“Two,” Pippa corrected him. “Rachel’s first boyfriend died in the war. Manfred says so.”
“Still,” Thomas said. “Two leads are better than none.”
There was another short pause. Max was desperate to go back inside, but she refused to be the first one to say so. She didn’t know why they had to talk about murders and killers on the loose outside, in the weak light of a new dawn. She didn’t know why they had to talk about killers on the loose at all.
Pippa’s eyes were dark hollows. She took a sharp breath. “All right,” she said softly. “So what’s our plan?”
Back in the attic, Thomas carefully folded up Manfred Richstone’s letter and placed it in his secret spot: a velvet-lined jewelry case, supposedly once owned by Napoléon Bonaparte’s wife, that he had smuggled up from the exhibit halls and hidden behind the air vent in the wall next to his bed. This contained all his most important possessions, which were admittedly few: the good-luck charm Freckles had brought him from India; a yellowed promotional pamphlet that showed Thomas standing on his head as a grinning, gap-toothed toddler; the first dime Thomas had ever earned; and a slender copy of Bird Species of America: A Guide, the first book Thomas had ever read, at the age of three.
The second note—the one with the cryptic, three-word message—he hid between the pages of his heaviest encyclopedia, as if it were an insect that might skitter away if it weren’t weighted down.
He dozed for a few hours. His dreams were many and confused. He was chased down a long tunnel by someone he couldn’t see. He was arguing with Chubby about how many teeth humans had in their mouths; he was attacked by a dog that gnawed on one of his ribs like a bone.
Then he was with Richstone in a bare room. Richstone was tied to a chair.
“I could never have done it without you,” Manfred said. Suddenly he was free. There was a bright light behind his head. His face was a uniform disk of black. “How can I ever repay you?”
Thomas started to ask what Manfred meant—he hadn’t done anything—but he found he couldn’t move. His hands and feet were lashed to the chair. He had switched places with Manfred. He struggled to get free but he was restrained too tightly. There was an audience of people shouting soundlessly at him from behind a thin pane of glass, and Thomas realized the chair was an electric chair, and everyone had assembled to witness his execution.
“I promise,” Manfred was saying, except he wasn’t Manfred anymore, but Rattigan. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
Then Rattigan’s hand was on the switch, and Thomas felt a hot rush of pain go through his body. . . .
He woke up stifling a scream.
“Stop fussing.” Miss Fitch was standing above his bed. She had removed his old bandage and was ferociously dabbing foul-smelling liquid on his gash. Every time she made contact, Thomas felt as if he were getting stuck with a poker.
“Do you have to do that?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Would you rather get an infection?” she snapped, redoubling her efforts. Thomas stared at the ceiling and tried to focus on something—anything—else. Finally, she was done. She re-dressed the wound and straightened up. “There,” she said.
“Thank you,” Thomas said, sitting up. Already, the burning had turned to a kind of tingling warmth.
Miss Fitch sniffed in reply, which Thomas took to mean: you are very unwelcome.
He dressed quickly and slipped out of the attic, glad to be awake. Betty was using one of the washrooms—she took forever in the bath—and Quinn the other. She screeched at him to leave her alone when he knocked. She was obviously still devastated about her sister. So he washed his face and hands in the Etruscan birdbath on the second floor and sloshed some water on his face, avoiding brushing his teeth altogether.
He was surprised to find Mr. Dumfrey already awake and dressed in his best suit, which included a scarlet bow tie and the embroidered tuxedo slippers that had supposedly been worn by Benjamin Franklin on his deathbed. He was pacing the lobby, muttering to himself. Thomas was starving, and debated taking the shortcut down to the kitchen—which involved an air duct and three quick turns around an old oil pipe—but instead he poked his head into the lobby.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Dumfrey?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Dumfrey started. “Okay?” He beamed. “Everything is better than okay. We’re rich, my boy! Come here. Have a look.”
