Chapter ELEVEN

Adventures: Humorous and Curious--My Only Superstition--I
Purchase a Mummy Mask of an Arab at Luxor and Two of
My Servants Die--Lord Carnarvon’s Death--I Ride on the
First Motor-Car in England--Motoring Adventures with
Lord Northcliffe--Secrets of How England Saw the First
Aeroplanes--William Caspar, Adventurer and Practical
Joker--The Race that Finished Before It Started.

I am by no means a superstitious man except in one direction, and it has been forcibly brought back to me by the recent death of my friend Lord Carnarvon--who, by the way, took a great interest in the Casino at Corfu, in which I was also interested--following on his discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen at Thebes. There are a good many, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who believe the Earl’s sudden end to be due to the vengeance of the “Ka” or “double” of the Pharaoh. From the historian Herodotus we learn that the wise men of Egypt taught that the souls of the dead passed through “every species of terrestrial, aquatic, and winged creatures.” And to many of the present generation it does not seem incredulous that the spirit of the dead monarch, or of some other soul who resented interference with the king’s tomb, has taken revenge through the agency of a poisonous insect.

In the Egyptian “Book of the Dead” it is distinctly laid down, that the preservation of the body was necessary for the continued existence of the soul, hence the efforts to embalm and to preserve it undisturbed. Herodotus again asserts that the soul returns to animate the dead frame “after a period of 3,000 years.”

To me, this is of peculiar interest on account of my own personal experience. While at Thebes a few years ago. Sir Gaston Maspero--one of the greatest Egyptologists who ever lived, and then head of the Antique Department of the Egyptian Government--introduced me to an old Arab _hadj_, who lived in Luxor, and who acted as agent of the British and other national museums, for, as is well known, all antiques discovered in Egypt are first claimed by the Government, but if better specimens are already in the great museum in Cairo, then the duplicate objects are sold. Indeed, there is a room in the Cairo museum where they are marked in plain figures, and are all, of course, guaranteed genuine.

In the den of the old fellow with the green turban we inspected a quantity of things he had for sale, all duplicates of objects already in the museum, and I bought several things to add to my own collection, including several fine strings of beads, a human eye of lapis-lazuli from a sarcophagus, a number of amulets, Ushabitu figures, an alabaster canopic jar, and, finest of all, the gilded mask from the mummy of a priestess of Isis who had lived in the Eighteenth Dynasty, viz. 1600 B.C., and which had been found in a tomb near Aswân.

I had them carefully packed, and brought them home to my house overlooking Dartmoor. I arranged them in a big glass case, where there were other objects I had previously collected in Egypt. In the centre on a wooden stand, I placed the gilt mask; it was in a splendid state of preservation. Judge of my dismay, however, when, on entering the room next day, I found that the mask had dropped to pieces from its stand!

I had it repaired, but within one week from that date I suffered a severe financial loss; one of my servants died from disease; and a second servant expired suddenly, an inquest being held on her at Ashburton. In the next week a relative died quite unexpectedly, and also my pet collie. During the week following I had another serious financial loss, which compelled me to give up the house.

Feeling that there must be some uncanny influence at work, I packed up the whole of my Egyptian collection, including the mummy-mask, and sent it to the Peterborough Museum, where they have ever since been on exhibition.

Is it little wonder, therefore, that the strange circumstances that surrounded the death of Lord Carnarvon should interest me? While those objects I bought in Luxor were in my possession ill-fortune certainly dogged me. Whether somebody’s “Ka” was annoyed with me, or whether an “elemental” had been let loose, I know not. I can only relate my own experiences and let others comment on them.

Those who knew Lord Carnarvon knew that he loved practical joking. I had several examples of it. His character was a mingling of shrewdness and whimsicality. He told me one day, on his return from America, of an adventure of his there. He had apparently promised a friend in the City--a rich company promoter, whom I knew well--to obtain information regarding a certain much-boomed commercial enterprise in America. On his way to California he paused in New York, and of the hotel barber made inquiry regarding the person in control of the venture.

The man who cut his hair gave his opinion, and recounted certain facts concerning the great American financier. Later he wrote a note asking for an interview. He was received by the industrial magnate, whom he described to me as “a fellow with eyes like gimlets and a mouth like a steel rat-trap.”

