by D. B. Gilles
Proctor cringed. “I beg you: do not get them involved. He’s a reprobate and she’s a psychopath. Have you forgotten that people have died because of The Duchess?”
“Those are just rumors.”
“Don’t be naïve. Why do you think The Duchess was kicked out of The Brimstone Society?”
“Stop! Proctor, unless you promise me that I will get the finder’s fee, I’ll call Dalton Hillyer right now and tell him I was wrong, that you’re not the best person to help him. Henri and The Duchess could be in New York by morning. Dalton trusts me. His father trusted me. Last I heard, The Duchess has been offering five million... and that’s in Euros, which is more than I’d get from The Brimstone Society. She won’t quibble for a second about giving it to me. She’d give me more, if I pressed. I came to you first out of loyalty.”
“Loyalty? Giving it to that woman would be nothing less than betrayal of The Brimstone Society and what we stand for. You would be kicked out and disgraced.”
“Better than being poor. Promise me you’ll find a way to get the finder’s fee to me or I go to The Duchess.”
Proctor was old enough and experienced enough to know that there was always a way to achieve something impossible. “Fine! I’ll figure something out. I’m disappointed in you, Ursula.”
“Do you think I enjoy going to these idiotic magician conventions, giving lectures on curses for paltry honorariums? Seventy looms. I deserve to be comfortable as I ease into my dotage.”
“Just keep Henri and The Duchess out of this.”
“Fine. I’ll send you the photograph now and text you Dalton’s number. Call me back the instant you have an opinion. Either way.”
“And if it’s not The Brimstone?”
“Then we never had this conversation. Goodbye.”
Within seconds Proctor was engrossed in the photo.
Like Ursula, he, too, found it difficult to get a clear perspective of the object because of the size of his phone’s screen. He placed a call to Dalton. “This is Proctor Newley. I wish to speak to Dalton Hillyer.”
“Speaking.” Dalton gestured to Juliet, then put the call on speaker.
“I knew your father. A fine man.”
“Thank you.”
“Ursula said your father had the object in question in his possession.”
“Yes. It belonged to one of his clients.”
“Do you by chance know how the client came to own it?”
“It was a gift. Someone sent it to her from Paris.”
Proctor stood up and began pacing. “Paris. This may sound odd, but did whoever sent it to your father’s client seven years ago happen to find it at a flea market?
Dalton and Juliet stared at each other.
“Yes. Is that good?”
“It’s another piece in a long unsolved puzzle.” Juliet gestured to Dalton.
“Ask him if your father ever consulted him about it.”
Dalton nodded. “Mister Newley, did my father ever discuss The Brimstone with you?”
“No. So, how should we do this? I’m at my office at The Morgan.”
“I can come there. Now, if you like.”
“Splendid. Dalton, one favor: Might you look underneath the object and tell me if you see Egyptian hieroglyphs? They would be miniscule.”
Dalton reached for the magnifying class on his desk and looked where Proctor instructed him. “I think so. Yes.”
“Thank you. Come to the employee entrance on Thirty-seventh Street. You’ll receive clearance.”
In a whisper, Juliet said, “I want to come with you.”
Dalton nodded. “Mister Newley, the person who owns it will be coming with me.”
“Of course.” Proctor hung up and considered the situation. He’d thought he found it once when he was thirty-four, and again when he was fifty-six. Each had been perfect a reproduction, but when he pressed the hieroglyphs nothing happened. On the actual Brimstone, with a simple combination, three movements would open it up and there would be a glow. If the glow were there, a whole new universe would be at his disposal provided the correct portal could be found. The portal was everything.
As he waited for Dalton’s arrival, Proctor went to the cabinet directly behind his desk where his file on The Brimstone was under lock and key. He removed the materials: letters, journals and diaries dating back to the seventeenth century. Although he knew everything about The Brimstone by heart, he wanted to refresh his memory. He hoped that Dalton would have information about the portal.
