The Alchemist in the Attic

by Urias, Antonio

  He shifted tactics. “Valencourt is a doctor of some kind, I believe? A man of science?”

  “A genius!” Collins was suddenly adamant. A few of the other patrons glanced over with a frown. Collins seemed to shrink under their eyes, but his certainty never faded. He was in awe of Valencourt, that much was obvious, but his admiration was tinged with something darker, something broken. Atwood could see it in every facial twitch and darting glance.

  “You never explained your interest,” Collins said. “You make promises and ask questions, but you still haven’t told me why.”

  Atwood had been expecting the question. He had avoided answering thus far, but he judged the moment was right, and at the very least, Collins’ reaction would be informative.

  “No,” Atwood said. “I didn’t. The problem is that Valencourt appears to have ties with certain criminal elements. Body snatchers, to be precise.”

  “That’s nonsense!” Collins’ voice was strident, but there was fear in his eyes and suspicion, unrealized but no less deep. “He’s a great man,” Collins said. “Misunderstood, that’s all. Great men always are.”

  “Ahead of their times,” Atwood agreed lightly.

  “Exactly!” Collins nodded. “You understand. He’s a man of vision.”

  “And his vision led him to San Francisco?”

  Collins shifted uncomfortably. “Something happened in France.”

  “Oh?” Atwood leaned forward. “That sounds intriguing.”

  “It’s no use asking me. I don’t know the particulars.” That was a lie. Valencourt had shared his secrets, some of them at least, and used them to bind Collins to him all the more strongly. But why? Why would he bother?

  “Is Valencourt friendly with any of the other neighbors?”

  “Not especially.” Atwood watched Collins for any sign of jealousy and found none.

  “So why do you think he made an exception for you? Proximity?”

  “I don’t know.” That was also a lie, a partial one, at least.

  “How did he approach you?”

  “Approach me? No, I was the one who…” Collins frowned and fell silent.

  Atwood hid his triumph behind a sip of wine. Collins had sought out Valencourt, not the other way around. That was almost as inexplicable and raised whole new questions. Mr. Collins was clearly not a sociable fellow. What had prompted him to befriend Valencourt, of all people?

  “It’s obvious how much he trusts you,” Atwood said cajolingly. “He sees something in you, like a son, even.” It was a shot in the dark, but Atwood was rewarded when Collins lit up at the thought. Collins grinned broadly, but again Atwood was struck by something darker lurking beneath the smile. There were undertones to their conversation, motives that he could not quite place.

  “Sometimes,” Collins said, still smiling proudly, “he lets me assist him.” That was his second mistake, and he immediately pulled back.

  Atwood pounced. “You must know about his work then.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Collins mumbled.

  “I’m sure you’re doing yourself a disservice. Anything you could tell me would be useful. I’m fascinated…”

  Despite Atwood’s best efforts, Collins wouldn’t be drawn further on the matter of Valencourt’s work.

  “He’s a good man,” was all he would say. “And I don’t appreciate you besmirching his reputation with your questions and insinuations. He’s a good man.”

  Atwood raised his eyebrows at Collins unexpected attack, but noticed that despite his protests, Collins remained in his seat.

  “Forgive me,” he said after a few minutes. “I’m not myself. I haven’t been sleeping lately.”

  “I understand,” Atwood said. “More than you know.”

  Collins had begun mumbling to himself. The poor man had said all he was going to say, but he had given Atwood a number of avenues to explore. Collins was clearly in Valencourt’s thrall, on the edge of a nervous breakdown. His constant twitching was making Atwood uncomfortable, and his motives remained opaque. Why would a clerk befriend a disgraced scientist? And, more importantly, why would Valencourt let him?

  Atwood had begun investigating a potential bodysnatching ring and that had led him to murder, but now he sensed an even deeper mystery just under the surface. He had only started to plumb the depths, but Atwood would need to unravel these mysteries quickly. There were other forces at work, and he was running out of allies.

