The Angel of Eden

by D J Mcintosh

  My two stray girls. Funny, I mused, how in the space of a day I’d gone from strict bachelorhood to a strange form of domestic bliss.

  Thirteen

  February 17, 2005

  I rose early, and had already made coffee and toast by the time Bennet sashayed into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. No miniskirt today; she’d thrown on jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Loki wagged her tail in greeting.

  “Loki saved your virtue last night because she insisted on sleeping with me too,” I joked.

  “Sorry—I was freezing on that couch. The covers kept falling off.” Perhaps to hide her embarrassment, she quickly changed the subject. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

  “I want to visit Yersan, a man Tricia Ross told me harassed her about Strauss’s artifacts. He sells antiquities and religious items. There’s no phone number listed on his website, just an address and his store hours, so we’ll have to take a chance and drop in on him.”

  “How did this Yersan find out about Ross in the first place?”

  I told Bennet about the query Tricia had put out on the listserv. “Have a bite to eat while I take Loki out and then let’s vamoose. After we see Yersan, I made an appointment to visit the Conjuring Arts Research Center. I want to get some background on both Strauss and Helmstetter.”

  Bennet and I found Yersan’s place on Pacific Street in Flatbush, wedged between a boarded-up movie theater and a grimy smoke shop. On the sidewalk we negotiated a jumble of cigarette butts, Styrofoam coffee cups, and assorted flotsam and jetsam. The last film advertised on the theater marquee was The Matrix, so it must have been closed since 1999. Bennet grabbed my arm and delicately stepped over a putrid-smelling green garbage bag. The place didn’t have any windows, only a battered steel door, the street number, and a buzzer, with no sign to indicate what might lie inside. Not much of a shop at all, it seemed; Yersan must conduct most of his business online. I hoped the trip hadn’t been in vain as I leaned on the buzzer and stood back.

  We heard a rustling behind the door. A minute or so went by. I guessed someone was taking a good look at us through the eyehole. The person fumbled with the lock and the door opened. An old man wearing a belted white robe and a small white turban faced us.

  “We’d like to see Mr. Yersan, if he’s in?”

  The man didn’t speak, just gestured for us to wait after he ushered us into a tiny foyer. Other than an old wooden wardrobe for coats and a floor mat on which sat several pairs of men’s shoes, the room was bare. The old man went through a second door, shutting it firmly behind him. When he returned he carried a patterned scarf that he held out for Bennet. I could sense her getting ready to protest. “I doubt they’ll let you in otherwise,” I pointed out.

  She draped it around her head reluctantly. “I hate giving in to this,” she said under her breath. The old man pointed to his stocking feet. I dutifully removed my shoes; Bennet took off her ankle boots. The man gave us a broad smile, glad, I guess, he’d been understood. My stomach turned over. Behind his broken brown teeth, he had no tongue.

  The Matrix marquee turned out to be fitting—as we followed the elderly man out of the foyer it felt as though we’d stepped into an alternate universe. Rich, brightly colored cloth hangings draped the white walls. A deep plum carpet of lush pile covered most of the tile floor. A faint, spicy scent hung in the air. The short hall we entered ended in a T; directly ahead, two elaborately carved, open wooden doors revealed a room finished in white marble. On either side of the doors little fountains bubbled in stone containers. A bell dangled from a rope hanging from the ceiling, and centered on a podium was a huge brass vessel shaped like a goblet, its mirror surface polished to perfection. It was almost as tall as Bennet. A flame leapt up from what I concluded was fragrant burning oil. This, I guessed, was a Zoroaster fire temple. My readings yesterday had served me well.

  Our mute guide turned left down the hallway and let us into a chamber. A man dressed in a business suit, dark eyed and olive skinned like me, looked up from his desk as we entered. He was small and wiry with a receding hairline, maybe in his mid-forties. He seemed tightly sprung, a hint of suspicion in his eyes as they swept over me and lingered on Bennet. A glance passed between him and the old man, who quietly went out again.