The portal was the Achilles heel not only for him, but for every member of The Brimstone Society, present and past.
Chapter 6
Ursula was steaming. She found it unconscionable that Proctor had not been more sympathetic to her financial situation. She regretted her decision not to call Henri Arpin.
She reached for her phone and clicked the number of someone she hadn’t spoken to in several years.
“Bonjour, Henri. It’s Ursula Borkart.”
Four thousand miles away in Venice, Italy, Henri Arpin was in his suite at the Hotel Danieli. He set down the glass of Proseco and answered his phone. He had arrived by train that morning from Paris to investigate an estate sale in Murano rumored to contain an unknown Rembrandt.
After a sketchy career with the French National Police, formerly La Sûreté Nationale, ended when he was terminated for corruption, Henri Arpin went into private practice specializing in historical documents, paintings, ancient artifacts and gems.
Because he was based in Paris, his clients were mainly European and ranged from wealthy collectors and museum curators including The Vatican, affluent mystics and occasionally nouveau-rich Americans in search of rare paintings and sculpture. He knew that any item he’d been hired to find, no matter how valuable, could turn up not only from auctions at Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but also estate sales, flea markets, resale stores, pawnbrokers, country fairs, fire sales, the black market and antique shops on all seven continents.
Over the years he’d had particularly good luck locating small objets d'art in flea markets, especially Les Puces, the oldest and largest in Paris situated in the gritty, seamy underbelly in the 18th Arrondissement.
One of his first clients was, Gwynna Fandant, a member of The Brimstone Club who divided her time between New York and Paris. Nicknamed “The Duchess” because of an early marriage into low-level British royalty, she had hired him unbeknownst to the other members to find The Brimstone.
Gynna became a member because of her lineage. Her father, grandfather and great grandfather had all been in The Brimstone Society, not because of their scientific prowess, but as financial benefactors. Gwynna was the heiress of the Fandant airline fortune, but rather than live the life of the pampered rich girl, she opted to go into the family business earning a B.A. from Wharton and M.A. from Harvard Business School. She had a knack for buying failing companies, turning them around and selling at a profit.
By the time she was forty-five, her personal worth was said to be slightly under a billion dollars. Having made her mark, she looked for new challenges. Finding The Brimstone became her uppermost objective, not for the greater good of mankind, but rather as her next business venture: bringing time travel to the masses.
For the next thirty years she searched for it by hiring the best of the best.
When she first hired Henri, she insisted that he drop all other clients and work exclusively for her to find not only The Brimstone, but also whatever object de arte struck her fancy, which he agreed to. It was why he was currently in Venice. Through The Duchess, Henri became privy to the secrets of The Brimstone Society and the capabilities of The Brimstone.
“Bonjour, Ursula. How are you?” He had known her since he began working for Gwynna, and thought of her as an aging hippy who dressed and wore her hair as if she were still living in the late 1960s.
“Bien, merci. I may be able to hand The Brimstone to The Duchess.”
There was silence on Henri’s end until he
uttered a blasé, “I receive calls like this a dozen times a year. What makes you think you have it?”
“It was found seven years ago at a flea market in Paris. I, like everyone in The Brimstone Society, am well aware of your encounter at Les Puces.”
Henri sat up abruptly, bumping against the table, almost spilling the Proseco.
Ursula continued. “It’s being authenticated as we speak. When we hang up I’ll send you a photo.”
“Why didn’t you wait to contact me until you found out?” Henri said with irritation.
She cleared her throat, as she always did when she wanted to sound tough. “Let’s talk business, Henri. I assume The Duchess is still in the market for The Brimstone.”
“More than ever. She turns fifty this year. Her business aspirations and greed aside, she’s itching to go back in time herself. How did you become aware of this so-called Brimstone?”
“Not important.”
“Is the person claiming to own it a man or woman?”
“I’ll give you that: a woman.”
