The Alchemist in the Attic (7 page)

“Five cents a day,” Little Jake said with his arms crossed. “Plus expenses.”

“That’s absurd!” Walter cried. “We don’t even make that much.”

“I’m not surprised,” Little Jake replied. “Clearly you’re not worth that much, if you need us to do your job for you.”

“How dare you? You’re just a child!”

“Who could do your job better than you can.”

“See here, you little runt!” Walter looked as though he was about to crawl over the table and smack Little Jake.

“Two cents,” Atwood said calmly.

“Three plus expenses,” Swifty replied immediately.

“Two,” Atwood repeated.

“Plus expenses.”

“No.” Atwood shook his head. “This has already turned into a more expensive and time-consuming enterprise than either of us expected, or, for that matter, can afford. Two cents will be pushing it as it is.”

Swifty glanced at Little Jake, who nodded. “Done.”

“Provided he pays,” Little Jake added, pointing at Walter.

“Done.”

“Excuse me?” Walter asked.

“I paid for the butter cakes.”

“Yes,” agreed Little Jake. “He paid for the butter cakes.”

*

Atwood left Walter on the corner of Davis Street. He was still nursing his ego from having to pay Swifty and Little Jake. Atwood had patted his arm companionably and kept his opinions to himself. Walter had made a cardinal error, and he hadn’t learned his lesson. That much was clear. It was an uncharacteristic oversight, but they all had their blind spots.

Atwood turned down the street warily. San Francisco could be a dangerous place at this hour of night. The street lamps were few and far between. Atwood was at home in the night, but he knew enough to be leery, especially with Selby’s men still following him. The old faithfuls were back, Rehms and Wright. He’d hoped they might split up to keep an eye on both of them, but clearly their employer was less interested in Walter’s movements. That could be useful. Selby had a blind spot of his own where Walter was concerned. He’d never taken him seriously. It was an easy mistake to make, but a mistake nonetheless.

Atwood kept his pace deliberate, but found his hand straying to the brass knuckles in his pocket. Their weight was oddly reassuring. He hadn’t fared well in their first encounter, but he’d managed to deal the crooked man a sharp blow. It would be easy to lose them in these streets if he needed to, but they seemed content to simply follow him.

Atwood finally reached Mrs. Bucket’s Boarding House. He could hear the clatter of their footsteps as they took their positions across the street. As he climbed the stairs to the front door, Atwood turned and gave them a cheeky wave. It would be a long night for them, if they planned to stay at their post. The man with a crooked nose lit his pipe and glowered out of the shadows. Beside him, the tall man made an aborted gesture that might have been a wave. Atwood chuckled to himself and slipped inside.

As soon as he was out of sight, however, he collapsed against the door and took a deep breath. They seemed a friendly enough sort, though the crooked one didn’t seem to have forgiven him, but in the end they were hired thugs with a job to do. Atwood could appreciate that, even though it continued to complicate matters. No matter how many times he lost them, they always returned to their post. Selby must be paying them well.

He felt hounded and the worries he tried to bury were rising to the surface. Every instinct told Atwood that this was the big one, the story of a lifetime. But with that opportunity came risk. If Selby’s cutthroats stole this out from under him, Atwood was finished. There would be no coming back from that.

He sighed. It was a delicate line he was walking, and he was so tired. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months and he was starting to slip. He was sure he’d missed something. That thought gnawed at him, but it was a problem for another day. They were all problems for another day. He lumbered up the stairs. So many steps, creaking beneath his feet. For now he just wanted to sleep a long, dreamless sleep, but he doubted he would be so lucky. He never was.

Atwood rapped on Maguire’s door and took the moment to rub his aching, tired eyes. He felt like death. Atwood kept nodding off in his office, despite the churning roar of the great printers outside his door. There was something soothing in the monotonous drone. It meant the
Oracle
was still running, and more importantly it drowned out the sounds in his head.

“Come in,” Maguire called at last. Atwood sighed and obeyed.

The office was somehow even more of a catastrophe than usual. The air was stale and close and it smelled of paper and sweat. The piles of boxes and paper had multiplied and towers had collided and collapsed, creating crests and valleys of paper, crinkled and stained. The furniture peeked through here and there, and someone had cleared a tottering path from the desk to the door.

“Don’t just stand there,” Maguire barked, glancing up from his desk. “Get in here!”

He struck Atwood, suddenly, as very small. Maguire was shrinking in on himself. He appeared as tired as Atwood felt, and he was finally starting to look his age. Maguire had become an old man almost overnight. It was oddly disconcerting.

Atwood tried to imagine his father like this, and failed. His father had not been a man to shrivel and shrink, but then he had never lived long enough. Atwood’s old man had gotten himself killed years ago. Brilliant but flawed, he’d gotten himself in too deep, trusting his wits to get him out again as they always had. Maguire had never been like that. He was slower, steadier, more solid, but he too was reaching the end of his tether.

