The Fearsome Firebird

  Mr. Dumfrey turned away from the window at last, holding up a hand. “Don’t argue with me, Thomas. It’s true. I failed in my original goal—to keep you safe. To keep you protected. But maybe, after all, that’s not such a terrible thing.” He looked older, in that moment, than Pippa had ever seen him, and she felt a pain deep in her chest, a quick flash of intuition: they couldn’t possibly stay at the museum forever. Someday, they would have to leave Mr. Dumfrey behind. But who would take care of him then?

  “You’re getting older,” Mr. Dumfrey said, as if he’d read her mind. “The world is full of Rattigans, just as it is full of beautiful and wondrous things. You will have to see all of it, and you will have to see it on your own. So go.” His smile didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Soon, I fear, I will not be able to keep you safe anymore. I will do my best. You should know that. I will always do my best.” His glasses were slowly misting over. “I fear that soon, you’ll have to look out for one another.”

  Mr. Dumfrey’s speech left Thomas with a lingering unease, a heaviness in his chest and stomach, as if he’d just eaten too much of Smalls’s lumpy, overcooked porridge. He didn’t want to think of a day when he would have to leave the museum. Sure, the roof leaked, and someone was always snoring, and half the time the cashbox was empty and they had to make do with dinners of fried bologna sandwiches.

  But the museum was so much more than that. It was Danny playing the violin or, on special occasions, the bagpipes, and singing ballads about heroic dwarfs of yore. It was Betty combing out her long beard, and Caroline and Quinn linking arms to demonstrate the newest dances (when they could be convinced to stop fighting). It was Lash showing off by wrapping his whip around a mop handle to make it skid across the floor and Smalls reciting his awful poetry and Goldini turning cards into goldfish and goldfish into pennies he sank to the bottom of the tank. It was playing DeathTrap with Sam on rainy days or setting up apple-bowling in the Hall of Wax, using empty soup cans for pins. It was Pippa sprawled out on the sofa listening to the radio and Max doing an impression of Sergeant Schroeder by smooshing her cheeks together with her hands.

  It was, in other words, home.

  Leaving the museum by the front door, now thankfully clear of lingering audience members, Thomas had a shock that soon drove all thoughts of Dumfrey from his mind. Across the street a tall, skinny boy dressed neatly in a school uniform had just slipped out from Von Stikk’s doors and was now moving quickly down the street, loosening his tie as he went and shrugging off his sweater. He would have been totally unrecognizable except for his signature straw-colored hair, which was now plastered to his head with liberal amounts of pomade.

  Thomas could hardly believe it. “Chubby?”

  “No,” Pippa said wonderingly. “It can’t be.”

  Chubby turned and winced, as though it pained him to have been recognized. For a second, he looked as if he was considering bolting.

  “Chubby.” Thomas lifted a hand and waved, though they were standing only about twenty feet from each other. “What are you doing?”

  “What are you wearing?” Max asked.

  Chubby jogged across the street, looking quickly left and right. “Shhhh,” he hissed. “Stop yelling my name. You want the whole neighborhood to hear you?” He was still struggling out of his sweater, and for a brief second his head disappeared and he was all pointy elbows distorting the wool. Then he extracted himself again. His tussle with the sweater had left a portion of his hair pointing skyward.

  Sam was obviously trying very hard to keep a straight face. “Your hair’s messed up,” he said.

  “Good.” Chubby raked his fingers across his head, leaving him looking as if he’d recently been electrocuted. “You wouldn’t believe all the rules in that place. Clean your fingernails. Tuck in your shirt. Wash your hands after using the toilet.” He shook his head disgustedly. “It’s like being in jail, but boring.”

  “You haven’t really joined up with Von Stikk, have you?” Thomas asked. It was impossible to imagine Chubby—who had not only run an illegal betting ring when he wasn’t selling papers, but briefly crashed in Chinatown with a bunch of amateur pickpockets—learning multiplication tables and practicing penmanship.

  “I had to.” Chubby looked tortured. “You hear about that big old dribble they’re going to float over the city next Saturday?”

  “You mean the dirigible?” Pippa said.

