The Alchemist in the Attic

by Urias, Antonio

  Madame Valli was his only advantage and he was starting to wonder if she was simply wasting his time. For all her promises and winking affability she remained as vague as ever. Atwood wondered what Walter would have made of her, but he had refused to meet the ‘damned opera singer.’ Atwood berated himself. Walter had betrayed him; even if Atwood had encouraged him to plunge the dagger in his back, that didn’t change the fact that they were rivals now. Walter’s opinions and insights no longer mattered, but old habits were hard to break and Atwood had grown accustomed to the younger man, reliant even.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Madame Valli said as she passed him his cup. There was nothing but seriousness in her voice. All her grand theatricality was gone for the moment. She seemed disconcertingly sincere. They haven’t known each other long but her salacious grins and extravagant flirtations had become almost a ritual. They shared the grasping, watchful soul of a huckster. It was a mask they both wore. Atwood understood the rules, understood where they stood with each other, or thought he did. He distrusted her sudden honesty even more than her artifice.

  Atwood sipped his tea and then gestured for her flask. She handed it over with a smirk that faded as he helped himself to a generous portion.

  “I’m not here for tea and sympathy,” he said. The spoon rattles in his cup as he mixed tea and alcohol.

  “What then, darling?”

  “Answers,” Atwood said. “For a start.”

  Madame Valli frowned in feigned puzzlement and opened her mouth to speak. Atwood held up his hand to stop her. “Straight answers,” he said. “No more evasions and half-truths. I want the truth or nothing.”

  Madame Valli studied him for a long moment. “Very well,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Madame Valli shook her head wryly. “That would take awhile, and I don’t think you have the time.”

  “Then be concise.” Atwood put his teacup down and leaned forward. “I already know that Dr. Staalman wanted Valencourt’s notebook.”

  Madame Valli carefully didn’t react, but Atwood caught something in her expression, a flicker of recognition.

  “So you knew about the notebook.”

  “We all know about the notebook,” she said. “Stokes, Staalman and me, even Autenberry.”

  “So is that what you’re all after, his notes?”

  “Partially.” She sighed. “There are those who take an interest in these matters.”

  “These matters?” Atwood scoffed. “Do you mean murder or alchemy?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “And you expect me to believe this?”

  “You’ve been to a séance,” Madame Valli said. “You’ve heard the dead speak.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “And I was impressed, from one huckster to another.”

  “You don’t have to believe,” she said with a sigh. “But there are those who do. There are over two dozen cults and orders on the West Coast alone. Most of them are small and harmless, but there are those with real power. I don’t know which one has gotten its claws into Staalman, but I have my own debts to pay. Favors are owed.”

  Atwood nodded. That, at least, he understood. In her own way, Madame Valli was nearly as desperate as he was, and if he didn’t believe or understand her motives, he recognized her desperation.

  “There is a certain gentleman in Paris who wants to know as much as possible about Valencourt’s work,” she continued. “And when I’ve learned all I can, he wants me to destroy it.”

  “Paris?” Atwood frowned. “Where Valencourt used to teach?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose this gentleman of yours had a hand in Valencourt’s disgrace?”

  Madame Valli shrugged, but said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t know.

  “So all this death and madness is because San Francisco is caught between a pair of feuding Frenchmen?”

  “That’s certainly one way of looking at it.”

  “So you’ve been using all of us to get at Valencourt and pay back your mysterious debt.”

  “Valencourt knows he’d being hounded. He was difficult to find, dangerous and secretive, but he wants to be recognized, acknowledged for his achievements. I’m sure you can understand that,” she said. Atwood frowned, but held his tongue. “He’s a teacher,” she continued, “so I gave him a student.”

  “Collins.”

  “Yes, but Valencourt twisted him around and broke him. Collins knew more than he was saying, but in the end he kept Valencourt’s secrets, even from me.” She threw Atwood a questioning glance, but he shook his head.

  “He warned me about Valencourt, mentioned the ‘Great Work,’ but nothing specific.”

  Madame Valli nodded. “That’s what he told me, and nothing more.”

  “We’ll just have to find out for ourselves,” Atwood said. “But if he was to be a student, what was I? Bait? A distraction?”

  “Both,” she said unapologetically. “Either. You make a lot of noise, darling—you stir things up. I thought I could use that.”

  “Well, I’m about to make a great deal more noise.” Atwood exploded to his feet, unable to constrain himself any longer. “I’m going to do what I should have done from the beginning. I’m going upstairs to the attic, and you’re coming with me.”

  Madame Valli raised a perfectly painted eyebrow. “To beard the lion in his den?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  Atwood gave her a long searching look, as if he’d find the answer on her face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I want to, and that would stop the experiment, and pay your debt.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “And I won’t deny I’ve wanted to, ever since…” Atwood swallowed back a sudden rush of bile at the thought of Swifty, and faded into silence.

  “Is that why you’re only taking a little old lady to watch your back?”

  “You’re not as old as you pretend to be,” Atwood said. “And you have at least three knives I can see, and a derringer in your boot.”

