The Alchemist in the Attic Read online

Atwood blinked and Walter’s pen stopped writing. “None of them?” he repeated slowly.

  “That’s right.” Quirke met his gaze. “They were all alive last anyone saw them.”

  “Fresh meat,” Wry added.

  “Murder, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Quirke said simply. “Murder.”

  With a single word everything had changed. A chill shivered down Atwood’s spine. His thoughts were whirling. But there was opportunity as well as terror here, for both of them.

  “This case could make your career,” he said to Quirke.

  “And save yours,” the inspector replied immediately. Atwood was taken aback.

  Quirke smirked. “Come now, Teddy,” he said. “I’m not blind. The Oracle is in trouble and so are you.”

  “True enough.” Atwood smiled ruefully. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “Perhaps we can,” Quirke agreed. “But we’ll need to tread carefully. Gage won’t be happy we’ve spoken. He’s out for your blood, and ours too when he learns we met you.”

  “I thought you said you could handle him.”

  “Only if you make it worth my while.”

  “The usual arrangement then?”

  “For now,” Quirke agreed. “But I will expect a bit more than your usual smoke and mirrors.”

  “And I’ll expect more than your usual crumbs of information.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You could start by telling us which ironworks.” Atwood gave him a brazen smile.

  “I could, but then you’d publish it.”

  “It would be quite a scoop.”

  “Yes, and then Gage would know I told you.”

  “He is a spineless windbag,” Atwood said. “But he’s not an idiot.”

  “A spiteful windbag,” Quirke added.

  Atwood shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

  “Always.”

  “Be seeing you,” Atwood said. He stood and shook Quirke’s hand. Then offered Wry his hand. For his part, Wry pointedly ignored Atwood, but shook Walter’s after a moment. It was a petty snub, but it only amused Atwood.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Good luck.”

  As Atwood and Walter were leaving, however, Atwood turned as if a thought had just struck him.

  “By the way,” he said. “Do you know anything about the robberies at the Academy of Science?”

  “Robberies?” Quirke turned to Wry, who frowned.

  “I think I heard something odd,” the sergeant said admitted. “Someone stole laboratory equipment, I believe.”

  “And mandrakes,” Walter added helpfully.

  Quirke narrowed his eyes. “I’ve just told you that we have a murderer on the loose, and you ask about stolen beakers and mandrakes?”

  Atwood shrugged. “Professional curiosity.”

  He left with Walter trailing behind. He could feel the inspector’s eyes on them as the door swung shut behind them. He had fulfilled his part of the arrangement. Information for information. Quid pro quo. The rest was in Quirke’s hands. Their deal only went so far, and they both knew it.

  *

  There was a cold bite on the wind, as Atwood and Walter headed back to the Oracle, and Atwood thought he could smell something feverish and rotten seeping in through the fog. Around them, men in long coats and tall hats were making their way home for the night, while others were laughing and shouting, as they prepared themselves for the evening’s entertainment. But Atwood caught a tinge of desperation in their merriment. Their laughter was a little too long, their voices a little too loud, and no one dared linger on the streets. The bodies found at the wharf loomed in every mind, no matter how hard they tried to forget. Atwood could see the fear in their gaits and hear it in their voices. This was a city on the edge, but fear and fascination went hand in hand and that was where Atwood lived.

  A handful of newsboys in ragged coats and peaked caps were loitering outside the Oracle Building. Swifty and Little Jake were among them, but Atwood recognized a few of the others as well. Atwood had never known their real names. He doubted anyone did; even amongst themselves. This was who they were now. Not one of them was older than thirteen in years or younger than eighty in cynicism. They were the quick-tongued, light-fingered face of the paper, and if its sales were dwindling, it certainly wasn’t their doing.

  Atwood was always careful to treat them with respect. He never ruffled their hair or spoke down to them. They knew the city and its hidden places better than anyone, even him, and more importantly, they didn’t just hawk the news, sometimes they saw it, so it paid to cultivate them. It didn’t cost much—a few pennies here and there for butter cakes and ale, and most of all, mutual respect. It had proved a useful arrangement, and he hoped it would serve him well again. Walter had never learned the lesson.

