The Museum of Mysteries

by Steve Berry

  She handed them to me.

  I glanced down at the information. Ten separate copy blocks, a large number of the words in Latin of whose meaning I had no idea. “I’m afraid I don’t know what most of these are.”

  She held out her hand and I returned the sheets. “Both of those ancient, formerly-extinct plants were in the Sabbat Box. Some of the ingredients are harmless, or simple hallucinogenics. But there are a few that can cause some potent reactions. Combinations and dosage is the key. With many of the vials, a small amount would cause adverse reactions—slight problems like headaches. A little more leads to severe neurological disorders. A little more and it can be fatal. The combinations of the plants and extracts in the box were surely once used for things like medicines, aphrodisiacs, even poisons. It’s like a mobile pharmacy.”

  “Do some of them include the side effect of wild hallucinations?” I asked.

  “Quite a few, in fact. Ancient priests were adept at mixing formulas to enable the user to enter into deep meditative states, supposedly so they could commune with the spirit world or dream prophecies. I’ve personally had contact with a formula like that. It caused what could have been mere hallucinations or,” she glanced at me, “I’m not sure what your belief system is so you might be skeptical of this. Past life memories. All brought on by inhaling an ancient fragrance.”

  A day ago I would have dismissed what she just said as nonsense. But now I had a more open mind. “I don’t not believe.”

  “Nicodème told me you’d had some unusual visions. Was it your first time?”

  I nodded. “Initially I thought I’d had a simple hallucination. I’d been knocked unconscious during a robbery. But then I came in contact with some of the oil from one of the bottles and experienced a second and third incident.”

  “As someone who’s been studying past life memories for the last six years, I’d be happy to help any way I can. There’s an expert in New York City, Dr. Malachi Samuels, whom I’ve consulted several times. If there’s something I can’t help with, I can put you in touch with him.”

  I thanked her and we then focused on what I’d come to find out.

  “The bottles in the box contained pure extracts of plants still used today in medicines,” Jac said. “Belladonna, Datura, and mandrake are good for heart, lung, and nervous system issues, including heart failure resuscitation. In some cases they can even be utilized as antidotes to poisons. Because of a compound called tropane, which they contain, none of them should be taken internally. Even one dosage can cause permanent heart damage or death. Some people even drink wine infused with mandrake or henbane, but the dangers far outweigh the benefits.

  “Atropa belladonna has a long history with the occult. Atropos was one of the three Fates whose name means inevitable, as she was the one who cut the thread of life causing death for humans. The drug was, and still is, used by shamans to open doorways between worlds. Nightshade, which was also in the Sabbat Box, is a vine with bright purple flowers and red berries. Every aspect of the plant is toxic. Medically it’s used to heal bruises, swelling, sprains, and sores, but should never be burned as an incense or ingested.”

  Like I would. My work with the box was confined to a brief interaction, but even that was beginning to make me a little uneasy. I kept listening as she explained about Datura stramonium, the Devil’s Trumpet, which was dangerous even to touch. It possessed many healing properties, but it also caused severe, unpredictable hallucinations that could last hours or days.

  “Sometimes the taker had to be tied up to prevent him or her from hurting themselves or others,” Jac said. “It was used by shamans and spiritualists to travel out of their bodies to the spirit world, for soul retrieval or to reverse curses set by ancestors. It’s some potent stuff.”

  “It was in the box?”

  She nodded. “And then there was henbane, which ancient Greeks used as a sedative. It was also popular as an aphrodisiac, added to love potions, beers, wines, and massage oils. It’s toxic, hallucinogenic, and highly dangerous.”

  Which filled the glass vial resting in my pocket.

  I removed the bottle, set it on the desk, and explained about the visions. Jac listened, then retrieved one of the plastic pipettes and drew a sample from the bottle, quickly opening, then replacing the cork stopper as we both held our breaths.

  “It takes more than a quick whiff,” I said. “But no point taking chances.”

  She deposited the sample into a vial and sealed the top.

  “I’ll take a look and see what’s here. It could be a mixture. Of the samples I tested, seven bottles contain pure ingredients. Three held compounds with multiple elements, including some from the other bottles. One formula caused a deep meditative hallucinogenic state. A second was a powerful aphrodisiac. The third induced a semiconscious meditative state, possibly some sort of truth serum like ethanol, scopolamine, or amobarbital. The contents of that box are, without question, dangerous. If abused, the ingredients could be fatal.” She pointed at the glass bottle. “I’d be careful with that stuff.”

  I re-pocketed the bottle, my mind processing all of the information. At present, the whereabouts of the Sabbat Box were unknown. It had been stolen, then re-stolen, and whoever stole it the second time was no friend of Nicodème or Antoine. Best guess? The thief had a use for the contents that didn’t include murder, since there were surely easier ways to kill someone.

  “I’ll run some more tests and let you know what I find,” Jac said. “In the meantime, I’m not a detective, but I have a friend who once was. He’s helped me in the past. Nicodème suggested you might need some local knowledge.”

  She reached for a pad of paper, wrote down a name and phone number, then handed it to me.

