The Alchemist in the Attic (10 page)

“Well,” Keeler prompted. “Do they know about us?”

“And Valencourt?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Atwood said. It was only partially a lie. Atwood had no idea how far Quirke’s investigation had reached.

McManus leaned in close, while Keeler loomed behind him. “Then you’d best find out,” he said. It was a threat, unstated but no less menacing. Violence lurked beneath their congeniality, Atwood had always known that. It was why he remained suspicious.

“I will,” he said. “I keep my deals.” And he would, but if necessary his warning might come just a little too late.

“See that you do.” McManus and Keeler left him pressed against the wall, but at the last moment he called them back.

“Can you tell me anything else about Valencourt?” he asked. “Any reason he might steal seeds, for instance? Or mandrakes?” Atwood straightened and watched them for any sign of recognition or complicity.

“We don’t owe you any more answers,” Keeler snapped, but McManus was studying Atwood in turn.

“We just provide the bodies,” McManus said. “In our line of work it’s best not to ask too many questions.”

Atwood smiled. “Not in my profession.”

“Then I suggest you start asking the right questions.”

They turned and Atwood let them go this time. He still wasn’t sure if they were guilty, but McManus had definitely known something, or at least suspected. He needed to have another chat with Mr. Collins, and then perhaps it was time he finally met Valencourt.

*

Atwood arrived at 7 Pretorius Street the next day with an unexpected eagerness in his step. He had slept, perhaps not soundly, but he had slept, and he had not dreamed. Maybe his fears were unfounded. Maybe the dreams and hallucinations had finally passed. Atwood was not generally an optimist, but for once he allowed himself the luxury. A good night’s sleep made all the difference, and the day promised to be advantageous as well. Collins had sent him a message. Valencourt’s accomplice wanted to talk again.

Atwood bounded up the stairs two at a time. This was his moment. This was what he had been working for these past weeks. An exclusive interview with Collins would be worth its weight in gold. It might even save the
Oracle
, but it would definitely save Atwood. No one would turn away the man who found the Organ Harvester, not even Hearst.

Atwood was breathing heavily when he reached Collins’ floor, and forced himself to breath and relax. Collins was twitchy at the best of times. If Atwood pushed too hard, the poor man would bolt. He’d already made that mistake at the restaurant. This would require delicate coaxing, and patience, but Atwood could be patient. That was one lesson he’d taught himself.

Atwood’s hand strayed to the gun in his pocket and felt its deadly, reassuring weight. There was another possibility, of course. Collins was Valencourt’s creature. His master might have set a trap for Atwood. Unlikely, but not impossible. He found it best not to borrow trouble.

Atwood straightened his suit and knocked on Collins’ door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no reply.

“Mr. Collins,” he called, checking his watch. “Are you there?” He knocked a third time. Nothing.

Before he could knock again, Madame Valli’s door opened behind him, and her painted face peered out. “He’s not here,” she said.

“Excuse me?” He turned.

“Mr. Collins isn’t here,” she said. “They took him away this morning.”

“They?” He frowned. “Who? Where?”

“To the St. Benedictus Home for the Incurably Insane,” she said.

He took a step back and exhaled sharply. “That’s not possible,” Atwood said. “I spoke to him just the other day.”

“And I spoke to him last night.” Madame Valli sighed. “I think we need to talk, Mr. Dupin,” she said. “About what you’re really doing here.” She grinned impishly. “Or should that be
Mr. Atwood
?”

Everything about Madame Valli’s apartment spoke of former glories and cheap opulence. The curtains, once a rich red velvet, were faded and torn and the plush chairs were ratty and smelled vaguely of mold. A few yellowing playbills lined the walls amidst knockoff paintings and peeling wallpaper. The sickly sweet smell of incense clung to the air, mingling with those of medicine and decay. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. Atwood sat perched on the edge of the couch. He shifted, trying not to sink into the upholstery, half afraid he would never escape its sunken depths. His head was starting to swim and there was a thrumming ache behind his eyes. How had she known his real name? He had been careful. He was sure of it.

