ALBATROS D.III
Johannisthal, OAW, and Oeffag variants
INTRODUCTION
It is without question that mankind possesses an inexorable and inexhaustible need for knowledge and improvement. Because of this, today’s technological innovation becomes tomorrow’s antiquity. During war it is no different, although the high political and life-or-death stakes of war raise the bar and increase the rapidity of these advancements.
And so it was for the World War I fighter airplane. Unknown and undeveloped when the war began, necessity soon begot the creation of armed pusher airplanes that could use forward-firing weapons without risk of damaging a spinning propeller, since the engine and propeller were behind the pilot. Yet the pusher design was inherently draggy compared with the preferred tractor-powered designs – but how to overcome the spinning propeller? Resourcefulness often precedes technological advancement, and so it was that the French overcame propeller obstruction by mounting machine guns to the upper wing that fired above the propeller arc. This would suffice until technology caught up.
Meanwhile, both France and Germany had been developing mechanical means to use a tractor airplane to fire a machine
gun through a spinning propeller arc. The Germans were the first to successfully incorporate it into a tractor-powered airplane design, the Fokker E-type monoplanes. Initially they were the only ones able to do so and this caused a period of concern known as “the Fokker Scourge,” when their impact was felt against Entente reconnaissance two-seaters. Despite the success there was an increasing desire to improve the aerodynamic performance of the fighter and the number of guns it could carry; one machine gun was felt to be lacking and would leave the airplane unarmed if it jammed. The rotary engines of Fokker’s monoplanes could not support the weight of two machine guns and associated ammunition; however, when larger rotary engines were used to bear that weight they exacted intolerable penalties against airplane performance.
The solution arrived via the Albatros company, makers of successful B- and C-type two-seater airplanes. Taking a 160Ps engine from one of their C-types, they installed it into a single-seat biplane fighter of new design. The result was a new machine with power enough to bear the weight of twin machine-gun armament yet still provide good speed, rate of climb, and acceptable maneuverability. Named the Albatros D.I, the type entered service in September 1916. The Royal Flying Corps (RFC) immediately took notice.
A mixture of Kest 1b Albatros D.III and D.III(OAW) machines. At casual glance the different models can be overlooked, or the D.III(OAW) confused with the Albatros D.V, due to their similar rudder shapes, but all have the D.III’s classic slab-sided fuselages.
Unlike the vast schedules during peace that allowed time for adequate testing, the war dictated constant and expedient development and improvement. Even though the D.I had just entered service, Albatros had already designed and tested its eventual replacement, the D.II. Several new features were implemented but largely it was the same design. However, a third design, the D.III, employed redesigned wings that improved downward visibility for airplanes flown with the intention of stalking two-seater recon machines from above and then diving for the attack.
The rapidity of these advancements fostered a truncated period of testing and refinement, which had serious and tragic implications in the case of the D.III. A problem was discovered with the lower wings, in which an unknown design flaw could result in airframe deformation or the
complete loss of structural integrity, often causing the death of the pilot. The exigencies of expediency dictated a largely in-field repair, and wing redesign also helped reduce future risk with machines still being produced – still, the risk never left entirely. Fortunately, later D.IIIs built by the Ostdeutsche Albatros Werke (OAW) and Austrian company Oesterreichische Flugzeugfabrik Allgemeine Gesellschaft (Oeffag) were built much more solidly, so the design evolution worked beyond the problem while satisfying the pressing urgency to “one-up” the enemy with technological advancement and innovation. This culminated with Oeffag’s final D.III production type, the Series 253. With its solid construction and employment of the largest engine used on the type, it was the best Albatros D.III of the war.
Yet one expects improvement with innovation; otherwise, why innovate? Unfortunately, in this regard the German Albatros D.III fell short. By the time of its front-line arrival in very late December 1916 it was the third new Albatros Dtype in as many months – but it brought no considerable new advantage, other than improved downward visibility. Worse, the Germans were saddled with the new design’s fatal structural flaws. Mostly they overcame these obstacles; but when the RFC employed new designs with improved performance throughout 1917, and the D.III’s successor the D.V neither improved performance nor eliminated the structural shortcomings of the lower wings, pilot morale for the Albatros began to wane. During the spring, however, despite its shortcomings, German pilots had flown the Albatros D.III with incredible success. It became the make and model with which many of Germany’s most famous aces would attain a majority of their victories, and today it is regarded as one of Germany’s most iconic fighters.
DESIGN AND DEVELOPMENT
During the first full year of World War I, after the opposing forces had established defensive trenches that extended from the English Channel to Switzerland, the war saw little change along these lines except failed offenses and a mounting death toll. By the end of 1915, 1,292,000 French soldiers, 612,000 German soldiers, and 279,000 British soldiers had been killed or wounded (these figures are approximate; casualty figures vary). Any territorial advancement these casualties bought came in the form of mere yards.
During these early ground campaigns, airplanes played an important, yet initially less lethal role, conducting reconnaissance crucial for armies to formulate strategy by providing realtime views of enemy forces that would have been unattainable otherwise. Initially these observation airplanes – two-seater machines with a pilot and dedicated observer – flew about unmolested save for antiaircraft fire, but increasing encounters with their enemy counterparts inspired crews to take aloft rifles to exchange potshots. The value of attaining an aerial reconnaissance advantage over one’s enemy while denying him the same was so clear that eventually both sides sought use of quick, single-seat “scouts” – originally developed to use speed to dash across the lines, conduct a visual tactical observation, and then race back to report the findings – for two-seater reconnaissance airplane interdiction and destruction.
Initially these single-seaters were hamstrung by an inability to synchronize a forwardfiring machine gun to shoot through a spinning propeller arc. French and German efforts to synchronize machine-gun fire had begun in 1910, although they involved little to no military support and were hampered by hang fires that disrupted the required steady gunfire cadence. By 1914 French airplane manufacturer Morane-Saulnier had developed a synchronizer gear, but ground gunnery tests revealed hang fires, and the irregular firing rate of the open-bolt light machine guns being used still caused some bullets to strike the propeller. While sorting these teething troubles, Raymond Saulnier devised a back-up solution of also installing steel wedges to the propeller that deflected the bullets that would have otherwise shattered the wooden blades. These wedges underwent several successful tests until apparently one detached in flight, causing a significant imbalance that required a dead-stick forced landing. Further tests were delayed to repair the airplane and redesign the propeller to better mount the deflector wedges, but in early 1915 French pilot Sergeant Roland Garros, who as a civilian had conducted some of the prewar test flights in 1914, proposed trying the device again in action – and with his airplane so equipped shot down three German machines in two weeks. Unfortunately, on April 18 engine failure (possibly caused by ground fire) led to Garros’ forced landing and the capture of the device, which was delivered to Doberitz for evaluation by Idflieg (Inspektion der Fliegertruppen, or Inspectorate of Flying Troops) with the expectation of improving it for use on German machines.
The single-gunned Halberstadt D.II was at the forefront of Germany’s focus on in-line engine, biplane fighters. Although its performance was praised beyond that of the Fokker Eindecker, there remained calls for airplanes with increased engine power and a second machine gun.
One man contacted for this was Dutchman Anthony Fokker. Born on April 6, 1890, in Bliter, Java (today, Indonesia), Fokker’s affluent family lived on their Java coffee plantation until returning to the Netherlands in 1894 to begin their children’s formal education. Anthony proved to be a lackluster student yet developed an interest and aptitude for independently studied mechanical subjects, such as woodworking, electricity, and steam-engine construction. Fokker left school in 1908, and after a brief military stint formed a partnership to build airplanes. In 1911 he used one to teach himself how to fly and soon acquired a reputation as an “amazingly sure” pilot. After various airplane builds and trials funded by his father, Fokker received his first airplane order from the German Army, which led to further orders and the establishment of his own company along Ostorfer Lake in Schwerin-Gorries, Mecklenburg.
In 1913 Fokker acquired a Morane-Saulnier Type H, a machine that formed the basis for his future designs and begot the lineage of famous monoplanes, the Fokker E-types. When war began the following year, Fokker enjoyed increased German military production orders but he did not yet possess adequate facilities to fulfill them. Upon realizing this, Idflieg advised him to expand his facilities, abandon his work on new types, and concentrate on production rather than innovation.