Thomas entered the lobby and immediately drew back. The walls were papered with so many multicolored fliers, it looked as if some large animal were molting. Every single one of them featured an image of a grimacing Manfred Richstone strapped to an electric chair: COME SEE THE EXECUTION OF THE NOTORIOUS WIFE-SLAYER! Hundreds of additional fliers were stacked next to the door and perched on the ticket desk.
“Do you know what this is?” Mr. Dumfrey snatched up a flier, waving it over his head as if it were a flag. Thomas said nothing. “It’s gold, my boy. We’re printing money. At nine a.m., we’ll start the morning rounds. I want these fliers on every corner from Harlem to the Bowery!”
“Mr. Dumfrey—” Thomas was about to protest when suddenly the front door banged open and Monsieur Cabillaud appeared, a newspaper tucked under one arm, his pinhead shiny with sweat.
“I’m afraid,” he squeaked, “zat you will not be needing zose fliers after all.”
And he smacked the newspaper down onto the ticket desk so that Mr. Dumfrey and Thomas could read the enormous headline.
MANFRED RICHSTONE SLAIN IN PRISON,
JUST DAYS BEFORE ELECTROCUTION!
“Cheer up, Mr. Dumfrey,” Thomas said half an hour later.
Mr. Dumfrey was doubled over the table, clutching his head in his hands. The other residents of the museum had been awakened by a storm of cursing and by now had trickled down into the kitchen, in various stages of sleep and undress. Only Sam was missing. He had refused to leave his bed, grunting a rude response when Thomas had told him to get downstairs.
“We’re ruined,” Mr. Dumfrey said in a trembling voice.
“Ruined!” Monsieur Cabillaud wailed.
Howie repressed a small smile. Thomas glared at him.
“Well, here’s two pieces of good news to cheer you up.” Pippa had been reading the article about Manfred’s death, which Thomas had skimmed, feeling increasingly sick with every new detail. Manfred Richstone had apparently been stabbed during a prison brawl he’d attempted to stop. Now she turned the page. “‘Police have identified the man responsible for the murder of renowned sculptor Siegfried Eckleberger.’”
“What?” Thomas nearly choked on his own tongue.
Pippa raised her eyebrows, then returned her attention to the paper. “At five thirty a.m. this morning, the body of an unidentified homeless man was fished from the East River. In his pockets were Mr. Eckleberger’s wallet and gold watch. Police speculate that Mr. Eckleberger was killed when he surprised the man during an attempted break-in.”
“Poor Freckles,” Mr. Dumfrey murmured in a trembling voice. “My dear friend, killed for a pittance.”
Pippa, evidently judging that her attempt to cheer Mr. Dumfrey had backfired, quickly changed tactics. “I’ve got even better news for you,” she said brightly. “Listen to this: ‘Rattigan trapped like a rat! The FBI in cooperation with the Chicago police are closing in on Rattigan, according to an unnamed source familiar with the investigation.’” Pippa looked up. “How about that, Mr. Dumfrey? That has to make you feel better.”
She spoke lightly, but Thomas detected a slight edge to her voice—other than the children and Miss Fitch, the residents of the museum knew nothing about Mr. Dumfrey’s relationship to the deranged scientist, and they certainly didn’t know that Rattigan had used the children for his terrible experiments.
Or did they? Did someone know? Was it possible that the note posted on the door last night was a horrible practical joke? Thomas knew Miss Fitch wasn’t to blame. She had no sense of humor, not even a bad one.
Mr. Dumfrey heaved a long sigh. “
Thank you, Pippa,” he said, absentmindedly patting her hand as he stood up from the table. A little more quietly, he added, “But I’m afraid I won’t feel happy until he is in jail.” To the others, he said, “I’m afraid that a marching band seems to have taken up residence behind my head. Until further notice, I will be in my study.”
“Mr. Dumfrey,” Monsieur Cabillaud burst out. “We really must discuss—”
“Please, Henri,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “Not now.”
Monsieur Cabillaud muttered something in French. Thomas could only assume, from the way he was scowling, that it was very rude.
Once Mr. Dumfrey left the room, there was a long moment of gloomy silence. But Thomas couldn’t bring himself to care about the museum’s troubles. His mind was whirling so fast, he could barely keep his thoughts together.