  Pierre Marcher.

  I tucked the information into my pocket.

  “You have quite a puzzle on your hands,” Jac said.

  That was an understatement.

  Chapter 9

  I left the perfume shop and checked my phone to see if Antoine might have texted. He’d not, so I sent another message that I was available, then walked toward the Seine. Any other time the beauty of the river and the serenity of the surroundings would have soothed me, but not today. My phone vibrated and I checked the display, hoping to see a message from Antoine.

  But it was Cotton.

  Have you learned anything yet about your hallucinations?

  On the train ride north I’d called and told him about the dreams, sharing my plans for Paris. He wasn’t thrilled with the decision to purposely inhale from the bottle, but he trusted my judgement. As I did his. Another of the reasons we made a great team.

  I replied that I’d seen Jac and typed out an abbreviated version of what the Sabbat Box contained then asked what he thought someone might do with such an assortment.

  I’ll have to think on that one. Keep in touch.

  He wasn’t much help, but he was also a long ways away and out of the loop. That was the thing about men. They were fixers. They liked to make bad situations better. Probably harkened back to the Stone Age and hunter gatherers and all that crap. But I rarely required a fixer. I preferred to solve my own problems. Which was another reason I loved Cotton. He was more a listener. That I could use and Cotton was really good at, as he put it, “keeping his mouth shut and his ears open.”

  I hesitated putting the phone away, allowing my fingers to linger on its surface. Though only symbolic, it was still a connection to him. Even though we were used to being apart, I missed him. It had been over two weeks since we’d seen each other last, and it would be at least that much or more before our next visit. I many times wondered what it would be like to be with him all the time. I’d never had that level of closeness with anyone. But, I’d already decided that he was the one man where that might be possible.

  One day.

  I crossed the Pont Carrousel. Though only late morning there were couples already out on the arched bridge, lingering, holding hands, some kissing. The city of love
rs, right? Cliché, but true. I’d always felt comfortable here. I thought again about Cotton, still missing him, and the strange dreams. I still didn’t want to call them memories.

  So what were they?

  I continued on into the Tuileries Garden and came out on the Rue Rivoli. I walked from there to Place Vendôme, home to the famed Ritz hotel and some of the most exclusive jewelry shops in the world. I’d been known to spend a little money there. Turning on Rue Danielle Casanova, I walked halfway down the block and found the entrance to the Du Lac Auction House.

  * * *

  My meeting with Claude Mantte was disappointing. I gleaned little that I didn’t already know and I left in a black mood. For the third time I texted Antoine, who still hadn’t responded. But this time I got an answer.

  By way of a call.

  “It’s time we meet,” he said.

  “Are you all right? I left you on the ground to get help. But when I got back you were gone.”

  “Nicodème told me where you were headed. Go back to the perfume shop and wait outside. I’ll be along shortly.”

  His tone bristled, but I ignored it and agreed to be there. It took me less than fifteen minutes to retrace my route. I stood outside the shop, across the street, watching for him. Finally, a black Citroën eased to the curb and the passenger-side door opened. Antoine was behind the wheel, with a bandage on the right side of his forehead, and another around his left wrist.

  “Hop in.”

  I did and he drove off.

  “I’m here,” he said, without preamble, “because my brother, Denton, is in Paris. I think he was behind the attack on us both.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He gestured to his hand. “Banged up for sure. A hiker came along and helped me. They took me to the hospital in Monaco.”

  I had checked only in Nice.

  “And you’re all right?” he asked.

  “I had some hallucinations after, and a headache.”

  “You mean like dreams, but more, as if you were actually there, living it out?”

  I nodded slowly. “You too?”

  “I’ve experienced it before. As I told you, the Sabbat Box belonged to my father. He kept it in our home for many years. Once, curiosity got the best of me, and I explored its contents. I sniffed from one of the bottles and passed out. I woke up with a memory of another time. I had been on a battlefield during World War I. In the trenches. A horrible place. There was shooting, death, then poisoned gas. It was so real. Almost overpowering.”

  “My dreams were more benign. I was a woman named Morgan le Fay. I was in a forest, with rain. There was a fortress that belonged to me, given to me by my half-brother, but he’d decided to take it back.” I was a little embarrassed to continue, but knew I had to. “And I was making love to a man, there to protect me.”

  There had to be some logical explanation but, for the life of me, I couldn’t think of one.

  “Is that why you wanted the box back,” I asked. “To experience more dreams.”

  He nodded. “And to find some answers. It’s bothered me for a long time.”

  He navigated the traffic and I explained everything I’d learned about the box’s ingredients, then I asked, “Why do you think your brother was behind the ambush and robbery?”

  “Denton knows about the box and what the mixtures can do. He smelled them once too. He also knew who bought the box and that I was going to get it back. We spoke a few days ago.”

  “Why not just help you? Why attack you?”

  “Because he knew that I wasn’t going to hand it over to him. I don’t trust him.”

  I was amazed. “But to attack you? Is he capable of that?” I had no siblings, but the idea of one doing anything so violent seemed inconceivable. “How did you know it was him?”