“The chap no doubt admired my impudence as a stray Englishman asking straight out for advice,” Lord Carnarvon said to me in relating the story. “He gave me sound advice, after listening to me most courteously. He advised me in a friendly way not to touch the stocks on any account. I looked at him, thanked him, and then drove straight to a telegraph office near Wall Street, and advised my friend to buy eagerly. I went across to California, where I fished for a month, and then when back in New York I found that the shares had soared upwards, and my London friend had cabled me his sincere thanks. I called on the financier and told him that I could not leave America without returning thanks for the advice he had so kindly given me, as in addition to the profit my friend had made it had defrayed all the expenses of my trip. The financier was puzzled, and remarked that he had advised me against buying. I told him that though he had given me that advice, yet I felt sure he wished me to buy, and I had done so. The American looked at me shrewdly for a moment, and then he burst into laughter and said, ‘Pray consider my house your home whenever you return to America!’”

Lord Carnarvon was a man of indefinable charm that, when he chose to exert it, attracted the confidence of all sorts and conditions of men. He was gifted with a wonderful memory and the scholarly instinct of thoroughness in any work or recreation he undertook. We were both interested in Egyptology, and that was the basis of our friendship.

* * * * *

The first motor-car that arrived in England was shown one summer’s evening at the Imperial Institute, and was followed by a dinner. The car was hailed as something marvellous. I attended the dinner with Lord Northcliffe, who almost immediately afterwards ordered one of the new road vehicles, and I was his companion on many of his early runs, both in England and on the Continent. I was one of the first to make the trip by road across France to Monte Carlo, and well do I recollect the excited crowd that assembled before the Casino to watch the arrival of the weary travellers from London. And we were very weary and fed up with breakdowns, I assure you.

In aviation I have, also, taken a keen interest, for I acted as judge at the first British aviation meeting, held on the Doncaster racecourse.

The secret history of this--which has never yet been published--is worth recounting. In France, many flights had been made by Bleriot and others. Cody was busy with his experiments, but it remained for my big, burly, fair-haired American friend, William Caspar, to bring aviation to England.

Caspar was a bright, cheery optimist, a much-travelled man, and a cosmopolitan to his finger-tips, but, like many men who dabbled in foreign “concessions” and interested himself in “wild-cat” schemes, he was often hard pressed for money. He had had a most adventurous career--cowboy, manager of a Wild West Show, manager of a well-known orchestra, principal proprietor of the Gaming Casino on the Island of Corfu, professional gambler, and lots of other things, before he determined that “England _must_ have aviation!” as he put it to me.

For years I had constantly met him in various places widely scattered throughout Europe. Thus I knew the vicissitudes of his fortune. In London he was well known at the Carlton, Savoy, and Cecil hotels. He had been staying with me at the Cecil before he went again on the Continent, determined to bring aviation to England.

For nearly three months I heard nothing of him, till one night he burst into my room, and, in his bluff American way, said:

“Boy! the trick’s done! England is really going to have aviation after all!”

“How?” I asked.

“Because I’ve got the money here,” and he pulled out a cheque for a large amount. “It’s like manna from heaven--eh, boy? I tell you I’ve been broke for a long time. For the last fortnight I’ve been at Spa, in Belgium, unable to get away because I couldn’t pay my hotel bill.”

“Which is frequently the case,” I laughed.

“Yes, that’s so,” he went on, “but mine was a very bad plight. I couldn’t raise any money in Paris, or in Brussels, but I heard of a wealthy Baron and his brother who lived at Spa. So I went there and saw them. Nothing doing! If England wanted aviation, let the English put up the dough. I gave them details of my scheme, painted a pretty picture of the thousands of people who would go to Doncaster just to see what an aeroplane was like, and so on; the races, the crowds, and the money that might be made. But it didn’t appeal to them. Twice I saw the brothers, but they declared that there was no money in it, so I left them and wondered how, with five francs in my pocket, I was going to get out of Spa and back to Paris and on to London. The other night, after dinner, I went out for a stroll down the Avenue to think it all over, and not having any money, even for a cup of coffee, I walked about for hours. At last, on returning to my room, I saw on my dressing-table what I expected--an envelope that was part of the hotel stationery. It was, I was certain, a polite note from the management requesting immediate payment of my account. So I let it lie there for an hour before I tore it open. Then judge of my delight, boy, when I found that the Baron had called during my absence and had written me a note to say that he and his brother had reconsidered the matter and had agreed to put up the money. So!” he added, flourishing the cheque, “England is to have aviation!”