“How much of this is true?” he asked, throwing a copy of the morning paper on the desk.

“Almost none.” Atwood was unrepentant. “A few facts here and there.”

Maguire smiled a proud, tired smile. “And your bodysnatching friends?”

“I’ll find them,” Atwood said. “It’s connected. The murders, everything. I’m sure of it.”

“And if it isn’t?” Maguire appraised him with his drooping eye.

“Then I’ll make it connected.” Atwood smiled sharply. “No one will ever know the difference. And if they do, they won’t care. Mine’ll be the better story.”

“Excellent!” Maguire clapped him on the back. “You’ll make a fine editor one day.”

Atwood smiled wanly. “Thank you,” he managed. “That means a great deal, coming from you.” He swallowed his growing worry behind a swell of sudden pride. Maguire was only kind when he was truly concerned. More than anything, a genuine compliment showed just how overwhelmed Maguire was.

Maguire cleared his throat awkwardly.  He was no more comfortable with sincerity than Atwood was. “Are you still involving Walter?” he asked.

“Yes.” Atwood frowned. “It was his lead in the first place and he’s been very helpful. I have high hopes for him.”

“You had high hopes for Selby, and look where that’s gotten us.”

“I know,” Atwood muttered darkly. “You should have let me handle him ages ago.”

“Perhaps,” Maguire allowed. “Perhaps not. It’s too late now.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

Maguire shook his head ruefully. “Where is Walter, anyway?”

Atwood narrowed his eyes. Maguire had posed the question seemingly as an afterthought, but he was after something. “Someone has to do the court reports,” Atwood replied slowly. “Why?”

“Nothing,” said Maguire. “But I thought I’d assigned those reports to Wright and Layfield.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Atwood shrugged. “All I know is that he told me he had to be in court.”

“I see.” Maguire chewed his cigar viciously.

“What?”

“He’s been seen.” Maguire hesitated. “Talking with Selby.”

“Seen by whom?”

“Some of the newsboys.”

“Which newsboys?”

“Your pet, Sniffy.”

“Swifty,” Atwood corrected. There was a hint of rebuke in his voice. Maguire ignored it.

Atwood’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’m hardly one to cast stones, but if this is true, I’ve misjudged Walter, badly.”

“Just be careful,” Maguire replied. “We don’t want this story stolen out from under us. So hurry up and find your bodysnatching friends. No one else is on that yet, but we can’t keep our interest secret forever, not with the way Selby is watching you.”

“Yes, sir.” Atwood snapped a sloppy salute.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Maguire snapped.

Atwood grinned and took his leave with a muted fondness tinged with worry. He needed to speak with Walter.

*

Marvin’s Cafe was small place, tucked away at the bottom of a particularly steep hill. The owner was particularly fond of red velvet. The tablecloths were all red and a number of curtains were strewn about randomly, creating an intimate or, perhaps, claustrophobic atmosphere. Atwood had used the cafe numerous times for clandestine meetings or to make an escape. The food left something to be desired, but the proprietor owed him a favor. He and Walter were ensconced at a small table at the back of the restaurant.

“Maguire asked where you were today,” Atwood said over a plate of lamb and oysters.

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth,” Atwood said. “That you told me you were going to court.”

“Good.” Walter nodded.

“Yes,” Atwood agreed. “Only, he seemed to think he’d assigned that to Wright and Layfield.”

Walter shrugged. “Maybe he forgot.”

“Maybe.” Atwood gave him a long, searching look.

“The old man is losing his touch,” Walter offered after a moment.

“Yes,” Atwood said with a frown. “That must be it.”

They ate for a few minutes in silence, each lost in their own world. Around them the noise escalated into a dull roar. There was intermittent shouts and laughter, but they paid them no mind.

“So,” Atwood asked at length, “how did it go, then?”

“I didn’t find McManus and Keeler, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Atwood frowned at him. “Careful,” he said. “You’re becoming too clever for your own good.”

“Well, I had a good teacher,” Walter replied.

Atwood hesitated. Walter was being entirely genuine, that much was obvious, but Atwood distrusted that sincerity. He was far more comfortable with lies.

“I suppose you did at that,” he managed, glancing down, embarrassed. Walter gave him a small smile, which he returned awkwardly a moment later.

“And you?” Walter asked. “Any sign of…them?” His distaste was palpable. He couldn’t even bring himself to say their names.

“They were supposed to meet us here,” Atwood replied, glancing around.

“So you said, though I can’t believe you’d take them here. Coffee and butter cakes are one thing, but this…”

“Marvin won’t mind. I’ve brought my share of bummers and ruffians here.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Walter sighed. “Are you sure they won’t just take the money and run?”

“I’m sure.” There was no hesitation in Atwood’s voice, not even a trace of doubt. Walter was unimpressed.

