The Alchemist in the Attic (8 page)

7 Pretorius Street was a squalid, ramshackle affair. The paint was cracked and peeling and there was a rancid smell in the air. Rats made their homes in the hidden cracks and crevices, scurrying about in the dark. It was well past midnight when Atwood and Walter arrived accompanied by McManus and Keeler. They were carrying a wooden box between them, and making their way carefully up the narrow stairs. The only light came from a few lonely gas lamps, which cast flickering, malformed shadows on the walls.

The box was six feet long and heavy, even for the four of them. Walter was straining under the weight. Atwood glanced at him worriedly, but he shook his head.

“I’m fine,” Walter whispered. Atwood wasn’t convinced, but he had no choice but to take him at his word. They were committed.

They hadn’t asked what was inside the box. Atwood was afraid that McManus and Keeler might tell him. He already knew, of course, but deniability might be necessary one day. He was on shaky enough ground as it was, and the ground was getting shakier by the minute. He and Walter were climbing straight into the jaws of a probable murderer, accompanied only by the man’s accomplices, albeit unknowing, if McManus and Keeler were to be believed. Atwood wasn’t sure he did, and by the look of him, neither was Walter.

Despite a great deal of jostling, creaking, hushed cursing, and stifled coughing as they made their way to the top of the stairs, no one seemed any the wiser. The residents all remained safely oblivious in their apartments, or else they had learned not to ask too many questions. Walter nearly let the box slip through his fingers several times, either from weakness or nerves, but he managed to hold on, barely.

Finally, they reached the attic and placed the box down with a loud thud. They stood there for a moment listening the creaking of the house, waiting for the telltale pitter of feet, but no one came. There was only one door. It was heavily locked and bolted. McManus glanced back at Atwood, who nodded.

McManus sighed and knocked quietly. “This isn’t going to work,” he whispered.

There was a long pause. Atwood and Walter shifted nervously. This was their best chance to see inside. It was now or never, and in that moment Atwood was filled with a terrible certainty that McManus and Keeler had led them into a trap.

After a moment, McManus knocked again. Finally there was the pitter-patter of feet and the screech of a bolt. The door swung open slightly and an older gentleman peered out. It was Dr. Valencourt, at last.

A strange sense of relief came over Atwood. The jaws of the trap still might be closing around him, but he had lain eyes on his quarry. From the gloom of the hallway, Atwood caught little more than glimpses. He had the impression of a distinguished, well-dressed man, gone to seed. He caught sight of a bushy, unkempt beard, and a faded, rumpled coat. Everything else was lost in shadows.

“You’re late,” Valencourt said sharply. Atwood couldn’t quite place his accent; possibly French.

“We were delayed,” McManus said.

“Clearly.” Valencourt turned to Atwood and Walter. They were both dressed in rags, with their hats pulled low over their faces. “New partners?” Valencourt asked.

“Showing them the ropes,” Keeler said. Valencourt grunted.

“You know the rules,” he said. “Keep your eyes on the floor, ask no questions, and no one is allowed inside without my say so. No exceptions. They wait here.”

McManus opened his mouth to argue, but Valencourt silenced him with a sharp glare. “They wait here.” His tone brokered no argument.

After a moment, McManus nodded.

“Now hurry,” Valencourt said. “It’s nearly dawn.”

McManus and Keeler both threw Atwood apologetic looks, and then reached down and carried the box inside. Atwood and Walter attempted to follow them and at least catch a glimpse into Valencourt’s apartment. He had turned the attic into a laboratory. There were long tables filled with beakers and other scientific equipment. A sense of controlled, madcap chaos.

Before Atwood could get a closer look, however, Valencourt was suddenly there, blocking the view.

“I don’t know you,” he said sharply. “You’re not invited.”

The shadows seemed to gather about him, and for a moment he was more fiend than man, a malignant spirit beneath the skin staring out at Atwood with a terrible, fevered certainty, judging him.

Atwood took a step back, then rallied. “What about our fee, mister?” he asked, putting on a slight accent, just in case. Behind him, Walter nodded.

Valencourt looked between them.

“I never agreed to pay you,” Valencourt said. “Talk to your friends. It’s not my concern.”

The three of them waited in awkward silence, while from behind Valencourt they could hear muffled jolts and thuds, as McManus and Keeler went about their work.

