The Alchemist in the Attic (14 page)

“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.

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.

“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.