The Alchemist in the Attic Page 2

  2

  The Newspapermen

  Atwood paced back and forth outside Maguire’s office. The other reporters had all gone home for the night, but Maguire was ensconced with a number of gentlemen in frockcoats. Atwood couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear a relentless murmur of voices seeping out through the walls. He had recognized some of the visitors—they were all among the Oracle‘s wealthiest investors, and none of them sounded happy.

  Atwood reached the end of the hall and turned back abruptly with jerky, violent motions. The floorboards creaked in protest, and he could feel Walter’s eyes on him, but he paid them no heed. His ribs hurt and his legs ached, but he couldn’t keep still. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He could feel the frustration and exhaustion coiling up inside him, stretching tighter and tighter. He hated waiting.

  “You’re making me dizzy,” Walter said from his post, where he was leaning against the wall. They had both changed into their best, if slightly wrinkled, coat and tails. They had plans later, provided they managed to see Maguire first, or at all.

  Atwood shot Walter a glare, full of dark, angry thoughts, but Walter appeared unperturbed. He was familiar with Atwood’s moods and gave an unapologetic shrug. Atwood held the glare for a few moments, but he could feel the anger draining away and forced himself to smile.

  Suddenly there was an angry shout from inside and Walter glanced at Atwood, trying to meet his eyes, but Atwood turned away and gazed down at the composing room below. The younger man was looking for reassurance and Atwood had none to give. Walter should have known that.

  Maguire’s office was on a mezzanine level that overlooked the two great printers in the long, windowless room below. Even at this hour, those hulking monstrosities were going at full bore, churning out 10,000 copies an hour. They would be lucky if they sold half that. Atwood glanced down. A number of ink-stained journeymen were bent at their work, sweating even on a cold September evening. The compositor and pressman looked up and met his eyes sympathetically.

  Atwood’s father and Maguire had built a small kingdom out of a potent mix of sensationalism, scandal-mongering, and blackmail, but the Oracle was a small fish compared to the Examiner and the Chronicle, caught between Hearst and Young. They had deep pockets and a simmering feud to drive them. The Oracle was simply in the way.

  Atwood checked his pocket watch. It was nearly midnight. “You don’t have to wait with me, Walter,” he said. “You should go save us a seat at the Club.”

  “Are you sure?” Walter fixed him with his sad, discerning eyes.

  “I’m sure.” Atwood patted him on the arm. “We need to keep our hand in. Show the others we still mean business. It’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.” Walter didn’t believe a word of it, but he obliged willingly.

  Atwood watched him leave. He and Maguire would be able to talk more freely without Walter’s silent, ingratiating presence.

  The meeting finally seemed to be drawing to a close inside. The gentlemen emerged in a row of frockcoats and long faces and took their leave with stiff politeness. A few of them recognized Atwood, and nodded. He returned the gesture, but said nothing.

  “Get in here, Atwood!” Maguire called, as soon as they were gone. Atwood sighed and obeyed.

  Maguire’s office was piled high with books and papers. They covered every available surface, the desk, the chairs, and the cabinets, even the floor. Maguire maintained that there was a system, and despite his continual effort, Atwood had never quite managed to prove him wrong.

  “I should have been here,” he said.

  “Excuse me.” Maguire scowled. He was a weathered man with calloused fingers and a droopy eye that gave him a perpetually tired expression.

  “At the meeting.”

  “Not this again.” Maguire sighed and rested his head in his hands.

  “If I’m going to be editor one day…”

  “Are you measuring my carpet, Teddy?” Maguire glanced up balefully. “Planning to march me out the door?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s what your father would have done.”

  Atwood snorted. “It’s what you would have done.”

  After a moment, Maguire chuckled. “True enough,” he said. “True enough. And, honestly, I’m almost tempted to let you have the damn paper. Then you can deal with this mess. There may not be a paper soon. We’re bleeding money.”

  “I know,” Atwood said. “In more ways than one.”

  “Gage?” Maguire asked.

  Atwood shook his head. “He wouldn’t pay.”

  Maguire groaned. “Gage, of all people. I didn’t think he’d have the nerve.”

  “Not on his own, anyway.”

  Maguire opened one of his drawers with a bang and pulled out a half-empty bottle and a pair of glasses. “Hearst or Young?” he asked.

  “Hearst.”

