“I don’t know you,” he said sharply. “You’re not invited.”
The shadows seemed to gather about him, and for a moment he was more fiend than man, a malignant spirit beneath the skin staring out at Atwood with a terrible, fevered certainty, judging him.
Atwood took a step back, then rallied. “What about our fee, mister?” he asked, putting on a slight accent, just in case. Behind him, Walter nodded.
Valencourt looked between them.
“I never agreed to pay you,” Valencourt said. “Talk to your friends. It’s not my concern.”
The three of them waited in awkward silence, while from behind Valencourt they could hear muffled jolts and thuds, as McManus and Keeler went about their work.
They emerged, at last, grim and dusty. Valencourt turned back briefly to inspect their work and then nodded, clearly satisfied. He pulled out a small coin purse and jangled it. It made a satisfying clinking sound. McManus reached out for it, but Valencourt pulled back.
“Never do this again,” he said. “Or I will find more discrete grave robbers.”
“Understood,” McManus replied.
Valencourt studied him for a moment. “Good.” He handed McManus the purse. “Same time next week.”
“Thank you, sir,” McManus said. Keeler echoed him. They headed back down the stairs and Atwood followed reluctantly a moment later, Walter right behind him. Atwood looked back and saw Valencourt looming above them at the top of the stairs, cloaked in shadows and gloom.
*
Valencourt was guilty. Atwood was certain now. He had gotten a taste of the man. There was something sharp and prickly in him, traces of something bitter—a sense of respectability gone to seed, and perhaps of wounded pride. It was not native to him, but learned. What had taught him the lesson? What twists of fate and misfortunes had led that roiling intelligence here? There was a story there and in knowing it, Atwood would have his man.
Atwood glanced at Walter. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” he said. He was still not sure where McManus and Keeler truly stood. They had kept their word, but Atwood could still feel a noose closing around his neck. Valencourt had unnerved him. He felt unbalanced, as if he had wandered into a hidden corner of the world.
As soon as they reached the next floor, and they were sure Valencourt was out of earshot, Keeler turned to Atwood.
“We did our part,” he said.
“I did warn you,” McManus added. “That he wouldn’t go for it. Too private.”
“So you did,” Atwood said. He paid Keeler. “You keep your word. I keep mine.”
“We should go,” Walter said.
Atwood nodded. It was almost morning. The denizens would be waking up soon. As they crept back quietly down the stairs, not one of them noticed the door to the apartment on the left crack open, or the pair of eyes that peered out at them as they passed.
13
7 Pretorius Street
The next morning Atwood returned to Pretorius Street to make a few discrete inquiries. He had met Valencourt now, seen his face, but he needed to get a sense of the man. When this was over, Atwood would make Valencourt infamous, as he had Gentle before him; but where he had understood Dr. Gentle within moments, Valencourt was something altogether stranger. There was something elusive about him, and Atwood preferred to be in full possession of the facts—even, or especially, when every word he wrote was a fabrication.
Before they met again, Atwood would learn all of Valencourt’s secrets, would know him better even than he knew himself. Then he would have him. They were tied together now, although Valencourt didn’t yet know it. To do that, Atwood would have to go door to door and learn what he could from scraps of the neighbor’s gossip. Considering his nocturnal activities, a man like Valencourt was bound to leave an impression. Atwood was not fond of the work. It was tedious and time consuming, but it would give him a sense of the man and the place. That was key.
It would have been easier with Walter. Atwood could draw people out and pick over their words better than almost anyone, but Walter could hear answers in the silences, and Atwood had a feeling this investigation would be mostly silence. Walter had made himself scarce, however, and had refused to return to Pretorius Street. One of them needed to write the court reports, after all. That had been his excuse, at least, but something had clearly spooked him. Perhaps Valencourt had gotten under his skin, or perhaps he had another reason.
