The Alchemist in the Attic (3 page)

It emerged that listening to the city mostly involved spending their evenings in a series of increasingly dingy bars and alleys, talking to policemen and vagabonds alike, chasing down leads, however tenuous. They sat in dark corners drinking piss-poor beer, loosening tongues, making new friends, and listening.

Walter watched his friend at work with a mixture of envy and awe. He was quieter and more retiring—while Atwood coaxed words from complete strangers, he paid attention to the silences, the spaces between words. It was a practiced and effective partnership, though they endured their share of unfriendly looks as well, and were thrown out of a number of bars. Neither of them cared to keep count. Not everyone appreciated being asked questions, even when sufficiently lubricated or accompanied by the proper incentive, but that in itself could be informative.

Indeed, they collected a great deal of information, some of it even useful. The city about them was pregnant with rumor. There were the usual scandals, of course—a certain senior government official had been caught frequenting a house of ill-repute; a banker had absconded with a quarter of a million in carrier bonds; a fishmonger’s wife was seen cavorting with the butcher. Such things were the lifeblood of any city, but there were other rumors, disquieting rumors amidst the flotsam and jetsam. There were whispers of them everywhere. The gravediggers murmured in their cups. The ladies and gentlemen of certain philanthropic societies tutted to one another. The night watchmen sighed wistfully, thinking of their accustomed bribes, and people were starting to wonder and mutter darkly to themselves. Atwood and Walter heard them all but had found no tangible signs of McManus and Keeler themselves, only whispers and rumors, and of their benefactor, even less.

When they boarded a crowded streetcar several days later, their frustration was starting to boil over. Neither of them could say for certain whether the rumors were true, or if they were wasting their time, and time was the one thing they couldn’t afford to lose. Atwood could feel Walter’s eyes on him, but ignored his unspoken question. If this proved to be a wild goose chase, Walter would be the one to blame. Walter tried to speak, but fell silent under his glare.

They rode around the city for what felt like hours. It was hot and uncomfortably cramped. Atwood and Walter were pressed up against gentlemen in dark suits and ladies in fine dresses. The air was close and smelled of heat, sweat, and sickly perfume. Atwood checked his watch. He knew he was on the right streetcar.

Finally, a large woman with an outrageous hat stepped onto the streetcar and gave the driver a familiar nod. She was exceedingly polite and apologetic as she made her way down the car. The other commuters parted before her, desperately trying not to stare, and mumbling incoherent replies when she accidentally bumped into them.

As she passed Atwood, however, he reached out suddenly and caught her hand. Beside him, Walter had already started checking his pockets.

“She stole my wallet,” he said incredulously.

“You’re losing your touch.” Atwood nodded to his pocket watch still in the woman’s hand.

She looked between them in shock before glancing around quickly. No one else seemed to be paying any attention. She turned back to them and seemed to see them for the first time.

“I didn’t recognize you there, Mr. Atwood,” she said in a large, jovial voice. “And if it isn’t Walter Harel. How are you?”

“Big Tilda,” Walter said. It had taken him a moment to place her.

“Just Tilda to my friends,” she replied. “And we are friends, aren’t we?” She returned their belongings as subtly as she had stolen them, careful not to attract further attention.

Walter snatched back his wallet and glanced at Atwood for guidance. They had both seen Tilda in court many times on a litany of theft charges.

“Of course we are, Tilda,” Atwood said with a winning smile.

“And how can I help you today?” she asked. “You have pockets that need picking?”

“Not exactly, but I was hoping I could borrow your ears.”

“My ears?” She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Well, they are my daintiest feature.”

“We’re trying to find McManus and Keeler,” Atwood said.

Big Tilda exhaled. “I don’t get involved with them,” she said. “Not even for my friends. They’re too dangerous.”

“I understand,” Atwood said. “But have heard anything?”

“Only the same rumors that you have, and if I hear anything else I’ll close my eyes and whistle Dixie.”

Atwood accepted that with a nod. “Probably wise,” he admitted. Walter tugged on his sleeve suddenly and nodded toward a tall man and his friend with a crooked nose at the front of the car.

“I think they’re following us,” he whispered. “I could have sworn I saw them yesterday, across from the bar.”

Atwood followed his gaze and recognized them instantly. It was Selby’s cutthroats, Rehms and Wright. Atwood berated himself. Perhaps he was more tired than he’d thought. He should have seen them earlier. They weren’t even trying to hide.