Atwood was not used to being rendered speechless, but Madame Valli hadn’t given him a chance to think. She had ushered him in and deposited him on the couch. There had been no choice in the matter. He’d barely had time to stutter a wordless protest. She was puttering in the kitchen now, organizing tea. It was a grand production, or at least a loud one, accompanied by the clattering of pans and muttered cursing. It was a ploy, of course, staged for his benefit. She needed to play to an audience, even an audience of one. Atwood could use that. He was good at being an audience, good at getting people to talk. If only his head wasn’t pounding. The sickly, feverish edge had returned with a vengeance. He could feel it growing inside him again at the thought of Collins’ sudden breakdown.

Finally, Madame Valli emerged bearing a tea tray. The cups were all chipped and not entirely clean, but it was her best china. She sat down right next to him, so close that their knees were touching and he could smell her breath. She set the tray down on the table.

“Shall I be mother?” she asked with a salacious grin and began to pour without waiting for a response. When she was finished, she put the kettle down and produced a flask from her bustle. “It’s medicinal,” she said and poured them both a generous helping. “Well,” she said after a moment. “Isn’t this nice?”

“I don’t know why you called me Atwood, just now,” he managed, “but my name is Dupin.”

“A likely name for a snoop and a spy,” she said. “But if your name isn’t Atwood, then why did you come inside? For the tea? For the company?”

Atwood stammered a response. It was not his best effort.

“Oh, darling!” Madame Valli placed a hand on his knee. “And you were doing so well, but I’m afraid Booth and Burnhardt would not have been impressed.”

“I-I…”

“We both know who you are, so you can stop pretending. I wasn’t born yesterday.” She watched his expression, drinking in his discomfort with unrestrained glee. “I know it was you the other night, trying to get into the attic. Then, suddenly you’re always lurking around, asking questions, making friends. So I made a few inquiries of my own. After all, you’re not the only one who can ask questions.”

“If you tell anyone…” Atwood started, but Madame Valli shook her head.

“Don’t worry, darling. Your secret’s safe with me. You’re up to something, but more importantly, I know Valencourt is as well.”

“Do you know what?” Atwood asked, his discomfort briefly forgotten.

“Not entirely, but I can guess. It’s not as if he was hiding it very well, considering your friends and their boxes. Six feet long. Who do they think they’re fooling?” Madame Valli smiled humorlessly. “And then there’s the other one. Secretive. Dangerous. I know the type.”

“The other one?”

“Yes,” she said. “He hasn’t been around lately, not since the bodies starting showing up in the Bay. Made a run for it, probably.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. But it doesn’t matter for the moment.” Atwood begged to differ. McManus and Keeler only knew so much, and Collins was out of reach suddenly, but there was a fourth suspect. That meant another trail to track. Another way in. He had been so close with Collins, but someone was bound to talk. Madame Valli had already been more helpful than she realized, or perhaps she knew exactly what she was doing. A few seeds of information at the start—quid pro quo. Atwood had used that tactic more than once himself to string people along.

She hadn’t removed her hand. It inched its way up to his thigh and rested there. He shifted awkwardly and swallowed. He opened his mouth once or twice, but said nothing.

“Your tea’s getting cold, darling,” she said.

“Right,” he sputtered. The teacup shook in his hands. She chuckled, not entirely unkindly.

“Collins would forget his tea, too, poor man.” She sighed. “They say he went mad, had a breakdown.”

“They say?” Atwood looked at her quizzically, alert to any mention of Collins. He had been so close. “You don’t believe them?”

“You met him, Mr. Atwood. Would you have called him mad?”

“High strung, maybe,” Atwood allowed.

Madame Valli shook her head. “He was neat little man, handsome, polite. He was a clerk for some bank. The Hibernia Savings and Loan Bank, I believe.” She grinned. “I know you newspapermen like to have all the facts.”

Atwood controlled his expression this time and Madame Valli pouted at his lack of reaction. “He lived here for years,” she said. “Very neighborly. Came to tea every week, but when Dr. Valencourt moved in…” She shrugged. “He wasn’t the same after that. He lost sleep, and complained of noises.”

“So, he could have gone mad after all?” Atwood asked.

“Oh, darling! You really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”

“And what have I gotten myself into?”

“Trouble.”

Atwood scoffed. “I’m no stranger to trouble.”

“I can see that,” she murmured appreciatively. “But not like this.”  She was suddenly serious. “Poor Collins didn’t go mad. Valencourt made him mad.”

