The Alchemist in the Attic (9 page)

Maguire stood hovering over the printing press with a cigar clenched between his teeth. The compositor and pressman bustled about their grimy, ink-stained work, uncomfortably aware of him looming behind them. They all knew just how precarious the
Oracle’s
situation was, and they didn’t find Maguire’s lingering presence reassuring, not in the slightest.

“You’re making them nervous,” Atwood said.

“They should be nervous,” Maguire replied. “And so should you. The others are catching up.”

Atwood acknowledged that with a grimace, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the printer finally disgorged the first copy of the evening edition. He snatched it up immediately and stared. For a moment he thought he saw blood drying on the page in place of ink. He shook the image away. Maguire plucked the paper from his hand, a concerned look on his face.

“Organ Harvester Still At Large!” the front-page headline read, accompanied by an appropriately gruesome illustration. Maguire scanned it briefly, then nodded. A sigh of relief ran through the room and the pressmen returned to work. As the great monstrous printers lumbered back to life, Maguire turned to Atwood.

“That was mostly tripe,” he said. “But your tripe is still better than nothing.”

Atwood shrugged. The article
was
tripe. He’d known that even when he was writing it. “I’m running out of ways to say the same thing.”

“You already have,” Maguire said. “Have you read today’s
Examiner
?”

“Yes.” Atwood sighed. “And the
Chronicle
.”

“You see the problem.”

“I do.” Atwood nodded.

“This is it,” Maguire said. “The story of the hour, perhaps the year, and you were on it before anyone, but the others are catching up.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And you know what you need to do,” Maguire said.

Atwood hesitated. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Maguire leaned in close. They both assumed that Selby had spies within the
Oracle,
ferreting out their secrets. It’s what they would have done in his position. “Yes,” he said after a moment. His breath smelled of elderberries. “I’m asking you to be your father.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.” Atwood had a bad taste in his mouth.

“Neither did I.” Maguire put a hand on Atwood’s shoulder. “But this is not the time to be squeamish. You need to get ahead of the murders again. Whatever it takes, by hook or by crook.”

Atwood shook his arm aside angrily and glared. “I am not my father,” he said. “And you of all people wouldn’t want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be,” Maguire said softly. “But I may need you to be.”

Maguire stared at him for a long moment, forcing Atwood to meet his gaze. “This is your world,” he said. “You know the players. You have a talent. Use it, Teddy. And save us both!”

Then without another word he marched up the stairs to his office, the cigar still clenched between his teeth and the paper under his arm. Atwood watched him with a pit growing in his stomach. He knew exactly what Maguire wanted him to do, what his father would have done; and despite himself, he was considering it. There was only one sure way to get ahead of a story like this, but it was dangerous and would require bait. His father wouldn’t have hesitated. The thought made Atwood sick, but he was his father’s son, and in his heart of hearts, he knew he’d already made his decision.

*

Atwood found Swifty in his usual spot on Union Street. He had chosen a particularly busy thoroughfare to ply his trade. Men in long coats and tall hats passed by in droves, while ladies crossed the streets carefully, trying not to splatter their petticoats with mud.

“Extra! Extra!” Swifty cried. “Read all about it!  Organ Harvester Still At Large!”

Here and there they would stop to listen to Swifty’s patter with pained, concerned faces. Beneath the worry, there was a barely veiled avarice, a greed for the lurid and the depraved.  Even in its fear, the city was enjoying the murders.

“You have company,” Swifty said, when Atwood approached.

“I know,” he said.

Selby’s men were following Atwood again, and this time they were being smarter about it. Evidently Selby had given up on intimidation, and was concentrating on ferreting out his secrets. There were two nondescript men in drab clothing—one was following a discrete distance behind, while the other shadowed him from across the street. Rehms and Wright had been thugs and cutthroats, but these men were another matter entirely. They knew what they were about.