  *

  McManus and Keeler were waiting in the alley for Atwood. He arrived, panting heavily. He could feel the resurrection men watching him closely, but took a moment to catch his breath. It was becoming harder to escape his tail. Selby’s men were becoming wise to his tricks.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “We understand,” McManus said.

  “Yes,” Keeler agreed, uncoiling from the shadows. “We noticed your friends following you.”

  “Here? I thought I lost them…” He had been so sure.

  “You did.” Keeler coughed. It was a hacking, painful thing, the sound of death.

  “You were watching me.” It wasn’t a question. Atwood was suddenly wary. Had he been so focused on Selby’s men, that he’d completely missed the old resurrectionists? Either he was slipping badly, or they were far more dangerous than he’d previously believed.

  “We needed to be sure of you.” McManus shrugged. It was almost an apology.

  “Very wise,” Atwood replied, his mind still whirling. “And I wouldn’t call them my friends.” Without meaning to, he rubbed the lingering bruise under his eye.

  “No,” McManus said. “I imagine not.”

  “So, you wanted to speak to me?” Atwood glanced between them. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company.”

  Keeler snorted, but it collapsed into another even worse cough. McManus watched him worriedly. “We just wanted to remind you of the terms of our agreement,” he said when Keeler subsided.

  Atwood raised an eyebrow. He noticed for the first time how nervous McManus and Keeler were. There was nothing obvious in their appearance, but there was a tightness around their eyes that Atwood recognized.

  “I remember the terms,” Atwood said. “And I honored them last time, didn’t I?”

  “Eventually.”

  “People are asking questions,” McManus said.

  “Well, they were bound to. You couldn’t expect to keep your presence secret forever.”

  Keeler frowned down at him. Clearly he and McManus had been willing to try. “Do they know?” he asked.

  “Know?” Atwood studied them more closely. Just how involved were they in Valencourt’s activities was an open question. They had admitted to only the bare minimum, but it was only a short step from procuring corpses to dumping bodies. Not one knew the currents and hiding places of the city better. And there was his arrangement with Quirke to consider. The inspector would not appreciate it if McManus and Keeler slipped through his fingers a second time, and Atwood was on thin enough ground already.

  “Well,” Keeler prompted. “Do they know about us?”

  “And Valencourt?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Atwood said. It was only partially a lie. Atwood had no idea how far Quirke’s investigation had reached.

  McManus leaned in close, while Keeler loomed behind him. “Then you’d best find out,” he said. It was a threat, unstated but no less menacing. Violence lurked beneath their congeniality, Atwood had always known that. It was why he remained suspicious.

  “I will,” he said. “I keep my deals.” And he would, but if necessary his warning might come just a little too late.

  “See that you do.” McManus and Keeler left him pressed against the wall, but at the last moment he called them back.

  “Can you tell me anything else about Valencourt?” he asked. “Any reason he might steal seeds, for instance? Or mandrakes?” Atwood straightened and watched them for any sign of recognition or complicity.

  �
��We don’t owe you any more answers,” Keeler snapped, but McManus was studying Atwood in turn.

  “We just provide the bodies,” McManus said. “In our line of work it’s best not to ask too many questions.”

  Atwood smiled. “Not in my profession.”

  “Then I suggest you start asking the right questions.”

  They turned and Atwood let them go this time. He still wasn’t sure if they were guilty, but McManus had definitely known something, or at least suspected. He needed to have another chat with Mr. Collins, and then perhaps it was time he finally met Valencourt.

  *

  Atwood arrived at 7 Pretorius Street the next day with an unexpected eagerness in his step. He had slept, perhaps not soundly, but he had slept, and he had not dreamed. Maybe his fears were unfounded. Maybe the dreams and hallucinations had finally passed. Atwood was not generally an optimist, but for once he allowed himself the luxury. A good night’s sleep made all the difference, and the day promised to be advantageous as well. Collins had sent him a message. Valencourt’s accomplice wanted to talk again.