Atwood found it curious that from the beginning Walter had practically foisted the story on him. It had been Walter’s lead that had led them into this mess, that led then to what could be the story of a lifetime, and yet rather than worrying about Atwood stealing it, it was as almost as if Walter was foisting it onto him. That was perhaps the strangest thing of all. Did Walter know something, or was he perhaps letting Atwood do all the work, poised to take it out from under him at the last second? That’s what Atwood would have done in his place, but Walter was too loyal for that. There was probably a more innocent explanation.
Even if there wasn’t, Atwood couldn’t blame Walter for exploring the possibilities. It was every man for himself. Hearst and Young would hire Walter in a heartbeat, if only to deprive the other of his services. It was an enviable position, and he envied it. Atwood could have played them against each other for months and enjoyed every minute of it.
The rats were abandoning the sinking ship and Atwood was left trapped. He didn’t like it, not one bit. That was the difference between him and Maguire. For all the old man’s conniving and backstabbing, at bottom he was a captain determined to go down with the ship. Atwood would always prefer to be one of the rats, just like his old man, and he was proud of it.
Atwood straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair, put on his most earnest expression, and tried to think holy thoughts. He had chosen to present himself as Mr. Dupin, a missionary for the Church of St. John the Beheaded. Wealthy, well-meaning ladies and gentlemen from all manner of associations and societies were a familiar sight in this part of the city and Atwood could play the part, if he chose. He only hoped Valencourt’s suspicions would not be aroused.
*
7 Pretorius Street looked different in daylight, but only slightly less foreboding. It was shabby, unwelcoming, and covered in grime. For most people it would be a place of last resort, one final bastion against poverty and disgrace. Atwood had lived in such places before, with his father, in the days before Maguire, before the Oracle. Valencourt was different. He had not come here to cradle his broken dreams amidst the squalor. His dreams still burned strong inside him. For Valencourt, Pretorius Street was a place to ply his trade away from prying eyes. His fellow denizens, at least, were well suited to the environment. Their desperations and grubby dreams were more familiar. Atwood felt at home among them, back on firmer ground.
There was Mr. Lint, the opium eater on the first floor. He was a man with an imaginative, if nervous, disposition. He answered Atwood’s questions hazily and stared blankly over Atwood’s shoulder throughout their conversation, muttering to himself. Atwood caught a few words here and there amidst the gibberish—bodies, Valencourt, attic. Atwood felt his ears prick and the excitement begin to build, but if Mr. Lint knew anything more he wasn’t sharing. There was a twitching fear in him that didn’t come just from the opium, and he left Atwood with a clammy, unsettled feeling beneath his skin.
Captain Fornell was no better. In his own words, he was “a former army man of ill-repute and foul rumor,” most of which he had clearly spread himself. He was a creature of bluster and would-be-mysterious hints, but Atwood knew his type. He listened patiently to the Captain, but drew his own conclusions. Atwood doubted that his old regiment even remembered Fornell’s name, let alone his so-called dastardly deeds. He was a shell, living off the tattered fragments of his own ignominy. He was frightened too, beneath the bluster, the way a hyena is when it meets the lion, and Atwood knew exactly who the lion in question was. It was never easy for men like Fornell, in lov
e with their own meager wickedness, to meet men like Valencourt with true fire in their eyes. There was something sadly pathetic about the man, something empty and blind.
Then there was Madame Valli, a degenerate opera singer of dubious pedigree with the voice of a frog. She had a painted face and lingering fingers. While they spoke, she kept finding an excuse to touch him. She lived on the floor below Valencourt, and whatever she was, Madame Valli certainly wasn’t blind.
Her advances flustered him. If he had been the missionary he claimed, he probably would have died of embarrassment by now. He couldn’t quite get a sense of her, no matter how hard he tried. The others had the scent of despair about them, hiding behind drugs or stories, but Madame Valli wasn’t hiding. She was comfortable in the squalor, had wrapped it about her, worn it on her face. She was at home here and she was studying him as closely as he was studying her. There was no fear in her eyes, only secrets and laughter. Atwood was certain it was directed at him, but he couldn’t quite see the joke.
