The Alchemist in the Attic

by Urias, Antonio

  “And Young?”

  “After the mess I made with his dear departed brother?”

  “This story might build a few bridges.”

  “It might,” Atwood agreed. “But I doubt it.”

  Maguire studied him, weighing. “I believe you,” he said at last. “As far as it goes. But you might be wrong.”

  “About Hearst and Young?”

  Maguire shook his head. “About your bait.”

  “What?” Atwood demanded, suddenly on edge.

  “Five more bodies have washed up onshore,” Maguire said softly.

  “When?”

  “Less than an hour ago.”

  “And you think it’s…?”

  “I don’t know,” said Maguire. “This madman of yours isn’t the only one who dumps bodies in the Bay, after all.”

  “No,” Atwood agreed, but he was sure of it all the same.

  “Hearst will have a small army on this. I only have you and Walter.”

  “I know.”

  “And Teddy,” Maguire said softly. “They’re all boys.”

  Atwood practically charged out of the room, despite the dread in his stomach, despite the sudden weakness in his legs. He needed to get to the crime scene. He needed to see, to know that his fears were empty. That he hadn’t sent those boys to their death.

  “I’m sorry,” Maguire whispered as Atwood left, and he did sound sorry. That was the worst part.

  Walter wandered in at that moment, grim and sickly as ever. He glanced from Atwood to Maguire questioningly. “You wanted to see me?” Walter asked.

  “Where have you been?” Atwood practically demanded.

  Walter frowned at him. “You know where I’ve been,” he said. “At the courthouse?”

  He took in Atwood’s haggard expression, and the uncharacteristic sorrow on Maguire’s face.

  “Did something happen?” he asked cautiously. Neither of them answered for a long moment.

  “Yes,” Atwood said finally. “Come on. We have work to do.”

  He moved slowly now, as though the urgency had been bled from him, leaving only dread.

  “Where are we going?” Walter asked, resigned.

  “To see some bodies,” Atwood said, and left without another word.

  *

  There were five boys lying on the shore, their skin bloated and their chests carved open. None of them were older than twelve. It was a gruesome, soggy sight. The crowd was murmuring to itself restlessly. Their unease was growing. They were used to death, and they even appreciated the macabre entertainment, but it had been almost a month now and the bodies were starting to pile up. This made thirteen. Atwood needed to get closer, hoping beyond hope that Swifty and Little Jake were not among the dead, but more certain with each passing moment that they were.

  Atwood could see violence roiling beneath the faces around him. For them it wasn’t about the boys themselves—street urchins were killed every day—but the manner of their deaths. Murder was one thing, but being cut open by some mad doctor in an alley was something else entirely. Atwood and the other papers had been feeding them a steady diet of half-baked grotesqueries, and they had devoured it whole. Perhaps, Atwood reflected, he had done his job too well. This wasn’t a crowd; it was a mob waiting to happen. All it would take was one spark, as if a kind of collective insanity had taken root. Atwood could feel it in himself, poisoning his thoughts. Unlike the others, though, his dread had a face and a name.

  He recognized his old, crooked-nosed friend Rehms in the crowd. The tall man was nowhere to be found, and that was even more worrying. Maguire had been right. Hearst had a small army on hand, swarming the crime scene. Young’s boys were there too, fighting for position. Atwood only had Walter. He felt distinctly outnumbered and as he studied the crowd he noticed a familiar figure. It was Selby.

  “Dammit!” Atwood’s hand twitched. Selby was the last person he wanted to see, especially now when he was distracted. It was too late, though. Selby had seen him too and quickly detached himself from the crowd with a smirk.

  “Mr. Harel.” He gave Walter a cordial nod. “Pleasure to see you again, and so soon.”

  Walter shifted uncomfortably at Atwood’s glance.

  “And Atwood.” Selby’s smirk was somehow even wider.

  “Selby.” Atwood glared.

  “I thought I told you to leave town,” Selby said.

  Atwood spat. He wanted to wipe the smug look off the other man’s face, but this was not the time or the place.