It had taken Atwood at least half an hour to notice them, perhaps longer, and despite his best efforts to lose them, they remained stubbornly in pursuit. It was infuriating, but he would find a way, eventually. In the meantime, he would go about his business as best he could. Let them make of it what they would.

“I have work for you again,” Atwood told Swifty softly. “You and Little Jake, if you’re willing.”

“We’re always willing,” Swifty said. “If you can pay.”

“I can pay.” Swifty gave him a knowing glance. “For now,” Atwood said reluctantly. Even he sometimes forgot how clever Swifty was.

“Then I’m all yours. So who we finding now?”

“No one,” said Atwood. “This time I found him, but I need you to follow him, keep an eye out.”

“Little Jake and I can do that. Even better than your friends here.” His eyes flicked to the nondescript men loitering casually, waiting.

“I believe it.” Atwood hesitated. “It’s dangerous work.”

“I can take care of myself.” Swifty pulled his coat back slightly, just enough for Atwood to see the knife at his waist. He had no doubt that Swifty knew how to use it.

“I know.” Atwood nodded. “But this will be…different.” He could feel Swifty’s gaze sharpen, studying him suspiciously.

“Does it have to do with this?” Swifty asked, pointing at the headline in his hand.

“Yes.”

“Is it him?”

“Maybe.”

Swifty snorted. “Only maybe?”

“I don’t have any proof.”

“But you think it is?”

“Yes,” Atwood admitted. “I’m sure of it.”

“Then so am I.” Swifty frowned. “You’re sending us to follow a murderer.”

“If you’re still willing.”

“I can’t speak for Little Jake.” Swifty chewed his lip thoughtfully. “But yeah, I’ll do it.”

“Good. Meet me at 7 Pretorius Street at eleven tomorrow,” he said. “Bring Little Jake, if he agrees.”

“Will do.”

They regarded each other, one professional to another. There were no secrets in that moment. Swifty knew exactly what Atwood was doing, and he had agreed anyway. Atwood owed him, and Swifty fully intended to collect.

Atwood smiled. “Until then,” he said.

“Until then.”

Swifty resumed hawking his paper. Atwood left him to it. There were possibilities here, and dangers. Atwood could sense them hovering at the edges. The sight of the knife had been reassuring. Swifty was quick and dangerous in his own right and he would need to be. No one knew the city better than Swifty and Little Jake, but Atwood was deliberately throwing them to the wolves. Valencourt was different, deadly, but there was no other way. Atwood sighed. It was a risk he had to take.

*

Atwood put his feet up on the desk and made himself at home in Inspector Quirke’s office. The inspector was seated with his hands clasped on the desk. Daylight shone in through the windows behind him, silhouetting the inspector. Atwood noticed a copy of the latest edition of the
Oracle
neatly folded in front of him.

“You’ve been reading my articles?”

“Yes,” Quirke said. “We’ve been following your work avidly.”

“And?”

“It’s your usual lurid sensationalism, more fiction than fact. Although I did notice you made a point of referring to the Police Department’s…” The inspector paused. “How did he put it, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Wry moved to join him. “I believe he used the words ‘dogged persistence’ and ‘unparalleled professionalism’, sir.”

“Ah, yes.” Quirke smiled tightly. “That was it. A nice touch.”

“I thought you might appreciate it,” Atwood said slyly. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

Quirke raised an eyebrow. “You came to see us.”

“So I did.” Atwood fell silent. Quirke waited expectantly, while behind him Wry crossed his arms.

“I was wondering,” Atwood said at last, “if you’d gotten anything from the coroner’s report.”

“Of course you were.” Wry said snidely.

“We may have,” Quirke admitted and tapped the folder in front of him. “It certainly made for interesting reading.”

Atwood reached out his hand, but Quirke pointedly pushed it farther away.

“That’s not how this works. I need something more than good press in return. We have a deal.”

“We do,” Atwood agreed readily, “but I’m just as much in the dark as you are.”