  “He left a calling card.”

  He held out his wrist and showed me a blue string wristlet supporting a small metal charm.

  “It’s an evil eye,” he said. “Our grandmother gave us each one.”

  He reached into his pants pocket and brought out an identical wristlet, the string circle severed. “It was lying on top of me when I woke up. His way of telling me to back off.”

  “Why does that box matter so much to him? Do you think he’s planning on using those ancient oils?”

  “I truly don’t know.”

  He was quiet for the moment. I recalled what Cotton had told me about Denton Lussac. “Does your brother work for Lydia St. Benedict?”

  “He does. And that’s what’s worrying me. I’m wondering if all this has something to do with the election.”

  Which I knew was only five days away. The campaign between President Casimir and his challenger, Lydia St. Benedict, had been one of the worst in French history. Charges and counter-charges had been flung by both sides. The polls were deadlocked, the country split 50/50 in a dead heat.

  “The final debate is tomorrow night,” he said.

  “What could the Sabbat Box have to do with that?”

  “My brother was once a wonderful person. But something happened to him, five years ago, after our father died. He was excluded from the will, banned from inheriting, and he took that hard. He resented me and our older brother and blamed us for Father’s rebuke. He became unscrupulous, power hungry, and a liar, all of which makes him unpredictable and dangerous. He didn’t follow me to Eze and take that box merely out of a sibling rivalry. Something is happening here and we have to find out what.”

  “We?”

  “I need your help. This is way beyond me. Nicodème says you’re a woman of skill and means. And that’s exactly what I need.”

  Chapter 10

  We drove to an apartment in the 16th Arrondissement that Antoine told me belonged to a friend who’d offered it for a few days. It sat on the second floor of a 19th century classic Belle Epoch dwelling, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlooked a courtyard planted with trees and a knot garden. Antoine’s friend apparently loved books, the walls lined with shelves overflowing with volumes, new and old. Their presence made me miss Cotton even more, who loved nothing more than searching through antique shops and flea markets for rare first editions. Modern furniture offset the traditional moldings, parquet floors, and rugs. It was past lunch time and neither of us had eaten, so from groceries he had in the car we made cheese omelets. Antoine opened a bottle of Sancerre appropriated from the kitchen wine rack. Once the food was ready, we took our plates and glasses and sat down at the dining room table.

  “We’re going to have to confront Denton,” he said. “But he’s not going to just open up and admit to what he did. That’s not his nature. Thankfully, he’s something of a braggart.”

  “Unlike you?”

  “We’re different in so many ways. But he might hint at his plans with the right prompting.”

  “To you?”

  Antoine shook his head. “Not a chance. To him, I’m the enemy.”

  “How well do you know the people in his life? Are there women?”

  “He’s gay.”

  “Are there men?”

  “I’m sure there are quite a few.”

  “Anyone that he’s close to?”

  Antoine frowned. “I have no idea. We’ve been estranged for a long time.”

  “Yet you spoke last week.”

  “I had to know if he’d gone after the box.”

  “Apparently not.”

  He nodded. “Not until yesterday, at least.”

  I agreed. Denton Lussac had to be found. And fast. I’d heard Cotton lament many times about involving locals in an operation. Rarely did they prove helpful. But this was not a United States Justice Department mission. And I wasn’t an intelligence agent. Help here would be appreciated. I remembered the card in my pocket Jac L’Etoile had given me with Pierre Marcher’s name and number. I found it and made the call on Nicodème’s cell phone. Marcher answered on the second ring. I explained who I was and who’d recommended him.

  “Anything f
or Jac,” he said. “And she called and said I might hear from you.”

  He agreed to meet us within the hour at a local bistro.

  The Café Winka.

  * * *

  Antoine and I entered the café and I searched the faces. The tables were nearly full but there was no question which one accommodated Pierre Marcher. He stood as we approached. He was short and slim with slicked-back black hair. He wore stylish wire-rimmed glasses and where his right eyebrow should have been there was a ragged white scar, like a crack in an otherwise fine piece of glazed pottery. His navy suit fit him well and his starched white shirt looked fresh.

  “Inspector Marcher?” I asked.

  “Marcher is fine. I’m not with the police anymore.”

  We took a seat at the table. A waiter appeared and both Antoine and I ordered coffee. It took the better part of a half hour for us to explain the situation and what we knew, as well as an outline of what we needed to find out.

  “I know of your brother,” Marcher told Antoine.

  I knew what he meant. Officially. As a former cop.

  Antoine seemed to get it too. “My brother’s reputation is not good, so feel free to say whatever is on your mind. We haven’t gotten along for years, nor has he with anyone else in the family. There’s little you could say that would shock or disappoint me.”

  “He was on our radar. We questioned him a few times, but could never amass enough evidence to charge him.”

  Antoine nodded. “You mean the extortion.”

  I looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “There were rumors that my brother blackmailed several members of the National Assembly.”

  “He did just that,” Marcher said. “Unfortunately, we were never able to learn the entire story. None of the members of Parliament cared to press charges. For good reason, I assume, since the dirt was true.”