Caspar was a hustler. Next day he went up to Doncaster, where, posing as a wealthy financier, he quickly enlisted the co-operation of the Mayor and Corporation. Hangars and pylons were erected on the historic racecourse, while he sped back to Paris, to engage at any cost aviators to bring their machines to England.

The fees he paid were most generous. To Cody he paid two thousand pounds to bring his machine--which some wag named “The Cathedral.” With him came Le Blon, Sommer, Delagrange, and several others--all of whom, except Sommer, by the way, met within a year, their death through flying. The reason for this hustle was that the Corporation of Blackpool had got wind of Caspar’s scheme, and was running an opposition attraction three days after ours was announced.

Harry de Windt, Basil Tozer, and myself assisted our friend Caspar, who, being an ex-showman, knew well how to advertise and how to treat the Press. He always did things on a lavish scale. The less money he had in his pocket, the more expensive the restaurant at which he dined. He often used to say to me:

“When William Caspar has money, then the whole world has money!”

It was so in the case of the Doncaster aviation meeting. He was generous in his payment on every hand. He not only invited the English Press, but the foreign Press also, and on the day of the opening a grand luncheon was given, at which stirring speeches were made by Doncaster’s Mayor and by others.

The affair proved a great success in every way--except for flying.

As the judge, I was perched up on a high wooden tower in the centre of the racecourse. I had a stop-watch, and a telephone to the Press-room, in the grandstand, where there were telegraph machines in connection with the various London newspaper offices. The event was a national one.

Nobody had timed aerial flights before, therefore out of my windows I gazed at Le Blon circling the pylons, and forgot to take the time when he started. When he had finished, I spoke over the telephone to Harry de Windt at the other end, guessing the time he had taken from start to finish, and giving the time by my stop-watch.

A few minutes later the telephone rang, and I heard Harry’s familiar voice say:

“Look here, Billy, what’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Why?”

“Well, the boys have just reckoned it out and found that according to your time Le Blon finished before he began!”

Then I heard Caspar’s voice exclaim:

“Say, Le Queux, do you want any assistance with the timing over there? Fellows can’t very well win before they start!”

That first aviation meeting, which extended over four days, was full of humour. It could not be doubted that Caspar did the Press well, since in three days it was found they had consumed over three thousand seven hundred cigars, to say nothing of the amount of wine and spirits--which had better be omitted. All the meals were free, and people, pressmen or not, went into the great dining-room, ate and drank what they wanted, and came out again. The Corporation, which was bearing part of the expenses of entertainment, suddenly awoke to the fact that it must attend to the matter. So, one morning, supplies were cut off, not, however, before many boxes of cigars had been distributed unopened.

William Caspar himself was the most prominent figure at that meeting. His get-up was calculated to impress the public. He had a wonderful pair of bright yellow boots that laced up to the knees--which he called his “flying boots”--a marvellous suit of check tweeds, a cap to match, and huge gauntlet gloves. But he never flew!

Huge crowds came each day, and thousands paid their half-a-guinea merely to be allowed to walk around the hangars and inspect the various types of machines--mostly inventors’ freaks that could not fly and never did. The weather, however, was gusty and entirely against the aviation of those early days. Everyone who attempted to go up came to grief, Cody’s machine turning a complete somersault.

Thus the meeting was unfortunately not a financial success. It cost the Doncaster Corporation a considerable sum, and the Belgian Baron and his brother lost their money. Caspar made not a halfpenny, for I had to lend him some money a few days later, and the only satisfaction we gained was that we had all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

And so it was that aviation first came to England!

Cody constructed a second edition of the celebrated “Cathedral,” and when he took it to Shoreham one day he and my friend Clarence Winchester, the aviator--who wrote that entertaining book _Flying Men and Their Machines_--made a perilous ascent on it. But their altitude never reached above six hundred feet, which in those early days seemed something of a miracle. They came down quicker than they went up. But all this seems strange after the latest gliding experiments.

Winchester tells this story of Cody. The pioneer also invented a monoplane. This machine flew so fast when Cody first tried it that, on descending, he admitted he was a bit scared by the speed. He was asked what he thought of his own invention. “Well,” he replied thoughtfully, “I fancy it would be a trifle easier to fly a streak of lightning!”

One day William Caspar played a practical joke on me. He had had a sudden wave of prosperity, and was running a gaming casino at Rimini, on the Adriatic, in combination with certain English financiers; I being a member of the Syndicate.

