“What a bunch of baloney,” Max muttered.
“A brutal and senseless accident may have cruelly taken her arms, but by virtue of her talent and grit, she has become one of New York City’s star performers. Please give a warm welcome,” Howie continued, “to the incomparable, the unrivaled, the exquisite Alicia the Armless Wonder!”
Sam could practically feel waves of fury radiating from Max’s skin when Alicia took the stage. She was dressed in a trim red jacket with the loose sleeves tied neatly behind her back, dark tights rolled up so her feet were visible, and a pleated skirt. She was as different from Max as could be imagined: all sugary smiles, blond ringlet hair, and pink cheeks. And she was good—there was no denying that. Before starting in on the knives, she shuffled a deck of cards, buttered a slice of toast, and tied a ribbon in her hair. All with her feet.
Next to Sam, Pippa was white-faced, squinting with concentration. Sam recognized now what she was doing: she was trying to read Alicia. But he couldn’t imagine why.
Suddenly, even as Alicia prepared to throw her knives and the crowd once again fell silent, Pippa let out a loud snort. Sam stared at her.
“What is it?” he whispered.
Pippa’s expression cleared. She slumped backward. “She’s a fraud.”
“Shhhh.” Several people pivoted around to hush them. Howie—who was now serving as assistant to Alicia’s act by balancing an apple on top of his head so that Alicia could knock it off with a knife—scowled in their direction.
“What do you mean?” Sam whispered. This time, several more people said shhh and glared. She shook her head.
Onstage, Alicia gripped a long-handled knife with her toes, balancing expertly on one leg. Pippa leaned across Sam, cupped a hand to Max’s ear, and whispered something. For the first time since entering the Coney Island Curiosity Show, Max smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Howie was saying as Alicia raised the knife, one knee hooked like that of a crane, “please watch carefully. For her grand finale, Alicia will—”
Suddenly there was a sharp whistling sound. For a split second Sam saw two blades crisscross in the air, metal glinting under the stage lights, and he thought, confusedly, that Alicia had must have thrown her knives. But no—the knives had been thrown from the audience.
From Max. He hadn’t even seen her move. But sure enough, the knives had sailed directly over the heads of the seated crowd, slicing off the feather from a woman’s hat in the process, and, like skimming a surface of mold from a block of cheese, perfectly shaved the jacket right off Alicia’s shoulders. The jacket, now nothing but rags, plopped to the stage.
The whole audience gasped.
And Sam burst out laughing.
Alicia’s upper body was wrapped like a mummy’s in what looked like a single long strip of cloth bandage.
And beneath that bandage, held tight to her torso and concealed by her jacket, were two perfectly functional arms.
Howie’s face went completely white. Alicia stood blinking under the spotlight, mouthing soundlessly, even as the audience’s protest grew to a roar.
“It’s a scam!” someone shouted.
“There’s nothing wrong with her.”
“We paid to see freaks, not frauds!”
The rat-faced barker—whom Sam now assumed to be the owner—hurtled onstage, trying to calm the outraged crowd. And still Alicia stood there, stuttering apologies, with her arms strapped around her waist and Howie staring at her as if she were a three-week-old turkey sandwich.
“Nicely done, Max,” Thomas said. The crowd surged around them, rushing the stage, so they were comfortably engulfed in a wave of sound.
Max shrugged. But she couldn’t conceal her look of pleasure. “I had help,” she said. For a moment, she and Pippa shared a smile. Around them, the audience was still shouting.
“I want my money back!”
“And my money!”
“And mine!”
“All right,” Pippa said. “I think that’s our cue.”
They began moving toward the exit, fighting the surge of people still flowing toward the stage. Alicia had at last fled into the wings, although Howie was still standing under the spotlight with that stupid apple on the middle of his head, as rigid as a statue. Only his eyes moved: darting back and forth over the crowd, scanning the individual faces. And for a split second, just before Sam reached the exit, Howie’s eyes found his in the crowd. His lips were curled back like an animal’s, and Sam had a flicker of misgiving.
Howie, he knew, was not the type to forgive and forget.