  Maguire nodded. “Your friend Selby was there, I take it.”

  “Yes.” Atwood took his glass and drained it in a single gulp. “No love lost there.”

  “But blood was spilled I take it.”

  “It wasn’t a fair fight.” Atwood grimaced. “Selby brought reinforcements.”

  Maguire raised an eyebrow. “Wonder who he learned that from.” He drained his glass and poured himself another. “Careful Teddy. I don’t have the resources to fight Hearst. I don’t have the manpower and I don’t have the money. I have my…experience.” He smiled wryly. “And I have you.”

  “Meaning?” Atwood frowned.

  “Meaning I’m taking you off the court report. You want to be the editor? You want there to be a paper? Then find me a story. I don’t care what it is. Just give me a story that’s sensational enough to save both our jobs. Manufacture it if you have to, but get out in front. Make the Examiner and the Chronicle chase after us for a change!”

  “Ah.” Atwood leaned back with a satisfied smile. “I can do that.”

  “I hope so,” Maguire said. “Your father and I built this paper. Now you and I need to save it.”

  “I’ll find something,” said Atwood with more confidence than he felt.

  Maguire nodded. There was nothing more to say. They needed each other, trusted each other, as much as people like them could trust anyone.

  “Now, you should go home and get some sleep,” Maguire said.

  “Can’t sleep,” Atwood said. “Bad dreams.”

  “Again?”

  “Always.”

  Maguire frowned. “You haven’t been taking opium again, have you?”

  “No.” Atwood shook his head firmly.

  “Good,” Maguire said. “I need you sharp, but you should try to get as much rest as you can. The next few weeks are going to be murder.”

  “I will, but first I’m meeting Walter at the Club.”

  “Ah.” Maguire nodded. “I see. Showing face.”

  “One of us has to.”

  Maguire smirked. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

  “More than one,” Atwood replied, rising to his feet.

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  “Not for us, anyway.”

  “No,” Maguire agreed, putting his glasses on with a sigh. “Not for us.”

  They bid each other goodnight. All things considered, that had gone better than Atwood expected. Now he just had to find the right kind of story and make it news. Atwood could do that. He had been doing it all his life. The city would provide. It always did, and if not, he would think of something. There was no other choice. Atwood wrapped his coat around him tightly. There was a chill in the air, and a fog was gathering over the bay. It was going to be a cold night and he was starting to ache. A drink and a hot meal sounded really good to him at the moment. He hoped Walter had managed to find them a table.

  3

  Dinner at the Bohemian Club

  The doorman at the Bohemian Club sneered down his nose at Atwood’s bloody face and rumpled attire, but let him inside. Atwood was a member of l
ong, if not particularly good, standing. He had been with the Club since the early days, when it had been little more than a meeting ground for journalists, artists, and writers, before it had opened its doors to all manner of businessmen. Atwood remembered when the Club had been only a single room rather than a six-story brick edifice. He had felt more at home there, surrounded by court hacks, newspapermen and other less savory characters, all drowning their sorrows and successes. The food had mostly been slop but it was cheap, which was all that truly mattered.

  These days the Club had multiple dining rooms, an excellent French chef, and housed the most well-to-do bohemians Atwood had ever met in his life. It was also far too rich for his blood, but it was important that he, and by extension the Oracle, still be seen as belonging, especially after the last few weeks. A few of the other gentlemen in the dinning room looked up with narrowed eyes when he entered. Some of them hid their sneers in their napkins or turned away when he looked their way, but a handful met his gaze brazenly. Some of them simply didn’t like his state of dress and ugly black eye. Others had personal reasons to hate him, and some of them were Hearst’s men. Atwood wore their disapproval as a badge of honor, and even shot a broad grin at the gentleman in the corner, radiating bitterness and scorn. He scowled in response, causing Atwood to grin all the wider.

  Walter was waiting for him at their usual table, ensconced in a far corner. Atwood sank into his chair gratefully.

  “We’re supposed to be making friends,” Walter said. “Keeping up appearances.”

  “I’m keeping up appearances,” Atwood protested.

  “Well, you’re certainly memorable,” Walter muttered. “Though I’m not sure this is what you had in mind.”

  “I liked you better in the old days. You kept your comments to yourself.”

  “No you didn’t,” Walter said, smiling. “You complained that I was too quiet and you never knew what I was thinking.”