  “That’s what I said.” Chubby shot her an exasperated glance. “Anyway, Von Stikk’s got the corner on the best seat in town. Roof of this office building right across from the Umpire State Building.”

  “Empire State Building,” said Thomas.

  Chubby ignored him. “Half the city’s turning out to watch.” He scratched his neck, looking slightly embarrassed. “Anyway, I got some, er, interests in the landing.”

  “Chubby,” Thomas said, “are you gambling again?”

  “No, no,” Chubby said, far too quickly. “Nothing like that. More like . . . estimating probabilities.”

  Pippa rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t tell anyone about me going to school, okay?” Chubby looked around the group anxiously. “I don’t want to ruin my reputation.”

  “Oh no,” Pippa said. “We wouldn’t want anyone to know you’re finally learning to read.”

  Chubby, who evidently hadn’t picked up on her sarcasm, exhaled with relief. “Thanks, Pip,” he said, thumping her on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “It’s Pippa, Chubby,” she said through gritted teeth. “Or should I call you Len?”

  “But you aren’t really learning to read,” Max said, before Chubby could respond. From the expression on her face, she might have been saying you aren’t really learning to wrangle poisonous snakes with your bare hands.

  “Nah.” Chubby hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, practically preening with pride. “Von Stikk says I’m one of the worst students they ever had. But you know,” he continued thoughtfully. “It ain’t so bad. Sure, there’s lots of learning and numbers and teachers yakking away all day long. And they suit you up like a preacher on Sunday. But the grub ain’t half bad and I got my ways of keeping things interesting.”

  His face took on a crafty expression.

  As if on cue, the doors to Von Stikk’s institute banged open. Students barreled into the streets, covering their noses, coughing into cupped palms. A high-pitched scream announced Von Stikk herself. White-faced, tears streaming down her cheeks, hair disarranged from its typical pouffy bun, she plunged outside after her students.

  “Horrors!” she screeched. “SCANDAL!”

  Chubby grabbed Thomas’s arm and tugged him around the corner. The others followed.

  “Stink bomb,” he clarified in a low voice. “Two of ’em, actually, detonated at the same time. I had help on the inside. The Extra-Stink Dirty 5000. Picked ’em up at that joke shop I told you about, the one on Fifty-Seventh Street. Whole place must smell like an egg left too long in a dirty sock.”

  Even from a block away, Thomas could hear continued sounds of coughing and gagging.

  “Er, nicely done?” Thomas thought that was what Chubby expected to hear.

  Chubby beamed. “Thanks, Tom.” He held out his hand, like he expected to shake. “Always good to see you.”

  Thomas, remembering the shock he’d received the last time he made the mistake of shaking Chubby’s hand, quickly tucked his hands in his pocket. “You too, Chubby,” he said. “See you soon.”

  “And try not to learn anything, Len,” Pippa said as they parted ways.

  “Don’t worry, Pip,” Chubby said cheerfully. “I won’t.”

  Sheepshead Bay was as far out in Brooklyn as it was possible to go without plunging straight into the Atlantic. Though just down the road from the kaleidoscope clutter of the Coney Island boardwalk and Luna Park, Sheepshead Bay was a quiet place of shingle-sided houses. Beach grass grew between slatted picket fences and seagulls wheeled low in the sky.

  It wa
s, Thomas thought, not the kind of place you expected to find a murderer.

  Then again, he knew all too well that murderers hid behind perfectly ordinary faces. How convenient it would be, he thought, if everyone’s intentions showed plainly on the outside. Instead, people like Monsieur Cabillaud were judged as being freaks while monsters paraded freely in the streets, wearing normal smiles.

  Benny Mallett’s warehouse was at the end of a short industrial strip. The building, a brick warehouse of modest size, was painted a surprisingly cheerful yellow. There were even flower boxes in the windows.

  Yet there was no smoke coming from any of the several chimneys stacked along the roof, and no lights in any of the windows, no machinery grinding or humming. The whole place had a curiously abandoned feel. Thomas began to feel uneasy.

  “You think he’s gone on the run?” Pippa asked, lowering her voice and echoing Thomas’s thoughts exactly. He glanced at her suspiciously to see whether she was actually reading his thoughts, but she was gnawing on her lower lip, squinting up at the darkened windows.