Atwood blinked at that. “He drove him crazy?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“How?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. You won’t be able to stop yourself from digging.” She patted his knee companionably. “I know your type.”

Atwood went quiet. He had the sudden, unsettling impression that Madame Valli understood him perfectly. He hadn’t felt that way since his father died, and he didn’t like it.

“You’re in dangerous territory now, darling. Here there be dragons. But never fear!” She squeezed his thigh. “Valli is here!”

Atwood and Walter were encamped in their office. Outside they could hear the rumble of the printer, the stifled shouts of conversation, and the clattering of typewriters. Atwood was feverishly typing up a report for the afternoon edition. The Valencourt investigation might be making only stuttering progress, but as Maguire was quick to remind them, there were still murders to write about. The words weren’t coming, though, not quickly enough. Madame Valli’s incense still lingered even days later and the dreams had returned stranger and darker than ever. Walter’s carping wasn’t helping any.

“Why are you involving that woman?” Walter demanded.

Atwood glanced up and swallowed back a sigh. “I didn’t involve her,” Atwood said. “She involved herself.”

“Then get rid of her. I’m not sharing this case with some two-bit opera singer.”

“I’m not sure we have a choice. She knows my name.” He exhaled slightly. “Don’t worry. It’s not as though Maguire will give her a byline.”

Walter grumbled noncommittally. “I suppose.”

“Besides,” said Atwood, “she knows more than she’s saying, and at this point, we need all the help we can get.”

Walter couldn’t disagree with that. “I wish you’d consulted me first,” he said. “That’s all.”

Atwood frowned at him. That had been pure petulance. Madame Valli had ambushed him. There had been no time to consult anyone, barely any time to consult himself, and Walter knew that. The story was getting away from them. Every time Atwood thought he had a firm grip, it slithered away and took an unexpected turn. No one had heard from Swifty in days. Atwood was trying not to worry. The newsboy was a resourceful little tyke, but Atwood still felt like he was three steps behind and it was not a familiar feeling.

It was even worse with Madame Valli. She made him feel five steps behind at best. She clearly had a tighter grasp on events than he did, or at least thought she did. That was dangerous. Atwood could understand Walter’s concerns, but there was something else behind Walter’s unease, something Atwood couldn’t quite place.

“I’ll do my best to dissuade her,” he said. “I promise. As soon as I find out what she knows.”

“And when will that be?”

“Well,” said Atwood pulling out his notebook. “She said she had information for me, and I’ve been invited to meet her at the parlor of a Professor B.W. Stokes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Atwood said with a wry smile, “that I’m going to a séance.”

*

Professor Stokes’ parlor turned out to be a three-story walk-up in an unexpectedly fashionable neighborhood. Only a small brass plaque on the side of the door hinted at the resident’s peculiar vocation. San Francisco was filled with innumerable mystics, mediums, mesmerists, conjurors, and planet-readers. Some catered to the masses—the servants and workers—while others such as the so-called Professor Stokes clearly specialized in a far more discrete and lucrative clientele.

A maid opened the door and peered out at Atwood. Behind her, the house was in shadows.

“Yes, sir?” she asked.

“Atwood,” he said. “Theodore Atwood. I’m expected.” He handed over his card. She inspected it briefly, then nodded.

“Of course, sir. Right this way.” She ushered him inside.

The hall lights were dim, casting flickering shadows on the dark wallpaper and macabre decorations. There were skulls and stuffed birds placed at strategic intervals. Stokes was clearly not one for subtlety.

The door creaked shut behind him and the maid quickly relieved Atwood of his hat and coat.

“If you’ll follow me,” she said, and proceeded down a series of equally darkened halls. There were markings carved above every door, and strange masks with ugly, watching faces were hanging above the gas lamps, casting elongated shadows. The maid seemed unconcerned by her surroundings and moved with a sure-footed, quickening gait. Atwood struggled to keep pace with her.

Finally they reached a closed door at what must have been the back of the house. There were the same markings carved above the doorframe. Atwood wondered if they meant anything, or if Stokes had simply chosen them at random. He had seen something similar at Valencourt’s apartment, and he doubted that was a coincidence.

The maid knocked and then slipped inside, gesturing for Atwood to wait.

“A Mr. Atwood has arrived,” he heard her say, but the reply was muffled and unintelligible. At last she reemerged.

