“It’s…very quiet,” Walter said hesitatingly after a moment. Atwood blinked. It was quiet, practically silent. The Oracle was never silent. Silence meant ruin.
“The printers…” he said.
“They’ve stopped.” Walter stared at him in bewilderment. The thundering, roaring noise of the printers was gone and without it the walls felt empty. “Why?”
Atwood had no answer for him, at least not one he wanted to share. “Come on,” he said and kept walking.
Everyone was in the print room, those that were left. There was a handful of pressmen congregating in one corner, and the few remaining reporters were trickling down from their offices. Even the newsboys were there, looking forlorn and ragged. Everyone had a puzzled expression on their face. A few of them nodded to Atwood and Walter, but the newsboys threw them dark, mean looks that promised violence. Atwood sighed. He couldn’t blame them for that.
No one seemed entirely sure what was happening. Apparently Maguire had ordered the printing stopped, but that was over an hour ago and he hadn’t emerged from his office since. Atwood’s suspicion curdled into a grim certainty.
Finally the door to Maguire’s office swung open and the man himself emerged looking older than Atwood had ever seen, battered but faintly relieved. The murmurs died down and another man joined him, beaming down from the mezzanine with a victorious, self-satisfied smile. It was Selby.
“What is he…?” Walter started to ask, but Atwood waved him into silence. It was a useless question, anyway. In that moment, everyone there knew exactly what had happened, for better or for worse, and for Atwood it was definitely for worse.
“We’ve reached an agreement,” Maguire said. “Mr. Hearst has bought the Oracle and I am happy to announce that Mr. Selby will be joining us to smooth the transition and help with the day-to-day operations.”
“Thank you,” Selby said. “I wanted to say that Mr. Hearst appreciates your long and able years of service and hopes that the Oracle will benefit from many more.”
Maguire nodded with a wan smile. He had the look of a man who knew he was being taken out to pasture, but felt suitably well compensated.
Selby turned to the rest of the room. Every eye was on him, waiting for the ax to fall. “Mr. Hearst appreciates all of your service,” he continued. “The Oracle has a strong reputation in part because of you, toiling day after day, pounding the pavement, working the printers, and most of you will remain here at the Oracle for the time being. Some of you will be moved to one of Hearst’s other papers, if you’re willing. But I’m afraid that one or two of you will need to find employment elsewhere.” He looked directly at Atwood and his smirk grew even wider. “Thank you, everyone. That will be all for now.” He whispered to Maguire and they began to descend, never taking his eyes away from Atwood, and still smirking.
Around them the murmuring began to erupt again. There was a faint undertone of relief mixed with resentment. The blow had finally come, as they had all known it would, but it had been far less punitive than expected. Selby had handed the crowd well.
From the corner of his eye, Atwood caught sight of his old familiar shadows, Rehms and Wright, the giant and the man with a crooked nose, slipping out of the shadows, and he recognized a pair of plain-clothes policemen beside them. They flanked Atwood and Walter, looming above them. Selby had set a trap on Atwood’s own territory. Atwood was begrudgingly impressed, but mostly he was mad.
“Theodore,” Selby greeted. “Walter. I’m not sure either of you actually work here anymore. Well,” he nodded to Atwood. “You certainly don’t, and as for you, Walter, we’ll see soon enough. Won’t we, Maguire?”
“You sold us out,” Atwood said, turning sharply to Maguire. “You’ve been planning this for months, behind my back!”
“So have you,” Maguire replied calmly. “Trying to play both sides. The difference is that I succeeded.” Maguire sighed. “Someone had to save the paper.”
“I was!” Atwood said. “You said so yourself.”
“I hoped you would, but I couldn’t afford to rely on hope alone. I have a family.” He gave Atwood a worried, apologetic look. “And have you seen yourself lately? You’ve looked half-dead for weeks. How could I put my faith in that?”
“Don’t pin this on me,” Atwood snapped. “You sold us out long before that, before the Alchemist, perhaps since Gage.”
“I kept my options open,” Maguire allowed. “Like you did.”
“You’re a coward!” Atwood said. “Just like my father always said.”