However, when Garros’ machine fell into German hands, the timing was perfect for Fokker. For months his company had been experimenting with a means by which a fixed machine gun could be fired through a propeller arc via an interrupter gear (believed to have been based on a 1913 patent held by Franz Schneider, a Swiss with the German firm Luftverkehrsgesellschaft [LVG]), which prevented the weapon from firing whenever a propeller blade passed before the muzzle. This was the best solution to enable forwardfiring gunnery for tractor-powered airplanes but came with a price: interrupter linkages were sensitive to temperature changes and wear, required vigilant preventative and/or reparative maintenance, and synchronization negatively affected rate of fire because of variable propeller revolutions per minute (rpms). For example, Fokker’s system allowed the gun to fire once for each propeller revolution. A rate of fire (RoF) set at 500 rounds per minute would be supported up to propeller speeds of 500rpm. When the propeller exceeded 500rpm, the synchronization device could not keep up and thus only permitted firing on every other rotation, cutting the RoF in half. Although RoF increased at a rate
commensurate with increased propeller rpms it did so at half the rate, so when the rpms reached 1,000 the RoF returned to 500. Engine rpms in excess of this caused another drop in firing rate because the device could not keep up again, and now the gun had to fire every third propeller rotation, or 330 rounds per minute. An attacking pilot could make a reduced-power descent via a blip-switch and experience several different rates of fire as engine rpms waxed and waned from the blipping. Therefore, all noted synchronized machine-gun rates of fire are maximum rates, not constant.
Albatros D.I prototype at Johannisthal. Note the clear doped linen wings, tail, and no windshield. Features changed prior to production include the upturned exhaust manifold, unbalanced elevator, externally routed rudder cables, and Eisernes Kreuz located on the rudder only. Wing root fairings are metal, although later they were often made of wood.
Fokker demonstrated his interrupter gear at Doberitz a month after the capture of Garros’ airplane and was awarded a production contract for airplanes so equipped. As German Fliegertruppe Commander General Ernst von Hoeppner wrote in his postwar memoirs:
The true Kampfflugzeug [combat airplane] originated first with the utilization of the invention of Fokker, which made it possible to fire through the propeller arc. The fixed machine-gun was now operated by the pilot himself. The omission of the observer produced in this new E-type plane extraordinary speed, maneuverability and climbing ability…
This new E-type was the Fokker E.I, a mid-wing monoplane powered by an air-cooled 80Ps rotary engine (Pferedestärke, or Ps, is a measure of horsepower, where 1.0hp equals 1.014Ps). By mid-1915 German pilots used this new weapon to attack enemy reconnaissance airplanes and this led to a desperate period for the Allies during which Germany held tactical air superiority. Initially the Allies had no effective machine with which to counter this threat and necessarily changed their tactics to state that “a machine proceeding on reconnaissance must be escorted by at least three other fighting machines … and a reconnaissance should not be continued if any machines become detached.” Four airplanes were now required to do the work of one.
Meanwhile, as the battle of Verdun trudged through 1916 (nearly a year long, with almost one million casualties), the French urged a British offensive to lessen France’s military burden. Toward that end, the British launched the Battle of the Somme on July 1. But by then “the Fokker Scourge” had been countered by the arrival of Allied single-seat biplane fighters, namely French Nieuports, and as the British and German armies slogged through yet another bloodbath – British casualties on the first day of the Battle of the Somme alone were some 19,000 killed and 41,000 wounded – British F.E.2 and DH.2 biplane pushers joined the French Nieuport in dominating the skies, enjoying complete superiority that they maintained throughout the summer.
Fokker attempted to alter this situation by increasing the power of his monoplanes with twin-row rotary engines and augmenting firepower with two and sometimes three machine guns (as seen with the Fokker E.IV), but these changes hamstrung performance to the point of pilot dissatisfaction. “In a climb,” reported Germany’s leading ace and Orden Pour le Mérite-decorated Hauptmann Oswald Boelcke, “[the E.IV] loses speed to such an extent that Nieuport biplanes have repeatedly escaped me.” This helped foster a sea change amongst the Fliegertruppe that future German machines ought to be of biplane rather than monoplane construction. Future 44-victory ace and Orden Pour le Mérite winner Obltn Rudolf Berthold opined, “we had fallen asleep on the laurel wreaths that the single-seaters in the hands of a few superlative pilots [Boelcke, Immelmann, Wintgens] had achieved. It was not the monoplane itself, but the pilots who were responsible for the success.”
Jasta 2 Albatros D.I 391/16, shown after its November 16, 1916 capture and British designation as G.1. This machine was thoroughly inspected, repaired, and test flown, providing the RFC valuable insight regarding the first incarnation of their primary foe for the next year.
In early 1916 the airplane manufactures Halberstadt and Fokker began designing singleseat fighters that utilized in-line water-cooled engines, rather than the air-cooled rotary engines that powered the Fokker E-types. In March Halberstadt received a letter of intent authorizing the construction of 12 of their D.Is and D.IIs; the low production figure suggests Idflieg’s caution with the company’s inexperience. The letter specified these machines carry a 150kg (330lb) useful load that included one synchronized machine gun with 500 rounds of ammunition; a maximum speed of 145km/h (90mph); and the ability to climb to 4,000m (13,124 feet) in 40 minutes (an average of 100 meters per minute, or 325 feet per minute). These requirements were exceeded when the first production airplanes were flown in May.
Fokker, possessing deeper experience with single-seater types, albeit of monoplane configuration, was awarded an 80-machine contract for his single-seat biplane fighter, the Fokker D.I. The Fokker D.I began life in June 1916 as prototype M.18, a single-bay singleseater with the wing gap filled by the fuselage in the same manner as the LFG Roland C.II “Walfisch.” The machine was powered by an in-line, water-cooled, 100Ps Mercedes D.I engine. Using a water-cooled engine was radically different than his usual use of rotary engines; Fokker claimed “the adaptation of the water-cooled engine for use in fighting planes by air headquarters came about through my efforts.” Unfortunately, climb performance did not meet expectations, and by March the prototype had undergone several alterations.
In June, the 120Ps Halberstadt D.II was the first German biplane single-seat fighter to reach the front. Its superior qualities over the monoplane were noted in an Idflieg report in July: “The Halberstadt with the 120Ps Mercedes engine has flown at the Front with good results and is well regarded; especially praised are its ability to climb and maneouvre. It is decidedly preferred to the 160Ps [rotary engine] Fokker [E.IV]. However, everyone urgently requests twin machine guns but this will lead to a corresponding reduction in performance.”
June was also the month that Albatros Flugzeugwerke GmbH – known theretofore solely for the production of two-seater machines during the war – was awarded a contract for 12 single-seater biplane fighters. Albatros’s history harkens back to the development of German aviation, when during much of the first decade of the 20th century Germany’s aviation aspirations focused on lighter- rather than heavier-than-air flight. Having formed a Luftschiffer Detachement (Lighter-than-air Detail) in 1884 to evaluate the reconnaissance applications of balloons, by 1901 the Detachement had grown into a Luftschiffer Batallion (Lighter-than-air Battalion) that employed free and moored balloons. In 1900 the first practical powered flight of a lighter-than-air machine occurred via a 17-minute flight of Graf Zeppelin’s rigid airship LZ.1, and this event piqued the Kriegsministerium’s (War Ministry’s) interest in the craft’s possible military usefulness. Still, new heavier-than-air machines were not unknown. In 1905 the Americans Orville and Wilbur Wright, from Ohio, brought their airplane to Europe to demonstrate controlled powered flight and illustrated its practicality via a flight of 39km. Yet the War Ministry conference of 1906 established that German military aeronautics ought to focus on rigid airships, in large part due to their familiarity with lighter-than-air machines versus the newer heavier-than-air machines.
The year 1909 saw an increase in the interest and development of the airplane. Public money was used to promote airplane development, demonstration flights were conducted, and the first German flight-meeting took place at the inaugural German aerodrome at Johannisthal, near Berlin. Various manufacturers came to Johannisthal and under license began building airplanes of foreign design, but in October a 3km flight at Johannisthal netted the pilot a 40,000 mark prize for the first flight of a German airplane powered by a German aero-engine. Lighter-than-air machines still remained the focus of the German military, but many people realized that the airplane was coming of age.
