissance. I talked to some of the local residents who said there were stories told by their grandparents of an air battle. It would have happened around the start of World War One, although I could not pinpoint an actual date.'
'Do you think this aerial dogfight had anything to do with this latest find
'Perhaps. It may be yet another piece of a puzzle nearly a hundred years old. The mysterious disappearance of Jules Fauchard. He was the owner of the plane you found.' 'The name doesn't ring a bell.'
'Fauchard was one of the wealthiest men in Europe. He disappeared in the year 1914, apparently while flying his Morane-Saulnier. He was in the habit of flying around his vast estate and vineyards. One day, he simply never came back. A search was launched within the probable range of his plane, but no trace was ever found. Within a few days, the war began and his disappearance, while regretful, became a mere historical footnote.'
Austin tapped the photo that showed the machine gun. 'Fauchard must have worried a lot about his grapes. How did a citizen come to be flying a warplane?' ^
'Fauchard was an arms manufacturer with strong political connections. It would have been nothing for him to have a plane diverted from the French arsenal. The larger question is how he got to the Alps.' 'Lost?'
'I don't think so. His plane would not have made it to Lac du Dormeur on a tank of fuel. In those days airports were few. He would have had to stockpile fuel supplies along his route. This suggests to me that his flight was part of a deliberate plan.'
'Where do you think he was headed?' 'The lake is near the Swiss border.'
'And Switzerland is known for secret banking. Maybe he was on his way to Zurich to cash a check.'
Grosset responded with a soft chuckle. 'A man of Fauchard's position had no use for cash.' His face grew serious. 'You have seen the television reports about the body that was found in the ice?'
'No, but I talked to someone who saw the body. She said he appeared to be wearing a long leather coat and a close-fitting cap like those worn by early aviators.'
Grosset leaned forward, excitement in his eyes. 'This would fit! Fauchard could have bailed out. He landed on the glacier and his plane crashed in the lake. If we could only retrieve the body.'
Austin thought back to the dark, water-filled tunnel. 'It would be a monumental task to pump the tunnel dry.'
'So I understand.' He shook his head. 'If anyone could accomplish the task, it would be the Fauchards.'
'His family is still around?'
'Oh yes, although you wouldn't know it. They are fanatical about their privacy.'
'Not surprising. Many wealthy families don't like attention.'
'It goes deeper than that, monsieur. The Fauchards are what are called 'Merchants of Death.' Arms dealers on a vast scale. Armaments are regarded by some as an unsavory business.'
'The Fauchards sound a bit like a French version of the Krupps.'
'They have been compared to the Krupps, although Racine Fauchard would argue that.'
'Racine?'
'She would have been Jules's grandniece. A femme formidable, from what I am told. She still runs the family business.'
'I would imagine that Madame Fouchard would like to know the fate of her long-lost ancestor.'
'I agree, but it would be difficult for an ordinary mortal to get past the lawyers, public relations people and bodyguards that protect a person of her wealth.' He thought about it for a moment, and then he said, 'I have a friend who is a director at the company. I can call him with this information and see where it leads. Where can I reach you?'
'I'm taking the train back to Paris; I'll give you my cell phone number.'
'Bien,' Grosset said. He called a taxi to take Austin back to the train station. Then they walked past the antique planes to the from of the museum to wait for the ride.
They shook hands and Austin said, 'Thanks for your help.' 'My pleasure. May I ask what interest NUMA has in this situation?'
'None, actually. I discovered the plane as I was working on a NUMA-sponsored project, but I'm pursuing it on my own, primarily out of curiosity.'
'Then you won't be using intermediaries in any dealings you might have with the Fauchards?' 'I hadn't intended to.'
Grosset mulled over Austin's reply. 'I was in the military for years and you seem to be a man who can take care of himself, but I would warn you to be very careful in any dealings you might have with the Fauchards.' ^
'Why is that?'
'The Fauchards are not just any wealthy family.' He paused, trying to choose his words carefully. 'It is said that they have a past.'
Before Austin could ask Grosset what he meant, the car pulled up, they said their adieus and he was on his way to the train station. As Austin sat back in his seat, he pondered the Frenchman's warning. Grosset seemed to be saying that the Fauchards had more than one skeleton in the family closet. The same thing could be said about any rich family on the face of the earth, Austin mused. The fortunes that built grand houses and status were often based on a foundation of slavery, opium dealing, smuggling or organized crime.
With nothing more to go on than nuance, Austin turned his thoughts to meeting Skye once more, but Grosset's words continued to echo in his mind like the tolling of a distant church bell. It is said that they have a past.
SKYE HAD HER OFFICE in the Sorbonne science center, a Le Corbusier influenced edifice of glass and concrete that was sandwiched between some art nouveau buildings near the Pantheon. The street was normally quiet except for the gaggles of university students who used it as a shortcut. But as Skye turned the corner, she saw police cars blocking both ends of the avenue. More official cars were lined up in front of the building and police officers swarmed around the entrance.
A portly policeman manning a barricade raised his hand to bar her way. 'Sorry, mademoiselle. You cannot pass.'
'What has happened, monsieur?'
'There has been an accident,' he said.
'What kind of an accident?'
'I don't know, mademoiselle,' the policeman said, with an unconvincing shrug.