“You said that boy reminds you of yourself,” he said. “Are you saying
you
never took the money and ran?”

“Only if I thought I could get away with it, and Swifty knows better than to try that with me.”

“If you say so,” Walter muttered, clearly unconvinced.

“I do.” Atwood smirked over Walter’s shoulder. Swifty and Little Jake were standing right behind him, with wicked grins on their faces.

Walter turned and stared up at them glumly, as if expecting a trap. Judging by Little Jake’s crestfallen expression, he clearly had something in mind.

“We found ’em, mister,” Swifty told Atwood.

“Already?” Walter asked.

“No problem.” Swifty said smugly. Atwood and Walter had wasted weeks on this, and the newsboys had managed it in a matter of days. They took no small amount of satisfaction at that, all the more so at Walter’s dour expression.

“Where?” Atwood asked.

“We heard it from Gibbons,” Swifty said. “Who heard it from Sparrow, who overheard Beaky sayin’ he saw your McManus and Keeler at the Ginger Midget last night.”

It took the reporters a moment to untangle Swifty’s circumlocutions.

“You’re sure?” Walter asked.

“Course we’re sure,” Little Jake glared. “We wouldn’t take nothin’ to you if we wasn’t sure, would we?”

“No,” Atwood agreed. “You wouldn’t.” It might have been hearsay, but Swifty and Little Jake were professionals. They had a reputation to protect.

“The Ginger Midget,” Walter muttered to himself.

“It’s off Pretorius Street, innit?” Little Jake offered helpfully.

“I know where it is,” Walter snapped.

“Sorry,” Little Jake said in a mockery of contrition. Beside him, Swifty’s eyes were laughing.

“Thank you,” Atwood said, before Walter could get in further over his head.  “You’ve done well.” He handed over the remainder of their payment.

“Anytime,” said Swifty.

“For a price,” Little Jake interjected.

“Of course.”

They all shook hands like proper business partners, although Walter was reluctant and refused to meet their eyes. The newsboys left laughing.

“We found them,” Atwood said.

“If you believe them,” Walter replied sorely.

“You don’t?”

Walter looked down at his plate. “No,” he said reluctantly. “I do.”

“Well then,” said Atwood, “we have work to do.”

McManus and Keeler were the best leads they had. No one else knew they were even in the city, let alone where they were, and Atwood was sure they were involved. The timing was too close, too perfect. That meant they were the murderers, or knew who was. Atwood had gotten to know them fairly well before. He had no illusions about their work or their nature. They were dangerous and deadly. He found that his hand had strayed to the knife in his pocket. He felt its reassuring weight in his hand. It was time to face McManus and Keeler and finally get to the bottom of this nightmare.

The Ginger Midget was a dark, shabby establishment wedged into an alley off of Pretorius Street. The old brick-and-stone edifice looked as if it was going to crumble in on itself at any moment, but there were lights on inside, sickly and dim. It was a place for hard drinkers and lonely old men nursing their bitterness in the bottom of a glass. There was no laughter here, no singing, no cards and precious little conversation. The silence was not comfortable, but sharp and full of jagged edges. The bartender had the air of a man with a small arsenal secreted about his person and the wiry strength to use it, and even in the dim light the barmaid looked as though she could knock a man down with a single blow. Atwood thought it was exactly the sort of place McManus and Keeler would hide—out of the way and quiet. They would enjoy the silence. Jagged edges held no dangers for them.

Atwood made certain he and Walter sat by the window, partly to keep an eye out for their quarry, and partially due to its proximity to the door. Walter followed his lead willingly. Neither felt comfortable here. Atwood had been known to comport himself well in many a barroom brawl with thieves and sailors, but he didn’t fancy his chances here, not so soon after Selby’s men had beaten him. He was too cynical for bravery, or perhaps too wise. He and Walter hunched over their glasses warily, studying their fellow patrons. It was not a reassuring assemblage. They were just considering whether they should risk asking a few discrete questions, or perhaps sound the retreat, when the door swung open and the men in question arrived.

McManus and Keeler entered followed by a cold wind, and as one the whole room seemed to lean away from them. No one wished to be seen doing so, but there was a sudden rustling, one unfortunate chair screeching painfully in the silence.

They made an odd pair, even from a distance. McManus was short and barrel-chested, and red-faced no matter his state of inebriation. Keeler, by contrast, was long and gaunt. Even stooped over he was the tallest man in the room. Perpetually coughing, he looked like he was a strong breeze away from the grave, but he was surprisingly strong, as many in the bar had already discovered for themselves.

The resurrection men took possession of a table in the darkest recesses of the bar. The men around them suddenly remembered pressing engagements elsewhere. A graying man who hadn’t thought fondly of his wife in years, if ever, found himself thinking warmly and urgently of hearth and home.