One such person was German biologist Dr Walther Huth. Born in Altenburg in1875, Huth was the son of a Prussian major and for 13 years had followed his family’s traditional military career before leaving the service in 1908 to study natural sciences. After meeting French aviation pioneer Hubert Latham, Huth so embraced the thought of flight via airplane that he sent his chauffeur Simon Brunnhuber to France and paid for his flight training there. Upon its successful completion, Brunnhuber returned with a Levasseur Antoinette single-seat monoplane that Huth had purchased; later he also bought a Farman two-seater. With foresight enough to recognize the airplane’s future importance toward military applications, Huth contacted the Kriegsministerium in October 1909 and offered the
services of his airplanes for flight instruction, gratis, with Brunnhuber serving as instructor. While the subsequent negotiations were underway, Huth established his own company at Johannisthal that December, the Albatros Flugzeugwerke GmbH, named after the seabird with which he was familiar from his scientific studies.
Jasta 16b LVG-built Albatros D.II (serial no. u/k), flown by Ltn Robert Dycke. The main difference from the D.I is the reduced wing gap and outwardly splayed N struts. Typical of LVG builds, the vertical stabilizer contains no serial number and a triangular company logo is affixed to the rudder, adjacent the bottom hinge.
Negotiations with the Militärbehörde (Military Authority) lasted until March 1910, when they accepted Huth’s proposal. It is believed flight instruction began that July, and by March 1911 Brunnhuber had trained six pilots. Progress had been slow due to lack of funds, suitable training space (airplane engines frightened the horses of troops training nearby), and lingering doubts regarding the airplane’s useful military role; there were also concerns about long training times for airplane maintenance personnel. Regardless, training continued as Albatros was contracted to build lattice-framed Farman reproductions with the type designation Albatros MZ.2.
In 1912 Albatros hired Diplom-Ingenieur (Engineering Graduate) Robert Thelen as chief designer. Born in Nürnberg on March 23, 1884, Thelen had studied mechanical engineering at the Royal Technical College of Charlottenburg in Berlin, graduating in 1909. A year later Thelen was the ninth German pilot trained (FAI [Fédération Aeronautique Internationale]Brevet 9, from May 11, 1910) and became a competition pilot flying Wright biplanes. Teaming up with Diplom Ingenieur Helmut Hirth (FAI-Brevet 79 from March 11, 1911) and employing the perfected semi-monocoque wooden fuselage designs of Ober-Ingenieur Hugo Grohmann (a construction technique which provided enough strength via the external skin to eliminate the need for internal bracing, thereby reducing weight and increasing performance and payload capacity), Thelen’s designs moved away from the Farman-type open-lattice construction as Albatros began building newly designed airplanes with the type of enclosed wooden fuselages for which they would become renowned (Rumpf-Doppeldecker, or fuselage double-decker [biplane]). Chief among these would be the Albatros Type DD, later known as the B.I, designed in early 1913 by Ernst Heinkel (whose future company produced many airplanes in World War II) and improved by Thelen’s suggestions based on his experience as a pilot; Thelen referred to the type as “Albatros DD, system Heinkel-Thelen.” Powered by a 100Ps Mercedes D.I engine, the semimonocoque three-bay (Dreistielig) DD was a successful design that set several world records for duration and altitude in the months prior to World War I. That summer a singlebay version known as the Renndoppeldecker was powered by a 100Ps Hiero engine and
won the 100km speed prize at the Aspern Flugmeeting in Vienna, Austria. Experience gained with this machine is considered to have sown the seeds for the future Albatros D.I.
Unarmed Albatros D.III prototype at Johannisthal. Its sleek and ruggedly attractive lines belied structural problems with its new sesquiplane wing design, which featured the classic “V” interplane strut.
After World War I broke fully in August 1914, Albatros concentrated on manufacturing twoseat B- and C- type machines. Aerial observation and artillery spotting were crucial for the support of ground forces and required that these machine types had manufacturing and engine allocation priority. As the war progressed the opposing forces developed single-seat fighters to protect their two-seater observation machines and destroy those of the enemy, but mostly these fighters had been powered by rotary engines; those powered by in-line engines had been somewhat hamstrung by a production lack of available higher horsepower engines, which were prioritized for the B- and C-type machines. This affected the early Fokker and Halberstadt D-types that employed 100 or 120Ps engines rather than those of 160Ps, although Fokker later claimed to be a victim of a conspiracy to deny him use of a 160Ps engine. In any event, engine availability did not lessen the born-fromexperience calls from fighter pilots requesting single-engine machines be equipped with higher horsepower engines and armed with two rather than the then-standard single machine gun. Thoughts also surfaced among German pilots that while rotary engine fighters – with their rapid capacity for engine start and takeoff – were ideal for intercepting enemy machines, a fighter powered by the more reliable in-line engine and armed with twin machine guns would be suited to protect two-seater airplanes beyond the enemy lines. Although German aerial tactics evolved differently, this mindset came at a time of increasing engine manufacture productivity and set the stage for the birth of a new breed of fighter.
And none too soon. Tactical German aerial domination, which had once held sway with rotary-engined Fokker and Pfalz E-type wing-warping monoplanes, had been lost to the more nimble French Nieuport and British DH.2s that not only out-flew the German fighters but were available in greater numbers. Rather than compete with the maneuverability of these adversaries, the Thelen-led Albatros design bureau set to work on what became the Albatros D.I and D.II. By April 1916, they had developed a sleek yet rugged machine that featured the usual Albatros semi-monocoque wooden construction and employed a 160Ps Mercedes D.III engine. Visual hallmarks of the D.I and early production D.II include fuselage-mounted Windhoff radiators and matching chords for the upper and lower wings.
ALBATROS D.III 643/17 OF OBLT ROBERT GREIM, JAGDSTAFFEL 34B, SUMMER 1917 Aside from dark-colore
A beautiful view of pristine first production-batch 2108/16, one of the last if not the last D.IIIs with a round footstep. Upper wing is camouflaged Venetian red/pale green/olive
green, while the lower port wing is olive green/Venetian red. Rudder appears to be clear doped linen, and there is an anemometer attached to the front port interplane strut.
Engine power is not the sole determinant of airplane performance, but prior to its use with the Albatros D.I, the Mercedes D.III had powered aloft many two-seater reconnaissance airplanes that outweighed the D.I. Employing the same engine in the much lighter singleseat scout seemed obvious as regards the performance benefits to be reaped, and the result was that it was more than enough to carry aloft two machine guns and 1,000 rounds of ammunition and still have power available to provide speed, climb, and height beyond that of two-seaters. For example, the Mercedes D.III gave the 1,353kg (2,983lb, fullyloaded) Albatros C.III a maximum speed of 140km/h (87mph) and a 45-minute average climb to 3,000 meters (9,843 feet). The same engine in the 898kg (1,980lb) Albatros D.I –some 453kg (1,003lb) lighter than the Albatros C.III – gave the new single-seater a maximum speed of 175km/h (109mph) and a 19-minute climb to 3,000 meters.
On June 6, 1916 an Albatros D.I prototype began flight evaluation and static-load testing at the Adlershof test center. Tests for gliding flight and inverted flight requirements were passed on July 4 and 5, and two days later a new wing spar was tested successfully. Meanwhile, Idflieg had ordered 12 preproduction machines (D.380/16–391/16), of which several were armed and eventually sent forward for combat evaluation. By July the Zentral Abnahme Kommision (ZAK, or Central Acceptance Commission) recommended the Albatros D.I for production, after which Idflieg signed an order for 100 Albatros fighters. Fokker, too, received a production order for 40 Fokker D.IVs but Idflieg had expressed concerns regarding workmanship: “The [Fokker D I] makes an impeccable impression from 20 meters but with respect to quality of workmanship and the nature of technical details, it is recommended that Herr Fokker emulate the Albatros D I…” Indeed, poor workmanship would plague the Fokker Aeroplanbau several times throughout the war.