Max barely registered the long subway ride back to the museum. She kept imagining the look on Howie’s face when Alicia’s jacket had thudded to the stage, revealing both arms wrapped up tightly like meat in a sausage casing. Good old Pippa. Max couldn’t remember why she was so often annoyed with her—at this moment, it seemed to Max that Pippa had never once done anything wrong, not even when she corrected Max’s grammar or lectured Max on the correct way to make a bed or made a disgusted noise when Max licked her plate.
The sun was just setting when they reached Times Square, and to Max the sky had never looked more beautiful, striped with pinks and yellows and blues like the layered cookies in one of the Italian bakeries on Mulberry Street. As they approached the museum and saw a small crowd gathered on the steps, necks craned toward the sky, Max thought for a second that the other residents of the museum were simply admiring the colors. Then she saw Mr. Dumfrey pointing to something in the air, while Miss Fitch wore her usual expression of faint disapproval.
“What?” Thomas said. “What is it?”
“Just wait and see, my boy,” Mr. Dumfrey said, keeping his eyes glued to the sky. “Any second now . . .”
Max looked up. Above them, a prop plane appeared, silhouetted against the blue—and as everyone watched, made a sudden dip and twist in the sky, leaving behind a puff of wispy white cloud that slowly began to resolve itself into a letter. The plane kept going, looping and curling, leaving a trail of puffy white letters in its wake, even as a cheer went up from the assembled crowd. Soon an entire sentence was etched across the sky, and several of the performers read it out loud in unison.
“‘Dumfrey’s Dim Museum. Home of Emily the Tattooed Wonder.’”
“Magnificent,” Mr. Dumfrey said with a happy sigh.
Gil Kestrel grunted. “Looks shaky to me.” Max remembered what Sam had told her: that Gil, too, had once been a pilot.
“Dim Museum,” Pippa read out loud. She frowned. “Shouldn’t it say Dime Museum?”
“Dim Museum, Dime Museum!” Mr. Dumfrey waved a hand. “It’s Emily that counts.”
Lash chuckled. “Ace O’Toole was never big on spelling,” he said. “Good pilot, though. Best crop duster in Oklahoma.”
“Crop duster?” Max had never heard the words. “What’s that?”
Lash smiled at her. When he did, his eyes crinkled so much they nearly disappeared. “You’re a born city slicker, ain’t you? A crop duster’s a pilot hired to fly low over the fields, spray ’em down with ’secticide to keep the pests away. O’Toole had one of the best reps in the biz.”
Max squinted again at the words in the sky, which were even now breaking apart on a faint breeze.
“What about the big orange turkey?” she said. “You going to advertise that?”
“I assume,” sniffed Mr. Dumfrey, “that you are referring to my rare Ethiopian Firebird. And about that . . .” His expression cleared. “Ah, here he is now. Sir Roger Barrensworth! Thank you for coming, sir!”
Max turned and saw a man moving deliberately down the street, punctuating every step with a silver-tipped umbrella, despite the fact that it had been sunny all day. He had a sharp, narrow, sunburned face, with an eager expression made all the more pronounced by his large front teeth. His hair was long, dark, and curled at his collar, and he was well dressed in a slim-fitting jacket, highly polished shoes, and a bowler hat. Max disliked him immediately.
“Mr. Dumfrey, a pleasure to see you again,” he said, offering Mr. Dumfrey his hand limply, as if he expected it to be kissed, not shaken. His words were tinged with an accent that didn’t sound quite Italian.
“Sir Barrensworth.” Mr. Dumfrey pumped the man’s hand vigorously—so much so that Sir Barrensworth winced. “Thank you for coming so promptly, sir. You see,” he said, turning back to Max, “I contacted Sir Barrensworth to complain about certain, er, features of the bird.”
Pippa crossed her arms. “Like the fact that it can’t keep its mouth shut?” she said.
Mr. Dumfrey inclined his head. “Sir Barrensworth kindly agreed to come right over and give the bird a talking to.”
“The bird can be trained, on my honor,” Sir Barrensworth said. “We sailed back together from Africa, you know, all around the tip of Cape Home and across the Strait of Gibberish.”