They emerged, at last, grim and dusty. Valencourt turned back briefly to inspect their work and then nodded, clearly satisfied. He pulled out a small coin purse and jangled it. It made a satisfying clinking sound. McManus reached out for it, but Valencourt pulled back.

“Never do this again,” he said. “Or I will find more discrete grave robbers.”

“Understood,” McManus replied.

Valencourt studied him for a moment. “Good.” He handed McManus the purse. “Same time next week.”

“Thank you, sir,” McManus said. Keeler echoed him. They headed back down the stairs and Atwood followed reluctantly a moment later, Walter right behind him. Atwood looked back and saw Valencourt looming above them at the top of the stairs, cloaked in shadows and gloom.

*

Valencourt was guilty. Atwood was certain now. He had gotten a taste of the man. There was something sharp and prickly in him, traces of something bitter—a sense of respectability gone to seed, and perhaps of wounded pride. It was not native to him, but learned. What had taught him the lesson? What twists of fate and misfortunes had led that roiling intelligence here? There was a story there and in knowing it, Atwood would have his man.

Atwood glanced at Walter. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” he said. He was still not sure where McManus and Keeler truly stood. They had kept their word, but Atwood could still feel a noose closing around his neck. Valencourt had unnerved him. He felt unbalanced, as if he had wandered into a hidden corner of the world.

As soon as they reached the next floor, and they were sure Valencourt was out of earshot, Keeler turned to Atwood.

“We did our part,” he said.

“I did warn you,” McManus added. “That he wouldn’t go for it. Too private.”

“So you did,” Atwood said. He paid Keeler. “You keep your word. I keep mine.”

“We should go,” Walter said.

Atwood nodded. It was almost morning. The denizens would be waking up soon. As they crept back quietly down the stairs, not one of them noticed the door to the apartment on the left crack open, or the pair of eyes that peered out at them as they passed.

The next morning Atwood returned to Pretorius Street to make a few discrete inquiries. He had met Valencourt now, seen his face, but he needed to get a sense of the man. When this was over, Atwood would make Valencourt infamous, as he had Gentle before him; but where he had understood Dr. Gentle within moments, Valencourt was something altogether stranger. There was something elusive about him, and Atwood preferred to be in full possession of the facts—even, or especially, when every word he wrote was a fabrication.

Before they met again, Atwood would learn all of Valencourt’s secrets, would know him better even than he knew himself. Then he would have him. They were tied together now, although Valencourt didn’t yet know it. To do that, Atwood would have to go door to door and learn what he could from scraps of the neighbor’s gossip. Considering his nocturnal activities, a man like Valencourt was bound to leave an impression. Atwood was not fond of the work. It was tedious and time consuming, but it would give him a sense of the man and the place. That was key.

It would have been easier with Walter. Atwood could draw people out and pick over their words better than almost anyone, but Walter could hear answers in the silences, and Atwood had a feeling this investigation would be mostly silence. Walter had made himself scarce, however, and had refused to return to Pretorius Street. One of them needed to write the court reports, after all. That had been his excuse, at least, but something had clearly spooked him. Perhaps Valencourt had gotten under his skin, or perhaps he had another reason.

Atwood found it curious that from the beginning Walter had practically foisted the story on him. It had been Walter’s lead that had led them into this mess, that led then to what could be the story of a lifetime, and yet rather than worrying about Atwood stealing it, it was as almost as if Walter was foisting it onto him. That was perhaps the strangest thing of all. Did Walter know something, or was he perhaps letting Atwood do all the work, poised to take it out from under him at the last second? That’s what Atwood would have done in his place, but Walter was too loyal for that. There was probably a more innocent explanation.

Even if there wasn’t, Atwood couldn’t blame Walter for exploring the possibilities. It was every man for himself. Hearst and Young would hire Walter in a heartbeat, if only to deprive the other of his services. It was an enviable position, and he envied it. Atwood could have played them against each other for months and enjoyed every minute of it.

The rats were abandoning the sinking ship and Atwood was left trapped. He didn’t like it, not one bit. That was the difference between him and Maguire. For all the old man’s conniving and backstabbing, at bottom he was a captain determined to go down with the ship. Atwood would always prefer to be one of the rats, just like his old man, and he was proud of it.