Walter had nearly choked when he saw them enter and had half-risen to approach them. Atwood grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Not yet,” he said. “Finish your drink.”

“But they’re right there!”

“Yes,” said Atwood. “I can see them, and they can see us. Now sit back down. This will require careful handling.”

They drank in nervous, and in Walter’s case sullen, silence. The only sounds were the clinking of glasses and a low murmur seeping out from the darkened corner. Finally, when they had drained their glasses and Atwood judged enough time had passed, he stood and trudged to the bar. Walter trailed after him.

“I’d like to order another round for the gentlemen in the corner,” Atwood said calmly. His voice echoed clearly in the cramped silence. The room drew its breath. Even those barely conscious seemed to know something was happening, something potentially dangerous.

The bartender studied Atwood doubtfully, but was clearly of the opinion that it was his funeral. He poured out four pints and took the money without comment. Atwood’s hand may have strayed perilously close to the derringer hidden in the folds of his waistcoat. Purely for reassurance. Atwood did not doubt for an instant McManus and Keeler’s capacity for murder. They had doubtless put nearly as many people in the ground as they had taken out of it. They were undoubtedly guilty. The question remained, however, whether they were guilty in the particular, and Atwood would reserve judgment on that for now. Not that it mattered in and of itself. Atwood was after bigger fish, but he would settle for McManus and Keeler if necessary.

The bar carefully did not watch as Atwood and Walter approached the corner table, baring their alcoholic sacrifices precariously in their arms. The barmaid certainly did not gasp when Atwood nearly slipped and dropped the pints. She was far too busy attempting to coax one of her usual clients upstairs.

“Good evening,” Atwood said, placing the drinks down with a relieved thud. There was a moment of utter silence. McManus and Keeler had given no sign that they’d even noticed the hushed drama around. Then Keeler’s cadaverous voice emerged from out of the shadows.

“Heard you’ve been looking for us, Atwood.” This close they smelled of distilled earth and decay. It clung to their clothes and skin.

“Not you,” Atwood said. “Not exactly.”

McManus and Keeler exchanged glances. “Ah,” said Keeler. “Him.”

“So there is a him?” Walter asked.

Keeler looked him up and down then frowned. “‘Course there’s a him. What else are we talking about? Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Not a chance,” McManus agreed, his voice surprisingly high. “Not with the way last time ended.”

“I apologized for that,” Atwood said.

“Yes,” Keeler said gravely. “You did.”

“I had a job to do, same as you. I kept your names out of it as long as possible, and you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning. You got out in time because of me, and you both know it.” Atwood studied them for a moment. Keeler’s expression did not waver and McManus sipped his pint noisily. They appeared entirely unmoved. Clearly they were clearly as suspicious of Atwood as he was of them. He could appreciate that. Mutual suspicion was familiar territory. He felt oddly at home.

“I’m offering the same as last time,” Atwood continued. “I don’t think you need the attention. Bodies washing up onshore, and the premier resurrection men on the West Coast are back in town. It won’t be long before someone else starts making connections, maybe even my friend Inspector Quirke.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” McManus said, looking up from his beer.

“Of course not,” Atwood replied. They had matching ingratiating smiles and matching poker faces.

McManus and Keeler said nothing. There was no trust here, but there was the possibility for mutual self-interest. Atwood could feel them studying him, gauging the angles, but he wasn’t truly worried. They had reached an arrangement once before and Atwood was confident they could do so again. He understood their instinct for self-preservation and trusted them to act in their own best interest.

“I’m after a story,” he said. “Not necessarily a murderer.”

McManus grunted. “And what do you want from us?”

“All I need is a name, and an address, if you’re willing.”

“As a favor,” said McManus, “between friends.”

“Exactly.”

“And we’re to do this out of gratitude?” Keeler asked.

“Certainly not!” Atwood reached into his pocket and removed a number of crisp bills. “We’re all businessmen here.”

McManus and Keeler glanced at each other. Keeler gave a sepulcher nod. “Very well,” he said, “but you didn’t hear it from us.”

“My lips are sealed.”

They turned toward Walter. “Mine too,” he said. They frowned, but seemed satisfied enough.

“He lives in the attic,” said Keeler, “at 7 Pretorius Street.”

“Calls himself Dr. Marius Valencourt,” McManus added. “It might even be his real name.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Atwood.

McManus raised his glass in a wry salute, but his eyes were troubled. “Be careful, Atwood,” he said. “That man is worse than Gentle.”

Keeler said nothing. He already looked as though he regretted telling them anything. A cough wracked his body and that long, gaunt figure seemed suddenly frail. Walter shivered, but Atwood paid no heed. He still wasn’t sure if McManus and Keeler were guilty, or if he was wandering into a trap, but he needed to take a calculated risk.

“I did have one other favor to ask,” he said.