“Are you sure you won’t come inside, Mister…Dupin?” she said, running her hand over his lapel.
“N-no,” Atwood managed. “Thank you, but I should be…should be going.”
“What’s the matter? It’s only tea. We could sit and…talk.” She grinned. “You could tell me all about the Lord’s work, and I’m sure I could think of something to interest you.”
Atwood cleared his throat and managed to extract himself with some difficulty. “There’s still a few more people I need to speak with,” he said, struggling to stay in character. “Perhaps later.”
Madame Valli graced him with a teasing pout. “The man upstairs is out. So that only leaves poor Mr. Collins, and I assure you, I’m much more fun.”
“I’m sure,” Atwood said, backing away. “But duty calls.” He stumbled and practically ran across the hall. The floorboards creaked warningly beneath his feet.
“Another time then, darling,” she called after him. It sounded like a promise.
*
Atwood heard Madame Valli’s door close behind him, and he gave a sigh of relief. It had been years since anyone had been able to put him off balance so easily, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she had learned more from him than he had intended. Worse, she had clearly known something, and instead of pushing and prying, Atwood had run away. If this Mr. Collins didn’t pan out, he might have to take Madame Valli up on her offer of tea. Atwood shuddered at the thought.
Atwood reached the door and immediately noticed a shadow flickering under the door. Mr. Collins was home, then, and must have been listening attentively at the door or keyhole. Perhaps it was merely curiosity, but that was promising. Even more suggestive was Collins’ location directly below Valencourt. If anyone was in a position to know something, it would be him.
Atwood rapped on the door, and it swung open almost immediately, revealing a harried, tight-lipped gentleman in a fussy suit. At first, Atwood took him for a man with delusions above his station, but he wore the starched collar too easily and the suit fit him like a second skin. This was not a man who dreamed of rising, but one who was falling and had yet to reach the bottom. Atwood knew the type; in many ways he himself was the type, although Collins probably would have rejected the comparison.
He was studying Atwood in turn with twitchy, mistrustful eyes. “Yes?” he asked.
Atwood smiled an easy, reassuring smile, but that only made Collins more wary. He was clearly nervous, almost as jittery as the opium eater had been, but the eyes were clear. There was no dream in them. Atwood saw intelligence and buried suspicion. Collins knew something, or thought he did. Atwood was sure of it.
“My name is Mr. Dupin.” Atwood paused. Collins’ eyes had narrowed. He knew Atwood was lying—somehow he knew. Any further prevarication would be unadvisable. Collins would require careful handling, especially if he proved as useful as Atwood was starting to suspect.
“Forgive me,” he said. “My name is actually Atwood. I’m with the San FranciscoOracle.”
Collins blinked at him, unimpressed, but something had shifted behind his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I just want to ask you a few questions about one of your neighbors, if you don’t mind?”
Collins frowned. “You gave me a false name, and you told Madame Valli you were here on behalf of St. John the Beheaded.”
“I did,” Atwood admitted easily. “And you must have been listening very closely to hear me say that. Very closely.”
Collins shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable, but he stood his ground. “Which neighbor?” he asked.
“The man upstairs. Valencourt.”
“What do you want to know about Marius?” Collins glanced at the stairs, hoping or fearing that the man himself would appear, as if summoned.
“Marius,” Atwood repeated. “You know him well, then.”
“Well enough.”
“You used his Christian name.” Atwood spoke softly, cajolingly, but the other man refused to budge. He had given away too much already. “Don’t worry,” Atwood said after a moment. “This is only for background on a story. I don’t mean your friend any harm.” Still no reply. “Anything you could tell me would be helpful.”