“You may go in now, sir,” she said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.” He eyed her curiously, wondering briefly if she was a true believer.

The room was even darker than the hall, if that was possible. The curtains were drawn tight and the lamps had been doused. The only light came from seven flickering candles arranged on a circular table in the center of the room. There were six people sitting around the table. Atwood recognized Madame Valli immediately. She turned and gave him a toothy grin that glinted despite the gloom.

Atwood didn’t know the others. There was a middle-aged woman in a shawl, and a balding man with a sharp nose. Next to them sat two women in rich furs and hats. In the dim light, it took Atwood a moment to see the family resemblance. They were clearly a mother and daughter, both grieving.

The final man was obviously Professor Stokes himself. He was long and lean with a Van Dyke beard and piercing eyes. He rose to greet Atwood.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. “Please have a seat. You will be our seventh. An auspicious number.”

Atwood moved to join them. The only empty seat was by Madame Valli, and one look at her waggled eyebrows told him that was no accident. As he approached, he felt the mother and daughter’s eyes on him. They were sneering down their noses at his attire. He was the most shabbily dressed one there, but his best suit had been ruined in the fight with Selby’s men, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He gave them a cheeky smile and wave, which made them quickly turn away in a rustling of clothes.

Atwood was amused, but only for a moment. He realized with a start that he had completely overlooked the final inhabitant of the room. Hunched behind a camera in the far corner was a thin, little man with disquieting eyes. Atwood knew him at once. It was Edward Coombs, one of Hearst’s cameramen and a favorite of Selby.

He gave Atwood a brief nod, which Atwood returned after a moment. He felt ambushed. No wonder Madame Valli had known his name. Hearst had fingers everywhere, but Atwood had been so sure he was ahead of Selby on this one. He schooled his expression and took his seat.

“You made it, darling,” Madame Valli whispered. He narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing.

“Did you bring anything?” Professor Stokes asked. “A memento or a photograph of the one you wish to contact?”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Just myself,” he said. The mother and daughter adopted smug expressions, but Stokes merely smiled.

“More than many people bring,” he said. “In more ways than one.” He glanced around the table. “But surely you have something?”

Atwood glanced around at their expectant faces and sighed. It was all nonsense, anyway. He dug an old, faded photograph of his father out of his pocket. It was from his army days. Atwood wasn’t entirely sure why he’d kept it all these years, but it would suffice.

“Excellent,” Stokes said. “Now let us begin. Hold hands, everyone.”

There was a nervous flutter of hands and Atwood found his left caught in Madame Valli’s vice-like grip. The middle-aged woman to his right had a much more timid grip.

“Focus,” said Stokes. “Concentrate on the bell jar and remember the one you lost. Hold them tight in your mind.”

Atwood noticed for the first time an empty glass bell jar at the center of the table surrounded by the candles. He wondered vaguely at its purpose, but his thoughts were still preoccupied with Hearst’s man in the corner. Selby might not be far behind.

Then Professor Stokes began to chant. It might have been Latin, but Atwood doubted it. He’d had a smattering of classical education at some point, although it was mostly forgotten. He could feel the weight of the others’ concentration, of their collective grief and memory. It was oddly affecting. The room seemed to narrow to just the seven of them—eight, counting Coombs—and the candles and the jar. Everything else faded into shadow, and beneath it all was Stokes’ chanting.

Atwood felt a chill on the back of his neck. Stokes was good. He had to give him that. Atwood had been to his share of séances, and most of them were theatrical affairs with levitation and men in white sheets. This was different.

He started suddenly. Something was running up and down his leg. It took him a moment to realize that it was Madame Valli. He glanced at her and she winked salaciously. He fought back a blush. Somehow she would know, even in the dark, and it would only encourage her. He hoped her information was worth it.

A gasp from the daughter across the table pulled his attention back to the séance. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, an incandescent mist was starting to form inside the bell jar. Stokes’ chant was reaching a crescendo. Atwood blinked. There was a shape forming in the mist, glowing but faint. It was a face.

The features slowly coalesced—eyes, nose, mouth. Beside Atwood, the woman in a shawl clutched his hand suddenly. He glanced down. There was a photograph in front of her of a young soldier with that exact face.

