He tumbled out in a far corner of the Hall of Worldwide Wonders and landed beside the display case that held an aboriginal boomerang, a Bolivian bow and arrow, and a bamboo blowgun from Borneo. Quickly righting himself, he sprinted toward the source of the noise. Now the scream had transformed into a kind of anguished sobbing.
As he rounded the corner he saw Dumfrey, collapsed, partially propped up in the wide lap of Mrs. Cobble, who was vigorously fanning his face.
“There, there,” she was saying. “It’ll be all right.”
“It won’t be all right!” Mr. Dumfrey wailed. “Gone! Gone! It’s gone! We’re ruined!”
Spotting Thomas, Mrs. Cobble said, “What are you doing, Thomas? Go and get some water for Mr. Dumfrey.”
Thomas started to obey, but Mr. Dumfrey’s thunderous shout stopped him. “No!” He struggled to sit up. “Ring the police! Tell them they must come immediately! Tell them my head has been stolen!”
For the first time, Thomas noticed the glass case that housed the shrunken head had been shattered. And in the place where the head should have been was simply an empty, smudged wooden shelf.
Thomas’s heart went from his throat to the bottom of his stomach in less than a second.
“Go ahead, Thomas,” Mrs. Cobble said, pushing her frizzled hair back from her forehead with the inside of a wrist. “You can use the phone in the office.”
Thomas was almost at the vent when he heard Dumfrey hollering after him.
“Forget the water!” he yelled. “Bring the whiskey!”
By the time the police arrived, all the residents of the museum had heard about the theft and assembled in the lobby. Betty had not yet had time to comb her beard, which extended in a wild tangle halfway to her waist. Monsieur Cabillaud was still wearing his nightcap, which Miss Fitch had sewed for him from a child’s stocking. And Goldini had accidentally grabbed the wrong hat from his nightstand, so a rabbit was now sniffing around his boots.
Two policemen had responded to the call. Standing next to each other, they looked very much like the number ten. The first was tall and extremely thin. His skin seemed far too plentiful for his skeleton and pooled under his eyes and chin. The second man was short and as round and stretched and shiny as an inflated balloon. His name tag identified him as Sergeant Schroeder.
As Dumfrey stepped forward and began vigorously shaking his hand, Sergeant Schroeder looked Mr. Dumfrey up and down carefully. The more he saw, the harder he frowned. By the time he had taken in Mr. Dumfrey’s curled genie slippers, made of red felt and embroidered with elephants, he was scowling.
“All right, then,” he said, extricating his hand from Mr. Dumfrey’s grip. “What seems to be the trouble?”
The tall one, Officer Gilhooley, produced a notepad and stood with his pencil poised over the paper.
“We’ve been pilfered—pilloried—pillaged!” Mr. Dumfrey said, with a dramatic flourish of his handkerchief.
“What’s pillars got to do with it?” Officer Gilhooley said, and scratched his head with his pencil.
“He means, sir, that it was stolen,” Pippa spoke up. Mr. Dumfrey looked at her gratefully, while Max rolled her eyes, no doubt at Pippa’s use of the word sir.
“Yes, yes, exactly,” Mr. Dumfrey said eagerly. “A theft. A most disgusting, deviant, deranged—”
“And what was—er—stolen?” Sergeant Schroeder asked hastily, cutting Mr. Dumfrey off before he could go on another rant.
Suddenly overcome, Mr. Dumfrey blotted his eyes. “My head!” he wailed. “My precious, perfect, irreplaceable head!”
This time both police officers stared at him openmouthed.
“He means, sir—” Pippa began.
Max interrupted her. “It was a shriveled, ugly thing. Like an apple stuck in pickle juice. It was just there.” She pointed to the empty case, which was visible from the lobby.
“I see.” The two officers exchanged a look. Sergeant Schroeder hooked both his thumbs into his belt. “And was this—er—this head very valuable?”
“Valuable?” Mr. Dumfrey burst out. “My dear sirs—the head was invaluable. Mind you, we have many wonderful things in the museum. Many,” he quickly emphasized. “There is the mermaid from the Pacific Ocean . . . and the sarcophagus of a pharaoh . . . and the wings of an authentic fairy captured only last year in an English garden. Perhaps you’d like a tour . . . ? Our fees are very reasonable.” Behind Mr. Dumfrey, Miss Fitch coughed. “But no, of course not. This is no time for a tour. You’re on duty! My point is, gentlemen, simply that the shrunken head was the crown jewel of our exhibit.”
Thomas thought it was a pretty good speech, even if Dumfrey was laying it on thick. But Officer Gilhooley just stared at Mr. Dumfrey blankly. “So . . . ,” he said. “Let me get this straight. Is it valuable or invaluable?”
Dumfrey drew himself up and puffed out his chest like a pigeon. “Its value is inestimable.”
This time, Sergeant Schroeder spoke. He jabbed a sausagelike finger at Dumfrey’s chest. “So you can’t estimate how valuable it is?”