  “Please have a seat,” our host said, indicating a divan in ivory brocade with a carved wooden frame. “My name is Yersan. I understand you wish to see me?”

  He made no move to shake hands, so we sat down as he’d directed. The room housed a collection of goods, some of which I’d seen on his website: books, enameled medallions embossed with various esoteric designs, silver bowls and collection plates, wall hangings, small triptych screens, sculptures of the famous Persian insignia featuring outspread wings superimposed on a male figure.

  I handed him my business card, introduced Bennet and myself, and thanked him for agreeing to see us. “Like you, I have a professional interest in Near East artifacts. I’m trying to trace the origin of certain Mesopotamian cylinder seals, one with figures referred to as the Sumerian Adam and Eve, and also a terra-cotta statue depicting an elongated skull. I believe you questioned Professor Ross about these items?”

  His expression hardened. “Are you colleagues of hers?”

  “My brother was … at one time.”

  “And what’s your interest in the matter now?”

  “As my card indicates, I’m an antiquities dealer, like you. I’ve been hired to help trace the objects’ source.”

  He clasped his hands together. “Well, you have a simple task then. They were stolen from my family. These items have great cultural value. My family has searched for them for decades.”

  “Did you file a police report? There’s no record of theft. Professor Ross confirmed that and I checked it myself.”

  Yersan gritted his teeth. “My parents are simple people. They kept no accounts, so I lack any official proof of ownership.”

  “Are your parents here, in America?” Bennet put in.

  He shook his head. “In Iran. As you can imagine, I am quite anxious to recover the articles. If you know of their whereabouts, or who is in possession of them, I would be grateful.” His attempt at a smile didn’t reach his dark eyes.

  “Your parents are from the town of Kandovan, or nearby—is that right?” I asked nonchalantly. That got a reaction. His chair almost toppled when he leapt up and marched toward me. I didn’t like the thought of him looming over us, so I stood too. I was heavier set than he was and taller by a good couple of inches. Bennet moved out of our way.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’d be glad to tell you if you give me some information,” I continued. “Where did the objects come from originally? Who found them and when?”

  He searched my face, trying to determine whether to trust me. “Very well. The story is well known in my community. My father was a sheep herder. He often stayed out overnight with the animals, sometimes for a week if he traveled far enough away. He herded his flock onto higher ground one spring, a series of rocky hills and cliffs. A lamb became separated from the other sheep and my father went in search of it. He spied the animal near a crevasse high up on a cliff and realized that it was an entrance to a cave. Curious about what might be in the cave, he picked up a rock and threw it in. He was surprised to hear it shatter something. When he crept inside he found large clay pots. Most held nothing, but in one of them he found the artifacts.” Yersan glared at me. “Now tell me how you knew about Kandovan.”

  The story he’d just told was a carbon copy of the famous Dead Sea scrolls discovery. I pretended to believe him. “A very interesting find. Material embedded in the statue and seals point to their having been found in the Kandovan area. The objects were sent to North America by a man named Helmstetter—does that name mean anything to you?”

  “You know perfectly well it does. He stole the objects from my father in the first place.”

  “He just showed up thirty
-five years ago in your hometown and managed to walk out with those valuables? Hard to believe. How long did he stay in Kandovan? When your family realized he’d stolen them, didn’t they try to trace him after he left the village?”

  Yersan made an impatient gesture with his hand. “You appreciate I was only a child when this happened, so I must rely on what my father told me. Helmstetter came to the village because, according to him, it was close to a powerful place, full of magic. He stayed for many months, ingratiated himself with the villagers, hired a local boy as a guide, and set about exploring the surrounding area. He didn’t divulge to my father exactly what he was seeking.”

  I’d learned from Samuel that isolated communities in the Middle East were highly suspicious of strangers, let alone Westerners. “I understand Kandovan’s a small settlement and perhaps not too trusting of people they don’t know. Kind of hard to believe they’d be taken in by Helmstetter.”