“Is her name Eliza?”
“Never got a name. Is the finder’s fee the same?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll call you the instant I hear back from the person who’s evaluating it.”
“And who might that be?”
“I’d rather not say just yet.”
“It’s obviously someone in The Brimstone Society. My guess is Proctor. He has always fancied himself the final authority.”
“You can guess all you want. Be patient.”
“You may be on the verge of receiving five million Euros. Why be coy?”
“This isn’t coy. This is being smart. I’ve heard the stories about how The Duchess operates.”
Suddenly, a thunderous burst of applause from the auditorium where the Magicians’ Convention was in full swing interrupted the conversation.
“What was that noise?” asked Henri.
“Five hundred magicians clapping,” said Ursula. “I’m speaking at a convention. Part of a panel.”
Henri jotted down the words ‘magician convention’.
“I’ll call you the moment I hear.”
Within seconds Henri was staring at The Brimstone on his phone. It looked exactly like what he saw seven years before at Les Puces.
He quickly Googled ‘magicians convention in NYC’ on his iPhone and found it was at the Roosevelt. Even though he hadn’t gotten the official word from Ursula, he began to formulate a plan. If The Brimstone were in New York he would need to hire someone there.
His go-to guy was Luger Pabst. He had used him before for small jobs that required intimidation, and on two big assignments where more was necessary with recalcitrant American clients. One didn’t want to part with a letter written by Abraham Lincoln to Ulysses S. Grant and another resisted relinquishing a necklace belonging to Marie Antoinette. Both times, his client was The Duchess.
He scrolled to Luger’s number. “Luger. Henri Arpin.”
“Yes?”
“I have work for you.”
“I leave in three days for an assignment in Silicone Valley. Can the job be done by then?”
“I can’t say for sure. Consider this high priority. I’ll quadruple whatever you’re being paid.”
Luger sneered and thought, As if everything can be had with more money. It was one of his many contradictions. He enjoyed being well paid for his work, but he was reviled by the entitlement and indulgence of his employers. “Will this be a negotiation or special handling?”
“Whatever it takes. Go to the Roosevelt Hotel now. Find a woman who is speaking at a Magician’s Convention. Her name is Ursula Borkart. She’s easy to spot. Long grey hair like an aging hippy.”
Luger perked up. “How old?”
The question caught Henri off guard. “Sixtyish.”
“Attractive?”
“What does it matter?” Henri was unaware that Luger had a fetish for grandmotherly types in their sixties and seventies. “These events usually have photographs of the speakers posted. Make her tell you who’s examining The Brimstone then call me for further instructions.”
“Understood.”
Both men hung up.
Henri leaned back in the chair, hoping The Brimstone had finally been found. He had paid a hefty price working for The Duchess. She had put him on a generous monthly retainer, but he found her indulgences and obsession with The Brimstone, and going back in time unbearable.
He savored the fact that if he could deliver The Brimstone to The Duchess he would be free of her. That in itself would be of more value to him than the five million Euros. And as for traveling in time, he had no interest in the past and even less in the future.
Chapter 7
“I get a little pushy sometimes,” said Juliet as she and Dalton prepared to leave his apartment.
“I noticed.”
“It’s not my nature. I have to because of my job.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in culinary school and I work at a crappy restaurant as a cook.”
That explains the cuts and burns on her hands, he thought.
“You can’t earn respect if you’re too passive. Especially being a woman. There are only two of us in the kitchen. The jerks I work with use filthy language. They’re gross. I hate it. I’m also a food blogger.”
“What’s your blog called?”
“Are You Going To Eat That?”
Dalton smiled, then reached for his shoulder bag. He was about to put the chatelaine inside. He stopped and said, “Would you like to carry it?”
“Why me?”
“It was your sister’s and now it’s yours.”
“You better hold on to it. Kind of gives me the creeps.”