Something shifted behind Maguire’s drooping eyes. Until now there had been something akin to regret in his expression. That faded now, replaced by something bitter and brittle.
“Careful,” he said. “You would have done the same if you could, and so would your father.”
“My father built this paper.”
“No,” Maguire said. “I did. Your father was a conniving son of a bitch. He left me to run this place while he drank, and whored, and gambled away our money.” Maguire didn’t raise his voice once, but each word was sharp and full of thorns. “He would have sold me out in a heartbeat, and sold you out in two. You know that, Teddy, better than anyone.”
Atwood scowled but said nothing. Beside him, Walter seemed to fold in on himself.
“So don’t pretend now, not to me,” Maguire continued. “I practically raised you.”
“Then how could you…?”
“How could I?” Maguire practically shouted, then visibly restrained himself. “I made a mistake on the battlefield 40 years ago, and your father never let me forget it, not for one day. He held it over me all those years, and then finally he was gone. I was free.” He smiled bitterly. “We were both free. And then you came into my office, Teddy, and said you knew everything your father did. Everything. Do you remember?”
Atwood glanced away, unable to meet his eyes.
“You threatened me, Teddy, and demanded I help you out of some scrape with a councilman’s daughter. You spat in my face that day, but I let it go. I’ve always let it go.”
“So this was your revenge,” Atwood sneered. “Stabbing me in the back.”
“No. This was business. You’ve always been my favorite, Teddy, but don’t pretend you’re any better than us. In the end you turned out to be a lying backstabber just like your father, and a coward like me.”
“Take that back!” Atwood was on him in an instant. He grabbed Maguire by the coat and shook him hard. He was about to strike the older man when he felt something cold and metallic pressed against his ribs. Maguire had a derringer in his hand. Atwood glared, daring him to shoot.
Behind him, Selby nodded to his men, who instantly sprang forward and pulled Atwood from Maguire and dragged him from the room. Walter immediately ran after them.
“Well, that was very illuminating,” Selby said to Maguire with a grin. “Shall we finish this?”
Maguire said nothing. He was breathing heavily, but his thoughts were his own.
23
The Final Offer
Rehms and Wright sent Atwood careening down the stairs. He tumbled into the street and landed headfirst in the mud. He groaned and forced himself to roll over. His arms and legs ached in protest, and his bones felt tight and jarred, but nothing hurt half as much as his pride. Twice now Selby’s thugs had gotten the best of him here at the Oracle. This was his house and it was certainly more of a home than the old lodging house or 7 Pretorius Street. Atwood rose unsteadily to his feet. He was tired, hurt, and spoiling for a fight. Rehms and Wright were already descending the stairs and appeared more than willing to give him one. Atwood rolled his neck and the heard bones crack as he reached for his brass knuckles.
Walter came running down, pushing past the policemen loitering on the top step. He joined Atwood and turned to face the others with a determined expression. He was small and weedy, but there was a ferocity in his eyes. Atwood was grateful for his presence.
“Last time you told me that you wishe
d you’d been there to help,” Atwood muttered.
“I did.” Walter nodded. “And here I am.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
Walter eyed Rehms and Wright. “Well,” he admitted. “I may have a few regrets.” They shared a small, tight smile. A crowd was starting to gather, eager for a fight.
“Enough!” Selby shouted. His men instantly halted, although the promise of violence never left their eyes. He emerged from inside the Oracle and stood proudly on the top step, a would-be Napoleon in a frock coat and top hat. He didn’t seem to feel the cold or the biting wind. This was his moment and he was enjoying it thoroughly. He always had a weakness for theatricality. Atwood had tried to curb that impulse in the old days, but Selby couldn’t help himself and now that he was in Hearst’s shadow, he’d been given free rein. Maguire stood behind him, his drooping eyes looking everywhere but at Atwood.
Selby grinned down at Atwood. “Such loyalty,” he said in his smuggest voice. “I believe that this is the part, Walter, where you reveal your silent partner.”
“Excuse me?” Walter asked.