  Atwood bounded up the stairs two at a time. This was his moment. This was what he had been working for these past weeks. An exclusive interview with Collins would be worth its weight in gold. It might even save the Oracle, but it would definitely save Atwood. No one would turn away the man who found the Organ Harvester, not even Hearst.

  Atwood was breathing heavily when he reached Collins’ floor, and forced himself to breath and relax. Collins was twitchy at the best of times. If Atwood pushed too hard, the poor man would bolt. He’d already made that mistake at the restaurant. This would require delicate coaxing, and patience, but Atwood could be patient. That was one lesson he’d taught himself.

  Atwood’s hand strayed to the gun in his pocket and felt its deadly, reassuring weight. There was another possibility, of course. Collins was Valencourt’s creature. His master might have set a trap for Atwood. Unlikely, but not impossible. He found it best not to borrow trouble.

  Atwood straightened his suit and knocked on Collins’ door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no reply.

  “Mr. Collins,” he called, checking his watch. “Are you there?” He knocked a third time. Nothing.

  Before he could knock again, Madame Valli’s door opened behind him, and her painted face peered out. “He’s not here,” she said.

  “Excuse me?” He turned.

  “Mr. Collins isn’t here,” she said. “They took him away this morning.”

  “They?” He frowned. “Who? Where?”

  “To the St. Benedictus Home for the Incurably Insane,” she said.

  He took a step back and exhaled sharply. “That’s not possible,” Atwood said. “I spoke to him just the other day.”

  “And I spoke to him last night.” Madame Valli sighed. “I think we need to talk, Mr. Dupin,” she said. “About what you’re really doing here.” She grinned impishly. “Or should that be Mr. Atwood?”

  16

  Madame Valli

  Everything about Madame Valli’s apartment spoke of former glories and cheap opulence. The curtains, once a rich red velvet, were faded and torn and the plush chairs were ratty and smelled vaguely of mold. A few yellowing playbills lined the walls amidst knockoff paintings and peeling wallpaper. The sickly sweet smell of incense clung to the air, mingling with those of medicine and decay. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. Atwood sat perched on the edge of the couch. He shifted, trying not to sink into the upholstery, half afraid he would never escape its sunken depths. His head was starting to swim and there was a thrumming ache behind his eyes. How had she known his real name? He had been careful. He was sure of it.

  Atwood was not used to being rendered speechless, but Madame Valli hadn’t given him a chance to think. She had ushered him in and deposited him on the couch. There had been no choice in the matter. He’d barely had time to stutter a wordless protest. She was puttering in the kitchen now, organizing tea. It was a grand production, or at least a loud one, accompanied by the clattering of pans and muttered cursing. It was a ploy, of course, staged for his benefit. She needed to play to an audience, even an audience of one. Atwood could use that. He was good at being an audience, good at getting people to talk. If only his head wasn’t pounding. The sickly, feverish edge had returned with a vengeance. He could feel it growing inside him again at the thought of Collins’ sudden breakdown.

  Finally, Madame Valli emerged bearing a tea tray. The cups were all chipped and not entirely clean, but it was her best china. She sat down right next to him, so close that their knees were touching and he could smell her breath. She set the tray down on the table.

  “Shall I be mother?” she asked with a salacious grin and began to pour without waiting for a response. When she was finished, she put the kettle down and produced a flask from her bustle. “It’s medicinal,” she said and poured them both a generous helping. “Well,” she said after a moment. “Isn’t this nice?”

  “I don’t know why you called me Atwood, just now,” he managed, “but my name is Dupin.”

  “A likely name for a snoop and a spy,” she said. “But if your name isn’t Atwood, then why did you come inside? For the tea? For the company?”

  Atwood stammered a response. It was not his best effort.

  “Oh, darling!” Madame Valli placed a hand on his knee. “And you were doing so well, but I’m afraid Booth and Burnhardt would not have been impressed.”

