On a warm summer evening, 4 July 1928, Alfred Loewenstein — a man who practically dripped wealth — stepped aboard his private plane at Croydon Airport.
Picture it: the hum of propellers, the fading sunlight casting a golden glow, and this larger-than-life businessman heading out on what seemed like just another routine flight. His journey would trace the English and French coastlines, landing in Brussels, where he lived with his wife, Madeleine.
Simple enough, right? Except, this flight would become anything but routine.
Loewenstein was no stranger to attention. At the airport, heads turned, whispers followed, and workers gave him knowing nods. How could they not? He wasn’t just rich; he was spectacularly rich.
Known far and wide as possibly the richest man in the world, Alfred Loewenstein was the epitome of early 20th-century success.
His fortune wasn’t just inherited luxury. Before World War I, he’d already struck it rich. But after the war? His wealth skyrocketed.
Through a mix of brilliant deals and entrepreneurial ventures, his companies brought electric power to developing nations, lighting up both cities and his bank accounts.
Presidents and prime ministers clamored for his attention — Loewenstein was the kind of man who could make or break entire economies with a signature.
But even the wealthiest man alive has his share of headaches. By 1926, he’d created International Holdings and Investments, an empire that drew massive investments from the rich and powerful. Sounds like a dream, right?
Not quite. By 1928, those same investors were tapping their feet impatiently, demanding returns on their money. Big returns. And they wanted them yesterday.
What could go wrong when you’re on top of the world? Well, everything, as it turned out.
Alfred Loewenstein couldn’t have been happier as he settled into his private plane that sunny July evening in 1928.
The sky was clear, the air calm — a perfect evening for flying. Donald Drew, his pilot, promised a smooth trip home. With a reassuring nod from the cockpit, it seemed like nothing could go wrong.
The plane, a Fokker FVII, wasn’t a huge aircraft but was certainly luxurious for the time. Including Loewenstein, there were seven people on board. As passengers filed in, Drew stood at the doorway, welcoming them.
First up was Fred Baxter, Loewenstein’s ever-loyal valet, followed by Arthur Hodgson, his efficient male secretary. Two women — Eileen Clarke and Paula Bidalon, his stenographers — joined them, taking their seats in the cozy cabin.
Up front in the cockpit, Drew had the company of Robert Little, the aircraft mechanic. But here’s the catch: the cockpit was completely sealed off from the main cabin.
Communication between the crew and the passengers relied on a small porthole — a design that kept things strictly divided once they were airborne.
At a little past 6 p.m., the Fokker rumbled down the grass runway, the engine roaring to life. The plane lifted gracefully into the sky, climbing toward a cruising altitude of 4,000 feet.
Below, the Kent coastline stretched out like a green and golden quilt, gradually giving way to the glittering waters of the English Channel. For everyone aboard, the view was stunning.
It seemed like just another peaceful flight across the skies. But as we know, appearances can be deceiving.
At the back of the Fokker’s cabin was a small, unassuming room — a windowless toilet with an added twist. It had an exterior door, boldly labeled EXIT. This wasn’t your typical restroom; the exit door had a spring-loaded latch, designed to stay firmly shut against the powerful slipstream outside.
Opening it mid-flight? That would take the brute force of two strong men.
For the first half of the flight, Alfred Loewenstein sat calmly in the cabin, jotting down notes — likely ideas for his next big venture or strategies to handle his increasingly impatient investors.
But as the plane soared over the English Channel, Loewenstein excused himself and headed to the back of the plane, stepping into the toilet compartment.
What happened next? That’s where the story veers into mystery.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Loewenstein still hadn’t returned to his seat. Fred Baxter, his ever-dutiful valet, began to feel uneasy. Something wasn’t right. He approached the toilet door and knocked. No response. He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.
Baxter’s concern turned into panic. Could Loewenstein have fallen ill? Collapsed inside? Summoning his courage, Baxter forced the door open — and froze.
The tiny room was completely empty. Alfred Loewenstein, one of the richest and most recognizable men in the world, had vanished without a trace.
Gone. Just like that. Into thin air.
When Alfred Loewenstein disappeared mid-flight, the logical move would have been to divert the plane to the nearest airstrip at St. Inglevert, nestled between Calais and Dunkirk. From there, the pilot could have sounded the alarm and alerted the coastguard.
But logic wasn’t what unfolded. Instead, pilot Donald Drew took an unexpected detour, landing the Fokker on what he thought was an empty beach near Dunkirk.
Except, the beach wasn’t empty. It was buzzing with activity — a local army unit was in the middle of training exercises. The sight of a plane descending onto the sand threw the soldiers into confusion.