Wry snorted, but Quirke sent him a quelling glare. Atwood hid a smile. He enjoyed winding Wry up; he couldn’t help himself.

Quirke shook his head, studying Atwood intently, almost disappointedly. He was waiting for something, anything, but Atwood kept silent. It was too soon to share. Once he told the police, it would only be a matter of hours before the word spread. Atwood needed more time.

After a moment, Quirke sighed. “Believe me,” he said, “we’re well aware of the delicacy of your situation, of how much you need this story, but we all have a job to do and in the past we’ve all managed to get what we need. This time doesn’t have to be any different.”

“It won’t.”

Quirke pursed his lip into a frown. “The Mayor and the Chief of Police called me to their offices. They both separately expressed a strong desire to see this case solved quickly.”

“Of course they did. Murder isn’t good for business.”

“It is for yours,” Wry interjected. “And that’s the point.”

Quirke leaned back and allowed his subordinate to attack. Clearly he had his own doubts and was using Wry to test the waters. Atwood recognized the tactic. He had employed it often enough, with his father, with Maguire, and most recently with Walter.

“You think I’m deliberately obstructing your investigation, for the sake of a story?”

“Of course not,” Quirke replied, but his face said different. He had never trusted Atwood, no matter how useful he had proven, and Atwood couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have trusted himself either.

“I have to protect my sources,” he said, almost apologetically. “You know that.”

“Your sources?” Quirke asked. “Do you mean McManus and Keeler?” Atwood controlled his expression, barely. Quirke and Wry exchanged knowing glances.

“We’ve heard the rumors too,” Quirke said. “The resurrection men are back. And when I sent Wry to track them down, he found that wherever he went, you and Walter had already passed through. It wasn’t difficult to work out the rest.”

“I see.”

“It would be a shame if they disappeared again, just when we’re about to arrest them.”

“Yes,” Atwood agreed. “It would be a terrible shame.”

Quirke smiled in resigned amusement and handed over the coroner’s file. Atwood took it quizzically.

“Consider it a deposit.” Quirke answered the unspoken question. “Besides, you just gave us McManus and Keeler.”

Atwood looked up at that and took note of Wry’s smug expression. “You were bluffing,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Quirke shrugged.

“I’m impressed,” Atwood said.

“I know you, Atwood, better than you think. You’re being less forthcoming than usual, so we needed to resort to other methods.”

“You sly devil.” Atwood was almost pleasantly surprised at being tricked. Almost.

“Be careful,” Quirke said. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Not like this. You have more enemies than usual this time.”

“Are you one of them?”

“No, but if you don’t help me now, I won’t be able to help you later.”

“I know,” Atwood said softly. “Thank you.” Then he nodded and took his leave.

He had learned more than he expected and given away more than he intended. Quirke was right. He was in a precarious position. He needed leverage, room to maneuver, but he had the uncomfortable sense that he might be giving himself just enough room to hang himself instead.

Atwood leaned against the brick wall, smoking a cigar. It was mid-afternoon and Pretorius Street was mostly deserted. A handful of pedestrians went about their errands with downcast faces, passing lonely, forlorn houses and a few carts and carriages rumbling up and down the hill. No one stopped, or spoke. An unearthly quiet had descended on the street. This was a place of decay and despair. It had seeped into the architecture and into the people’s faces. The world had the quality of a dream on the brink of nightmare, or perhaps Atwood was merely projecting his own mood onto those around him.

Swifty and Little Jake were loitering on the curb, playing jacks and daring anyone to object to their presence. None of the ladies and gentlemen did. None of them seemed to pay them any attention whatsoever. Urchins were a familiar sight, and they had a talent for being inconspicuous. Atwood was worried, though—mostly for himself, but not entirely. It was an unfamiliar sensation that was coupled with the nagging sense that he had overlooked something important.

He rubbed his forehead. The headaches had only gotten worse, and the dreams had followed, full of jagged edges and populated by the dead. He was starting to hear strange noises, too, even when he was awake, strange shrieks and hisses that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He was starting to wonder if he might be going mad.