Concurrent with the development of the Albatros D.I, Thelen’s team had designed and constructed a second, similar machine, the Albatros D.II. It is important to note that the Albatros D.I and D.II evolved simultaneously and that development of the D.II was not the result of post-combat feedback from D.I pilots. Proof is found not only in photographs but in the preproduction order of 12 machines, of which one was D.II 386/16 (which became Oswald Boelcke’s machine, as will be seen) and one a prototype Albatros D.III. Essentially the D.I and D.II were the same machine with two noticeable external differences and improvements: the D.I’s inverted V-strut center-section pylon had been replaced by outwardly splayed N-struts, which allowed the upper wing to be lowered 9.8 inches (250mm) to improve upward visibility without restricting forward visibility from converging the inverted V-struts at head-level; and the side-mounted Windhoff radiators were replaced with a Teeves and Braun wing-mounted radiator located between the new N-struts. The latter modification did not take effect until after the first production run of 50 D.IIs (excluding Boelcke’s preproduction D.II 386/16, built with a wing-mounted radiator), which made up the second half of Idflieg’s first order for 100 Albatros fighters (50 D.Is and 50 D.IIs).
In August, 50 more D.IIs were ordered from Huth’s Ostdeutsche Albatros Werke (OAW, at the time an independent firm that would be assimilated into the main Albatros company in October 1917), located in Schneidemühl. These machines were designated Albatros D.II(OAW) and constructed almost identically to those built at Johannisthal, as were the 75 machines built under license by LVG also ordered in August. September saw Albatros receive the final D.II production order for 100 machines, after which the focus of production shifted to the next generation of Albatros fighters, the D.III.
As mentioned, the D.III design and prototypes were already realized and under construction by August 1916, prior to the D.I’s front-line arrival and part of the preproduction prototype order placed in June. The D.III retained the D.II’s center-section N-strut configuration but with an increased wing gap, which remained less than that of the D.I, and an upper wing planform with dual-spar construction and raked wing tips. However, the lower wings were a completely new design, with single-spar construction of significantly reduced chord that had been influenced by the French Nieuport sesquiplane (one and one-half wings). Flight test comparisons between captured Nieuports and Fokker E monoplanes revealed the former’s superior maneuverability and downward vision, and it was believed a sesquiplane provided “aerotechnical advantages.” What these advantages were remain unspecified but certainly an increase in downward visibility – crucial for pilots with an altitude advantage to stalk enemy airplanes below – is obvious. This switch to a sesquiplane design was not the result of pilot input after flying the Albatros D.I or D.II, since the D.III prototype was built prior to either of those earlier models reaching the front lines, but rather from the flight test comparisons with the Fokker Eindecker and comments from pilots flying new Fokker and Halberstadt biplanes.
Albatros D.III static load tests were performed on September 22 – only days after the D.Is began reaching the front – and after failing the required 5.0g load factor for pulling out of a dive, the wings were strengthened and retested. Exact results are not known but in October Idflieg reported the D.III had attained speeds of 170–80km/h (106–112mph) and climbed to 5,000 meters (16,405 feet) in 24 minutes, while “static tests and series production are being accelerated.” At some point the wing load factors must have been determined to be satisfactory because in June, Idflieg initiated a production order for 400 D.IIIs, 1910–2309/16.
Port-side profile of a new, unarmed D.III, taken at the Fokker facilities in Schwerin. The machine is without serial number but the nose footstep reveals it is from either the 600- or 750-series production batch. Close inspection reveals wood grain on the wing root fairings.
These airplanes began arriving in-field late December 1916 and were greeted by enthusiastic Jagdstaffel pilots who found the new machine was faster and climbed better than the barely months-old D.II. Experience with the new model soon revealed that gunmuzzle blast and particle discharge caused engine damage, necessitating metal tubes and blast panels be installed above the intake and exhaust manifolds, and the undercarriage and tailskid required strengthening. Furthermore, pilots complained that external coolant plumbing to and from the central wing radiator hampered aiming, and eventually the radiator was offset to starboard somewhere between machines 2215/16 and 2252/16. Often the reason for this relocation is attributed to pilots being scalded after radiator
combat damage, but only the Albatros D-types had radiators so offset – that is, airplanes where forward vision for aiming was paramount. The Albatros C.X and C.XII were produced after the D.III but retained their centrally located radiators. Being the object of fighter attacks their radiators were just as susceptible to combat damage, and their pilots’ lower faces – the only part of their bodies actually exposed to any scalding water, presuming they weren’t wrapped in heavy scarves – were just as susceptible to burns as the faces of single-seater pilots. Moreover, Albatros’s later prototype D-series fighters, such as the D.VII, D.IX, and D.X, retained centrally located radiators – but routed the external, visionimpeding plumbing well clear of the pilot’s aiming line-of-sight. Offset radiators were not enough to prevent any leaking water from reaching the cockpit anyway, as modern Albatros reproduction pilots have revealed, and in any event bigger radiator problems arose with warmer spring weather when D.III radiators, 25 percent smaller than those of the D.II, began boiling over. Fortunately, in-field installation of a larger D.II radiator solved the problem and led to the installation of Daimler radiators in June.
However, the most noteworthy and now infamous teething trouble of the D.III involved its new sesquiplane configuration, specifically with the single-spar lower wings. Reports surfaced within weeks of the type’s arrival that four D.IIIs had endured fractured ribs and broken leading edges resulting from dives and turning maneuvers. Albatros began supplying reinforcing braces and replacement wings to the afflicted airplanes, but on January 27 the D.IIIs were grounded due to continued wing failures spreading throughout the Staffeln. Several reinforced wings were designed, known as Wings 2–5 (Wing 1 was the originally manufactured wing), which employed wider rib webs, flanges, and magnolia veneer reinforcements; these wings were to be installed at the factory. Wing 5 was the same as Wing 1 but fitted with two (later three) 1.5mm sheet-steel reinforcement arms between the main spar and front stringer, to be installed in-field. Wings 2–5 were tested to satisfaction and the grounding was rescinded on February 19, although D.III losses prior to that date suggest the initial grounding order applied only to machines whose wings had not yet been reinforced. Still, although perhaps slowed, wing failures persisted despite these reinforcements, with ribs failing ahead of the spar and causing the leading edge to fold upward, after which the slipstream de-gloved the wing fabric. Further load tests could find no strength deficiencies in the modified wings and engineers could ascertain no finite cause for the problem, although they theorized vibration or unknown pressure distributions. A suspected contributing factor is divergence phenomena (wing twisting, or “flutter”), as inspections revealed the lower wing interplane V-strut attachment bolt holds had widened to allow the entire wing to become loose and rotate 2cm about the spar.
ALBATROS D III (OAW) OF HPTM FRANZ WALZ, FL ABT 304B, SUMMER 1918 Void of personal markings, thi
Overall, 508 Albatros D.IIIs were built at Johannisthal in three production batches: 400 machines, D.1910–2309/16, ordered October 1916; 50 machines, 600–649/17, ordered February 1917; and 50 machines, D.750–799/17, ordered March 1917. Along with these 500 airplanes Albatros also built three prototypes and five machines to test “basket weave” construction, whereby interwoven strips were sewn together and then sewn onto an airframe. Load tests after a three-week exposure to weather resulted in structural failure well below requirements, and after internal strengthening via longerons resulted in the same weight as production fuselages, the idea was abandoned.
Meanwhile, with the Albatros D-type design in a state of perpetual flux, construction of further D.IIIs shifted from Johannisthal to the OAW in Schneidemühl, enabling Albatros to construct the next D-type model, the D.V. OAW’s first 200-machine D.III production order was penned April 23, 1917, D.1650–1849/17, the first two machines arriving for testing in June. No structural problems were encountered with the wings but the fuselage underwent strengthening after it failed at 73 percent of the required load. This and sundry other minor
teething troubles were rectified and the D.III(OAW) began arriving in summer and fought concurrently with the Johannisthal D.IIIs and D.Vs. German researcher Reinhard Zankl submits that subsequent D.III(OAW) production batches featured 238 machines (D.2362–2599/17), 200 machines (D.3056–3255/17), and then 200 more (D.5022–5221/17), for 838 total machines; 338 machines more than the D.IIIs made by Johannisthal.
Albatros D.III(OAW) in Palestine. As the 600- and 750-series Johannisthal-built machines, the OAW Albatrosses had a rectangular footstep in the nose, ostensibly to assist ground access to the engine, although simple ladders were often used. Due to higher ambient air temperatures as compared with northern France, this D.III has two radiators.
Gleaming and glossy, Albatros D.III(Oef) 53.21 shows off its sleek lines. The second D.III Oeffag produced, this machine displays a fat and borderless fuselage cross that would be seen on only a few other D.III(Oef)s. Engine is fully cowled, wheel spokes are exposed, and wing root fairings are metal.
