The Alchemist in the Attic Read Online Free PDF Page A

this belongs to your friend here.” It was a wallet.
    The other cutthroat didn’t bother to thank her. He simply grabbed his wallet impatiently. They turned and took a faltering step, when she called them back a third time.
    “And I’m not sure which of you dropped this,” Big Tilda said, holding up a handkerchief.
    The cleft-chinned one tore it from her hand. He was starting to sweat, and his friend had developed a twitch at the sound of her voice.
    “If you find anything else,” he snapped, “you can keep it!”
    They took off before she could utter another word, disappearing down the alley at a full run. After a few moments, Atwood and Walter emerged from the same alley, backtracking the way they had come. As he passed, Atwood and Big Tilda shared a conspiratorial grin.
    She watched them head into the city, still grinning broadly. She pocketed the other cutthroat’s wallet. He had told her she could keep it, though he probably hadn’t meant this. By the feel of it there was more cash inside it than there had been in the other one. All in all, a good day’s work.
    *
    Atwood and Walter had eluded their pursuers and they were finally free to investigate. In Atwood’s experience, only two types of men resorted to body snatchers—experienced doctors engaged in borderline research and medical students hoping to learn the anatomical arts. Dr. Gentle had been the most infamous practitioner, but he was far from the only one. There were others, less ambitious and more discrete. None of them were fond of Atwood, certainly not since Gentle’s incarceration. It would be better to start on the other end with the resurrectionists and body snatchers themselves.

5
The Resurrectionist's Game
    Every Wednesday the elite resurrection men, body snatchers, and gravediggers of San Francisco would gather for a friendly game of cards that lasted long into the night. It was an exclusive gathering. Only the self-appointed creme de la creme were invited, and if they were no less grimy than their inferiors, they made up for it in infamy. McManus and Keeler had frequented the game for many years before their sudden flight. It was where Atwood had found them the first time. He knew there was little chance in raking over old coals, but it was as good a place to start as any.
    The bar was at the top of a steep narrow hill. Atwood knew the way, although it had been nearly six months since he’d last been there. The hill was steeper than he remembered. Beside him, Walter was wheezing slightly. He paused outside the door partly because he wasn’t sure of his welcome and partly to catch his breath. The resurrectionists were a secretive and insular lot. At best they had only ever tolerated him, and that was before Dr. Gentle’s arrest, before McManus and Keeler had been forced to flee the city. There was no telling how they’d greet him.
    Inside it smelled of alcohol, tobacco, dirt, and decay. Atwood didn’t spare any of the regulars a second glance. They were the usual mixture of hard drinkers and ne’er-do-wells. A few of them gazed up at them blearily as they passed, but most were happy to ignore Atwood and Walter in turn. He did send the bartender a familiar wave, which the burly man returned with narrowed eyes and a frown only partially swallowed by his mustache.
    Atwood continued blithely marching to the back room. There was a locked door, painted green. He knocked three times. Nothing. It had taken him months to find this place the first time, and for a moment he worried that they had moved elsewhere. He turned to Walter, who offered an uncertain shrug. If they failed here, they might have to find another story, and they’d already lost too much time chasing McManus and Keeler’s shadow.
    Finally the door opened a crack and a suspicious, big-nosed fellow peered out at them. Atwood seized the opportunity and immediately gave the man his broadest, most ingratiating grin.
    “How are you, Charlie?” Atwood said, reaching out to shake