  “Oh, darling!” Madame Valli lounged on the couch and batted her eyelids up at Atwood. “You noticed.” Atwood’s lips twitched into a small smile, despite himself.

  “But you still should have told them,” she said. He gazed at her blankly. “The police, darling.” She shook her head. “You’re a fool.” Her earrings jangled. “You could have interviewed him in prison like you did Dr. Gentle. It would have been safer.”

  “It’s not about safer.”

  “No,” she agreed. “You’ve known about Valencourt for ages and have been sleeping under him for weeks, but you never breathed a word, not to your editor, not to the police.”

  “I need the truth. I need to know. I’m owed that,” he said, and he meant it.

  “This isn’t about truth,” Madame Valli said. “It’s not even about vengeance for what’s-his-name…”

  “Swifty and Little Jake.”

  “Poor boys,” she said. “I know you feel guilty. I know you want revenge, but that’s not why you’re doing this.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s about the limelight, darling,” Madame Valli said. “You want to be the hero, the brave reporter with the story of the decade, or perhaps the century. Theodore Atwood: The Man Who Caught the Alchemist Killer. You could dine out on that for the rest of your life, work at any paper in the country.”

  Atwood shrugged slightly and sipped his tea.

  “False modesty!” Madame Valli laughed appreciatively. “You’re not a martyr, darling. You’re a hustler.”

  “Is there a difference?” Atwood asked.

  “Depends where you’re standing.”

  Atwood acknowledged the point with a nod, but before he could say anything else, there was a sudden creaking and groaning from the floor above. Atwood exchanged glances with Madame Valli. He had become a student of the upstairs’ noises, and he knew the creaking floorbo
ards and screeching furniture for what they were. Valencourt was preparing for his weekly perambulation.

  This was their chance. Atwood and Madame Valli waited, listening intently as Valencourt went about his preparations. First the screech of his boots being dragged across the floor. Then an upholstered sigh as he sank into the chair, followed by the creak of floorboards as he collected his coat and hat. It was a slow, deliberate process, and Valencourt was a creature of habit.

  Finally, they heard him lumbering down the stairs and saw his shadow beneath the door as he passed outside the landing. Atwood peered through the keyhole as Valencourt passed, a distorted, indistinct figure, and listened intently until his thumping footsteps receded. Through the window they saw him emerge at last into the street, wrapped tightly in his warmest coat and lumbering with his peculiar corkscrew walk. Atwood and Madame Valli watched him disappear out of view.

  “This is our chance,” Atwood said. “Come on!”

  Madame Valli frowned. “Don’t you find Valencourt’s sudden absence more than a little convenient?”

  “It is suspicious,” Atwood said. “But what choice do we have? We’re committed.”

  *

  Atwood led the way, creeping up the stairs. He was exhausted and grimly determined. Behind him Madame Valli’s eyes were filled with dark, raging excitement. There was no more time for games, only anger and vengeance.

  Atwood produced his lock pick from his coat pocket and knelt by the door, uncomfortably aware of the creaking floorboards. He bent to his task, sweating even in the chilly air. He could smell Madame Valli’s perfume and feel her breath on his neck. The lock pick shook in his hands. He took a deep breath and willed them to be still, but his fingers rebelled. The shaking wouldn’t stop. He glanced at the gaping stairwell. He felt as though Valencourt might rise from the gaping darkness at any moment.

  Madame Valli glanced at the markings on the door and sighed. ”For goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “If you want something done, do it yourself.”

  She snatched the lock pick from his hand, rolled up her skirts and with a stiff groan crouched down and proceeded to pick the lock expertly. It opened for her almost immediately with a satisfying click.

  “There,” she said. “Easy.”

  Atwood glared at the lock and then turned to enter the attic. He moved cautiously, unsure what to expect. All the hardships—the sleepless nights and fruitless searches—had led to this. He forgot about Walter and his secrets, about the newspaper, even about Swifty and Little Jake. All that mattered was the attic. All that mattered was the story.

  The attic was almost twice as large as Atwood’s apartment below, and Valencourt had turned it into a fully functioning laboratory. It was filled with books, inkbottles, distilling apparatus, tubes, cylinders, and the sundry tools of chemical research. The air was thick and oppressive, suffocated by the fumes and odors of tortured science. The walls were smudged by smoke and noxious fumes.

  Atwood and Madame Valli made their way through the clutter, peering through microscopes, examining beakers. The floorboards creaked terribly, the wood discolored by chemical spills and the unmistakable stain of blood. Atwood jostled a few beakers and tubes, while Madame Valli circled around the other side, casting a searching eye over everything. She was looking for the notebook and had no time for Atwood’s more prosaic search.

  They both approached an operating table on the far side of the room. It was a medieval monstrosity of straps and chains. Atwood flinched at the sight of it. Valencourt’s victims had been alive when he had cut them. Countless people had died on this very table, sacrificed to Valencourt’s mysterious experiments. Madame Valli sent him a sympathetic glance, but he turned away from her concern.