Atwood checked his pocket watch. It was time. He glanced up just as the door at 7 Pretorius Street swung open. The shadows had lent him an air of danger that night on the landing, but in broad daylight, bundled against the chill, Valencourt made for a small, stooped figure. He seemed diminished in Atwood’s eyes, more human than fiend, but then he remembered the man’s eyes and the terrible, feverish certainty in them. He shivered.

Swifty and Little Jake had glanced up immediately when Valencourt emerged, but they waited for Atwood’s confirming nod. After a moment, he signaled and the newsboys scrambled to their feet. They followed Valencourt down the block casually, careful not to draw attention to themselves, but Valencourt seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts and largely oblivious.

He turned a corner and disappeared from view, heading down one of the many sudden hills. Swifty and Little Jake were right behind him, but at the last moment, they looked back and gave Atwood a cheeky salute. Then they were gone.

Atwood felt a grin tug at his lips, but he couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him at the sight. Dread coiled in his stomach. He was more certain than ever that he’d forgotten something. He gnawed at the problem to no avail. It was best to allow his mind to unravel such things at its own pace, but Atwood didn’t have the luxury of time, or of worry.

He sighed and put those thoughts aside. He had other business at 7 Pretorius Street, now that he knew Valencourt was out.

*

Atwood knelt at Valencourt’s door, peering at the lock. It appeared oddly rudimentary for a man as secretive and careful as Valencourt, especially in this neighborhood. Still, Atwood wasn’t about to complain. He removed a set of lock picks from his pocket and set to work. His father had taught him a number of unsavory, if useful, skills when he was a boy. He appreciated that education more and more with each passing year, although not the teacher.

His fingers were quick and sure, despite a slight tremor in his right hand. He glared at the offending digits and forced his fingers to stop shaking. They obeyed, reluctantly, but the lock proved less compliant , and stubbornly refused to open. Atwood was out of practice, that was all. The thought sounded unconvincing, even in his own head.

He could almost feel his father hovering behind him, radiating disapproval and whiskey. Exhaustion was playing tricks with his mind, conjuring dreams and phantasms. Atwood shook the phantom away. He was not that man anymore, and he had no time to lose.

Atwood took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. This was his best chance and he knew it. Collins would be expecting him for lunch soon, but there should be just enough time for a quick look around the attic. It was supposed to be a simple break and enter, but nothing about this was simple, not even the door. There were strange markings scratched into the frame. Atwood ran his fingers over them briefly and wondered if they meant anything.

Finally, he heard the lock click and breathed a sigh of relief, that immediately sputtered into a curse. Someone was coming up the stairs. Atwood barely had time to stand and slip the lock picks back in his pocket before Mr. Collins emerged from the stairwell with a puzzled, suspicious expression.

“Valencourt?” he asked. “I thought you…” At the sight of Atwood, he trailed into silence. “W-w-what are you doing up here?” he asked. “I thought we were…?”

“We are,” Atwood interupted with a winsome smile. “But I thought I might have a brief chat with your neighbor first. No harm in that.”

“No…” Collins hesitated. “But he’s not here.” He flinched, as if he expected Valencourt to appear at any moment.

“So I gathered,” Atwood said. They stood for a moment in silence. Collins clearly knew what Atwood had been doing. There was suspicion all over his face, and worry. Worry for himself. Worry for Valencourt. Perhaps even worry for Atwood. It was as intriguing as it was confusing.

“Since we’re both here,” Atwood said, finally. Collins had seemed willing and able to let the silence stretch to eternity. “Shall we head out? I know a lovely place called Marvin’s that’s not too far from here.”

He led Collins by the arm, back towards the stairs, and threw an annoyed, desperate glance back at the door. He had been so close.