“Don’t insult me,” Selby snapped. “His fingerprints are all over this. Did you really think I didn’t know what you were planning? Using Walter to test the waters? Trying to save your beloved Oracle with one hand, while negotiating with Young with the other, and talking to Hearst and me with a third? That’s vintage Atwood.”
Atwood shrugged, but inside he was seething. He’d been so focused on Valencourt and Valli that he’d forgotten it wasn’t just Hearst’s backing that made Selby dangerous. He was sharper than Atwood gave him credit for, and he was familiar with most of his tricks and foibles.
“But now that we’re all here,” Selby continued, “never let it be said that I am not a fair man. Make your pitch.” Atwood opened his mouth to speak, but Selby raised a hand to stop him. “No, no, no. Not you.” He pointed to Walter. “Him.”
Walter glanced at his friend’s newly bloodied face. After a moment, Atwood nodded reluctantly, reassuring him as best he was able.
“Very well.” Walter cleared his throat, feeling all eyes on him, few of them friendly. “This is the biggest story we’ve had in years,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “Political scandals are a dime a dozen. They come and go, but murder and madness will stick. This is national news. They’ll be talking about the Alchemist Killer from coast to coast.”
“I agree,” Selby said mildly. “And?”
Walter swallowed nervously. “And you need us. You need us to make this work.”
“Do I? If the story is as big as you say, it can write itself. I can get any old hack to throw something together. Hell, even I could do it. Couldn’t I, Teddy?”
Atwood sneered up at him but said nothing.
Walter coughed. “But we know things you don’t,” he said, forcing himself to speak. “Things no one else knows.”
“Yes, I believe you do. For now.” Selby kept his gaze locked on Atwood, as though they were engaged in a private battle, and Walter, Rehms and Wright, even the Oracle itself, was only the sideshow.
“That’s the deal,” Walter said. His voice was still shaking, but his eyes were firm. This was the most anyone other than Atwood had ever heard him say at one time. “Both of us for the story. We’ll give you the Organ Harvester wrapped up in a bow.”
“If you had that to offer, you’d have written it by now, and we wouldn’t be having this pleasant conversation.”
“Take it,” said Walter. “Or leave it. Young’s man was more open to negotiation. I imagine Hearst would be unhappy if he learned you’d let this slip through your fingers.”
Selby chuckled and raised an eyebrow at Atwood. “You coached him well, but it’s never going to happen. I won’t let it. I’m in charge of recruiting, and Hearst listens to me on such matters. The future is here, and Atwood isn’t invited.”
“You’re a petty little man,” Walter spat.
Selby snorted. “If our positions were reversed, your friend here would do the same as me. Wouldn’t you, Teddy?”
“Yes, I would,” Atwood said. “I most certainly would.”
“See?” Selby grunted in satisfaction. “Glad we can all be honest with one another.” He turned to Walter. “I’ve heard your proposal—now, allow me to make my counter offer. It’s simple enough. I just need you to do what you were already pretending to do. Give me everything you’ve got on this Organ Harvester of yours. We’ll double your current salary, and if you feel so inclined you can even give Atwood a penny or two, before you put him on a train to…anywhere else, and never speak to him again. I added that last part.”
Walter glared at him. “Never!”
Selby shook his head. “You’ve been a loyal stocking horse, Walter, but now you need to make a choice.” He sighed at Walter’s expression, and pulled a letter from his pocket. “I admire your loyalty, but I have a letter here signed by the esteemed alienist, Dr. Staalman. In his opinion, Atwood is not in his right mind and is suffering from hallucinations brought on by acute insomnia. Do you really want to tie yourself to that?” Selby summoned his most concerned and sympathetic expression. “Atwood is dead weight. The deputy police commissioner wants him gone. The medical establishment is ready to declare him mad. Let him go, Walter. You can still have a bright, shiny future.”
“Take it,” Atwood said softly. “It’s a good offer. Certainly the best you’ll get.”
“What?” Walter turned on him incredulously, a flash of hurt in his eyes.
“You heard me.” Atwood was steady, unrelenting. “This is your way out. Your last chance not to join me in the gutter. You need to take it.” He shot Selby a wry smile, one professional to another. “The letter was a nice touch,” he said.