I had met him in Milan, and we were travelling together down to Rome on business connected with the Syndicate. One of the best of good fellows, Burbidge, of Harrod’s, now alas dead, was with us. Caspar had with him in the train a new and very expensive dispatch-case, in green leather, with double locks, and I noticed he took extreme care of it, fearing lest it should be stolen.

He took it with him into the dining-car, both at luncheon and dinner, and when we arrived in the Eternal City, he would not allow the voluble porter to handle it.

At the Grand Hotel, on our arrival, he carefully handed it over to the cashier with a request that he would place it in the safe and give a receipt for it, which the sleek obsequious Italian cashier did. His precaution did not strike me as very strange, for I knew that sometimes my friend carried with him confidential documents and considerable sums in cash. It was, also, his custom to carry an automatic pistol in his hip-pocket, and he was a dead shot.

We went to our rooms, for it was late at night, and next morning all three of us met in the hall of the hotel. We were just about to go forth, when he suddenly said:

“Oh! Wait a moment, Le Queux, I want something out of my dispatch-case.”

He crossed to the brass grille of the cashier’s desk, and presented his receipt, whereupon the sleek young man went to the great safe, unlocked it with his keys, and carefully brought forth the precious case. Caspar just as carefully unlocked both locks, with the little Chubb’s key on his watch chain, while the cashier and several others standing by, including myself, peered in to see what the precious case contained.

Caspar drew forth a pair of ebony hair-brushes, brushed his hair very carefully in a long mirror at the side, replaced them, relocked the case and handing it back to the cashier said, without a suspicion of a smile:

“Thank you very much. Will you please put it back again?”

* * * * *

I suppose this rather disjointed record of an erratic life would not be complete without some reference to the interest I have taken in wireless ever since years ago, in Leghorn, where I lived while Senatore Marconi was engaged in his early experiments, and long before the marvellous discovery was launched on the world.

For a number of years I have been a keen experimenter, and have often been dubbed a fool for my pains. Certainly we had very crude apparatus till the outbreak of war set many persons experimenting and conducting research-work, as result of which the apparatus has been brought to greater perfection, and the transmission of the human voice by wireless accomplished.

In the latter field I was one of the first experimenters, and to those who nowadays delight in listening to broadcasting it may be of interest to know that I was the first person to broadcast speech and music to amateurs and experimenters. This I did for one hour each evening during the first seven months of 1920--the early days of radio-telephony.

Many amateurs, I believe, know my call and my voice, 2AZ, for fully a hundred in all parts of the country were good enough to write from time to time and report on the strength and quality of my signals.

The set in question I started to establish in Guildford early in 1919, and was fortunate enough to have the advice and assistance of Mr. Duncan Sinclair, now of the Wireless Section of the Air Ministry, and Mr. E. P. Brown and Mr. F. A. Love, both land-telephone experts and well known in the wireless world. With the exception of the small radio-telephone sets used on aeroplanes and then being “scrapped” by the Disposals Board very little was known at the time concerning long-distance radio-telephony. It could be accomplished, we knew. But how? That was the problem we set ourselves to solve.

For six months we worked daily with various apparatus and circuits, burning out expensive transmitting-valves, piercing condensers, ruining microphones, and other almost daily misfortunes. At last, just as we thought ourselves within an ace of success, our generator broke down, and we could get no firm in London to undertake its rewinding--not even the makers themselves! It had to be scrapped, and after considerable delay and expense a new one was installed in its place.

Still no result! A second single-line aerial had been erected at right angles to the transmitting aerial--a twin one--in order to be able to listen to our own telephony and gauge the strength and modulation of what was being sent out.

From listeners in London and in various towns reports came in that mumblings could be heard, but no word was distinguishable beyond “Hulloa! 2AZ calling!” Weeks went on, valve after valve was tried, condenser after condenser, choke after choke, till I confess that more than once I stood in my wireless-room in despair. Indeed, so many disappointments did I have that one night I declared to my friend Ernest Brown, that I felt like smashing up the whole bag of tricks with a hammer.

He counselled patience, so we continued. My Morse could be read by Mr. L. Meyer in Amsterdam, and was also reported from Paris and the south coast of Ireland, but telephony seemed as far off as ever. Then I resolved to alter the wave-length to a thousand metres. This meant a new inductance, in the testing of which I was assisted by Mr. Frank Phillips, who is associated with the “Burndept” Company.