  “Then you’re not very familiar with the man, obviously. He had an aura about him. He amused people with demonstrations of magic. Some admired him. Others feared him enough to stay out of his way. And he had money. He used it to burrow his way into my family’s trust like a beautiful lizard with a poisonous bite.”

  “What became of him?”

  “I don’t know. One night he simply vanished. The next day my father discovered that his prized objects were gone. As I said, my father was a simple sheep herder who in his entire life had journeyed no further than Tabriz. It was well beyond his means and ability to search for him. Now it’s your turn. Who owns the objects?”

  “That information is not mine to share.”

  Yersan straightened his jacket. “Then I must ask you to go. I’m very busy. I’m sorry I agreed to see you at all.” Bennet tugged my arm. Before I followed her out of the room, I turned to Yersan. “I wish I could have been more help. But the confidentiality of my clients is very important, I’m sure you understand.”

  He gave me a cold look.

  Our elderly greeter was nowhere to be seen, so we let ourselves out.

  Fourteen

  “Men.” Bennet swore as we headed down the sidewalk. “You should have let me do the talking. I would have gotten more out of him. At least I recorded it all.”

  I glanced quickly at her. I hadn’t thought to tape the conversation. “His touching story about his father braving dark caves was a complete fabrication. Nor did he strike me as the kind of guy to go around volunteering such information to complete strangers. I’m pretty sure Yersan has no legitimate claim to the objects. But it’s nice to have a record of exactly what he said. Good thinking.”

  “What’s his motivation then, if not to retrieve a family treasure?” Bennet said.

  “Getting his hands on a fortune. I bet he first heard about the objects when Tricia Ross sent out the theft inquiry and made up his mind to make a pitch for them. The story about his being from the area is no doubt factual. Northwest Iran is known to be a primary seat for Zoroastrianism. And by the look of that flaming urn we passed on our way in, Yersan must be a practitioner. But I still think he’s a fraud. It’s a common scam in the antiquities world. Make a claim on objects whose provenance can’t be accurately determined then threaten to tie the rightful owner up in the courts. Stall any potential sales for years. The owner decides the best course of action is to settle and part with some of the value.”

  “I’m not so sure. I was watching him closely, and it seemed to me his anger was genuine. Under different circumstances I had the feeling he could be dangerous. What are you going to do about him?”

  “Nothing I can do—except stay on my guard. Maybe sic Strauss on him.” I laughed. “I’d love to see those two go head to head.”

  Bennet and I hopped onto the 2 train, got off at Thirty-fourth, and headed down to West Thirtieth and the Conjuring Arts Center. The arched doorway and carved lintel seemed appropriately medieval for a library about the history of magic. “I’m not sure what to expect here,” I said as we took the elevator to the fifth floor.

  “As long as we don’t disappear into thin air before we get out again,” Bennet laughed.

  We stepped into a charming room that looked anything but esoteric—comfortable antique furniture, a polished hardwood floor covered with Turkish carpets, and a multitude of books arranged neatly on the tall shelves. An old black-and-white banner stretching above one shelf announced houdini at the hippodrome. Just the kind of place that made you want to settle in for an afternoon and search through the treasure trove.

  “John Madison and Margaux Bennet.” I extended my hand to a tall woman with long gray hair who greeted us. “Thanks for arranging our appointment so quickly.”

  “Julia Morrow. Glad to help. If you don’t mind my asking, is Helmstetter the subject of an article or a book you’re working on? We’ve had a few inquiries about him lately.”

  “Yes, I’m writing about him,” Bennet jumped in. “Who else was interested?”

  Morrow’s lips turned down in a slight frown. “That’s private information.”

  “Of course. I understand,” Bennet said quickly.

  Morrow showed us where to stow our coats and then led us into another room with a long rectangular table.

  After we’d signed the register I took a closer look around. “It must be fascinating to work here.” Many of the books were old tomes in gilt, rich burgundy leather, and weathered green cloth with titles like Valuable Secrets, Discoverie of Witchcraft, and The Expert at the Card Table.

