“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.
11
McManus and Keeler
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 surpri
singly 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.
12
The Night Raid
7 Pretorius Street was a squalid, ramshackle affair. The paint was cracked and peeling and there was a rancid smell in the air. Rats made their homes in the hidden cracks and crevices, scurrying about in the dark. It was well past midnight when Atwood and Walter arrived accompanied by McManus and Keeler. They were carrying a wooden box between them, and making their way carefully up the narrow stairs. The only light came from a few lonely gas lamps, which cast flickering, malformed shadows on the walls.
The box was six feet long and heavy, even for the four of them. Walter was straining under the weight. Atwood glanced at him worriedly, but he shook his head.
“I’m fine,” Walter whispered. Atwood wasn’t convinced, but he had no choice but to take him at his word. They were committed.
They hadn’t asked what was inside the box. Atwood was afraid that McManus and Keeler might tell him. He already knew, of course, but deniability might be necessary one day. He was on shaky enough ground as it was, and the ground was getting shakier by the minute. He and Walter were climbing straight into the jaws of a probable murderer, accompanied only by the man’s accomplices, albeit unknowing, if McManus and Keeler were to be believed. Atwood wasn’t sure he did, and by the look of him, neither was Walter.
Despite a great deal of jostling, creaking, hushed cursing, and stifled coughing as they made their way to the top of the stairs, no one seemed any the wiser. The residents all remained safely oblivious in their apartments, or else they had learned not to ask too many questions. Walter nearly let the box slip through his fingers several times, either from weakness or nerves, but he managed to hold on, barely.
Finally, they reached the attic and placed the box down with a loud thud. They stood there for a moment listening the creaking of the house, waiting for the telltale pitter of feet, but no one came. There was only one door. It was heavily locked and bolted. McManus glanced back at Atwood, who nodded.
McManus sighed and knocked quietly. “This isn’t going to work,” he whispered.
There was a long pause. Atwood and Walter shifted nervously. This was their best chance to see inside. It was now or never, and in that moment Atwood was filled with a terrible certainty that McManus and Keeler had led them into a trap.
After a moment, McManus knocked again. Finally there was the pitter-patter of feet and the screech of a bolt. The door swung open slightly and an older gentleman peered out. It was Dr. Valencourt, at last.
A strange sense of relief came over Atwood. The jaws of the trap still might be closing around him, but he had lain eyes on his quarry. From the gloom of the hallway, Atwood caught little more than glimpses. He had the impression of a distinguished, well-dressed man, gone to seed. He caught sight of a bushy, unkempt beard, and a faded, rumpled coat. Everything else was lost in shadows.
“You’re late,” Valencourt said sharply. Atwood couldn’t quite place his accent; possibly French.
“We were delayed,” McManus said.
“Clearly.” Valencourt turned to Atwood and Walter. They were both dressed in rags, with their hats pulled low over their faces. “New partners?” Valencourt asked.
“Showing them the ropes,” Keeler said. Valencourt grunted.
“You know the rules,” he said. “Keep your eyes on the floor, ask no questions, and no one is allowed inside without my say so. No exceptions. They wait here.”
McManus opened his mouth to argue, but Valencourt silenced him with a sharp glare. “They wait here.” His tone brokered no argument.
After a moment, McManus nodded.
“Now hurry,” Valencourt said. “It’s nearly dawn.”
McManus and Keeler both threw Atwood apologetic looks, and then reached down and carried the box inside. Atwood and Walter attempted to follow them and at least catch a glimpse into Valencourt’s apartment. He had turned the attic into a laboratory. There were long tables filled with beakers and other scientific equipment. A sense of controlled, madcap chaos.
Before Atwood could get a closer look, however, Valencourt was suddenly there, blocking the view.
The Alchemist in the Attic Page 7