The police believed that Freckles had been killed by some homeless man during a routine robbery. But why would a random thief have taken Rachel’s picture? The thief hadn’t even stolen the frame, which he might at least have pawned—and he’d left plenty more valuable items in the studio. It didn’t make any sense. But it might mean, at least, that Chubby was off the hook.
Still, Thomas was convinced, more than ever, that the murders of Rachel Richstone and Siegfried Eckleberger were connected. Even if Chubby no longer needed him, didn’t he owe it to Manfred Richstone? Now that he was dead, Thomas’s might have been the last letter he ever answered.
“Well.” Miss Fitch sniffed. “It’s ten o’clock already. Curtain’s up for the matinee in an hour and we’ve plenty to do. Thomas, please see to it that Sam hasn’t suffocated in his pillows. William—er, Lash—make sure the stage has been properly cleaned. Yesterday I counted four black spots.”
“Anything you say, Miss Fitch,” Lash said with a tip of his hat.
“What’s the point?” Quinn wailed. “You heard Mr. Dumfrey. We’re ruined. We’ll all be put out on the street.”
“She’s right,” Monsieur Cabillaud said. “Zer is no hope for us now.”
“Be that as it may,” Miss Fitch said, rounding on him, her dark eyebrows quivering with rage, “the show must go on. As long as we have a roof over our heads and an audience to perform for—whether it’s one person or twelve—we will perform. Is that clear?”
No one argued with Miss Fitch, particularly when her eyebrows were involved. So the performers filed out of the kitchen and up the spiral staircase. Max fell into step next to Thomas.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered. “Rattigan’s a thousand miles away, and caught like a fish in a barrel. So he can’t be after us.”
“I hope not,” Thomas said sincerely. With everyone fighting, Dumfrey distracted, Sam sulking, and Max half stupid over Howie, Thomas didn’t know what would happen if Rattigan decided to make a reappearance. He did know they would not be as lucky as the last time. “I really, really hope not.”
Normally, Max found throwing her knife relaxing. But today she was having trouble finding her rhythm.
She hadn’t slept well after they’d returned to the attic the night before. Every snore, mutter, and cough had startled her awake, and several times she had reached for the knife she kept under her pillow, watching the shadows pooling in the corners as though they might conceal an intruder.
Then there was the thieving. She was getting tired of keeping her secret, and didn’t know how much longer she could go on, especially now that Pippa could creep around in her mind.
Onstage, the morning show was going surprisingly well, despite the fact that the residents of the museum had grumbled and groaned about it after Howie unhelpfully pointed out that they had not been paid in several weeks. Smalls and Danny were performing a two-step, which never failed to amuse the crowd, and the audience tittered appreciatively. Max rolled her shoulders back. It was so dark backstage, she could hardly make out the practice target she’d set up: a soft cloth dummy from Miss Fitch’s costume department. But she preferred the darkness. She was gearing up for the blindfold act, anyway.
She wound up, just as Danny waltzed under Small’s legs, earning another appreciative chuckle from the audience.
Thunk. Her new knife landed directly in the center of the dummy’s chest. She was loosening up. She retrieved her blade and returned to her starting position. She wound up again. But before she could throw, someone grabbed her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
Pippa’s voice hissed in Max’s ear.
Max tried to shake her off, but Pippa was gripping her too tightly. “Practicing,” she whispered back. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“No.” Pippa twisted Max’s wrist so she was forced to release the knife. It was the small, teardrop-shaped carving blade that Max had admired at Siegfried Eckleberger’s house. Pippa brandished it in front of Max’s face, and Max drew back to avoid getting her nose sliced off. “I mean, what are you doing with this?”
“Stop waving that around before you hurt yourself.” Max snatched the knife back from Pippa and pocketed it.
“I can’t believe you!” Pippa cried. Several of the performers who were gathered backstage hushed her. She lowered her voice. “You stole that from a crime scene.”
“I didn’t steal it,” Max said. “Freckles said he would leave it to me in his will, didn’t he?”
