The Alchemist in the Attic

by Urias, Antonio

  “If you say so,” Walter said doubtfully. “But if you need to talk.”

  “I know.” Atwood sent him a small smile. “But right now, I need to finish this, before Maguire kills me.”

  “It might be too late for that,” Walter said.

  As if summoned by the sound of his name, Maguire was suddenly in the doorway, peering with pinched, worried eyes into the halfway house of smoke and madness. His eyes went to the bottle on Atwood’s desk, and without a word, he barged in, the smoke parting around him as he approached. Maguire raised the bottle to his lips, and drained it in one long draught. Then he set the emptied bottle down with a thud.

  “Smooth,” he breathed. Atwood blinked up at him, startled, as if emerging from a dream, and then he stared at the empty bottle forlornly.

  “I needed a drink,” Maguire said and sank into the rickety chair across from him.

  Atwood nearly suggested that Maguire should’ve started with his own supply. They both knew he had an expensive bottle secreted in his desk, but then Atwood caught a whiff of the other man’s breath and realized that Maguire had already done just that.

  “How’s it coming?” Maguire turned his drooping eye on Atwood’s article.

  “It’ll be ready in half an hour,” Atwood said confidently.

  Maguire snorted and glanced back at Walter, who shrugged. “That’s what you said two hours ago,” he said. “This is the main headline. I need it now, Teddy.”

  “I know.” Atwood swallowed his annoyance. He knew that both their livelihoods might depend in no small part on this article, but Maguire should have known better than to rush him.

  Maguire was clearly worried, and was doing what he could for the paper, perhaps more than he was truly able. Atwood felt an unexpected surge of affection for the older man. The fact that Maguire had come into his office, shared a drink, and sat down, even, showed that he was feeling nostalgic. Maguire had spent many hours like this with Atwood’s father, but he would never have come to Atwood like this if he had been sober.

  “I dreamed of him last night,” Atwood admitted. He could feel Walter’s gaze sharpening from the corner, but Maguire understood immediately. His eyes softened as he took in Atwood’s disheveled state and bloodshot eyes.

  “I see,” he said, and he did, much more than Atwood would have liked. He felt that understanding encroaching on him, invading him. “You haven’t done that in awhile.”

  “No.” Atwood wasn’t sure if he meant the dream or the opium.

  “What did you dream?” Maguire asked.

  “We argued,” Atwood said.

  “No change there, then.”

  Atwood winced. “Not like this.”

  Maguire sighed. “He’s dead, Teddy. Let him go.” He stood slowly, his joints creaking. “And finish the article. I need it on my desk within the hour.”

  “Half an hour,” Atwood repeated.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Maguire muttered, and then he was gone.

  Atwood sat there for a moment, lost in thought. His head still hurt, and Maguire’s words echoed in his head. He had let his father go years ago, but the old man was reaching out from the grave and pulling him in. He sighed. That was the opium and the drink talking.

  “You can go home, Walter,” he said. “This is going to take a while.”

  “You said half an hour,” Walter replied.

  “I lied.”

  “What about the Academy?”

  “In the morning,” Atwood said. “And let’s hope they’re in a sharing mood.”

  Walter studied him for a long moment. Atwood could feel the questions bubbling up inside the other man, but Walter never pried. It was an odd quality for a reporter, but Atwood appreciated it in moments such as these.

  “All right,” Walter said. “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” Atwood said. Then he sighed and fed a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. There was a great deal still to do. Soon he was so lost in a world of clattering keys, murmuring to himself. He didn’t hear Walter leave.

  *

  The mammoth loomed above them, flanked by a bison and a saber-toothed tiger, all preserved, stuffed, and displayed for the curious. The mammoth was nearly as imposing in death as it had been in life. Looking up, Atwood could almost feel the earth tremble beneath the mammoth’s feet, and could imagine its great trumpeting. The sight always discomforted him. He felt oddly unstuck in time.