Atwood straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair, put on his most earnest expression, and tried to think holy thoughts. He had chosen to present himself as Mr. Dupin, a missionary for the Church of St. John the Beheaded. Wealthy, well-meaning ladies and gentlemen from all manner of associations and societies were a familiar sight in this part of the city and Atwood could play the part, if he chose. He only hoped Valencourt’s suspicions would not be aroused.

*

7 Pretorius Street looked different in daylight, but only slightly less foreboding. It was shabby, unwelcoming, and covered in grime. For most people it would be a place of last resort, one final bastion against poverty and disgrace. Atwood had lived in such places before, with his father, in the days before Maguire, before the
Oracle
. Valencourt was different. He had not come here to cradle his broken dreams amidst the squalor. His dreams still burned strong inside him. For Valencourt, Pretorius Street was a place to ply his trade away from prying eyes. His fellow denizens, at least, were well suited to the environment. Their desperations and grubby dreams were more familiar. Atwood felt at home among them, back on firmer ground.

There was Mr. Lint, the opium eater on the first floor. He was a man with an imaginative, if nervous, disposition. He answered Atwood’s questions hazily and stared blankly over Atwood’s shoulder throughout their conversation, muttering to himself. Atwood caught a few words here and there amidst the gibberish—bodies, Valencourt, attic. Atwood felt his ears prick and the excitement begin to build, but if Mr. Lint knew anything more he wasn’t sharing. There was a twitching fear in him that didn’t come just from the opium, and he left Atwood with a clammy, unsettled feeling beneath his skin.

Captain Fornell was no better. In his own words, he was “a former army man of ill-repute and foul rumor,” most of which he had clearly spread himself. He was a creature of bluster and would-be-mysterious hints, but Atwood knew his type. He listened patiently to the Captain, but drew his own conclusions. Atwood doubted that his old regiment even remembered Fornell’s name, let alone his so-called dastardly deeds. He was a shell, living off the tattered fragments of his own ignominy. He was frightened too, beneath the bluster, the way a hyena is when it meets the lion, and Atwood knew exactly who the lion in question was. It was never easy for men like Fornell, in love with their own meager wickedness, to meet men like Valencourt with true fire in their eyes. There was something sadly pathetic about the man, something empty and blind.

Then there was Madame Valli, a degenerate opera singer of dubious pedigree with the voice of a frog. She had a painted face and lingering fingers. While they spoke, she kept finding an excuse to touch him. She lived on the floor below Valencourt, and whatever she was, Madame Valli certainly wasn’t blind.

Her advances flustered him. If he had been the missionary he claimed, he probably would have died of embarrassment by now. He couldn’t quite get a sense of her, no matter how hard he tried. The others had the scent of despair about them, hiding behind drugs or stories, but Madame Valli wasn’t hiding. She was comfortable in the squalor, had wrapped it about her, worn it on her face. She was at home here and she was studying him as closely as he was studying her. There was no fear in her eyes, only secrets and laughter. Atwood was certain it was directed at him, but he couldn’t quite see the joke.

“Are you sure you won’t come inside, Mister…Dupin?” she said, running her hand over his lapel.

“N-no,” Atwood managed. “Thank you, but I should be…should be going.”

“What’s the matter? It’s only tea. We could sit and…talk.” She grinned. “You could tell me all about the Lord’s work, and I’m sure I could think of something to interest you.”

Atwood cleared his throat and managed to extract himself with some difficulty. “There’s still a few more people I need to speak with,” he said, struggling to stay in character. “Perhaps later.”

Madame Valli graced him with a teasing pout. “The man upstairs is out. So that only leaves poor Mr. Collins, and I assure you, I’m much more fun.”

“I’m sure,” Atwood said, backing away. “But duty calls.” He stumbled and practically ran across the hall. The floorboards creaked warningly beneath his feet.

“Another time then, darling,” she called after him. It sounded like a promise.

*

Atwood heard Madame Valli’s door close behind him, and he gave a sigh of relief. It had been years since anyone had been able to put him off balance so easily, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she had learned more from him than he had intended. Worse, she had clearly known something, and instead of pushing and prying, Atwood had run away. If this Mr. Collins didn’t pan out, he might have to take Madame Valli up on her offer of
tea
. Atwood shuddered at the thought.