Within minutes, they sprinted across the beach toward the stationary aircraft. By the time they reached it, however, Drew and the others had already disembarked.
Lieutenant Marquailles, one of the soldiers, took the first crack at unraveling the situation. But his questions were met with a wall of vagueness. Pilot Drew, in particular, acted strangely, dodging questions and stalling for half an hour.
Finally, under pressure, he admitted the unthinkable: they had lost Alfred Loewenstein somewhere over the English Channel.
Enter Inspector Bonnot, a seasoned detective called in to make sense of the chaos. Drew’s explanation did little to clear the fog of mystery.
Bonnot, baffled by the bizarre circumstances, summed it up succinctly: “A most unusual and mysterious case. We have not yet made up our minds to any definite theory, but anything is possible.”
And that was the crux of it. Anything seemed possible in this mind-bending puzzle where a man — one of the richest in the world — vanished without warning, leaving behind more questions than answers.
Remarkably, Inspector Bonnot didn’t detain anyone after the initial questioning. In fact, he let the Fokker continue its journey, first to St. Inglevert and then back to Croydon, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. It was a baffling decision, considering one of the world’s wealthiest men had just vanished into thin air.
The investigation that followed was, to put it mildly, a disaster. From the outset, it was plagued by missteps and delays. Alfred Loewenstein’s body wasn’t recovered until 19 July, more than two weeks after his disappearance.
A fishing boat found his remains near Boulogne and brought them to Calais, where his identity was confirmed in a decidedly grim fashion — by his wristwatch.
The post-mortem findings deepened the mystery. Loewenstein had suffered a partial skull fracture and several broken bones. The conclusion? He had been alive when he struck the water.
What happened in those moments before the fatal plunge? Was it an accident, foul play, or something even more sinister? The clues were there, but the answers seemed as elusive as Loewenstein himself in the final moments of his life.
The question of how Alfred Loewenstein plunged to his death remains one of the most perplexing mysteries of the 20th century. Was it a tragic accident? A desperate act of suicide? Or something far more sinister? Theories abound, but none have definitively solved the puzzle.
Some speculated that Loewenstein, perhaps lost in thought, had opened the wrong door by mistake. But this idea falls apart on closer inspection — opening that heavy exterior door mid-flight would’ve been nearly impossible without considerable effort. The slipstream alone made it a Herculean task.
Others suggested he’d taken his own life, perhaps fearing exposure of shady business dealings. Loewenstein, after all, wasn’t without his secrets, and the pressure from investors was mounting. But for a man known for his confidence and ambition, this explanation felt out of character.
Then there’s the most chilling theory: murder. It’s whispered that Loewenstein might have been pushed — quite literally — out of the picture.
The valet and male secretary were prime suspects, possibly acting on orders from none other than his wife, Madeleine. Their marriage was notoriously icy, and Madeleine’s desire to claim her husband’s massive fortune was no secret. Could this have been a calculated move, a conspiracy hatched at 4,000 feet?
One thing is hard to ignore: all six people aboard the plane that day likely knew more than they let on. Perhaps they weren’t just witnesses to the tragedy but orchestrators of a carefully planned crime.
The truth remains locked in the clouds of history, tantalizingly out of reach, much like Loewenstein himself on that fateful evening.
One intriguing theory about the Fokker’s mysterious beach landing involves a chilling twist: the rear door of the plane, already prepared and stowed onboard, may have been replaced mid-journey.
The original door? It’s believed to have been jettisoned over the English Channel — along with Alfred Loewenstein himself.
This theory gained traction thanks to a French fisherman’s account. He swore he’d seen something resembling a parachute tumbling from the sky at the exact time Loewenstein vanished.
Could this “parachute” have been the plane’s rear door, discarded to stage the perfect crime? If so, it was a masterstroke. No weapon, no witnesses, no fingerprints — just a man and a door, lost to the depths.
It worked, too. No one was ever charged. No one was even formally accused. Loewenstein’s death became a cold case before it even began, swallowed by a mix of intrigue and indifference. His unpopularity sealed the deal.
When the world’s richest man was finally buried, it wasn’t in a grand mausoleum or a marble monument. No, Alfred Loewenstein was laid to rest in an unmarked grave.
As for his widow, Madeleine? Let’s just say her grief didn’t run particularly deep. She didn’t even bother to attend his funeral.
Instead, she likely had her hands full — securing and investing the massive fortune she’d just inherited. A widow’s tears may be fleeting, but a windfall like that? That’s forever.
This rewritten excerpt is inspired by Fascinating Footnotes from History by Giles Milton, published by John Murray.