Along with Albatros and OAW, the Oesterreichische Flugzeugfabrik AG (Austrian Aircraft Factory, or Oeffag) received a production order in December 1916 for 20 Albatros D.IIs for use with the Austro-Hungarian Army Königlich und Kaiserlich Luftfahrtruppen (Royal and Imperial Air Service, or LFT). Of these 20 machines, 16 were built (53.01–53.16) before Oeffag’s production focus also shifted to the D.III. Physically these D.III(Oef) machines resembled their German brethren, save for a few noteworthy exceptions. The first was the
185Ps Austro-Daimler Dm 185; an in-line, water-cooled, six-cylinder engine, fully enshrouded within metal cowl panels through which a coolant pipe protruded to the wingmounted Daimler radiator. Later these cowls were removed to expose the cylinder heads to the slipstream and facilitate engine cooling. This engine was heavier than the 160Ps Mercedes D.III and required lengthening the wing chord 10cm to increase wing surface area, although when the wing failure of Johannisthal-built machines became known, Oeffag engineers found ways to avoid the problem. This led to more solid ribs constructed of heavier plywood, spar flange thickness doubled at points of stress, and metal reinforcements fitted between the spar and the front stringer, which at its fuselage juncture was prevented from twisting by a metal fitting. But while they avoided the catastrophe of wing failures, initially the Austrian machines were hamstrung with delays due to finding a suitable propeller for use with the more powerful 185Ps engine.
Oeffag-built D.IIIs served postwar in the Polish Air Force. Here one features Oeffag’s redesigned rounded nose and spinner-less propeller, both of which resulted in a marked increase in speed. The German D.III design never followed Oeffag’s lead, although photographs show at least one D.V so shaped, as well as later Albatros prototypes that never reached production.
D.III(Oef) armament consisted of a single synchronized 8mm Schwarzlose M07/12, internally mounted to starboard of the longitudinal axis; some machines also had one to port. A blast tube connected to the barrel and extended through the engine compartment to prevent the accidental ignition of any accumulated gasses within. This enclosed arrangement helped keep the gun better heated than if it had been mounted externally, but it also eliminated in-flight accessibility. Later armament increased to two guns, which became standard with D.III(Oef)s.
Oeffag production occurred in three series. Series 53 was comprised of 45 185Ps machines, 53.20–53.64. Series 153 was comprised of 281 200Ps machines, 153.01–153.281, within which a redesign replaced the spinner with a rounded nose after German wind tunnel tests had shown that this improved propeller efficiency and increased speed by some 14km/h (9mph). Although implemented on some later Albatros D prototypes, no Johannisthal and OAW D-types utilized such a configuration. (There are photographs of one German Albatros so configured, but it is not known if this was done in-field or at the factory.) Series 253 was contracted in May 1918 and comprised of 260 machines of 225Ps, 253.01–253.260. Cream of the Albatros D.III crop, Oeffag’s Series 253 machines were enthusiastically received. Quotes compiled by German researcher Peter Grosz reveal pilots regarded their Series 253
machines as “first class and superior to any fighter”; “equal to all combat requirements”; and “meets every demand, is solid and well-constructed, climbs rapidly and is preferred … because of its peerless flight characteristics.”
Albatros fighters under construction at the Oeffag facility in Wiener-Neustadt. Distant machines are D.IIs, while the majority are new D.IIIs, including the first, 53.20. At first glance the varying stages of completeness appear somewhat random, but machines at left have engines and wheels installed. The stockpile of wings in the right foreground suggests pending installation.
Excluding prototypes, Albatros, OAW, and Oeffag built a total of 1,924 Albatros D.IIIs. After their introduction to Western Front service at the end of December 1916, the D.III/D.III(OAW)’s front-line inventory steadily rose during 1917 and peaked at 446 at the end of October and then declined slowly to 357 at the end of February 1918, after which its inventory plummeted to fewer than 20 by the start of May, with numbers never rebounding above 100 for the rest of the war as the type was superseded by the Fokker D.VII. The 586 Albatros D.III(Oef)s saw Eastern and Italian Front service with various Fliegerkompagnien (Flying Companies, or Fliks) beginning in June 1917, and served throughout the war. In August 1918, front-line inventories contained 142 Series 153 D.IIIs and 66 Series 253 D.IIIs; Series 53 had been relegated to the status of a front-line trainer.
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“I have thought that possible, but even then, he could easily write to me in confidence, and tell me where he is,” said the girl.
“Where does Ruthen live?” I enquired.
“In Whitehall Court,” and she gave me the number.
“You have no idea what his profession may be?”
“Like Stanley—he is independent.”
“Audley is a rich man, isn’t he?” I asked.
“No doubt. When we first met he gave me some very expensive presents merely because I happened to look after a girl he knew who was suffering from pneumonia. He’s an awfully generous boy, you know.”
“The fact is, Miss Day, I am doing all I can to discover Stanley Audley. Can you tell me any other facts—anything concerning his other friends?”
“He had another friend named Graydon, living at the same chambers in Half Moon Street, a rather stout, round-faced man. But he has also left London, I understand.”
“Graydon!” I ejaculated. So it seemed that the pair exchanged names when occasion required. At Half Moon Street Audley was Graydon, but outside, he took the name of the man who lived on the floor below!
What could have been the motive?
I afterwards took my pretty companion to the theatre, and, later, she took me to Ham-Bone Club, where we danced till nearly two.
From members there, I gleaned several facts concerning Stanley Audley He was apparently a rich young “man-about-town,” but surrounded, as all wealthy young men are, by parasites who sponged upon his generosity. Of these Harold Ruthen was undoubtedly one.
Days passed, and although I went hither and thither, making inquiries in all likely quarters, I could obtain no further knowledge.
Stanley Audley had disappeared. I felt more convinced than ever that Thelma possessed knowledge she feared to disclose.
In my perplexity, I thought, at last, of old Dr Feng. Perhaps he would be able to help me. I wrote to him in care of his solicitor and received a prompt reply asking me to go and see him at an address in Castlenau, Barnes.
The house was just across Hammersmith Bridge. The anonymous letter I had received had been posted, I remembered, at Hammersmith. It was a queer coincidence.
Doctor Feng’s house, I found, was of a large, old-fashioned detached residence which, a century ago, had probably been the dwelling-place of some rich City Merchant who drove each morning into London in his high dog-cart, his “tiger” with folded arms seated behind him.
A maid conducted me to the front sitting-room, a large, wellfurnished apartment, where a big fire blazed.
“Well, Yelverton!” exclaimed the old doctor, rising, and putting out his hand. “And how are you? I went to see my sister down at Mentone, but the weather on the Riviera was simply abominable—a mistral all the time. So I came back and took up my quarters here. Comfortable —aren’t they? Sit down. It’s real good to see you again!”
I stretched myself in a deep comfortable chair beside the fire, and we chatted for a time about Mürren.
“I wonder where Humphreys is?” he remarked. “He wasn’t a bad sort, was he? And how about your temporary bride—the ‘Little Lady,’ as you called her!”
“Well, doctor,” I said, “that is really what I came to see you about. The whole affair is a tangle and I wondered if you could help me. I have found out a lot of things about Stanley Audley that are certainly most disconcerting and mysterious.”
He passed a box of cigars. “Have a smoke over it,” he said, “if I can help you I will. But first tell me what happened after I left Mürren.”
“A lot,” I replied. “You know Thelma’s husband left for London. Well, he never came back.”
“The young cad,” said the doctor “But, after all, I more than half expected it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, hesitatingly, “shall we say his sudden departure was rather suspicious? To put it plainly the excuse was a bit thin. Would any firm let an employee start on a honeymoon and three days later find he was the man for an important appointment such as Audley spoke of? Of course, such a thing might happen, but a more probable excuse would have carried more conviction. To me it suggested a story made up suddenly, in default if anything better, to explain a departure forced upon him by some much less welcome reason. However, I had no reason for saying this at the time and, after all, I might have been wrong. But as things have turned out it seems I was right and I am very sorry for his wife. After all, whatever her husband may be, she is a charming girl—much too good for him, anyhow. But go on, tell me what you have found out.”
I frankly told him, and as he smoked he sat back listening thoughtfully without a word of comment.
At last, when I had concluded, he asked—
“Have you seen Harold Ruthen?”