  “No.” Selby shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d listen, not even when I was trying to do you a favor. For old time’s sake.”

  “A favor?” Atwood asked. “You had me beaten in the street.”

  Selby shrugged, still smirking. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

  “You have it,” Atwood said. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice, but Selby simply laughed.

  “Poor Teddy. Still trying to save your precious paper, but soon you’ll turn around and find there isn’t a paper left to save.”

  “Don’t count us out just yet. We’ve got a few tricks left up our sleeves.”

  “Oh, I’m familiar with all your tricks,” Selby said. “Intimately.”

  “Then why do your boys keep losing me?” Atwood asked. “Sloppy work.”

  “Perhaps,” Selby admitted. “But you haven’t made a very good showing either. They keep finding you again.”

  “But where do I go? I’m sure you’re just dying to know.”

  “Of course,” Selby said. “I’m a reporter. Curiosity is my middle name.”

  “I guess you’ll have to read all about it in the Oracle,” Atwood said. “Like everyone else.” Then he brushed past Selby without another word, practically shoving him aside.

  Walter followed in his wake with a murmured apology to Selby. Atwood noticed the interplay.

  “Making friends I see,” he muttered.

  “Trying,” Walter said.

  “Good.” Atwood grunted. He glanced around, making sure they were out of earshot. “I take it you’ve made no mention of my involvement?”

  “I’ve been waiting for the proper moment.”

  “Probably right about that.”

  “But I will. I promise. That’s the deal. That’s what we planned. Hearst takes both of us or neither.”

  “Thank you,” Atwood said, but he wasn’t sure he believed him. The plan had been Atwood’s idea, a fallback plan in case the Oracle failed. Walter had agreed, as Atwood had known he would, but lately, Walter had grown distant. Atwood couldn’t begrudge Walter for hedging his bets. Tying his fortunes to Atwood was dangerous, especially when Selby and Young were probably offering him good money. Why should he share any of it with Atwood? Why would he stick his neck out, when he knew Atwood would never do the same for him? It was foolish, and Walter was not a fool, usually.

  But Atwood couldn’t worry about that right now. They had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and all he could think of was the pit in his stomach, and the terrible certainty that Swifty and Little Jake were among the dead.

  Sergeant Wry saw them immediately and glowered.

  “Wonderful to see you too, Sergeant,” Atwood said. “Now where’s Quirke?”

  “What makes you think that…”

  “We have a deal and you know it.”

  Wry gave him a long look then nodded. “True enough,” he said, and waved Inspector Quirke over.

  “Atwood, Harel,” he greeted. “You’re late. Hearst’s boys have been all over this for the last half hour.”

  “We’ve been busy,” Atwood said.

  “Yes.” Quirke and Wry exchanged glances. “I’m sure you have. Very busy.”

  Atwood ignored the comment. “I don’t suppose you’d let us have a peek at the bodies?” He asked. “For old times’ sake.”

  Quirke narrowed his eyes, but he seemed to find something in Atwood’s expression. “Not here,” he said softly. “Gage is on the warpat
h but I trust that you and Harel know where the morgue is, you’ve been there enough times with and without permission.”

  “We do.”

  “Then be there in an hour. Don’t let anyone see you.”

  “Understood.”

  “And, Teddy,” Quirke said. “I’m putting my career on the line now. Gage has Hearst’s backing now. He’ll probably be the next Chief of Police, so you’d better have something up your sleeve.”

  Atwood nodded. “I promise,” he said. The time for secrecy had passed.

  They dispersed as subtly as possible in the circumstances. Atwood felt Selby’s eyes on them, but ignored him for now. He had other things to worry about. As they headed back to the trolley, he thought he caught a glimpse of Valencourt in the crowd, but when he turned, there was no one there.

  *

  The morgue was a cold, sterile place smelling of chemicals and death. The white tiles were thoroughly, if infrequently, scrubbed and could not hide the grim nature of the room. The bodies were already laid out on the metal operating tables when Atwood and Walter arrived, ushered in by a discrete uniformed officer. Quirke and Wry were huddled over the far corpse. Dr. Tully, the coroner, was describing his preliminary examinations in a dry, cracked voice. Cigar smoke clung to him even in this place, followed by the unmistakable scent of whiskey.