  “Nonsense!” Atwood waved the comment aside with a reluctant half-smile.

  “What did Maguire have to say?” Walter asked when their grins had faded.

  “About what we expected. Another advertiser has pulled out.” Atwood sighed. “He’s taken me off of the court reports, so I guess that means you’re promoted. Congratulations!”

  “He fired you?” Walter leaned forward. “After everything your father…” He faded into silence. Their waiter had arrived.

  Fritz had been with the Club for years. He knew everybody and everyone knew him. He was also known to listen in on conversations and share what he overheard with anyone who was willing to pay. Considering those who frequented the Club, it was a lucrative racket. Atwood had made good use of his services over the years, but he was always careful to keep his own conversations from Fritz’s curious ears.

  “Atwood,” Fritz greeted him. “Harel,” he said in a soft Bavarian lilt. “Would you care for something to drink?”

  Atwood nodded and ordered a far-too-expensive bottle of wine. Neither he nor the Oracle could afford the extravagance and all three of them knew it. Fritz glanced between them. Atwood raised his eyebrows, while Walter simply observed him with a peculiar unblinking expression, daring him to comment.

  After a moment Fritz shrugged, hiding his sudden discomfort. It was all about appearances at the Club anyway. “Right away,” he said and smiled a tight smile.

  Atwood waited until the waiter was well out of earshot before resuming the conversation. “No.” He shook his head. “Maguire didn’t fire me. Not yet anyway.”

  “Then what?”

  “He wants me to find a story. Something sensational with bodies, preferably. And if I can’t find one, make one.”

  “A body?” Walter asked.

  “No!” Atwood snapped, perhaps too quickly, but Walter didn’t seem to have noticed. “A story. The right story to put us back on the map.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Walter smiled. “He picked the best man for the job. You’ll find something.”

  “Of course I will,” Atwood said. “I’ve been in tighter spots.”

  “Choose a monopolist out of a hat?” Walter suggested. “See what we turn up? We’re bound to find something.”

  Atwood shook his head. “That didn’t work out well for McEwen. He lost everything in the end.”

  “McEwen was a crusader,” Walter said. “You’re just…”

  “A hack,” Atwood interjected with raised eyebrows. “I see your point, but that would be war, and in our current state the Oracle would lose.”

  “True enough.” Walter frowned thoughtfully. “The right story, you say?”

  “Yes?”

  “Then I may have something for you. I didn’t mention it before, because it seemed ludicrous. Why would they return, especially so soon after last time?”

  “Who?”

  Walter glanced around the Club dinning room, as if afraid someone might be listening. It was a reasonable fear, Atwood reflected. He had stolen a few leads in the very same manner.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Walter said. “That McManus and Keeler have found a new patron.”

  “You’re right,” Atwood whispered, leaning forward. “That is soon.” McManus and Keeler were famous in certain circles. Specialists in bodysnatching, they had been Dr. Gentle’s personal resurrection men, before his incarceration. They had been missing for months.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Card game,” Walter said.

  “Maybe I should start playing poker.”

  “You’re terrible at poker.”

  “True.” Atwood sighed. “Any idea where? Or who?”

  “Not yet,” Walter said, “but men like that shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  Atwood studied his friend suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?” It wasn’t like Walter to share a lead.

  “Well,” Walter said, “you know them better than anyone.” That was a deliberate exaggeration. Atwood had developed a casual friendship with them based largely on his willingness to share a drink or two, pay the tab, and most importantly keep their names out of the paper as long as possible, but Walter knew it was no more than a useful, if unsavory, acquaintance.

  “And,” he continued, seeing Atwood’s expression, “I want a byline. If you move up, I’ll get your old job. Everyone wins. Provided the paper survives.”

  Atwood nodded. Self-interest was a much more reassuring motive, even between friends. Besides, he knew McManus and Keeler’s world, knew the key players, and they knew him, trusted him, as much as they trusted anyone. If McManus and Keeler were truly back in town, Atwood was the perfect man to find them and quickly.

  “Then we had best see what we can find,” he said.

  Atwood had spent many years studying the city, learning its people, its ways, and its sounds. The city would talk to you, if you knew how to listen, and Atwood proposed to do exactly that. It was a start, at least.

  4

  The Pickpocket Queen of San Francisco

  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.