“Why would I help you?” The words were harsh, but Collins’ voice was shaky.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
Collins made no reply, but the answer was obvious. His darting glances toward the stairs had become more frequent, and his eyes lingered. He was clearly afraid of Valencourt, but it was more than that. He was waiting for his neighbor to save him, like a beaten dog eagerly awaiting his master; and he was beaten, not physically, but inside, where it counted most. Collins was a clever man. Atwood had seen flashes of his old intelligence, but he was hollowed out and edgy. Perhaps even guilty, but guilty of what? Had he assisted Valencourt in his terrible work and helped discard the corpses when the doctor was through with them? That was the true question, and Collins was not prepared to answer.
Some men were born with guilty consciences. They felt the weight of every transgression, large and small, deeply and equally. Collins had the look of such a man. It wouldn’t take much to induce him to speak and unburden himself, at least not of his own misdeeds. The rest would depend on how deeply Valencourt had sunk his roots. For the moment it would be best to tread softly.
“Perhaps we should talk somewhere else,” Atwood suggested. “Away from prying ears.” They both knew exactly who he meant.
Collins said nothing for a long moment. Atwood could see the gears turning behind Collins’ eyes. Talking to Atwood was dangerous, but Collins needed to learn what Atwood was after, what he already knew, and there was only one way to find out for sure.
“Tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same time. Meet me here. I know a place to eat.”
Atwood nodded. “Until tomorrow, then.”
He headed back to the stairs quietly, avoiding the creaking floorboards. He could feel Collins watching him until he was around the corner and out of sight. Atwood had learned a great deal, although none of it was concrete. He had a taste of Valencourt now, could hear him echoed in Collins voice. He was getting closer, and tomorrow promised to bring him closer still. Collins was clever enough to make it interesting, but Atwood had no doubt that he would win. Whatever Collins told himself—or Valencourt—about his motives, he wanted to talk, to explain himself, to unburden, and Atwood would let him.
14
The Bait and the Hook
Maguire stood hovering over the printing press with a cigar clenched between his teeth. The compositor and pressman bustled about their grimy, ink-stained work, uncomfortably aware of him looming behind them. They all knew just how precarious the Oracle’s situation was, and they didn’t find Maguire’s lingering presence reassuring, not in the slightest.
“You’re making them nervous,” Atwood said.
“They should be nervous,” Maguire replied. “And so should you. The others are catching up.”
Atwood acknowledged that with a grimace, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the printer finally disgorged the first copy of the evening edition. He snatched it up immediately and stared. For a moment he thought he saw blood drying on the page in place of ink. He shook the image away. Maguire plucked the paper from his hand, a concerned look on his face.
“Organ Harvester Still At Large!” the front-page headline read, accompanied by an appropriately gruesome illustration. Maguire scanned it briefly, then nodded. A sigh of relief ran through the room and the pressmen returned to work. As the great monstrous printers lumbered back to life, Maguire turned to Atwood.
“That was mostly tripe,” he said. “But your tripe is still better than nothing.”
Atwood shrugged. The article was tripe. He’d known that even when he was writing it. “I’m running out of ways to say the same thing.”
“You already have,” Maguire said. “Have you read today’s Examiner?”
“Yes.” Atwood sighed. “And the Chronicle.”
“You see the problem.”
“I do.” Atwood nodded.
“This is it,” Maguire said. “The story of the hour, perhaps the year, and you were on it before anyone, but the others are catching up.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“And you know what you need to do,” Maguire said.
Atwood hesitated. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Maguire leaned in close. They both assumed that Selby had spies within the Oracle, ferreting out their secrets. It’s what they would have done in his position. “Yes,” he said after a moment. His breath smelled of elderberries. “I’m asking you to be your father.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that.” Atwood had a bad taste in his mouth.
“Neither did I.” Maguire put a hand on Atwood’s shoulder. “But this is not the time to be squeamish. You need to get ahead of the murders again. Whatever it takes, by hook or by crook.”
The Alchemist in the Attic Page 8