  “I-I…”

  “We both know who you are, so you can stop pretending. I wasn’t born yesterday.” She watched his expression, drinking in his discomfort with unrestrained glee. “I know it was you the other night, trying to get into the attic. Then, suddenly you’re always lurking around, asking questions, making friends. So I made a few inquiries of my own. After all, you’re not the only one who can ask questions.”

  “If you tell anyone…” Atwood started, but Madame Valli shook her head.

  “Don’t worry, darling. Your secret’s safe with me. You’re up to something, but more importantly, I know Valencourt is as well.”

  “Do you know what?” Atwood asked, his discomfort briefly forgotten.

  “Not entirely, but I can guess. It’s not as if he was hiding it very well, considering your friends and their boxes. Six feet long. Who do they think they’re fooling?” Madame Valli smiled humorlessly. “And then there’s the other one. Secretive. Dangerous. I know the type.”

  “The other one?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He hasn’t been around lately, not since the bodies starting showing up in the Bay. Made a run for it, probably.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No. But it doesn’t matter for the moment.” Atwood begged to differ. McManus and Keeler only knew so much, and Collins was out of reach suddenly, but there was a fourth suspect. That meant another trail to track. Another way in. He had been so close with Collins, but someone was bound to talk. Madame Valli had already been more helpful than she realized, or perhaps she knew exactly what she was doing. A few seeds of information at the start—quid pro quo. Atwood had used that tactic more than once himself to string people along.

  She hadn’t removed her hand. It inched its way up to his thigh and rested there. He shifted awkwardly and swallowed. He opened his mouth once or twice, but said nothing.

  “Your tea’s getting cold, darling,” she said.

  “Right,” he sputtered. The teacup shook in his hands. She chuckled, not entirely unkindly.

  “Collins would forget his tea, too, poor man.” She sighed. “They say he went mad, had a breakdown.”

  “They say?” Atwood looked at her quizzically, alert to any mention of Collins. He had been so close. “You don’t believe them?”

  “You met him, Mr. Atwood. Would you have called him mad?”

  “High strung, maybe,” Atwood allowed.

  Madame Valli shook her head. “He was neat little man, handsome, polite. He was a clerk for some ban
k. The Hibernia Savings and Loan Bank, I believe.” She grinned. “I know you newspapermen like to have all the facts.”

  Atwood controlled his expression this time and Madame Valli pouted at his lack of reaction. “He lived here for years,” she said. “Very neighborly. Came to tea every week, but when Dr. Valencourt moved in…” She shrugged. “He wasn’t the same after that. He lost sleep, and complained of noises.”

  “So, he could have gone mad after all?” Atwood asked.

  “Oh, darling! You really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”

  “And what have I gotten myself into?”

  “Trouble.”

  Atwood scoffed. “I’m no stranger to trouble.”

  “I can see that,” she murmured appreciatively. “But not like this.” She was suddenly serious. “Poor Collins didn’t go mad. Valencourt made him mad.”

  Atwood blinked at that. “He drove him crazy?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “How?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. You won’t be able to stop yourself from digging.” She patted his knee companionably. “I know your type.”

  Atwood went quiet. He had the sudden, unsettling impression that Madame Valli understood him perfectly. He hadn’t felt that way since his father died, and he didn’t like it.

  “You’re in dangerous territory now, darling. Here there be dragons. But never fear!” She squeezed his thigh. “Valli is here!”

  17

  The Séance

  Atwood and Walter were encamped in their office. Outside they could hear the rumble of the printer, the stifled shouts of conversation, and the clattering of typewriters. Atwood was feverishly typing up a report for the afternoon edition. The Valencourt investigation might be making only stuttering progress, but as Maguire was quick to remind them, there were still murders to write about. The words weren’t coming, though, not quickly enough. Madame Valli’s incense still lingered even days later and the dreams had returned stranger and darker than ever. Walter’s carping wasn’t helping any.