They were there to intimidate him, to remind him that he was not welcome, as if he needed reminding. Atwood resisted the urge to feel his eye, still black and bruised. His ribs still jarred when he walked and there was a tightness in his chest. He swallowed his anger and forced himself to think. Sending thugs to scare him was a poor move, especially since the beating had clearly proved ineffective. Selby wasn’t stupid. There was more to this than mere intimidation.

Fritz had probably told everyone who paid that he and Walter had left the Club excited last night, but the Bavarian didn’t know why. Atwood had made sure of that. Selby and the others would be desperate to know what he was after. He frowned to himself. It would be even more difficult to find McManus and Keeler with Selby’s men shadowing his every move. Worse, they would lose the exclusive. Everything was resting on this story, if it was true. Atwood couldn’t afford to let anyone steal it from him, least of all Selby.

Atwood turned back to Big Tilda. He had once flatteringly called her “the Pickpocket Queen of San Francisco.” She had earned the name many times over and had once liberated three entire streetcars of their collective wallets, watches, and valuables in a single afternoon. The incident had entered into legend, though Atwood wasn’t certain if he believed it, not entirely. Still, he knew firsthand just how nimble her fingers were and how masterfully she made use of her great bulk. He would have need of both.

“I need a favor,” he whispered, keeping an eye on Selby’s men over her shoulder.

“What sort of favor?”

“The paying kind.”

Big Tilda smiled, showing a row of crooked teeth. “I’m all ears.”

*

The trolley screeched to a halt. Atwood and Walter climbed down, both keenly aware of Selby’s men scrambling to follow. They moved quickly, hoping that the press of people in the crowded trolley car would slow their pursuers, but it was a vain hope. The other commuters took one look at the cutthroats and squeezed out of the way as quickly as possible, all except one. At the last moment, Big Tilda barreled out of the trolley exactly on cue. Atwood and Walter couldn’t resist sneaking a peek back at the sudden commotion.

Selby’s cutthroats were well-built men, hard and sturdy. They were sprawled at Big Tilda’s feet with twin expressions of stunned surprise. For her part, Tilda was the picture of concern and contrition.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was in a hurry and I…” She shrugged helplessly. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. Here, let me help you.”

She reached down and pulled them both to their feet in a single motion. They seemed to be recovering their wits, but Tilda was upon them in an instant, fussing over them determinedly and being generally overpoweringly apologetic. They tried desperately to break free from her ministrations. Atwood and Walter were already disappearing around a corner. They would be gone within a moment, and Selby did not appreciate failure.

“Don’t worry,” one of them said to Tilda.

“No harm done,” said the other, still shaken.

They pushed away more forcefully this time and she obliged, taking a step back. They half ran in the direction Atwood and Walter had gone, but Big Tilda called them back.

“Wait!” she cried. “I think you dropped this.” It was a watch and chain. One of the cutthroats with a cleft chin fumbled in his pocket and found it empty.

“Thank you,” he said quickly and snatched it back.

“And I believe,” she said innocently, “that this belongs to your friend here.” It was a wallet.

The other cutthroat didn’t bother to thank her. He simply grabbed his wallet impatiently. They turned and took a faltering step, when she called them back a third time.

“And I’m not sure which of you dropped this,” Big Tilda said, holding up a handkerchief.

The cleft-chinned one tore it from her hand. He was starting to sweat, and his friend had developed a twitch at the sound of her voice.

“If you find anything else,” he snapped, “you can keep it!”

They took off before she could utter another word, disappearing down the alley at a full run. After a few moments, Atwood and Walter emerged from the same alley, backtracking the way they had come. As he passed, Atwood and Big Tilda shared a conspiratorial grin.

She watched them head into the city, still grinning broadly. She pocketed the other cutthroat’s wallet. He had told her she could keep it, though he probably hadn’t meant this. By the feel of it there was more cash inside it than there had been in the other one. All in all, a good day’s work.

*

Atwood and Walter had eluded their pursuers and they were finally free to investigate. In Atwood’s experience, only two types of men resorted to body snatchers—experienced doctors engaged in borderline research and medical students hoping to learn the anatomical arts. Dr. Gentle had been the most infamous practitioner, but he was far from the only one. There were others, less ambitious and more discrete. None of them were fond of Atwood, certainly not since Gentle’s incarceration. It would be better to start on the other end with the resurrectionists and body snatchers themselves.

Every Wednesday the elite resurrection men, body snatchers, and gravediggers of San Francisco would gather for a friendly game of cards that lasted long into the night. It was an exclusive gathering. Only the self-appointed creme de la creme were invited, and if they were no less grimy than their inferiors, they made up for it in infamy. McManus and Keeler had frequented the game for many years before their sudden flight. It was where Atwood had found them the first time. He knew there was little chance in raking over old coals, but it was as good a place to start as any.