  “If he has, I guess we know who killed Erskine,” Thomas said. He took a step toward the door and lifted a hand to test the knob. But a sound from within stopped him and he froze.

  “What?” Sam said. “What’s the matter?”

  “Shhh.” Thomas pressed his ear to the door. The sound repeated itself: it was a low moan, as if somebody was in pain. Pippa must have heard it, too. Her eyes went wide.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to the others. If Mallett was dangerous, he might have someone with him inside—a hostage, another victim, someone who needed help. Maybe Mallett had simply snapped. Either way, it would be stupid to waltz through the front door without knowing what was waiting for them on the other side.

  He stepped back, scanning the building facade. His first move was easy: he sprang onto one of the stone ledges beneath the first-floor windows, skirting the flower boxes carefully, trying to get a look inside. But these windows were covered in a fine metal mesh that completely obscured the view. He’d have to go higher.

  Climbing, stretching, bending, squeezing, slithering, and wiggling: Thomas was an expert in all of them. In less than a minute, he’d scaled the facade, finding foot- and handholds in the brick, and reached the second line of windows.

  “Be careful,” Pippa hissed from the ground.

  Thomas waved to show he was okay. Then, crouching on one of the narrow stone ledges, he cupped his hands to his eyes and pressed his face against the dirty glass.

  From his position, he had a clear view of a large open space and various vats, compressors, and furnaces that Mallett must use to manufacture huge quantities of Fleas-B-Gone. But, as he’d suspected, no gears were turning, no pipes were hissing steam, no chemicals boiled in great copper tubs, no workers scurried around, white-gloved, wearing masks to protect them from the fumes.

  Instead, there was a single person in Mallett’s otherwise-empty factory: a man with a bald shiny cap of a head and tufts of dark hair sprouting above each ear. He was slumped over a desk in one corner, resting his forehead on one hand and gripping a tall glass of brown liquid with the other. Even as Thomas watched, he sat up with a sudden lurch, swaying a little in his chair, and threw back the last of his drink. When he tipped his head back, Thomas caught a glimpse of a red and swollen face, and a network of burst capillaries stretching across his cheeks and nose.

  He climbed down the way he’d come, wedging his fingers and toes against the brick and shinnying, spiderlike, to the street.

  “It’s all right,” he said when he rejoined the group. Down here, the sound of Mallett’s moaning was louder, and Pippa looked anxious. “It’s Mallett,” he said. “He’s not hurt. He’s just—”

  “DRUNK!” The sudden roar of Mallett’s voice made Pippa shriek. Thomas jumped, spinning around to face Mallett, who’d flung open the door and now stood, clutching a bottle, lurching in the door. Thomas was shocked to see that Mallett, standing, was tiny—hardly bigger than Danny the dwarf, and at least two inches shorter than Thomas.

  He was wearing a slim pinstriped suit with a matching vest, and had a flashy red handkerchief in his pocket. But now his suit was rumpled and covered with old stains. “Drunk as a thief on Sunday. Drunk as a boiled owl!” He lifted a finger at Thomas, his eyes temporarily crossing and uncrossing. “But who’re you?” he slurred. “If you came to be paid, you can scram. I don’t have any money. It’s gone—all gone! So be gone, fleas! Fleas-B-Gone! Get it?” He took a long swig straight from the bottle and then started to cough, leaning heavily against the doorframe to keep from pitching forward into the street.

  Thomas waited until the coughing fit had subsided. “We didn’t come for money.” He was trying to figure out whether Mallett was crazy or dangerous or just hopeless. Maybe all of the above. He improvised quickly. “We just came to hear your side of the story.”

  It was the perfect thing to say—a remark so general that nobody could find fault with it. Mallett straightened up as though he’d been shocked. “My side of the story,” he said, nodding very fast. “Nobody ever wants to hear my side of the story. Nobody cares. Come in, come in.” He turned away from the street, waving for the children to follow him into the warehouse.

  Inside, it smelled like ancient chemicals and, unmistakably, like whiskey. Mallett trundled clumsily back to his desk and sat down. He was so short that his shoulders barely cleared the blotter, and had he leaned forward he might easily have rested his nose on the stack of paperwork centered there.

