Scott Mariani 3 Book Bundle. Scott Mariani

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      ‘Let me see?’ She ran her eyes down the scroll. Ben searched the table for more like it, but all he could find among the heaped rolls and dog-eared piles of dirty paper were abstruse diagrams, charts and lists of symbols. He sighed. ‘Do you understand any of this stuff?’

      ‘Um, Ben?’

      He blew some dust off an old book. ‘What?’ he mumbled, only half-listening to her.

      She nudged him. ‘We’ve got company.’

22

      Ben’s hand flew to his gun. But when he turned and saw the man approaching them, he let his arm drop to his side.

      The old man’s eyes flashed wildly behind long, straggly grey hair that hung down to merge with his bush of a beard. He hobbled rapidly towards them with a stick, boots dragging on the concrete floor.

      ‘Put that down!’ he shouted harshly, waving a bony finger at Roberta. ‘Don’t touch that!’

      She gingerly replaced the scroll on the table, where it sprang back into a tight curl. The old man grabbed it, clutching it furiously to his chest. He was wearing an ancient, filthy greatcoat that hung from him in tatters. His breathing was laboured, wheezing. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, baring blackened teeth. ‘What are you doing in my home?’

      Roberta stared at him. He looked as though he’d spent the last thirty years or so living rough under the bridges of Paris. Jesus, she thought. These are the guys I’m trying to convince the world to take seriously?

      ‘We’re looking for Monsieur Gaston Clément,’ Ben said. ‘I’m sorry, the door was open.’

      ‘Who are you?’ the old man repeated. ‘Police? Leave me alone. Fuck off.’ He retreated towards the shadows, clutching the rolled-up paper to him and waving his stick at them.

      ‘We’re not the police. We’d just like to ask you a few questions.’

      ‘I’m Gaston Clément, what do you want from me?’ the old man wheezed. Suddenly his knees seemed to give way under him, and he stumbled, dropping the scroll and his walking-stick. Ben picked him up and helped him to a chair. He knelt beside the old alchemist as he hacked and coughed into a handkerchief.

      ‘My name’s Benedict Hope, and I’m looking for something. A manuscript written by Fulcanelli…listen, should I call a doctor for you? You don’t look well.’

      Clément ended his coughing fit and sat panting for a minute, wiping his mouth. His hands were bony and arthritic, blue veins bulging through translucent pale skin. ‘I’m all right,’ he croaked. Slowly his grey head turned to look at Ben. ‘You said Fulcanelli?’

      ‘He was your father’s teacher, isn’t that right?’

      ‘Yes, he gave great wisdom to my father,’ Clément murmured. He sat back, as though thinking. For a minute he broke off into a rambling mutter, seeming confused and far away.

      Ben picked up the fallen stick and propped it up by the old man’s chair. He unfurled the scroll that had dropped to the floor. ‘I don’t suppose…’

      Clément seemed to come back to life when he saw the scroll in Ben’s hands. A skinny arm shot out and snatched it away. ‘Give that back to me.’

      ‘What is that?’

      ‘What do you care? It is The Secret of Everlasting Life. Chinese, second century. It is priceless.’ Clément’s old eyes focused more clearly on Ben. He staggered to his feet, pointing a trembling finger. ‘What do you want from me?’ he quavered. ‘More fucking foreigners coming to steal!’ He grabbed his stick.

      ‘No, monsieur, we aren’t thieves,’ Ben assured him. ‘We just want information.’

      Clément spat. ‘Information? Information– that’s what that salaud Klaus Rheinfeld said to me.’ He slammed the stick on the table, making papers fly. ‘That filthy thieving little Kraut!’ He turned to them. ‘Now you get out of here,’ he shouted at them, spit frothing from the corners of his mouth. He reached out to a rack of equipment and grabbed a test-tube filled with a steaming green liquid, waving it at them threateningly. But then his knees went again and he stumbled and fell. The test-tube smashed on the floor and the green liquid spattered everywhere.

      They got old Clément back on his feet and helped him up the steps of the raised platform where he had his living-quarters. He sat down on the edge of the bed, looking frail and sick. Roberta brought him a drink of water. After a while he calmed down and seemed more willing to speak to them.

      ‘You can trust me,’ Ben told him earnestly. ‘I don’t want to steal from you. I’ll pay you money if you help me. Agreed?’

      Clément nodded, sipping his water.

      ‘Good. Now, listen carefully. Fulcanelli gave your father, Jacques Clément, certain documents before his disappearance in 1926. I need to know whether your father might have had possession of some kind of alchemical manuscript given to him by his teacher.’

      The old man shook his head. ‘My father had many papers. He destroyed a lot of them before he died.’ His face twisted in anger. ‘Of the ones he left behind, most were stolen from me.’

      ‘By the man Rheinfeld you mentioned?’ Ben asked. ‘Who was he?’

      Clément’s wrinkled cheeks flushed red. ‘Klaus Rheinfeld,’ he said in a voice full of hatred. ‘My assist ant. He came here to learn the secrets of alchemy. One day he arrives, that miserable scrawny shit, with nothing but the stinking shirt on his back. I helped him, taught him, fed him!’ The alchemist’s rage was making him breathless. ‘I trusted him. But he betrayed me. I have not seen him for ten years.’

      ‘You’re saying that Klaus Rheinfeld stole your father’s important documents?’

      ‘And the gold cross too.’

      ‘A gold cross?’

      ‘Yes, very old and beautiful. Discovered by Fulcanelli, many years ago.’ Clément broke off, coughing and spluttering. ‘It was the key to great knowledge. Fulcanelli passed the cross to my father just before he disappeared.’

      ‘Why did Fulcanelli disappear?’ Ben asked.

      Clément shot Ben a dark look. ‘Like me, he was betrayed.’

      ‘Who betrayed him?’

      ‘Someone he trusted.’ Clément’s shrivelled lips twisted into a mysterious smile. He reached under his bed and, clutching it with reverential care, brought out an old book. Bound in scuffed blue leather, it looked as though mice had been nibbling at it for decades. ‘It is all in here.’

      ‘What’s that?’ Ben asked, peering at the book.

      ‘My father’s master tells his story in these pages,’ Clément replied. ‘This was his private Journal, the only thing Rheinfeld did not steal from me.’

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