The bar was at the top of a steep narrow hill. Atwood knew the way, although it had been nearly six months since he’d last been there. The hill was steeper than he remembered. Beside him, Walter was wheezing slightly. He paused outside the door partly because he wasn’t sure of his welcome and partly to catch his breath. The resurrectionists were a secretive and insular lot. At best they had only ever tolerated him, and that was before Dr. Gentle’s arrest, before McManus and Keeler had been forced to flee the city. There was no telling how they’d greet him.

Inside it smelled of alcohol, tobacco, dirt, and decay. Atwood didn’t spare any of the regulars a second glance. They were the usual mixture of hard drinkers and ne’er-do-wells. A few of them gazed up at them blearily as they passed, but most were happy to ignore Atwood and Walter in turn. He did send the bartender a familiar wave, which the burly man returned with narrowed eyes and a frown only partially swallowed by his mustache.

Atwood continued blithely marching to the back room. There was a locked door, painted green. He knocked three times. Nothing. It had taken him months to find this place the first time, and for a moment he worried that they had moved elsewhere. He turned to Walter, who offered an uncertain shrug. If they failed here, they might have to find another story, and they’d already lost too much time chasing McManus and Keeler’s shadow.

Finally the door opened a crack and a suspicious, big-nosed fellow peered out at them. Atwood seized the opportunity and immediately gave the man his broadest, most ingratiating grin.

“How are you, Charlie?” Atwood said, reaching out to shake his hand vigorously. It was less a question and more of an exclamation. The big-nosed man, Charlie, took an involuntary step backward under the unexpected barrage of friendliness. Walter slipped inside through the gap smoothly and silently, as if they had done this many times before. Atwood followed, only then relinquishing his grip on Charlie’s hand. He blinked after the two reporters in bemusement.

There were six of them huddled in a haze of smoke and gloom around a rickety round table. The usual suspects were all present. There were the McClellan Brothers, lean, hungry dandies whose grand schemes and hopeless dreams inevitably led them back to corpses and dirt. Henry and Malcolm McClellan preferred to be called ‘resurrection men’, but in truth they were body snatchers and thieves like all the rest. Beside them sat Horace, Bryce, and Lint, each uglier than the last. They had a workmanlike bent to their shoulders and a gambler’s gleam in their eyes. They would have been the most dangerous men at the table, were it not for the final player.

Mr. Ormond looked like a crinkly, kindly old grocer, but there was dirt under his fingernails, and his laugh lines were creased with avarice. He had never robbed a single grave in his life, but he had dug and tended more than his fair share. He was the groundskeeper at one of the city’s larger cemeteries and supplemented his income by turning a well-compensated blind eye to the activities of those around him. He possessed a grimy dignity the others lacked, and was the only one who greeted Atwood with any semblance of friendliness.

“Come in, Atwood,” Ormond said. “Make yourself at home.”

He made a calming gesture with his left hand, and the others at the table began to relax. One by one, Horace, Bryce, and Flynn removed their hands from their pockets, where they had been subtly fingering their knives, and for the moment they were all friends. Not that Atwood trusted it for an instant. Ormond wanted to know why he was there, and until then he’d play nice. That was all.

Of McManus and Keeler there was no sign.

“Thank you.” Atwood waved. “Gentlemen, long time no see.”

“Have you come to join the game?” one of the McClellan brothers asked. Atwood thought it was Malcolm, but despite the brothers being several years apart, he always got them confused.

“Oh no!” he replied with practiced self-deprecation. “Never again. Not after you cleaned me out the last time. But my friend here”—he nodded to Walter—”would be happy to play a few hands.”

“Why not?” Henry McClellan cried.

“Pull up a chair,” said his brother.

The other players studied Walter’s sickly, silent form with unrestrained glee, all except Flynn, who recognized Walter from one of Chinatown’s more popular gambling establishments, and Mr. Ormond, who recognized something disquieting in Walter’s silence.

Walter smiled his thanks and pulled up a chair, somehow managing to find the only patch of sunlight in the room. Dust danced around him and the light glinted in his spectacles as he regarded the others with an innocuous expression.

“May I?” he asked, holding his hand out. With a shrug, Horace passed him the deck. “Thank you.” Walter proceeded to shuffle the deck with alarming speed and dexterity. The cards seemed to come alive at his touch. Atwood watched the players’ faces fall with barely disguised glee.