  Behind him he could still hear the sounds of the city—the rumble of carts and hooves, the distant trolley bell. That was Atwood’s world, a place of dark suits and hats, of business and noise, and of news. Inside, the Museum of Natural Curiosities, though only a few feet from the street, was a place of stillness and quiet, of bones and taxidermy, of the last, lonely relics of forgotten worlds. There was no news here, only history, and history had no place for him.

  Beside him, Walter was staring transfixed at the mammoth. For a moment it seemed to peer back at him with sad, ancient eyes across the weight of years. Atwood shuddered. The atrium rose around them, three stories tall with wrought-iron railings and a skylight high above.

  “We need to head up,” Atwood said. The Academy research offices, laboratories, and lecture halls were located on the top floors.

  “I know,” Walter said. His voice seemed distant, but he followed Atwood up the stairs after a last look at the mammoth.

  They passed taxidermied bears and other creatures. Walter lingered on each one with an odd reverence, but Atwood refused to pause even for a moment. There were a number of other visitors—students, researchers, and fellows of the Academy for the most part—speaking in hushed tones, but Atwood and Walter were well-practiced listeners. They caught snippets of conversations and learned a great deal about collegiate gossip and professorial habits, but nothing concerning anatomical lessons or illegal experimentation.

  “We should come back one day,” Walter said. “To take a proper look at the collection.”

  “Why?”

  “To see where we come from,” Walter said. “The terror and glory of the past. It’s wonderful.”

  “I prefer the living to the dead,” Atwood replied. “There’s more money in news than history.” He glanced around. “And museums are too much like mausoleums for my tastes.”

  *

  Dr. Landesman, Head of the Department of Anatomical Research, was not pleased to see them.

  “Who let you in here?” he demanded, rising from his chair in an avalanche of papers, his glasses still perched on his forehead.

  “We have an appointment,” Atwood said.

  “With who?” Landesman asked sharply. “No one here would talk to you, not after what you did.”

  “With you.” Atwood smirked.

  “I never…” Landesman looked appalled.

  “I’m afraid your secretary was very accommodating.”

  Landesman twitched. “Get out,” he said. “Now.”

  “Certainly,” Atwood replied. “And on our way out, we’ll be sure to mention just how helpful you’ve been to everyone we see.”

  “They’d never believe you.”

  “No?” Atwood glanced at Walter, who shrugged theatrically. “Perhaps not. But afterwards you would never be entirely free from suspicion. They might wonder how you got the job.”

  “On my merits.”

  “Perhaps,” Atwood said. “Eventually.”

  They could see Landesman’s thoughts playing out across his face. He had been ruthless in his ascent through the ranks of the department, and had made more than his share of enemies. They would believe. Landesman glared at Atwood for a long moment, and then turned to Walter. There was no judgment or triumph on Walter’s face, only certainty. Finally Landesman sank back into his chair, defeated. Atwood and Walter shared a smile. They had him.

  “Damn you,” he muttered. There was a bitter edge to his voice, the moreso for being beaten. “We all know what you did to Dr. Gentle. You gave the grave robbers a chance to
run before you published, but not Gentle, not the man of science. You hounded him and circled his execution like a goddam vulture.”

  Atwood sighed. “I did warn Gentle,” he said. “Twice, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Why?” Landesman’s doubt was palpable.

  “You knew him better than me. He was stubborn, and he didn’t like to run.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  Atwood studied him for a moment. “I do,” he said. “I warned Gentle because a manhunt would have sold thousands more copies. I could have written about it for months.”

  “You’re a selfish bastard,” Landesman said, and paused. “That I can believe.”

  Walter grunted angrily, but Atwood sent him a quick, quelling glance, and he held his tongue. Atwood found Walter’s resentment on his behalf perplexing. Atwood was perfectly capable of defending himself if he chose. In fact, he had visited Gentle in prison and had tried to help him as best he could, which was more than anyone at the Academy, including Landesman, had ever done. But he preferred to keep that to himself. People might see it as a sign of weakness, and that would be the end of him.