  “Nice place you have here,” Sam said, obviously doing his best to sound cheerful.

  “Yeah,” Max said, with trademark bluntness. “So what happened to it?”

  “What happened?” Mallett’s eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. It took him several seconds of blinking and squinting before he could focus on Max. “What happened is that someone set out to ruin me.”

  A shiver moved down Thomas’s neck. Was Mallett a killer after all? Was he about to confess? Neither of his hands was visible behind the desk. He could easily have a weapon trained on them.

  “Who?” Thomas asked. He waited for Mallett to say Erskine.

  To his surprise, Mallett just shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said sadly. “Wish I did. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m over and done for. Ruined’s what they wanted, and ruined’s what they got.”

  “Talk to us,” Pippa said firmly, placing both hands on the desk. “Tell us what happened.”

  Mallett looked sheepish as Pippa removed the bottle when he tried to reach for it, but he made no objection. “I’ve been working this business since I was twelve years old,” he said. “Started out with a Bunsen burner and a dream, fiddling around with different formulas. I made my first bottle of Fleas-B-Gone when I was twelve years old. Two or three spritzes of the stuff, bam. Whole colonies of fleas just keeled over. Built the whole place up myself. King of the Flea Killers. That’s what everyone called me.” His chest, momentarily swelled with pride, now collapsed again. “Then a few months ago some Staten Island kingpin starts buying up all of the primary ingredient on the whole East Coast.”

  “Ethyl parathion,” Thomas said.

  Mallett’s fuzzy eyes swung to Thomas in surprise. “That’s right,” he said. “Amazing stuff, ethyl parathion. On its own, it’s harmless as milk. But mix it with a little hydrogen and you’ve got one of the deadliest poisons on earth. Even the military won’t use it anymore. Killed too many men—on both sides—during the war. They used to call it the reaper gas, you know.”

  Thomas decided it was time to go for a direct approach. “Do you know Ernie Erskine?”

  Mallett frowned. “Erskine.” He slumped back in his chair. “Erskine. Sounds familiar . . .”

  “He sent you threatening letters,” Pippa prompted him.

  Mallett just shrugged. “I get dozens of them every day,” he said, waving to the stack of mail on his desk. “Had to stop shipments and couldn’t afford to pay anyone b
ack. Well, what can I do? I’m bankrupt.”

  Suddenly, Thomas had an uncomfortable sensation of something pushing directly between his eyeballs. It was a little like getting nudged with an elbow, but directly in the brain. And then Pippa’s voice was there, speaking softly to him, as clearly as if she’d whispered in his ear.

  Ask about Rattigan, the Pippa-in-Thomas’s-head said.

  Get out of my head, Thomas thought back, simultaneously shooting Pippa a death stare.

  The real Pippa only shrugged as if to say, What?

  The Pippa-in-Thomas’s-head said, Just do it. He was about to ask—or think to ask—why, when he remembered that Rosie had mentioned that a man with a straggly mustache had been seen coming out of Erskine’s place on the night of his murder, a similar description to the man who’d held them up at the bank.

  I’ll ask, Thomas thought, if you get out of my head.

  There was a temporary pressure behind his eyelids—and then the weight withdrew, and Pippa was gone. He felt a rush of tremendous relief, followed by irritation. It had been much better, he thought, when Pippa could only read the contents of people’s pockets and purses.

  Mallett’s connection to Rattigan seemed like a big stretch. Still, Thomas kept his end of the bargain—if only because he feared Pippa might otherwise slip herself uninvited into his mind and start humming a particularly annoying song. “What about Nicholas Rattigan?” he said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

  Mallett frowned. His eyes crossed and uncrossed. “Rattigan . . . ,” he said thoughtfully. “You mean that crazy bat who escaped from prison?”

  Thomas nodded.

  Mallett shook his head. “Bad news. Read about him in the paper. Heard he used to run tests on living humans, treating them like lab rats.”

  So that was a dead end. It seemed they had run out of questions—and leads.

  “Thanks very much for your time, Mr. Mallett,” Pippa said as brightly as she could.

  “Yeah. You’ve been a big help,” Thomas lied.

  “We’re sure things will turn around for you soon,” Sam added.