  “The cuts are the same as the others,” he was saying. “Precise and surgical.” Wry scribbled away in his notebook, clearly doing his best not to look at the young boy on the table. Dr. Tully trailed off as the reporters entered. He glanced at Quirke, who nodded. They had been invited.

  “Gentlemen,” Quirke said.

  “Inspector.” Atwood nodded. He moved to join them, slowly, reluctantly. He needed to know for sure, but part of him was desperately hoping beyond hope that he was wrong. Looking down at the corpse, Atwood bit back a gasp. He’d been right, after all. It was Swifty, with Little Jake right beside him.. Their chests had been sliced open, the skin folded back and all the organs removed. Atwood did not have the medical knowledge to judge the quality of the knife work. All he saw was a bloody, mangled mess. He had sent them to their deaths. It was all his fault

  “The others?” Walter asked, taking the lead for once and Atwood was grateful. He needed a moment to gather himself.

  “Yes, this time,” Dr. Tully said, once Quirke gave his permission. “But I’ve seen similar knife work on the other batches of men and women, all dumped in the Bay.”

  “Batches?” Atwood said blankly. “As in more than one?” He’d only known about the first one. Quirke and Wry had kept that quiet, not that Atwood was in a position to cast stones.

  “Yes,” said Inspector Quirke. “Two.” He knew exactly what he had just revealed and expected something in return. “The bodies are piling up. Cards on the table, I need to know what you know. No more games.”

  Atwood nodded.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Quirke asked. He had been watching Atwood’s expression closely.

  “These two,” Atwood admitted after a moment. He pointed. “Swifty and Little Jake. I don’t know their real names. I doubt anyone does. They’re newsboys at the Oracle. I’m not sure about the others.”

  “Do you know all your newsboys?” Quirke asked. Behind him Wry was diligently taking notes.

  “Some more than others.”

  “And these two?” Quirke pressed.

  “Swifty ran the boys,” Atwood said. “He used to do favors for me. Keep an eye out.”

  “And was he keeping an eye out for anything in particular?”

  Atwood looked up and meet Quirke’s gaze. “This and that,” he said. Quirke was not impressed.

  “Understand that I’m not sure there’s a connection,” Atwood said. “Not entirely. Walter isn’t completely convinced. So this may be unrelated…”

  “Yes, yes.” Quirke waved the preamble aside. “In other words, don’t blame you if it turns out to be a red herring. Don’t worry. We won’t.” Wry’s snort into his notebook told a different story, but he quieted down at Quirke’s glare.

  So Atwood told his story, some of it anyway. He chose his words carefully, connecting the dots from the thefts to bodysnatching and finally murder. “There are whispers among the occultists and spiritualists about a would-be alchemist, possibly French, with a dark reputation.”

  “What’s his name?” Wry asked. Atwood hesitated.

  “We’re not sure yet,” Walter interjected. Quirke and Wry gave him disbelieving looks, but let it pass without comment.

  “And that’s it?” Quirke asked.

  “Yes,” said Atwood with a straight face. Quirke raised an eyebrow and gestured around the room. He had taken a risk letting Atwood and Walter into the morgue. There were gaps in Atwood’s story and they all knew it.

  Quirke sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Just be careful. This alchemist of yours isn’t like Dr. Gentle. He doesn’t just dig up corpses. He makes them.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  Atwood and Walter left the way they came, under the watchful eyes of Quirke, Wry, and Tully.

  22

  The Fall of the Newspaper

  Atwood stormed out of the morgue and into the city air with Walter close behind. He swallowed back a sudden rush of bile at the thought of those poor boys and their cold mutilated corpses laid out on the autopsy tables like butchered meat. Despite himself, Atwood felt responsible, guilty even. It was an unaccustomed feeling and he didn’t like it. He was going soft.