  Behind that table of horrors, directly above where the ominous stain marred his ceiling, a makeshift canvas curtain had been arranged to discourage prying, curious eyes, such as theirs, but Atwood could see twisted, gnarling branches peeking out from behind the covering, and beneath it a strange shape, obscured by the canvas but puzzlingly familiar.

  Atwood looked back at Madame Valli, questioningly. “Is that a tree?” he asked, masking his horror with incredulity as best he could.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I think it is.” She was hiding her reactions better, but even in the dim twilight, Atwood noticed that she was paler than before.

  “What could possibly be so secretive about a tree?” He needed to know what was underneath the canvas, needed to know what could cause that dark stain on his ceiling below.

  They both saw Valencourt’s notebook at the same moment. It was resting on a small table by the window. Madame Valli quickly moved past him to study it. She cradled it in her hands with reverent disgust. Atwood glanced over her shoulder as he passed. Its pages were covered in scientific notation mixed with symbols that Atwood recognized from her occult acquaintances. It was alchemy, alchemy mixed with science, and Atwood didn’t understand a word of it. Perhaps she did—it was hard to tell, but he was more interested in what was behind the canvas. That stain had haunted his dreams, poisoned his imagination. He needed to know. Before he could pull back the curtain, however, he heard the sound he dreaded most. There were footsteps on the landing outside. Valencourt had returned, much sooner than expected.

  There was no escape. During the course of his career, Atwood had discovered a natural propensity for slipping into the background unobserved. He would need that talent now. He scrambled for one of the corners and crouched behind a table. Madame Valli joined him there a moment later. Clearly she had the same experience and instincts. She sent him a cheeky grin, but it was tinged with worry. They were not a second too late. The door swung open almost as soon as they had hidden themselves.

  They listened with baited breath as Valencourt turned and bolted the door behind him with a sigh. He unwrapped himself slowly, layer by layer. He hung his coat and scarf on a rack and balanced his hat on a polished skull.

  Atwood watched his every move from his hiding place. Valencourt pulled down a white lab coat and situated himself at one of the microscopes. He soon set about jotting down notes, utterly absorbed.

  They were trapped. Valencourt had locked the door with them inside, and was already returning to his work, whatever that might be. He could wait all night if necessary. It would be cold and uncomfortable, but he could do it. Escape would be better, of course, but only so long as Valencourt remained unaware of his presence. The situation was delicate, but Atwood had been in worse. The question was whether Madame Valli could last. There was no question that her spirit was willing, but her body might betray her.

  “Trespassing is still illegal, Mr. Atwood,” Valencourt said, at length, without looking up from his work. “Even for the friendly neighborhood reporter.”

  Atwood started in surprise. Valencourt knew he was there, and worse, he knew his real name and his profession. He thought he’d been so careful, but twice now the inhabitants of Pretorius Street had caught him.

  Madame Valli gave him what she probably thought was a reassuring glance. He did not feel reassured. Atwood had confronted murderers before, interviewed them. Valencourt was no different. The thought sounded hollow, even in his own head. Thoughts of his hellish nights and the dark stain flashed through Atwood’s mind, followed by the image of those poor boys splayed open on the autopsy tables. He pulled his coat tighter and stood.

  “Good evening, Dr. Valencourt,” he said.

  “And your friend,” Valencourt said, still not looking up from his work.

  Atwood glanced down. Madame Valli seemed momentarily frozen, but then she shrugged her mask into place and slipped her derringer from her boot.

  “Beard him in his den, darling,” she muttered, as she rose to slowly to stand beside him.

  “Something like that,” Atwood agreed ruefully.

  “Madame Valli,” Valencourt said. “It was kind of you to join us, and as for you, Atwood, I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time now.”

  Valencourt
finally looked up and smiled a crooked, satisfied smile.

  25

  The Alchemist

  The three of them stood there for a long moment amidst the refuse of Valencourt’s dark science, silently studying one another, waiting, watching. Atwood and Madame Valli had walked right into a trap and they knew it. Valencourt had made no threatening moves as yet, but his smirking politeness and casual courtesy were tinged with malice, and they were both painfully aware of the old man’s crimes. Worse, he seemed to be aware of them and their true identities.

  “You know who I am, then?” Atwood asked.

  “I’ve known who you are,” Valencourt said with a sly smile, “since nearly the time we first met. That was you on the landing that night with McManus and Keeler, wasn’t it?”

  “You recognized me?”

  “Not right away. My eyes are not what they were, but when someone takes an interest in me, I’ve found it prudent to take an interest in them, especially when they start associating with her.”

  He took a step toward Madame Valli, a sharp glint in his eyes. She and Atwood circled back, away from him and toward the door.

  “That’s close enough, darling,” she said, revealing her derringer. Valencourt stopped in his tracks and held his hands up in mock surrender, the smirk never leaving his lips.

  “We’re all civilized here,” he said. “There’s no need for violence.”

  Atwood and Madame Valli exchanged an incredulous glance. “You’ve left a trail of mutilated corpses,” Atwood pointed out reasonably. “You’re hardly one to talk about violence.”

  “I’m a scientist and a student of the occult,” Valencourt said. “Both are disciplines that reward sacrifice.”