Atwood reached the door and immediately noticed a shadow flickering  under the door. Mr. Collins was home, then, and must have been listening attentively at the door or keyhole. Perhaps it was merely curiosity, but that was promising. Even more suggestive was Collins’ location directly below Valencourt. If anyone was in a position to know something, it would be him.

Atwood rapped on the door, and it swung open almost immediately, revealing a harried, tight-lipped gentleman in a fussy suit. At first, Atwood took him for a man with delusions above his station, but he wore the starched collar too easily and the suit fit him like a second skin. This was not a man who dreamed of rising, but one who was falling and had yet to reach the bottom. Atwood knew the type; in many ways he himself was the type, although Collins probably would have rejected the comparison.

He was studying Atwood in turn with twitchy, mistrustful eyes. “Yes?” he asked.

Atwood smiled an easy, reassuring smile, but that only made Collins more wary. He was clearly nervous, almost as jittery as the opium eater had been, but the eyes were clear. There was no dream in them. Atwood saw intelligence and buried suspicion. Collins knew something, or thought he did. Atwood was sure of it.

“My name is Mr. Dupin.” Atwood paused. Collins’ eyes had narrowed. He knew Atwood was lying—somehow he knew. Any further prevarication would be unadvisable. Collins would require careful handling, especially if he proved as useful as Atwood was starting to suspect.

“Forgive me,” he said. “My name is actually Atwood. I’m with the
San Francisco
Oracle.
”

Collins blinked at him, unimpressed, but something had shifted behind his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I just want to ask you a few questions about one of your neighbors, if you don’t mind?”

Collins frowned. “You gave me a false name, and you told Madame Valli you were here on behalf of St. John the Beheaded.”

“I did,” Atwood admitted easily. “And you must have been listening very closely to hear me say that. Very closely.”

Collins shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable, but he stood his ground. “Which neighbor?” he asked.

“The man upstairs. Valencourt.”

“What do you want to know about Marius?” Collins glanced at the stairs, hoping or fearing that the man himself would appear, as if summoned.

“Marius,” Atwood repeated. “You know him well, then.”

“Well enough.”

“You used his Christian name.” Atwood spoke softly, cajolingly, but the other man refused to budge. He had given away too much already. “Don’t worry,” Atwood said after a moment. “This is only for background on a story. I don’t mean your friend any harm.” Still no reply. “Anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

“Why would I help you?” The words were harsh, but Collins’ voice was shaky.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Collins made no reply, but the answer was obvious. His darting glances toward the stairs had become more frequent, and his eyes lingered. He was clearly afraid of Valencourt, but it was more than that. He was waiting for his neighbor to save him, like a beaten dog eagerly awaiting his master; and he was beaten, not physically, but inside, where it counted most. Collins was a clever man. Atwood had seen flashes of his old intelligence, but he was hollowed out and edgy. Perhaps even guilty, but guilty of what? Had he assisted Valencourt in his terrible work and helped discard the corpses when the doctor was through with them? That was the true question, and Collins was not prepared to answer.

Some men were born with guilty consciences. They felt the weight of every transgression, large and small, deeply and equally. Collins had the look of such a man. It wouldn’t take much to induce him to speak and unburden himself, at least not of his own misdeeds. The rest would depend on how deeply Valencourt had sunk his roots. For the moment it would be best to tread softly.

“Perhaps we should talk somewhere else,” Atwood suggested. “Away from prying ears.” They both knew exactly who he meant.

Collins said nothing for a long moment. Atwood could see the gears turning behind Collins’ eyes. Talking to Atwood was dangerous, but Collins needed to learn what Atwood was after, what he already knew, and there was only one way to find out for sure.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same time. Meet me here.  I know a place to eat.”

Atwood nodded. “Until tomorrow, then.”

He headed back to the stairs quietly, avoiding the creaking floorboards. He could feel Collins watching him until he was around the corner and out of sight. Atwood had learned a great deal, although none of it was concrete. He had a taste of Valencourt now, could hear him echoed in Collins voice. He was getting closer, and tomorrow promised to bring him closer still. Collins was clever enough to make it interesting, but Atwood had no doubt that he would win. Whatever Collins told himself—or Valencourt—about his motives, he wanted to talk, to explain himself, to unburden, and Atwood would let him.