He nodded and slipped it into his shoulder bag. As he did so, Juliet said, “I’m wondering. Should we tell this Proctor guy our theory of what we think happened?”
“Not right away. Let’s see what he has to say first.”
They caught a taxi on Tenth Street. As soon as they sat down Juliet said, “You still need to read what my sister wrote in her sketchbook. I had to read it five times before I would let myself believe that she went back in time. See, I’m not into that stuff. Paranormal activity, reincarnation, time travel. You can’t imagine how hard it was for me to come up with that conclusion.”
“My mother was into it. It was part of the reason my parents got divorced. My father didn’t think mom was serious enough. He didn’t think I was either. It’s what caused the riff between us. If something couldn’t be proven with solid research and fact checking, it didn’t matter. That he reached out to me at the end meant a lot. Until you showed up, I thought I’d never figure out what happened that night.”
The taxi stopped at the corner of Thirty-Seventh and Madison. As Proctor Newley had instructed, they went to the side entrance and rang a doorbell. A cheerful museum guard in his early thirties greeted them.
“We’re here to see Proctor Newley,” said Dalton.
“Mister Hillyer and Ms. Kinkaid?”
“Yes,” said Dalton.
He checked a clipboard and smiled. “Mister Newley is expecting you. Please come in.”
Within a minute they stepped into Proctor’s office across from the Reading Room on the third floor. As the Director of a prominent American museum, Dalton thought the office would be more old school with red velvet curtains, heavy mahogany furniture, books, artwork and sculpture dominating the room. But to Dalton it looked like the office of a hedge fund manager. Sleek, airy and punctuated with silver and black furnishings.
After the cursory handshakes, they got to the business at hand.
Dalton removed the chatelaine from his shoulder bag and handed it to Proctor, who didn’t so much look at it, as embrace it. He sat at his desk and removed a jeweler’s loupe from the center drawer, then began studying the six items hanging from it. He turned it over and studied the three Egyptian hieroglyphs without saying anything. He
ran his right index finger over them one by one.
Seeing it, touching it is overwhelming, he thought. “What does it do?” Dalton asked.
Proctor looked at him and lowered his reading glasses.
“Let’s go back a couple of centuries. What would you say if I told you that Benjamin Franklin and Casanova were great friends?”
Dalton smiled. “That’s an unlikely pair.”
“The famous lover?” Juliet asked.
“He was much more than that. They met in seventeen-fifty-eight and discovered they had a mutual fascination with enchanted artifacts and magic. A few years before, Ben Franklin performed his famous kite experiment, drawing down electricity from the clouds and charging a key at the end of a string.”
“The lightning rod, right?” said Juliet.
“Actually, not. Although Mister Franklin had a fascination with the power of electrical energy resulting from lightning, his actual intent in creating the device was to examine it as a conductor of a more powerful energy. The lightning rod is what we remember, but it was a byproduct. He shared that information with Casanova who had been promoting his gifts as an alchemist in Paris, which was the rage among prominent figures of the era. Although Casanova was a fraud, many alchemists were legitimate.”
“I haven’t had much education other than culinary school,” said Juliet. “What’s an alchemist?”
“Alchemy is a medieval forerunner of chemistry. Based on the supposed transformation of matter, especially that of base metals into gold. Casanova profited handsomely. One of those who embraced Casanova, until their falling out, was Count de Saint-Germain. The name mean anything to you?”
Dalton and Juliet shook their heads, no.
“He too was an alchemist. He claimed to have found the elixir to everlasting life in Egypt. Their friendship ended when Casanova stole it. The Brimstone is considered to be the missing link to traveling back in time.”
“I thought an elixir was a liquid,” said Juliet.
“That’s what Count St. Germaine wanted people to think.” He held up The Brimstone. “Instead, he was in possession of this magnificent object. He claimed that an Egyptian sorcerer had created it. It’s one of a handful of enchanted artifacts that have been passed down through the ages.”