  “We spoke to Risely,” Atwood continued. “He said you might have something for us.”

  “That little rat,” Landesman snapped, but the fire had gone out of him and he sighed. Atwood and Walter held their peace. Landesman would talk when he was ready. Rushing him would do more harm than good.

  “There have been a number of robberies in places recently,” Landesman said at last. “Strange business. Nothing dangerous or irreplaceable, but oddly specific.”

  Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  “Laboratory equipment, mostly.”

  Atwood and Walter exchanged confused glances.

  “And if you think that’s peculiar,” Landesman said. “You should speak to Miss Eastwood.”

  *

  Miss Alice Eastwood was an unexpectedly young woman with a round face and inquisitive eyes. The Head of the Botany Department, they found her in the herbarium tending to her collection. There were hundreds of plants, thousands, most exceedingly rare and some already bearing her name. She looked up at their approach and studied them, no less intently than her various samples.

  “Dr. Landesman,” she greeted. “And guests.” Her eyes flickered to Atwood and Walter.

  “Miss Eastwood,” Landesman replied. “This is Theodore Atwood and Walter Harel. They’re from the Oracle.”

  “I see.”

  “They have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” His tone of voice suggested that she was more than welcome to object, but instead she straightened and wiped an errant strand of hair from her forehead.

  “No harm in asking,” she said.

  “If you say so.” Landesman pursed his lips, eager to be gone. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He brushed past Walter, who was leaning down to examine an orchid. The air in the herbarium was clearer, more fragrant.

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Atwood,” she said.

  “All good, I hope.”

  “No,” she replied briskly. “None of it. Now what can I do for you?”

  Atwood turned to Walter, who seemed even more entranced by the plants than he had been by the mammoth. Atwood sighed to himself.

  “We understand that you’ve been robbed,” he said.

  “Yes,” Miss Eastwood replied, seemingly unsurprised at the line of questioning. “They took a number of seeds and several of our specimens of mandragora officinarum.”

  Walter looked up puzzled. “Mandrakes?” he asked.

  “Correct.”

  Atwood was incredulous. Nothing was making any sense. They were getting closer. The mystery should be revealing itself; instead, it was becoming murkier than ever. Someone was apparently cutting open bodies with one hand, and stealing equipment and—of all things—mandrakes with the other. Even his imagination was hard pressed to find a connection. They were still feeling around the edges, fumbling for the keyhole, without a key. But there was a connection. He was sure of it. There had to be.

  “Did you file a police report?”

  “Naturally, but they weren’t interested in a handful of missing plants, not when there’s a murderer on the loose.” She gave them a piercing, far too knowing look. “So why are you?”

  Atwood didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  She smiled. It was a pretty smile, but it wasn’t kind. “Was there anything else?” she demanded. “I have a great deal of work to do.” She paused. “Unless your friend would care to help me?” Her voice had softened slightly. “He seems quite taken with my collection.”

  Walter had turned back to the herbarium, seemingly fascinated. Atwood nudged him sharply. “No,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Eastwood. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Have I?” she asked. “How nice.”

  Atwood left with a final nod. Walter followed behind him reluctantly, with a final lingering glance.

  9

  The Newsboys

  The police station was a hub of frenzied activity when Atwood and Walter arrived. Men were running to and fro, and there was a steady hum of conversation. There was a feverish tinge to the voices and a pinched, worried look to the faces around them.

  The desk sergeant knew Atwood on sight. He frowned at the reporters and shot a quick glance around the station. Atwood followed his gaze. More than a few of the other policemen were already sending him and Walter dark glances. There was a low-level undercurrent of hostility and a frightened, beleaguered violence that threatened to explode. Beside him, Walter seemed to wilt in on himself. It was as if they had entered enemy territory.