The Marconi Company, who were taking great interest in my experiments, kindly lent me certain apparatus, while from the research department at Chelmsford some highly valuable suggestions were made, based upon their own experience.

A further three months of costly failure passed, till one day I received a letter from an amateur in Manchester, whom I did not know, telling me that my speech on the previous night--the weather forecast from the evening paper--was perfectly clear! Imagine my joy! Next day came letters from Mr. T. W. Higgs at Bristol, Mr. G. Woods of Liverpool, and Mr. F. T. Townsend, secretary of the Ipswich Wireless Club, all congratulating me on both speech and music. These were followed quickly by reports from such research-workers as Mr. W. A. Ward at Sheffield, Mr. L. C. Willcox at Warminster, Captain E. J. Hobbs at Wareham, Mr. W. W. Burnham at Blackheath, Mr. W. J. Crampton at Weybridge, Mr. H. H. T. Burbury at Wakefield, and a number of others.

Naturally, on meeting with such sudden success, we persevered enthusiastically, in order to get the set to function more perfectly and to attain greater distances, till one day we received a report from the operator at Inchkeith, on the Firth of Forth, four hundred and twenty miles from Guildford, and lastly from the well-known amateur, Mr. G. W. G. Benzie, of Peterculter, Aberdeen, five hundred and fifty miles distant.

A curious incident occurred one evening while transmitting a selection of jazz music. My second aerial was switched on to my receiving set--Marconi 7 valve, with the new double note-magnifier--when by mistake the Morse “inker” was switched on, whereupon the printing machine began to respond to the music, and recorded all the higher notes on the tape! It ticked and printed, keeping time with the music, greatly to our amusement.

Another laughable incident happened one night when I called by telephony 2HX, and mentioned my friend Mr. Love by name, whereupon some unknown amateur in Rotterdam called me by Morse, and asked in French: “What is that about love? Please repeat.” And next moment another message was flashed out to me, I believe by a professional operator, saying: “Love to the girls also!” This created quite a disturbance in the ether concerning love, one man tapping out “Love to 2AZ!” This continued till a Government station--I believe it was Aldershot--grew angry, and told the delinquents to “shut up.”

Whilst on the subject of wireless, my friend, Colonel C. G. Chetwode Crawley, the Deputy Inspector of Wireless Telegraphy of the General Post Office, has from time to time told me some humorous stories of radio. The other day an applicant for a wireless receiving licence filled in the particulars of his experiments as “home comforts.” Another man applied to the G.P.O. for a licence to experiment with “crystal detonators!”

One of the best of Colonel Crawley’s stories, however, concerns a business man, who had had so many differences with his wife that the conjugal life became almost impossible. One day recently he suddenly left Victoria for the Continent, and on board the Channel boat sent a message by radio, which was received at Niton, in the Isle of Wight, and said, “Going for good.”

The wife, on receiving it, “saw red.” In a few days she sold up her furniture, let her flat, and went to live with her mother. She wrote to an address in Spain, but without receiving a reply. A month later her husband turned up. He had been to the flat only to find it let to another family, and angrily demanded an explanation. His wife showed him the radio message.

“But there’s a word left out, my dear!” he gasped. “I sent you a wire to say that I was going for a good trip. The word ‘trip’ has been omitted.”

Furious correspondence ensued between the G.P.O. and the aggrieved pair. The G.P.O. sought out the original telegram as despatched from the ship, but the word “trip” did not appear upon any form whatever. Nevertheless, the well-organized and “brainy” G.P.O. apologized for their “error,” and the home is a happy one again.

Did the gentleman cast off the matrimonial fetters and then repent? Who knows?

A further story which I heard from another source concerns the famous American wireless hero Binns, who was once an operator at the Crookhaven Wireless Station, where it was a standing joke that all his breakfasts for three hundred and sixty-five days every year consisted of two hard-boiled eggs. During the war he was an operator in a very important position in the Grand Fleet, and a certain most secret signal was required to be sent ashore.

He puzzled for a moment, and then with his hand upon the Morse key tapped out the extraordinary words which no doubt puzzled the Germans:

“Two hard-boiled eggs transmitting. Urgent.”

He rapped this out half a dozen times, and all the stations around the coast were much puzzled.

But Crookhaven sprang alert at once. They knew it was Binns. They took his secret message for the Admiralty, and replied,

“O.K.! Two hard-boiled eggs.”

It is said that the result of that code message was the sinking of a German cruiser!