“Not yet. He is an enemy of Thelma’s.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked, whereupon I told him of the curious conversation I had overheard.
He bit his lip and smiled mysteriously, but said nothing. It was, however, plain that what I had described greatly interested him.
“And little Mrs. Audley will tell you nothing—eh? She refuses. She is evidently hiding some secret of her husband’s. Don’t you think so?”
“To me, she seems in deadly fear lest I should discover her husband.”
“Oh! I quite agree, Yelverton,” the old man said. “There’s more behind this curious affair than we’ve hitherto suspected. A man doesn’t leave his young wife in the hands of a stranger without some strong and very doubtful motive. Depend upon it that you were marked down as the victim.”
“Not by Thelma!” I protested.
“No, she has been your fellow victim.”
“But the motive of it all?” I asked in dismay. “What is your opinion, doctor?”
“The same that I formed when you first told me of your offer of help —that you’ve been a silly idiot, Yelverton. Didn’t I point out at the time the risks you were running?”
“Yes, you did,” I replied, “but I still intend—at all hazards—to get to the bottom of the affair.”
Feng hesitated, and then, looking me straight in the face, said very seriously—
“If you take my advice you will drop the whole affair.”
“Why?” I asked, in surprise.
“Because those men who lived at Half Moon Street and their friends are evidently a very queer lot. In any case you ought to cease visiting Mrs. Audley.”
I paused, recollecting that strange warning I had received, of which I had not told him.
“But, after all,” I protested, “we are very good friends. Surely I ought to help her by finding her husband?”
“When she probably knows where he is all the time!” scoffed Feng. “I don’t see what good you will do that way.”
“Anyhow,” I said shortly, “I’m not going to see her left in the lurch like this if I can help it.”
“Really, Yelverton, I don’t see what good you think you can do. We both believe she knows where he is. If that is so why should you
interfere? Of course, what you tell me about the girl Day is very interesting and may throw a good deal of light on Stanley Audley’s character. But, after all, men change their minds and if Audley preferred Thelma to Marigold, there was no reason why he should not have asked her to marry him.”
“None the less, take my advice, drop the whole thing. You haven’t the shadow of a legal right to interfere. The men who lived in Half Moon Street, quite obviously a shady lot, have fled, evidently frightened of something and apparently your temporary bride is as frightened as they are. I don’t see why you should run any risk in the matter.”
“But what earthly risk do I run?” I asked. “Surely I am capable of looking after myself.”
“Considerably more risk than you imagine, unless I am very much mistaken,” he replied gravely.
I wondered for a moment whether my mysterious warning had come from the doctor himself. But what could he know about the affair? I could not read anything in his inscrutable face, but his manner certainly suggested that he was in deadly earnest, and, to my intense surprise, he suddenly let fall a remark, quite unintentionally, I believed, that, I realized with a curious suspicion, showed that he knew Thelma and her mother were living at Bexhill. Here was indeed a new complication. I made no sign that I had noticed his slip, but sat as if thinking deeply, as indeed I was.
How, and for what purpose, had he obtained that information. He had professed not to know what had happened after he had left Mürren.
The idea flashed through my mind that he and Thelma were acting in collusion to “call me off,” but this seemed so absurd that I dismissed it at once.
“Now, look here, Yelverton,” he said presently. “You’ve not told me everything.”
“Yes I have,” I protested.
“You haven’t told me that you’ve fallen deeply in love with little Mrs. Audley. That is why I warned you—and still warn you—of rocks ahead.”
“I did not think that necessary,” I said with some heat. “That is surely my own affair!”
“Certainly,” he said, dryly, in the paternal tone he sometimes assumed. “But remember my first view of the situation was the correct one. I thought you extremely indiscreet to accept the trust you did. It was a highly dangerous one—for you.”
“But you agreed afterwards that I did the right thing,” I argued.
“You acted generously in the Little Lady’s interests, but you have certainly fallen into some extraordinary trap. That’s my point of view,” he answered. “In any case, you are in love with a wife whose husband is absent. That is quite enough to constitute a very grave danger to both of you. So, if I were you I’d keep away from her. Take my advice as an old man.”
His repeated warning angered me, and I fear that I did not attempt to conceal my impatience. At any rate I took my leave rather abruptly, and as I walked in the direction of Hammersmith Bridge I felt more than ever puzzled at his attitude, and more than ever determined not to deviate from the course upon which I had embarked.
CHAPTER IX CROOKED PATHS
O cold evening I returned from the office after a heavy day which had been devoted to the successful settlement of a very complicated and serious action for libel against a provincial newspaper which we represented.
As I entered my room, Mrs. Chapman, in her spotless black dress— just as she always wore when my father was alive—followed me in, saying—
“Oh! Mr. Rex. A gentleman called about three o’clock. He wouldn’t leave a card. He gave his name as Audley—Mr. Stanley Audley. He repeated it three times, and told me to be sure to recollect the name. He said he was extremely sorry you were not at home, but you were not to worry about him in the least.”
I started, staring blankly at her.
“Wouldn’t leave a card? Wouldn’t he call again?”
“He seemed to be in a very great hurry, sir. He said he had come from abroad to see you, but couldn’t wait and said he was very sorry Only I was to give you his urgent message.”
“What was he like?”
“Well, sir, he was a round, rather red-faced gentleman. He was evidently greatly disappointed at not meeting you, but he impressed upon me the message that he was all right, and that you were not to worry about him.”
This was indeed a surprise.
It was evident that my caller was the man who had lived on the first floor in Half Moon Street, and was the friend of the Stanley Audley who had married Thelma!
What did that amazing visit portend? It worried me. Why should a reassuring message be given to me by a man who was not the person in whom I was interested, and whom I had never met? The whole affair was becoming more and more obscure and mysterious. As a solicitor I had been brought into contact with more than one queer affair, but the Audley mystery was beyond anything in my experience.
“Couldn’t he call again, Mrs. Chapman?” I asked.
“No, sir. He said he had come to see you just for a moment, and that he was sorry that he couldn’t wait. He had a taxi outside.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Chapman. I’m sorry I was not at home to see him. Did you give him my office address?”
“I did, sir. But he said he had no time to go round to Bedford Row, and that you would no doubt understand.”
Understand! What could I understand? I was more bewildered than ever
Next day I called again upon Belton, in Half Moon Street, and questioned him more closely about his recent “Box and Cox” tenants. But he could tell me nothing more than he had already. Mr. Graydon and Mr. Audley were close friends. That was all.
“Tell me something about their visitors,” I asked. “Did Mr. Graydon, the gentleman who lived above, have many?”
“No, sir. Very few. Several of them I knew quite well when I was in service—gentlemen from the clubs. One a Canadian millionaire, came often, but Mr. Graydon never had any lady visitors except that young lady we spoke about a short time ago—the lady whose photograph you showed me, Miss Shaylor.”
“And Mr. Audley, who lived below?”
“Oh, he had quite a lot of callers—both ladies and gentlemen. He was older than Mr. Graydon, and seemed to have quite a big circle of acquaintances. They used to play bridge a lot.”
“Now, tell me, Mr Belton. What is your private opinion about your tenants?”
“Well, sir, as you are a solicitor”—he had gained that knowledge from my card,—“I can speak quite frankly. Now that they are gone I don’t mind saying I held them both in suspicion. They had plenty of money and paid well, but I don’t think they were on the straight. That’s my firm opinion and my wife thinks the same.”
“What first aroused your suspicion?”
“Their card parties. They weren’t always square. I’m sure of it. Mr. Audley had an invalid friend, an old man named Davies, who came about three times, and when he came woe betide those who played. I kept my eyes and ears open when I served their drinks, and I’m sure I am not mistaken.”
“An invalid!” I exclaimed. “What kind of man was he?”
“Oh! he was very lame, was Mr. Davies, sir. An old man, but as keen as mustard on poker.”
“Did Mr. Graydon play?” I asked.
“Very little, sir.”
“Did he ever meet this Mr. Davies?”
“I think not, sir. Because on the first occasion Mr. Davies came I recollect that Mr. Graydon was away in Norway. The next time he came, Mr. Graydon was away in Paris. No,” he went on, “as far as I can recollect Mr. Graydon never met Mr. Davies.”
“Then this Mr. Davies was a person to be avoided?” I suggested.