*

Atwood and Collins sat at a window table dining on seafood and oysters amidst the clattering of cutlery and murmured conversations. Mr. Collins had been mostly silent on the way over, flinching at any sudden noise. Atwood had slowly coaxed a few words out of him here and there. As they ate, Atwood took the opportunity to properly study his companion. Collins was even worse than he had believed—there were dark circles under his eyes and his pupils were ringed with red. Atwood knew the telltale signs of insomnia all too well.

Even while eating, Collins was all twitching limbs and exhausted, muzzled nerves. He had the look of a man who wanted to talk—all he needed was someone to listen. Atwood was happy to oblige. Collins just needed a little nudge. Atwood hoped that Collins would be less reticent away from Pretorius Street, out from Valencourt’s shadow.

“It’s safe to talk here,” Atwood said. Collins gripped his knife and fork tighter, but didn’t reply. “You can trust me,” Atwood continued. “I promise. No one need ever know your name. I protect my sources, ask anyone.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, forcing Collins to look at him. “The police are rather cross about that, actually.”

Mr. Collins managed a small smile at that, a brief flickering of his old self.

“Did you tell Valencourt about me?” Atwood asked. That would reveal much about his and Valencourt’s relationship.

“No,” Mr. Collins whispered. His smile died on his lips. Atwood nodded. That was interesting, but it wasn’t the time to push yet.

“He’s always been very kind to me,” Mr. Collins said. There was a pleading quality to his voice that Atwood couldn’t quite place.

“I’m sure he has.”

“Very kind. He took an interest. He noticed me.”

Mr. Collins, with his forgetful face and his cheap, drab suit had clearly been starved for attention. Atwood imagined a life of monotony stretching before him, drowning Collins in a daily grind of papers and figures, and little else. Little kindnesses would loom large in such a life. It was a plausible image, but something about it felt contrived, practiced. There was something behind Collins’ story that Atwood couldn’t quite reach. Not yet, but he felt it peeking out.

He shifted tactics. “Valencourt is a doctor of some kind, I believe? A man of science?”

“A genius!” Collins was suddenly adamant. A few of the other patrons glanced over with a frown. Collins seemed to shrink under their eyes, but his certainty never faded. He was in awe of Valencourt, that much was obvious, but his admiration was tinged with something darker, something broken. Atwood could see it in every facial twitch and darting glance.

“You never explained your interest,” Collins said. “You make promises and ask questions, but you still haven’t told me why.”

Atwood had been expecting the question. He had avoided answering thus far, but he judged the moment was right, and at the very least, Collins’ reaction would be informative.

“No,” Atwood said. “I didn’t. The problem is that Valencourt appears to have ties with certain criminal elements. Body snatchers, to be precise.”

“That’s nonsense!” Collins’ voice was strident, but there was fear in his eyes and suspicion, unrealized but no less deep. “He’s a great man,” Collins said. “Misunderstood, that’s all. Great men always are.”

“Ahead of their times,” Atwood agreed lightly.

“Exactly!” Collins nodded. “You understand. He’s a man of vision.”

“And his vision led him to San Francisco?”

Collins shifted uncomfortably. “Something happened in France.”

“Oh?” Atwood leaned forward. “That sounds intriguing.”

“It’s no use asking me. I don’t know the particulars.” That was a lie. Valencourt had shared his secrets, some of them at least, and used them to bind Collins to him all the more strongly. But why? Why would he bother?

“Is Valencourt friendly with any of the other neighbors?”

“Not especially.” Atwood watched Collins for any sign of jealousy and found none.

“So why do you think he made an exception for you? Proximity?”

“I don’t know.” That was also a lie, a partial one, at least.

“How did he approach you?”

“Approach me? No, I was the one who…” Collins frowned and fell silent.

Atwood hid his triumph behind a sip of wine. Collins had sought out Valencourt, not the other way around. That was almost as inexplicable and raised whole new questions. Mr. Collins was clearly not a sociable fellow. What had prompted him to befriend Valencourt, of all people?

