The Alchemist in the Attic (15 page)

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 wished 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.

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.

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 floorboards 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.