“Distinctly so, sir. He was a shrewd and clever gambler, and I feel certain that he was in league with Mr. Audley. Indeed, I know that on the morning after one of their sittings they divided up a thousand pounds between them. It had been won from a man named Raikes, a manufacturer from Sheffield.”
“So they shared the spoils?” I said. “But tell me more about this interesting invalid.”
“Well, sir He was a grey-bearded man of about sixty I should think, and he walked with difficulty with two sticks. He seemed to lisp when he spoke.”
It struck me at once that the ex-butler’s description would have fitted old Mr. Humphreys very closely, except that Humphreys did not lisp. I had no reason for thinking that Humphreys could have known Graydon, but he might have done so and he certainly was a very keen poker player.
“Had he a rather scraggy, pointed beard and did he wear in his tie a blue scarab pin?” I asked.
“No,” was Belton’s prompt reply, “he had a round beard and I never saw him wearing a scarab pin.”
Now old Mr. Humphreys always wore an antique pin of that description; I never saw him without it. He was immensely proud of it and used to declare it was a mascot that brought him good luck. He had a wonderful story of how he obtained it from some old Egyptian tomb. So the chance of Mr. Davies and old Humphreys being identical seemed a coincidence almost too peculiar to be true. Yet I could not get rid of a suspicion that they were one and the same person.
“You are quite certain that he never met the young gentleman you knew as Mr. Graydon?” I asked Belton.
“I’m quite certain of that, sir. One day Mr. Audley asked me not to say that Mr. Davies had been there, and asked that I would keep his visits a secret from young Graydon as he did not wish them to meet. There was, I remember, a lady named Temperley, who sometimes came with Mr. Davies. She was a stout, dark-eyed, over-dressed woman whom I put down as a retired actress. She had a young, thin rather ugly daughter, a girl with a long face, and protruding teeth. Both mother and daughter seemed to be on terms of close friendship with Mr. Davies.”
“Davies was an invalid. How did he get up these stairs?”
“With difficulty, sir. I used to help him up, and sometimes Mr. Audley helped me,” was the ex-butler’s reply. “At poker he was marvelous.
I’ve seen poker played in several families in whose service I’ve been, but I never saw a finer player. He was more like a professional than an ordinary player for amusement.”
“And your tenant, Mr. Audley?”
“He was a fine player, of course. He used to have friends in at night and sometimes they would play till dawn.”
“And did Mr. Graydon never play?” I asked.
“Very seldom; the parties usually took place when he was away.”
It was quite evident that Stanley Audley, alias Graydon, was a person of mystery and his friends were as mysterious as himself. After a moment’s reflection I decided to take Belton fully into my confidence and tell him the whole story.
“Now, look here, Belton,” I said, “you may be able to help me considerably. I will tell you the whole story so far as I know it, and perhaps you will be able to remember further facts that may help.”
So I related to him everything that had happened since I first met Stanley Audley and his bride at Mürren.
Belton listened in silence. When I had finished he asked me one or two questions.
“Well, sir,” he said at last, “I think you had better see my wife. She may know something more.”
He fetched Mrs. Belton and briefly outlined to her the facts I had given him.
“You see, Ada,” he said, “the gentleman who called himself Audley here, was not the Mr. Audley who married the daughter of Commander Shaylor. Mr. Graydon is her husband. Isn’t it a puzzle?”
“It is,” replied his wife. Then, after I had made my explanation I begged her to tell me any further fact which might be of service in my inquiry. She hesitated for a moment and at last said:
“Don’t you recollect, Jack, that Mr. Graydon, before he came to us, lived at Seton’s, in Lancaster Gate. He was very friendly with Mr.
Seton, who you remember was butler to old Lord Kenhythe at Kenhythe, in Kirkcudbrightshire. You went there one shooting season from Shawcross Castle, to oblige his lordship.”
“Oh! yes, of course!” exclaimed her husband. “Really, Ada, you’ve a long memory!”
“Well, I was head-housemaid once at Shawcross Castle. You forget that! But, don’t you recollect that young Mr. Graydon was very friendly with Mr. Seton. I don’t know why he left there and came to us, but I fancy it was because there was such a row at a party he had there, and he wouldn’t apologize, or something like that.”
“Ah! I remember it all now, of course, Ada,” exclaimed the woman’s husband. “Yes, you’re right—perfectly right! If there’s one man in London who knows about Mr. Graydon it’s Mr. Seton.”
He gave me the address of Lord Kenhythe’s ex-butler, and an hour later I called at a large private hotel facing Hyde Park, near Lancaster Gate, with a scribbled card from Belton.
The man who received me was a tall, very urbane person with small side-whiskers. He took me into his private parlor in the basement, where I told him the object of my visit.
“Yes, sir. I know Mr. Philip Graydon. A very estimable young gentleman.”
“Who is he?”
“Well, his father was the great Clyde shipbuilder, whose works are at Port Glasgow—the firm of Graydon and Hambling. When his father died, about two years ago, he left him a quarter of a million.”
“You know him well?”
“I did, sir. His father used to shoot with his lordship regularly, and Mr. Philip often came with him.”
I briefly told him that I was making inquiries into certain very curious circumstances, and said—
“I want your private opinion, Mr. Seton. Is there anything peculiar concerning Mr. Graydon? I ask this because on his marriage he took
the name of Audley.”
“His marriage! I didn’t know he’d married, sir.”
“Yes. And he is missing. It is on behalf of his wife, who is a friend of mine, that I’m making these inquiries.”
“Mr. Graydon married!” he repeated. “Pardon me, sir, but whom did he marry?”
“A young lady named Shaylor.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated. “Yes, I know. He was very fond of her—very fond! Her mother is a widow in very straitened circumstances, I’ve heard. But do you say he’s missing?”
“Yes. He disappeared while they were on their honeymoon in Switzerland.”
“And where is his wife now?”
“With her mother in Bexhill. But tell me, Mr. Seton, Mr. Graydon as you call him, was with you for some months, wasn’t he?”
“For nearly a year and a half, sir.”
“And during that time did a man named Audley ever visit him?”
“Yes, a round-faced man who lived at Belton’s. He visited Mr. Graydon first about six weeks before he left me to go and live at Belton’s.”
“Why did he leave you?”
“Well, he had a bachelor party one night—they were very noisy and I remonstrated with him, and—well, he’s only young, sir—and the fact is he insulted me. So I gave him notice. But we’re still the best of friends,” said the ex-butler.
And then Seton sprang on me perhaps the greatest surprise of my life.
“Now I know your reason for wanting to see Mr. Graydon,” he said. “I may as well tell you he is here now.”
“Here!” I gasped excitedly, “do you mean he is staying here?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, “he’s in number eighteen. He came here yesterday quite unexpectedly.”
At last I had run Thelma’s mysterious husband to earth!
“He came in half-an-hour ago,” Seton went on, “and I gave him a letter which came for him by express messenger. I know he’s upstairs. If you would like to see him, I will send up.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Under the circumstances I think I would prefer to go up unannounced if you have no objection.”
“Not in the least,” replied Seton. “Number Eighteen is on the second floor.”
So I eagerly ascended the wide, thickly-carpeted stairs. I had no very clear idea as to how I should approach the man I had known as Stanley Audley, but I was determined to demand an adequate explanation of why he had married Thelma under an assumed name and so cruelly deserted her, and, if necessary, to back my demand by a threat of legal proceedings.
CHAPTER X
IN ROOM NUMBER EIGHTEEN
O the second landing I rapped at the door of room Number 18, feeling considerable pleasure at the thought of giving my whilom friend an unwelcome surprise.
There was no reply, but I fancied I heard a movement inside. I listened eagerly.
I knocked again. Yes. I felt sure someone was within, but my knock met with no response.
A third time I knocked and more loudly, but to no avail. I tried the door—it was locked.
Five times I hammered with my fist, but there being no answer I descended the stairs and found Mr. Seton.
“But he must be up there if his door is locked,” he said. “He never takes his key but always leaves it on the peg here,” and he indicated a board on the wall in a little box-like room off the hall where visitors left their keys. To each key was attached a bulky ball of wood, in order that the key should not be carried away accidentally in the pocket.
With the landlord I reascended the stairs and Seton knocked at the door, calling his guest by name. But there was still no response.
“Do you know, I believe I heard somebody inside when I first knocked,” I remarked.