Thomas frowned. “You mean the tip of Cape Horn?” he said. “And the Strait of Gibraltar?”
Sir Barrensworth gave Thomas a weasely smile, revealing a wad of gum stuck in the corner of his mouth. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? The sailors swore up a storm, and the bird picked up the habit. Show him to me and I’ll soon set him straight.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mr. Dumfrey said. He looked as if he might be inclined to shake Sir Barrensworth’s hand again. Sir Barrensworth wisely crossed his arms as they started up the museum steps. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I know a man like you . . . with your busy schedule . . .” And together, they disappeared into the museum.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “What do you think of Sir Barrensworth?” he asked.
“Looks like a cheat to me,” Max said.
Pippa sniffed. “Filthy pockets,” she said. “It’s an absolute mess in there. Gum wrappers and pen caps and ferry tickets and tissues.” She shivered. “Awful.”
Max, Pippa, Thomas, and Sam followed Mr. Dumfrey and Sir Barrensworth into the museum. As soon as they entered the lobby, the phone on the ticket desk began to ring. It was rare for anyone to call the museum. Max was struck by a terrible thought: her little performance at the Coney Island Curiosity Show must somehow have been reported to the police.
“I’ll get it!” she shouted, skidding around Lash, who’d already started in the direction of the desk. She practically threw herself on the telephone.
“Dumfrey’s Dime Museum,” she said breathlessly.
“I have Rosie Bickers,” came a nervous squeak from the other end of the phone, “for Mr. Dumfrey, please.”
Instantly relieved, Max cupped her palm over the receiver. “Mr. Dumfrey,” she called, before Mr. Dumfrey could get halfway up the stairs. “For you.”
“You go ahead, Sir Barrensworth,” Mr. Dumfrey called unnecessarily, since Sir Barrensworth showed no signs of being inclined to wait. Mr. Dumfrey came trotting back down the stairs. Rosie Bickers, Max mouthed, in response to his questioning look. Mr. Dumfrey straightened his bow tie and took the receiver from Max’s hand.
“Rosie!” he said with a beaming smile. “To what do I owe the—?” He fell abruptly silent. “Mmm-hmmm,” he said, and his smile dimmed and then faded altogether. “Mmmm-hmmm.”
Pippa, Thomas, and Sam had all been hanging back, waiting for Max. Now they drew closer to the ticket desk. “What is it, Mr. Dumfrey?” asked Pippa.
Mr. Dumfrey shook his head, holding up a finger. “Yes, I’m still here. Yes, I can hear you. You were saying something about Mallett . . . ?”
A zip of fear raced up Max’s spine. Thomas stiffened as if he’d been shocked. And Sam and Pippa exchanged a worried look.
“What about Mallett?” Pippa tried again, this time in an urgent whisper.
But Mr. Dumfrey didn’t seem to hear her. Now his mouth had settled into a hard line. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, extremely. I understand.” And without another word, he hung up. Instantly, his shoulders sagged, as if instead of a telephone he’d been carrying a fifty-pound weight.
The children waited in nervous silence for him to speak, until finally Max couldn’t bear it anymore. “What did Rosie have to say about Mallett?” she asked.
Mr. Dumfrey exhaled—a faint, whistling sound that reminded Max of steam leaving the kettle. “Rosie’s just heard from one of her friends in the police department,” he said. At last, he raised his eyes. “Mallett’s dead,” he said. “He killed himself this afternoon.”
“‘Benny Mallett, aged forty-seven, was discovered by Sergeant Schroeder and Officer Gilhooley at five thirty p.m. yesterday afternoon,’” Thomas read. He was huddled over The Daily Screamer, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Pippa. “‘The officers would not disclose the reason for their visit to Mallett’s remote warehouse . . .’” He paused to flip a page and resumed, “‘seven hundred feet above the ground, to moor directly atop the Empire State Building.’”
“What?” Max wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Thomas scanned a finger over the line of type. “Sorry. Wrong column. That one’s about the dirigible launch. Here we go. ‘The officers would not disclose the reason for their visit to Mallett’s remote warehouse in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, but sources say that it was in connection with new evidence that has surfaced in the ongoing investigation into the murder of exterminator Ernest Erskine, a crime for which General Archibald Farnum is currently awaiting trial.’”