Selby shrugged modestly. “You make friends wherever you go.”
“It’s a talent.”
“How could you ask me to abandon you?” Walter asked, drawing their attention back to him. “We’ve been in this together since the beginning. You’re…” he paused and cleared his throat. “You’re like a brother.”
Atwood sighed and put a hand on Walter’s shoulder. “I don’t have a brother,” he said gently, remorselessly. “And neither do you.”
Walter drew back from his touch. His face crumpled slightly, but there was anger in him, bubbling suddenly below the surface. For the first time, Atwood began to understand why so many people found Walter disturbing. He was a powder keg quietly waiting to explode, and looking into his eyes, Atwood thought he might have just lit the fuse.
“Apparently not!” Walter spat. Then he turned and marched up the stairs. “We have a deal,” he said to Selby, who was momentarily taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, but he recovered quickly.
“Excellent,” he said. “Come on, I think we have a great deal to talk about…” He began to steer Walter inside and threw Atwood a triumphant look over his shoulder. Maguire and the others followed in their wake. A few of the reporters risked sending Atwood a sympathetic glance, but most kept their heads down, and none of the newsboys bothered to hide their glee.
The crowd began to disperse into clusters of disappointed faces. They’d been hoping for a brawl, but Rehms and Wright had followed after their master like obedient dogs, leaving Atwood all alone in the mud.
As he watched Walter disappear from view, he felt a strange, warming sensation. It might have been pride. Walter was finally coming into his own, and becoming a backstabbing opportunist like the rest of them. Atwood hadn’t thought the younger man had it in him. Walter had plenty of talent, but he was too reticent, too dependent, too emotional for true treachery; at least, that’s what Atwood had assumed. Walter had finally proved him wrong, even if Atwood had to nudge him slightly.
Atwood groaned and rubbed his shoulder. Despite himself, he felt oddly hurt. Atwood was guilty of many things, but he was not a hypocrite. As Atwood headed out into the evening air, however, he couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal that churned through
him, even as it mingled with pride.
Atwood knew he would have to adjust his strategy. Walter knew less than he did about Valencourt, but no doubt he’d be more than willing to share. He could do nothing less. Atwood would be disappointed in him otherwise.
But now, Atwood was out of time, and yet as he began to walk away, his old swagger slipped back into his step. He felt like he’d been running this entire investigation, fumbling in the dark, playing by someone else’s rules in a game he barely understood, but he was done running. He was done fumbling.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two of the remaining newsboys loitering at the top of the steps, and an idea occurred to him. It was only a seed, but it was enough. He waved them down, and after a moment of deliberation they joined him.
“It’s Carrot, isn’t it?” he asked. “And Fat Jim?”
“What do you want?” Fat Jim demanded.
Atwood studied their sullen, angry faces and fought the urge to look away. They had every right to be angry. “I need a favor,” he said.
Fat Jim scoffed and behind him Carrot’s glare intensified. “Doing favors for you got them killed.”
“I know,” Atwood said. “Believe me, I know, but I need you to take a message to Inspector Quirke without anyone knowing.” The newsboys didn’t bother replying. “Wait!” Atwood cried, suddenly desperate. “Don’t do it for me. Do it for them.”
They frowned up at him.
“I know who killed them,” Atwood said. “And I’m going to make him pay. I just need your help first. What do you say?”
Slowly a pair of vicious smiles spread across their faces, and for the first time in a long time, Atwood felt like himself. He didn’t know how exactly, but he knew he was going to win, if only to spite them all.
24
The Attic
Atwood watched Madame Valli in tense silence as she bustled about preparing the tea. He could feel a restless anger coiled inside him, threatening to explode, but he forced himself to relax and remain still. Anger led to mistakes, and he could not afford any more mistakes. Unfortunately, there was no more time left for patience either. His hand had been forced, and things had been set in motion. There was no turning back now, not that Atwood had any intention of turning back. If he didn’t act now, then instead of presenting the story to the world, he’d be picking up whatever scraps Selby, or worse, Walter, had left him.
The Alchemist in the Attic Page 16