  “Inspector Quirke is expecting us,” Atwood said. It was only partially a lie. He hadn’t made an appointment, but then he’d never needed one. Quirke was probably wondering why he hadn’t turned up sooner.

  “This way, sirs,” the desk sergeant said after a moment, leading them deeper into the station and up a broad flight of stairs. Atwood felt distinctly unwelcome, even more so than usual.

  “I know where Quirke’s office is,” Atwood said. The desk sergeant didn’t reply, but the angry stares were answer enough for him. Wandering around the station on their own probably wouldn’t have been prudent. Atwood wondered at the hostility. He hadn’t done anything recently to upset the police. His articles, so far, had been very favorable. He knew what side his bread was buttered on, after all, but something had clearly riled them up. He didn’t like not knowing. It was disconcerting, and potentially dangerous.

  Inspector Quirke’s office was at the far end of a long, narrow corridor. The sergeant rapped on the oak door twice.

  “Come in,” a voice called. The sergeant gestured for Atwood and Walter to remain in the hall, then slipped inside.

  “Sorry, sir,” they heard him say. “It’s Atwood and Harel from the Oracle…” Then the door closed and the rest of the conversation was muffled and indistinct.

  Atwood and Walter exchanged confused glances. Usually they were ushered inside immediately. Atwood had been a familiar face for years, and Walter was well on his way to developing his own contacts. Something had clearly changed. The ground was shifting under Atwood’s feet and he didn’t like it one bit. Finally the door swung open and the desk sergeant waved them inside with an apologetic shrug.

  Quirke and Wry were pouring over a map of the Bay when they entered and appeared to be charting the currents, presumably trying to discover where the bodies had been dumped. Atwood took quick note of the places that were marked. Quirke and Wry were methodical, capable investigators. Atwood trusted their instincts, and it allowed him to proceed in his own less-than-orthodox manner. There was an old iron furnace in one corner; it smelled of coal and rust.

  Atwood had spent a great deal of time there over the years and was intimately familiar with the faded wallpaper, filing cabinets, and, most importantly, the bottle of whiskey secreted in one of the desk drawers. They had shared a bottle many times, but this time Quirke didn’t
offer.

  “I wondered when you’d reappear,” he said, straightening. He was as well-groomed as ever, but his eyes were swollen with fatigue. “Hearst’s boys have been swarming the station for days.”

  “Explains our warm welcome,” Atwood said.

  Quirke and Wry eyed each other, but neither confirmed nor denied Atwood’s assumption.

  “All those other newsmen,” Wry murmured with a sneer, “climbing over themselves for scraps, but you just walk in through the door.”

  “Lucky,” Atwood said.

  “It’s not luck,” Wry said.

  “No, it’s business.” Atwood turned to Quirke. “Shall we?”

  “Please,” Quirke said, gesturing for them to sit. Walter pulled out a small notebook and the four of them sat facing each other across the desk. For a moment no one spoke. Finally it was Walter, of all people, who broke the silence.

  “Have there been any developments?” he asked. If Quirke was surprised that Walter had spoken first, he gave no sign.

  “We’re waiting for the coroner’s reports,” he said.

  “Have you identified the bodies?” Atwood asked.

  “Two of them,” Quirke said.

  “And?” Walter’s pen was poised. Quirke frowned at the notebook and turned to Wry, but the sergeant merely shrugged.

  Atwood waited. Quirke was not a man who responded to pressure, but he wouldn’t have let them in the door if he hadn’t intended to share something, at least.

  “One of them is an old drunk. The patrolmen called him Biggsy, but we’re not sure if that’s his real name.”

  “And the other?”

  “A prominent merchant from the ironworks.”

  Atwood raised an eyebrow. That was news. “Which one?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Too many people saw you walk in.”

  “Which ironworks then?” Walter tried. Atwood nodded in approval, but Quirke shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Atwood sighed. “Can you at least tell me where they procured the bodies? Which graveyard or hospital?” It would be harder to track, but a lead was a lead.

  “None of them.”