  “Is this really necessary?” he muttered darkly to himself. “It was just supposed to be you and me.”

  “It is just you and me,” Atwood said with an aborted smile. Walter’s petty feud with the newsboys was long standing, and fueled by misplaced jealousy. “That’s the problem. We’ve both been doing our best to find McManus and Keeler and it isn’t enough. Unless there’s some special insight you’d like to share?” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve been holding out on me, have you?”

  “No!” Walter protested. “I would never!”

  “Neither have I,” Atwood replied softly. “So we need fresh eyes, and theirs are the freshest.”

  Atwood gave the newsboys a friendly nod, one professional to another. Swifty returned the gesture with a crooked glint in his eye.

  “He’s just a newsboy,” Walter protested weakly.

  “I was a newsboy,” Atwood said. “And sometimes he reminds me of myself.”

  “Yes, but your father…” Walter bit his tongue, but it was too late.

  “What about my father?” Atwood’s voice was suddenly cold. “Has someone been telling stories?”

  “No, I…” Walter trailed into silence. “I didn’t mean…”

  Atwood took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Atwood said. It was part reassurance and part warning. For a moment they studied each other in a silent, awkward apology.

  “All right,” Walter said after a moment. “But you’re paying that little shit.”

  Atwood said nothing, but hid a smile behind his hand so that Walter couldn’t see.

  “I’ve been expectin’ you,” Swifty said as they approached. “Though I thought you’d come looking sooner.”

  “I was delayed,” Atwood said.

  “So I see.” Swifty glanced at Walter, who was watching him with a none-too-friendly glint in his eyes.

  “I have a job for you,” Atwood said nodding to Little Jake, who had ambled over to join them, sensitive to the sound of money. “Both of you. I need you to keep an eye out.”

  “Lookin’ for something in particular?” Swifty asked. “Whoever gave you those bruises maybe?”

  Atwood touched his face gingerly. The swelling was only starting to go down. “No.” He shook his head. “Not them. I can handle them.”

  Swifty and Little Jake said nothing, but they wore their skepticism plain on their faces.

  “For now,” Atwood admitted after a moment. “But that’s not the sorta job I had in mind.”

  Swifty and Little Jake glanced at each other.

  “You’d tell us if we should be worried, right?” Swifty asked.

  “I would,” Atwood agreed.

  “So,” Swifty asked after a moment. “Should we be?”

  Atwood shrugged. “I’d have jumped ship by now if I could,” he said honestly. They would have known if he had lied.

  Swifty nodded. “Well,” he said. “In that case, always happy for work, ain’t we, Little Jake?”

  “Could be,” Little Jake said. “Could be. But I find it’s hard to think
on an empty stomach.”

  “True.” Swifty nodded solemnly. “Very hard.”

  Walter bristled, but Atwood merely smirked. “Butter cakes and coffee all around?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

  “That’s very generous of you,” said Little Jake.

  “Uncommon decent, that’s what it is,” Swifty added, looking perfectly grateful.

  “I know just the place,” Little Jake said.

  “I’m not paying,” Walter muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough. Swifty and Little Jake shot him a pair of wicked grins. Atwood patted him on the shoulder and then followed the laughing newsboys out into the night.

  *

  Swifty and Little Jake had a reputation as the most industrious of the newsboys and they proceeded to prove it, negotiating the terms of their arrangement over a late supper. The butter cakes were piping hot, though they tasted of sawdust, and the coffee was lukewarm, but they ate carefully, treasuring each bite, and pocketing a cake each. They were stockpiling for the winter.

  Atwood and Walter watched them across the table, waiting. Atwood remembered his own lean, hungry days, the hole in his stomach that could never filled. The thought of those days drove him, lent his thoughts a starved, desperate edge. He could feel himself sliding back closer and closer into the embrace of those days, and this time his father wouldn’t there to help. It was only him. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

  Over copious amounts of coffee, the newsboys quickly agreed to the job in principle. They were old hats at finding people who didn’t want to be found. The question of payment, however, required some negotiating.

  “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.

  10

  The Search

  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 cla
pped 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.”