“It’s obvious how much he trusts you,” Atwood said cajolingly. “He sees something in you, like a son, even.” It was a shot in the dark, but Atwood was rewarded when Collins lit up at the thought. Collins grinned broadly, but again Atwood was struck by something darker lurking beneath the smile. There were undertones to their conversation, motives that he could not quite place.

“Sometimes,” Collins said, still smiling proudly, “he lets me assist him.” That was his second mistake, and he immediately pulled back.

Atwood pounced. “You must know about his work then.”

“I don’t understand it,” Collins mumbled.

“I’m sure you’re doing yourself a disservice. Anything you could tell me would be useful. I’m fascinated…”

Despite Atwood’s best efforts, Collins wouldn’t be drawn further on the matter of Valencourt’s work.

“He’s a good man,” was all he would say. “And I don’t appreciate you besmirching his reputation with your questions and insinuations. He’s a good man.”

Atwood raised his eyebrows at Collins unexpected attack, but noticed that despite his protests, Collins remained in his seat.

“Forgive me,” he said after a few minutes. “I’m not myself. I haven’t been sleeping lately.”

“I understand,” Atwood said. “More than you know.”

Collins had begun mumbling to himself. The poor man had said all he was going to say, but he had given Atwood a number of avenues to explore. Collins was clearly in Valencourt’s thrall, on the edge of a nervous breakdown. His constant twitching was making Atwood uncomfortable, and his motives remained opaque. Why would a clerk befriend a disgraced scientist? And, more importantly, why would Valencourt let him?

Atwood had begun investigating a potential bodysnatching ring and that had led him to murder, but now he sensed an even deeper mystery just under the surface. He had only started to plumb the depths, but Atwood would need to unravel these mysteries quickly. There were other forces at work, and he was running out of allies.

*

McManus and Keeler were waiting in the alley for Atwood. He arrived, panting heavily. He could feel the resurrection men watching him closely, but took a moment to catch his breath. It was becoming harder to escape his tail. Selby’s men were becoming wise to his tricks.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”

“We understand,” McManus said.

“Yes,” Keeler agreed, uncoiling from the shadows. “We noticed your friends following you.”

“Here? I thought I lost them…” He had been so sure.

“You did.” Keeler coughed. It was a hacking, painful thing, the sound of death.

“You were watching me.” It wasn’t a question. Atwood was suddenly wary. Had he been so focused on Selby’s men, that he’d completely missed the old resurrectionists? Either he was slipping badly, or they were far more dangerous than he’d previously believed.

“We needed to be sure of you.” McManus shrugged. It was almost an apology.

“Very wise,” Atwood replied, his mind still whirling. “And I wouldn’t call them my friends.” Without meaning to, he rubbed the lingering bruise under his eye.

“No,” McManus said. “I imagine not.”

“So, you wanted to speak to me?” Atwood glanced between them. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company.”

Keeler snorted, but it collapsed into another even worse cough. McManus watched him worriedly. “We just wanted to remind you of the terms of our agreement,” he said when Keeler subsided.

Atwood raised an eyebrow. He noticed for the first time how nervous McManus and Keeler were. There was nothing obvious in their appearance, but there was a tightness around their eyes that Atwood recognized.

“I remember the terms,” Atwood said. “And I honored them last time, didn’t I?”

“Eventually.”

“People are asking questions,” McManus said.

“Well, they were bound to. You couldn’t expect to keep your presence secret forever.”

Keeler frowned down at him. Clearly he and McManus had been willing to try. “Do they know?” he asked.

“Know?” Atwood studied them more closely. Just how involved were they in Valencourt’s activities was an open question. They had admitted to only the bare minimum, but it was only a short step from procuring corpses to dumping bodies. Not one knew the currents and hiding places of the city better. And there was his arrangement with Quirke to consider. The inspector would not appreciate it if McManus and Keeler slipped through his fingers a second time, and Atwood was on thin enough ground already.