  More than anything, Atwood wanted to wrap his hands around Valencourt’s neck and throttle the life out of him. It would have made Atwood a murderer, but he didn’t care. No jury would have convicted. Not in this city. Not today.

  “Where are you going?” Walter asked nervously.

  “I’m going to find that alchemist, and I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”

  Walter sighed and placed a hand on Atwood’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how you feel.”

  “You have no idea,” Atwood said, slapping Walter’s hand away. “You never liked them.”

  “No,” Walter admitted easily. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted them dead, or mutilated.”

  Atwood grimaced and glanced down. His hand was clenched tightly in a fist. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax his hand. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know what you meant,” Walter said softly. “And you will have your chance, I promise. But this isn’t the time.”

  Atwood could feel the all-consuming rage, the need to hit something, surge up inside him again. “This is exactly the time. Waiting, watching, playing games with séances and mad men is what got them killed.”

  “You’ve always told me to be smart, to wait when I want to strike. To be ready and be sure. How do you think it would end, if you went charging in now? You’re a reporter, not a policeman, or a…soldier.”

  “I am not a child, damn it. I can handle one old man.”

  “Yes,” Walter agreed easily. “But are you sure you can handle this old man?”

  It was a good question, and even as Walter asked it Atwood felt the rage drain away, leaving only a hollow, empty fury. There was no bottom in it. No certainty. But he began to think clearly again.

  “You’re right,” Walter continued. “I never liked Swifty, and I thought the other one was an arrogant brat, but they knew how to take care of themselves. You know that.”

  Atwood nodded, despite himself. Swifty had been more than a match for fighters twice his age. His knife had been quick and sure, and he hadn’t been afraid to kick and bite. But it hadn’t done him any good in the end. He was dead and Atwood would join him, if he wasn’t careful.

  He exhaled. “Point taken. If Valencourt could handle them, then I’ll need a plan.”

  “We’ll need a plan,” Walter corrected quietly. “We’re in this together, remember.”

  Atwood nodded. “I remember.”

  But they weren’t,
not entirely. Atwood still hadn’t told Walter about his dreams or about the dangers Collins represented. Atwood knew himself to be made of sterner stuff than that twitchy shadow of a man, or at least he hoped he was, and perhaps with Walter’s help he could be. He would need to be.

  “Thank you, Walter,” he said. “You’re a good friend.”

  Walter shifted uncomfortably. “I try,” he said. “So what now?”

  “Back to the Oracle. We have an article to write, and more importantly a plan of attack to devise. We’ll be as smart as you like, but I’m still going to kill that man.”

  “I know,” Walter said. “I know.”

  *

  The climbed the steps into the Oracle building. Atwood was still brooding to himself, thinking dark, violent thoughts. Walter had been right. It was better to be smart, and there was more than one way to attack a man. He could feel Walter hovering behind him in mute concern. There was nothing more he could say, and they both knew it. Atwood felt oddly invigorated. That ate away at him slightly. His friend was dead, and he was revitalized; but Atwood chose not to examine that too closely, just as he pushed his culpability in Swifty’s death into a place deep inside. There was no time for self-recriminations. Until now, Valencourt had just been a story, perhaps the most important story of Atwood’s life, but a story nonetheless. Now he was an enemy, and nothing motivated Atwood like having someone to destroy. He was his father’s son.

  Atwood understood Valencourt now, partly at least. The alchemist wanted respect. He wanted to be acknowledged for his genius. That was his weakness and Atwood would exploit it. He would destroy every last scrap of respect. He had built Valencourt into a boogeyman, a murderer stalking the city like a colossus. Now he would make him a mockery and turn the monster into a deluded laughingstock. He could do it. Atwood could do anything with words. And then he would destroy the man. By the time he was done with Valencourt, Atwood’s hands would be stained with ink and blood. His old man would have been proud, but Atwood wasn’t doing it for him. He was doing it for his friend, and for himself.

  As soon as they were inside the Oracle, Atwood knew something was wrong. A quick glance at Walter’s frown confirmed that he sensed it as well.