Free The Alchemist in the Attic by Antonio Urias Page A

old man had gotten himself killed years ago. Brilliant but flawed, he’d gotten himself in too deep, trusting his wits to get him out again as they always had. Maguire had never been like that. He was slower, steadier, more solid, but he too was reaching the end of his tether.
    “How much of this is true?” he asked, throwing a copy of the morning paper on the desk.
    “Almost none.” Atwood was unrepentant. “A few facts here and there.”
    Maguire smiled a proud, tired smile. “And your bodysnatching friends?”
    “I’ll find them,” Atwood said. “It’s connected. The murders, everything. I’m sure of it.”
    “And if it isn’t?” Maguire appraised him with his drooping eye.
    “Then I’ll make it connected.” Atwood smiled sharply. “No one will ever know the difference. And if they do, they won’t care. Mine’ll be the better story.”
    “Excellent!” Maguire clapped him on the back. “You’ll make a fine editor one day.”
    Atwood smiled wanly. “Thank you,” he managed. “That means a great deal, coming from you.” He swallowed his growing worry behind a swell of sudden pride. Maguire was only kind when he was truly concerned. More than anything, a genuine compliment showed just how overwhelmed Maguire was.
    Maguire cleared his throat awkwardly.  He was no more comfortable with sincerity than Atwood was. “Are you still involving Walter?” he asked.
    “Yes.” Atwood frowned. “It was his lead in the first place and he’s been very helpful. I have high hopes for him.”
    “You had high hopes for Selby, and look where that’s gotten us.”
    “I know,” Atwood muttered darkly. “You should have let me handle him ages ago.”
    “Perhaps,” Maguire allowed. “Perhaps not. It’s too late now.”
    “Doesn’t have to be.”
    Maguire shook his head ruefully. “Where is Walter, anyway?”
    Atwood narrowed his eyes. Maguire had posed the question seemingly as an afterthought, but he was after something. “Someone has to do the court reports,” Atwood replied slowly. “Why?”
    “Nothing,” said Maguire. “But I thought I’d assigned those reports to Wright and Layfield.”
    “I don’t know anything about that.” Atwood shrugged. “All I know is that he told me he had to be in court.”
    “I see.” Maguire chewed his cigar viciously.
    “What?”
    “He’s been seen.” Maguire hesitated. “Talking with Selby.”
    “Seen by whom?”
    “Some of the newsboys.”
    “Which newsboys?”
    “Your pet, Sniffy.”
    “Swifty,” Atwood corrected. There was a hint of rebuke in his voice. Maguire ignored it.
    Atwood’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’m hardly one to cast stones, but if this is true, I’ve misjudged Walter, badly.”
    “Just be careful,” Maguire replied. “We don’t want this story stolen out from under us. So hurry up and find your bodysnatching friends. No one else is on that yet, but we can’t keep our interest secret forever, not with the way Selby is watching you.”
    “Yes, sir.” Atwood snapped a sloppy salute.
    “Don’t be cheeky,” Maguire snapped.
    Atwood grinned and took his leave with a muted fondness tinged with worry. He needed to speak with Walter.
    *
    Marvin’s Cafe was small place, tucked away at the bottom of a particularly steep hill. The owner was particularly fond of red velvet. The tablecloths were all red and a number of curtains were strewn about randomly, creating an intimate or, perhaps, claustrophobic atmosphere. Atwood had used the cafe numerous times for clandestine meetings or to make an escape. The food left something to be desired, but the proprietor owed him a favor. He and Walter were ensconced at a small table at the back of the restaurant.
    “Maguire asked where you were today,” Atwood said over a plate of lamb and oysters.
    “What did you tell him?”
    “The truth,” Atwood said. “That you told me you were going to court.”
    “Good.” Walter nodded.
    “Yes,” Atwood agreed. “Only, he seemed