Mr. Dumfrey started, as though only just remembering the children were there. “Wait!” he called out. “We must discuss a suitable punish—”
But before he could say ment, Thomas had hauled Pippa into the hall and Sam had slammed the door closed. From inside, there was another crash, as yet another painting tumbled off the wall.
“Sorry, Mr. D.!” Sam called out, and then hurried after Pippa and Thomas.
“You’re pinching me,” Pippa said, as Thomas dragged her forward. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? You’re acting like a bug crawled up your—”
“You were right,” he whispered, cutting her off. “Potts did it.”
“What are you talking about?” Pippa said.
“Potts went to see Anderson. At least, I think he did. He had the address of Anderson’s store written on a piece of paper in his room—133 Seventh Street, in Brooklyn.” Thomas glanced from left to right and, seeing no one, continued speaking in a rush: “It isn’t a coincidence. It can’t be.”
Pippa was frowning, clearly deep in thought. “So . . . you think Potts is working for Anderson?”
Thomas shrugged. “You heard what Dumfrey said, didn’t you? Anderson tried to get the head back, but Dumfrey wouldn’t sell it to him. So maybe Anderson decided to take matters into his own hands. Maybe he paid Potts to pinch it for him.”
“But Dumfrey said Mr. Anderson was a friend . . . ,” Sam said doubtfully.
“Wouldn’t be the first time Mr. D. was wrong about something,” Thomas said. “Remember when he bought those two tiger cubs for the museum and tried to train them?”
“The magicians’ poor rabbits . . . ,” Sam murmured, shuddering a little.
“The trainer’s poor hand,” Thomas said.
Pippa roused herself. “All right, then. We have to talk to Mr. Anderson right away. We have to find out what he knows.”
Thomas felt a spark of excitement in his stomach. For the first time ever, he felt like he and Pippa were on the same team. Sam, too. For the first time ever, he felt like they were doing something important—not just performing the same tricks over and over, like trained monkeys. And he had always, always, wanted to do something important.
What was the point of being different if you couldn’t be special?
“To Brooklyn, then?” he said.
Pippa nodded solemnly. “To Brooklyn.”
Anderson’s Delights was situated in a long, low brick building at the end of a narrow street slicked with oil and foul-smelling puddles, next to the sludge of the Gowanus Canal, which wound through this section of Brooklyn like an enormous, green-scaled snake. At the end of the street, a homeless man wearing a battered felt cap, a pair of aviator’s goggles, and pants shredded halfway to his knees was rummaging through a trash bin, humming.
Pippa was glad that both Max and Sam had agreed to come. There was safety in numbers. And even though Pippa couldn’t stand Max, and tried her best to ignore her frequent complaints—(“Smells like a fart over here! What’s the big plan, anyway? You think if Anderson did steal the head he’s just gonna go ahead and cop to it?”)—she could see the sharp metal knives, sheathed in leather, glinting in the pockets of Max’s coat, and she was grateful for them. Especially as night was falling, and from the dark mouths of various doorways, men were watching them with sunken eyes.
The door to Anderson’s Delights was locked. Sam reached up and knocked carefully. Paint flaked off at his touch, and a crack appeared in the wood. He winced.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s not your fault,” Pippa lied.
They waited. Thomas shifted anxiously from foot to foot, tugging his hair, until it was standing straight up from his scalp. He never could stand still. Silence: no sound of footsteps, no murmur of voices. With each passing second, the light was draining from the sky. Pippa knew that meant curfew at the museum was rapidly approaching.
“Well,” Max said. “That’s that. No one’s home. Too bad and try again tomorrow.”
“Wait,” Sam said softly. “The light’s on upstairs. Look.”
He was right: above them, on the third floor, a light was glowing softly in the window. And it was flickering slightly, as though someone upstairs was passing in front of a lamp, walking back and forth in agitation.
By silent agreement, Pippa, Max, and Sam all turned to look at Thomas. Thomas sighed.
“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “I’m going.” In an instant, he was shimmying up a drainpipe—quickly, practically silent, except for the occasional squeak of his shoes or rattle of the metal pipe. Soon he became a small black shadow against the deepening twilight. And then, in less than a minute, he had reached the upstairs windows.
“What do you see?” Pippa called out softly.