Seton bent and peered through the keyhole.
“At any rate the door is locked on the inside,” he said. Then he thundered at the door, after which we both listened. There was no sound, but I thought I detected the smell of burning paper.
All the other guests were apparently out at the time, for the noise we made attracted only the servants.
“Baker!” Seton cried to a man who was in his shirtsleeves and wore an apron of green baize, “we must force this door. There’s a crowbar down in the cellar. Go and get it.”
As the man addressed ran downstairs, the ex-butler turned to me with a scared expression upon his face, saying——
“This is very peculiar, sir. Why has he locked himself in like this? Did you really hear a noise?”
“Yes. I am sure I did, yet with the roar of the traffic out in the road, I really couldn’t quite swear to it,” was my reply.
“What I heard was like a man bustling about hurriedly, and yet trying to make no noise.”
“Surely he can’t have fainted--or--or committed suicide!” Seton remarked.
For a few minutes we stood outside the door utterly mystified, until the porter brought us a rusty bar of iron about three feet long, curved and flattened at the end—a very serviceable crow-bar.
This, Seton inserted between the door and the jamb, close to the lock, and then drew it back slowly. The woodwork groaned, creaked and cracked and with a sudden jerk the wood round the mortice lock tore away and the door flew open.
We stood amazed. The room was empty.
In a few seconds we had searched the big old-fashioned wardrobe and had looked beneath the bed and behind the curtains. But nobody was there. And, moreover, while the key was still in the door on the inside the window was closed and latched!
The fireplace was a small one with a flue through which not even a small boy could pass. In the grate were smoldering ashes of something, apparently a coat that had been hastily burned. There was an odor of consumed petrol, and it occurred to me at once that
some clothing had been hurriedly saturated from a bottle of motorspirit and set fire to—for the room was still heavy with smoke.
Seton crossed to the window and saw at once that it had not been opened. I glanced out and down. From the narrow window-sill there was a sheer drop to the paved basement forty or fifty feet below with not even a stackpipe by which an active man might have escaped.
“Well, this is extraordinary,” cried Seton. “How could Mr. Graydon possibly get out of the room and leave it still locked on the inside?”
Seton bent suddenly over the fireplace. “Well, we may as well see what he was burning,” he said as he picked up a half charred piece of paper that had apparently been crumpled up hastily and thrown into the grate. He smoothed it out and looked at it in amazement.
It was a portion of a fifty-pound Bank of England note! It was partly burned but quite enough was left to identify it without any possibility of a mistake.
“Well,” I exclaimed, “burning fifty-pound notes is certainly a new kind of pastime. What on earth can it mean?”
“I can’t imagine,” replied Seton. “And how can Mr Graydon have gone? Certainly not through the door or the window.”
“And before he went,” I added, “he burnt a coat or something of the kind and a fifty-pound note!”
In front of the window was a small early Victorian escritoire. Upon it were several loose sheets of paper from a new writing-pad, an inkstained envelope, and a couple of bills from a local chemist.
Seton opened two or three of the drawers and from one of them drew a folded wad of papers. “More notes!” he ejaculated, as he felt with his fingers the crisp familiar crackle.
There were three notes for fifty pounds each, obviously quite new. Clearly Graydon, in his hurry, had forgotten that they were there.
“It seems to me,” I said to Seton, “that Graydon must have been frightened by something and had to get away quickly.”
“Frightened, but of what?” Seton asked. “I saw him only half-an-hour before you came, and he seemed all right then.”
“Do you think my visit might have frightened him?” I asked.
“Well, sir, I don’t know. But why did he burn a fifty-pound note and how did he get out? That’s what puzzles me. I could have understood it if he had locked his door on the outside.”
“It beats me, anyhow,” I said, looking round the room. I noticed Graydon’s two suitcases stood open and some of his clothes were hanging in the wardrobe. Why, and above all how had he vanished so suddenly? But for the fact that he had actually called to see me— showing that he certainly was not afraid of meeting me—I might well have thought that he would be alarmed on recognizing my voice. But he had evidently not done so and must have thought I was someone else whom he urgently desired to avoid.
Those fifty-pound notes puzzled Lord Kenhythe’s ex-butler as completely as they did myself. Men do not usually go about burning fifty-pound notes. We knew that the young fellow who, in Switzerland, had posed as a hard-working electrical engineer welcoming the prospect of a “rise,” was on the contrary, a rich young man. But that he should burn bank-notes of such value or leave them discarded as he had done, was simply inexplicable on any hypothesis we could frame.
I was deeply chagrined. I had come within an ace of capturing the truant bridegroom and yet he had eluded me. Could it really, I asked myself, have been the same man? Again I carefully described to Seton the man I had known as Stanley Audley. He was emphatic in his assertion that it was Philip Graydon, the man who had been in that very room barely half-an-hour before. And as if to make assurance doubly sure, I found on one of his suitcases a label of the Kürhaus Hotel at Mürren and another put on at Mürren station, registering this case through to Victoria.
There could not be the slightest doubt as to the mystery man’s identity as Thelma’s husband.
“Look here!” said Seton, suddenly, as he held up a towel he had taken from the rail. It was stained with blood. The hand basin was half full of water deeply tinged with blood.
“Evidently he had cut himself badly,” was Seton’s comment.
“Perhaps,” I said, “but is this his own blood or someone else’s?”
“Surely, sir, you don’t suspect he has been guilty of a crime?” gasped Seton.
I pointed to the charred fragments of the coat. “It might be so,” I rejoined.
A few moments later, however, on making a closer search of the room we found in the waste-paper basket a broken medicine bottle and on the edge of a piece of glass was a blood stain. It told its own tale—he had cut his hand upon the glass. Further, close beside the dressing-table were three or four dark spots. I touched one, and found it to be blood.
“I wonder why he destroyed his coat?” Seton remarked. “He’s gone away leaving everything behind.”
“But how did he get out?” I persisted. “The door and window were both fastened and there is no fanlight.”
We again carefully examined the lock. It was intact, it had been locked from the inside and the key was still there.
Together we went carefully through the fugitive’s belongings, but found nothing of interest. They were merely clothes of good quality or the wardrobe of a fashionable young man. From the pocket of the suitcase that bore the label “B. O. B.”—or Bernese Oberland Bahn— I took out three one-pound Treasury notes. But we found not a scrap of writing of any sort. There was some burnt paper in the fireplace, suggesting that with the coat he had destroyed all documents that might give a clue to his identity The broken bottle smelt of petrol and apparently he had kept the spirit ready for use if he wanted quickly to destroy anything.
Our search concluded, Seton had all the things removed to an unoccupied room and locked the door.
“The Bank will pay the halfnote,” said Seton. “I shall pay the lot in and hold the money until Mr. Graydon turns up again. He has plenty of money, of course, and may not have missed it. There is no doubt some explanation. I cannot believe, knowing Mr. Graydon as I did, that there can be anything very seriously wrong.”
“But why should the note be burned?” I queried.
“It might have been accidentally among the other papers he destroyed, sir. Don’t you think so?”
This, of course, was possible. For a long time we sat in Seton’s room discussing the strange affair. At first Seton thought he ought to tell the police, but I urged him not to do so. It would get into the papers, I argued, and that was the last thing desirable for a high-class private hotel such as his. I did not want a public scandal that must involve Thelma in most unpleasant publicity.
“I wonder whether he had an inkling that you’d called, sir?” suggested Seton. “Perhaps he saw you from one of the front windows and then rushed up and prepared to bolt.”
“But why should he? I have acted towards him only as a friend and I see no reason why he should take such extreme steps to avoid me. Besides, he actually called at my flat.”
“Yes, I had forgotten that,” Seton admitted. “But still, I think something must have frightened him—and frightened him badly, too. He wouldn’t have cut his hand in opening the bottle of petrol, burned his clothes and papers, and got away so swiftly if there wasn’t some very strong motive for doing so. What’s your opinion?”
“The same as yours, Seton,” I answered. “But the affair is full of remarkable circumstances. How did he get out of that locked room? He was certainly in there when I first knocked.”
“My own belief,” said Seton, “is that he must have started to destroy his things as soon as you knocked. He was certainly in a great hurry for he smashed the neck of the petrol bottle when he found he could not get the cork out—it’s still in the neck of the broken bottle—and cut his hand in doing so.”