  Morrow smiled proudly and pulled a book from a nearby shelf. “Watch this.” The pages changed color as she thumbed through them.

  “That’s amazing,” Bennet cooed.

  “We own a page from Caxton’s Canterbury Tales printed in 1496, a pilgrim’s description of a magician. And we have a collection of personal papers from some of the most famous magicians in history, documents that escaped being burned through the ages over fears of witchcraft. You wanted to know about Helmstetter but I’m afraid there’s very little about him. He disappeared before he could develop much of a reputation as a practicing conjurer. On the other hand, a lot is known about Strauss.”

  “We’d like to know more about Strauss too,” I said. “I’ve only just met him.”

  Morrow folded her arms and leaned against a bookcase. “I’ve never met him myself, but the stories are legion. He came from a New Orleans family who ran a drama troupe; they traveled all over the country. Strauss was pressed into acting at an early age.”

  “New Orleans? He has no trace of that accent,” Bennet said.

  “No. He was ashamed of his family—they weren’t much more than burlesque performers. Strauss was actually quite brilliant; he was accepted into Harvard on scholarship to study psychology, and that’s when he managed to drop his accent. Nowadays you’d think he was a Boston Brahmin.” Morrow pointed to the Houdini banner. “But he never lost his dramatic flair. He was a born showman, like Houdini. He chose to become primarily a mentalist, using traditional magic mostly to warm his audience up. His reputation for psychic powers grew to the point where people would shower him with money for private sessions.”

  “Strauss claims his assistant betrayed him,” Bennet interjected. “Do you know anything about Helmstetter’s apprenticeship?”

  “People say Strauss grew jealous of his talent. And ultimately, Helmstetter was the only person to get the better of Lucas Strauss. I can’t tell you much more. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring you what I’ve found in our archives.”

  Once Morrow was out of the room Bennet glanced at me, put a finger to her lips, then hurried over to the register we’d signed and quickly flipped through it. She ran her finger down a page and let out a breath, shut the register, and returned to her seat at the table. She leaned over and whispered, “Interesting!”

  “What?”

  “Yersan paid a visit here two days ago. Clearly he knows more about Helmstetter than he let on. Pretty suspicious.”

  Morrow return
ed just then with a large folio, a file of letters, and a poster encased in a double sheet of clear plastic. The poster advertised a show at Milwaukee’s famous Oriental Theatre. Morrow spread it on the table in front of us. It showed the theater’s interior, a baroque banquet of soaring pillars, luxuriant draperies, stained-glass chandeliers, porcelain lions, and elaborate frescoes. It looked more like a maharaja’s palace than a Milwaukee entertainment hall. Pictured center stage was a much younger Lucas Strauss wearing a black bowler and tux, releasing a pack of cards that appeared to float in the air. Morrow pointed to the image of a man standing stage left behind Strauss. “George Helmstetter,” she said.

  He had dark, slicked-back hair, a goatee, an aquiline nose, and a trim figure. Like an old-fashioned dandy, I thought. Assuming an exaggerated pose, he held a curved, bejeweled dagger, no doubt to advertise Strauss’s next act. It was hard to say why, but as Yersan had remarked, I sensed an aura about Helmstetter, a menacing presence. Perhaps it was the way he carried the dagger, as if he were at ease with it, as if he’d enjoy using it for real.

  Bennet sat very still beside me, her eyes transfixed by the image. I suspected she found Helmstetter as troubling a figure as I did.

  I looked up at Morrow. “May I take a photo of this?”

  We positioned the poster under the strongest light and I snapped a few pictures on my phone, then set it aside and opened the folio. It turned out to contain bound copies of The Conjurer magazine.

  “There were only eight issues,” Morrow said. “The first was published in 1975.” She flipped through one of them until she got to an article entitled “The Lost Magicians.” It discussed what had become of young illusionists who’d never achieved the success predicted for them. Several paragraphs were devoted to Helmstetter, brimming with phrases like “a soaring talent,” “a singular magician,” “one whom accomplished conjurers heralded.”