“Your son wants you to know that he loves you,” Stokes said in a distant, singsong voice. “And that there is no better death than in service to his country. Do not mourn.”

She began to sob softly to herself, but she nodded through her tears. “Goodbye,” she whispered. The face faded back into the mist, but it was soon replaced by another, a woman this time.

Atwood glanced at the balding man. He had a photograph in front of him, as well. In fact, Atwood realized that all the Professor’s clients seemed to have come armed with a daguerreotype or picture.

Atwood watched with professional appreciation, as Stokes gave the gentleman a touching farewell from his wife. It was expertly done, and the man was clearly deeply moved.

When a kindly man’s face appeared, Madame Valli gave a dramatic sigh. This was her big moment and she was milking it for all it was worth. “Oh, Arthur!” she cried.

Atwood understood why she was there now. Her job was to prime the marks and keep up the illusion. A washed-up, overdramatic opera singer would not have been Atwood’s first choice if he were Stokes, but at least no one was likely to recognize her.

Finally a stern, bloated face materialized inside the jar. It stared unerringly at the richly adorned women.

“Mama!” the younger one said. Her aunt pressed her lips together so tightly they nearly vanished.

“She wants you to know that he’s at peace,” Stokes said. “And she knows that one day you will join her.”

The aunt didn’t seem to be interested in platitudes. “I don’t care about that,” she snapped. “I want to know what she did with the diamonds and pearls.”

“Aunt Vera?” the younger woman asked, shocked.

“Hush, child,” she said. “This is much more important.”

Atwood stole a glance at Stokes. He seemed taken aback, but not overly concerned. He began to chant again. Atwood thought he was playing for time, but beside him Madame Valli seemed unworried. She waggled her eyebrows.

The woman’s face in the jar began to fade, but there was a sudden flash of light. Coombs had finally taken a photograph. The light was blinding, and Atwood blinked white spots from his eyes.

“The jewels you seek are not yours to take,” Stokes said, his voice no longer singsong. Each word had terrible depth and weight. They seemed to echo inside Atwood’s head. “They were given to her daughter.”

She turned her sharp gaze onto her niece, who shrunk back. Atwood didn’t blame her. Her aunt looked positively murderous, though he wondered what Stokes was planning.

“Not that daughter,” Stokes said. The candles flickered with the force of his speaking. “Her other daughter.”

The young woman frowned. “But I don’t have a sister,” she said, her fear briefly forgotten. Her aunt, however, looked oddly satisfied.

“Good,” she said. “I can deal with that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hush, child,” she snapped. “We’ll discuss it later.” Her expression said otherwise, but it brokered no arguments.

Across the table, Atwood stared in impressed disbelief. Stokes had pulled that off perfectly, and he had no idea how.

The face faded away at last, and Stokes began to chant one final time. It was Atwood’s turn, he realized. He felt strangely nervous. It was all bunkum, of course, but it was the most convincing bunkum Atwood had ever seen.

Suddenly his father was there, glaring out of the mist. Atwood sat, transfixed. He knew those eyes. The room seemed to swirl and spin around him. He could hear Stokes speaking, as if from a very long way away, but he couldn’t make out the words. There was no message the old man could give, anyway. No message Atwood could accept. It didn’t matter that it was fake. The disapproval had been real in life and it was real now in death. Atwood had never needed a séance to tell him that. He didn’t need ghosts to be haunted.

Slowly the mist disintegrated, until there was only the jar and the candles.

“Thank you,” Professor Stokes said at length. The séance was over.

There was an awkward rustling, and everyone stretched as if waking from a dream. Atwood glanced around, discomforted. He had almost believed for a moment there. Stokes was delicately leading Aunt Vera and her niece toward the door.

“I apologize,” he said, “for any distress this may have caused. The spirits do not always tell us what we wish to hear. I speak on behalf of the dead, but I do not speak for them.”

“Nonsense, dear boy!” Aunt Vera said with an imperious wave. “You’ve been most helpful. Hasn’t he, Katherine?”

Her niece, Katherine, stuttered a response, her mind clearly still on the sister she never knew she had. Then they were gone. The middle-aged woman in a shawl followed after.

“I’m not sure who I’m most sorry for,” Madame Valli whispered. “That girl Katherine or her unwitting sister. Mrs. Everett is a force to be reckoned with.”