“You—you—you—” Pippa spluttered.
Fortunately, Max didn’t hear the insult Pippa settled on, because at that moment, it was her turn to take the stage.
Since Mr. Dumfrey was still feeling too ill to serve as announcer, it was Lash’s voice that rolled across the audience from his unseen position backstage.
“Now, for the masterful—hic—Mackenzie of the Thousand Blades!” he trumpeted in his best approximation of Mr. Dumfrey’s rolling baritone. The effect was somewhat ruined when he hiccuped midsentence. “And her death-defying assistant, Betty the invincible—hic—bearded lady!”
Max took the stage and stood, face out to the audience, while Betty blindfolded her, and Lash continued to prattle on, only fumbling the recitation a little bit. “. . . to perform the once-of-a-kind, one-in-the-world, Spinning Pinnacle of Death . . .”
Once the blindfold was secured tightly, Max could hear the whispers and gasps from the assembled audience. She’d counted seven people—a decent turnout—and felt her spirits lift. She’d give them the show of their lifetime. She’d shock them out of their seats. And maybe the museum wouldn’t be forced to close after all.
She felt a familiar tingling in her palms, an itch in her fingers. Her body was aching for her knives, the way a person who loses a hand might still be troubled by the feeling of a hangnail. Her knives were a part of her—she was a part of them.
The stage creaked, and Max stood impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, imagining the scene: Betty, her beard pinned back carefully so that it wouldn’t get in the way, secured to a gigantic spinning bull’s-eye. Smalls would set Betty to turning and Lash would give Max the signal, and then Max would throw her four knives: two beside Betty’s shoulders, one between her legs, and the last one, the final and most impressive shot, a half inch above Betty’s head. It was a difficult trick and even harder blind. But Max had practiced it a dozen times already with no problem.
“Ladies and gentleman, silence—hic!—please!”
It was the signal. Max pivoted in Betty’s direction. She heard a faint clatter as the bull’s-eye began to turn, spinning Betty round and round, head over feet. Other than that, it was silent. No one whispered. No one coughed, or even breathed.
She concentrated. She saw the bull’s-eye, and Betty pinned to it like an overgrown insect. She felt the itch in her fingertips grow to an all-over tingle, felt even the air vibrate and hum, felt the distance that separated her from the target, every molecule, every current, every breath. As she reached for the first knife she felt a surge of connection, a completeness, as if she were growing fingernails of steel and the blades were just an extension of her hand.
Thunk.
Thunk. She released two knives in rapid succession, and someone in the audience gasped. There was a quick swelling of applause: she had thrown the knives at Betty’s shoulder blades.
The next knife she threw was longer and heavier. Instinctively, she made minor adjustments to her posture and stance. Thunk. The third knife landed and the applause crested again, then rapidly died out as Lash once again demanded silence from his position backstage.
One more knife to go.
The last blade she threw was the small, narrow blade she had taken from Freckles’s studio. It was as light as a feather in her hand. She focused . . . she concentrated . . .
The world went totally still. There was nothing but Max, the knife, and the narrow one-inch spot above Betty’s head.
Just as Max wound up and released, there was a thunderous clatter from backstage. Someone yelped.
And Max slipped.
Even before she heard the screaming, Max knew that she had made a mistake. She whipped the blindfold off, her stomach heavy with fear. Suddenly, everyone was shouting and rushing the stage. Blood was flowing freely from a cut on Betty’s left earlobe. Danny and Smalls were attempting to unpin Betty from the spinning contraption. For one long and horrifying second, the whole stage was open and visible to the murmuring audience; then the curtains slammed shut so that they were concealed from view.
“Nice going,” Pippa said as she pushed past Max and ran toward Betty.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Max said. She was hot all over. It wasn’t her fault. She spun around and saw Lash hanging back, twisting his hands, his narrow face as pale as a new moon. At his feet was a pile of splintered porcelain. Max recognized it as the remains of a bust of Goldini occasionally used in his act.
The clatter, the yelp, the broken statue—she knew, then, exactly what had happened.