Walter dealt with practiced precision and the room descended into concentrated and worried silence. Atwood retreated to the back of the room and puffed on his cigar, waiting. Slowly, one by one, the players forgot about him, all except Mr. Ormond. Walter was winning hand after hand. The money was piling up in front of him, and the McClellan brothers were getting restless.

At last, Atwood judged them to be suitably distracted. He stood suddenly, and dragged a chair across the floor to sit behind Walter. The screeching echoed in the silence, and everyone flinched.

“So,” Atwood said, crossing his legs in studious nonchalance. Immediately there was a flurry of frowns.

“And here come the questions,” Lint muttered.

“I’m a reporter,” Atwood said. “It’s my job.”

“So’s your friend,” Horace replied. “And he’s barely spoken a word.”

“Walter likes to concentrate when he’s playing.” Atwood patted Walter jovially on the shoulder. For his part, Walter merely grunted, but behind his cards his eyes were sharp and watching.

“Though maybe you’d prefer it if he was distracted by asking questions,” Atwood said with a sly smile at the already growing pile in front of Walter.

“If he wasn’t so busy taking your money,” Atwood continued, “Walter here would be mentioning that he’s heard rumors that your old pals McManus and Keeler are back, and we thought we might find them here.”

A murmur went around the table. Bryce and Horace exchanged weighted glances. Only Mr. Ormond was unperturbed. Their return could only mean more money for him. McManus and Keeler had always been generous with their bribes.

“Well, I’m hurt,” Malcolm McClellan said. “I thought for sure you’d come for us this time.”

His brother nodded. “But all you ever seem to care about is McManus and Keeler. It’s a shame. We’re much more interesting.”

“Are you?” Atwood peered at them with sudden attention. Even Walter peeked over his cards to study them. The McClellan brothers wilted under their gaze and Lint sent them a disgusted glare.

“And where,” he asked, “did your silent friend hear that?”

Walter transferred his gaze to Lint. “Around,” he said.

“Around,” Lint repeated incredulously, but Walter would not elaborate, daring them to doubt him. No one seemed willing to take the challenge.

After a moment Mr. Ormond broke the stillness and pushed all his remaining chips forward. “All in,” he said calmly. Even Walter’s habitually placid expression wavered. “And to answer your question, Mr. Atwood…”

“Did I ask a question?”

“You implied,” Ormond said. “I haven’t seen McManus or Keeler in months.” He glanced down meaningfully at the pot.

“Are you sure about that?” Atwood tapped Walter on the shoulder and he immediately folded. The others quickly followed suit.

Mr. Ormond collected the sizable pot, then shrugged. “If they’re back, then they haven’t visited my cemetery, nor any cemetery I know. They must have an alternative source.”

Atwood glanced at Walter, who nodded, confirming what Atwood already knew. Ormond was telling the truth. They all were. None of them had seen McManus and Keeler. None of them had even known they were back. McManus and Keeler were keeping their presence secret, even from their old acquaintances, or perhaps especially from them. There was little love lost between the resurrection men. The McClellan brothers looked particularly unhappy at the news, but then they had always felt overshadowed by the more infamous pair.

“An alternative source,” Atwood repeated.

“Yes.”

Mr. Ormond refused to elaborate. It was unnecessary. When a resurrection man spoke of alternative sources, they all knew what he was implying. No one ever admitted to it, of course. It was frowned upon, even in bodysnatching circles, but there were always those who were willing to arrange for particularly fresh corpses. Suspicions had swirled around Horace and Lint for years, but were never spoken. Never proved.

Atwood had no doubt that McManus and Keeler were capable of the deed, although he would reserve judgment. There was a great leap between grave robbing and murder. He was more interested in why Ormond had even raised the possibility. He was throwing McManus and Keeler to the wolves. Atwood studied the older man, but his placid, avuncular expression never faltered.

“If you haven’t seen them,” Atwood said, trying a new tact, “I wonder if you’ve heard rumors about a new patron, someone who might have lured our old friends back into the city?”

The air of false friendliness evaporated instantly. Horace, Bryce and Lint hid their expressions reasonably well, but Bryce’s hand lingered near his knife. The McClellan brothers strained for nonchalance, but their faces had gone pale.

“I can’t speak for the others,” Ormond said, even calmer than before. “But I haven’t heard a word.”

The others chorused their agreement. Atwood didn’t even bother to glance at Walter. It was obvious. They had all heard about the patron. They were all afraid. They were all lying. That knowledge was worth its weight in gold. It meant the mysterious patron truly existed, and if he could frighten even these men, it meant there was a story here after all.

Atwood couldn’t help but smile victoriously. He had a trail. At last, he had a trail.