Pippa straightened up. “Rosie must have bugged the police about Mallett after all,” she said. “They never would have made the connection on their own.”
“Fat lot of good it did,” Sam said, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.
It was seven thirty in the morning, and the children were the first and only ones in the kitchen. Max had barely slept at all last night, and her eyes were gritty with exhaustion.
Her dreams were a strange collision of past and present: Mallett’s face, bloated and red, displayed behind a glass case like the ones in the Hall of Worldwide Wonders next to a placard that read Murder Suspect, Wrongly Convicted; a turbulent sea in which she struggled helplessly, her arms tied behind her back, while high above her on the boardwalk a crowd had gathered to point at her and laugh; planes that turned and wrote eerie messages in the sky. Watch out. I’m coming for you.
Finally, shortly after four, she’d given up trying to sleep. Still, she couldn’t shake the pathetic image of Mallett alone at his desk. According to the paper, they’d seen him only a few hours before he’d ended his life. Could they have stopped him? Could they have helped?
Thomas cleared his throat and continued reading. “‘But the police were too late. When they arrived, they found Benny Mallett dead, the victim of an apparent suicide. A preliminary medical examination has concluded that he died instantly of a shot to the chest. The gun that was used to kill him was still in his hand.’” Thomas pushed the paper toward the center of the table. “Look. There’s even a picture.”
“Ugh. No thank you,” Pippa said, making a face. “I’ve seen enough dead bodies for one lifetime, thank you very much.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Thomas said serenely. “You can’t even see any blood.”
“Thanks. That’s very reassuring. Corpses turn my stomach. Pass.”
Max dunked four tea bags into her mug of hot water at once, waiting until the liquid turned mud-black. She took her mug to the table, ignoring Pippa’s look of disgust when she dumped five teaspoons of sugar into her tea. Whatever good feeling had existed yesterday between them was now gone. Had ended precisely at four thirty, actually, when Pippa had suddenly thrown off her covers, sat up, and hissed, “If you’re going to be tossing and turning every two minutes, can you at least have the grace to do it elsewhere? Some of us actually enjoy quiet when we sleep.”
Max bent over the newspaper, taking a long slurp of her tea. Immediately, she felt more alert.
Thomas was right: you couldn’t see any blood. The picture was grainy and showed Benny Mallett, head slumped forward on his desk beside a tower of correspon
dence. His right hand, still clutching the gun, was visible next to it.
“Poor Benny,” Sam said. He had physically recoiled from the newspaper, as if the phantom of Mallett might float off the page. “He really loved those fleas.”
“Loved killing them,” Max corrected him.
Sam sighed. “Maybe if we’d stayed with him . . .”
“We couldn’t have done anything,” Thomas said firmly, taking hold of the paper again and bending forward to study it.
“We could have talked to him,” Pippa said, snatching away the peanut butter before Thomas could go in for another dip. “He was depressed.”
When Thomas glanced up, he looked grimly satisfied, as if he’d successfully answered a question he wished had never been asked. “Maybe,” he said. “But it wasn’t suicide.”
There was a moment of silence. This was the kind of statement that Thomas sometimes made, out of the blue. It made Max want to take his shoulders and shake him until that remarkable brain came out through his nose.
“But,” Sam spluttered, “but the paper said—”
Before he could finish speaking, Danny and Smalls came thumping down the stairs, side by side—or as side by side as they could get, given that Danny only reached Smalls’s kneecap—and arguing about who had been snoring the loudest the night before.
“Since when has the paper ever gotten anything right?” Thomas adjusted his glasses and stood up. “Hold on. I’ll show you. Danny, can you come here for a second?”
Danny’s only reply was a grunt. Max had been living at the museum for long enough to know that he required at least four cups of coffee before you could get a single word from him that wasn’t an insult or a complaint—five if you wanted more than one syllable. But he begrudgingly came over to the table.
“Sit down, Danny,” Thomas said.