“—saying you pulled some kind of stunt. He should be cut open and turned into jerky.”
“I’m sure Mr. Evans, like all journalists of his kind, has taken some liberties,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “But he was right about one very important thing. Behind my back, without asking my permission, at a time when I believed you to be in the attic, you sneaked out and paid a visit to Mr. Anderson, my dear—and now dead—friend. So I want to know: Why?”
Sam coughed. “It was about the head, sir.”
Dumfrey blinked.
Thomas came to Sam’s aid. “We thought that Potts might have struck a deal with Mr. Anderson—”
“I’ve told you to leave Potts alone,” Mr. Dumfrey said sharply, banging his fist on the desk. Pippa jumped, and another little bottle (Strand of Marie Antoinette’s Hair read the label) rolled onto the carpet. Then Dumfrey sighed and sagged back in his chair. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter.
“I know I’m not your father,” he said softly, turning his eyes to each of them in turn. “Nonetheless, I consider you all my children. You too, Max,” he added, since she seemed about to protest. “My children, and my responsibility to protect. There are dangers out there. Evils you’re too young to understand—” Mr. Dumfrey broke off. He continued more calmly, “I can’t imagine what you hoped to accomplish by invading Mr. Anderson’s home, but I think we can agree that the mission was a failure. From now on, I expect you to keep out of this business entirely.”
“But what about—” Thomas started to say.
“Entirely,” Mr. Dumfrey repeated sternly. “Do I make myself clear?”
Thomas nodded slowly. Pippa felt heavy with guilt but also frustration. If the museum really was in danger of closing, she couldn’t just stand there and watch it fail. They needed that head.
And Mr. Evans’s article was right about something else—two people connected to the head had died in the span of a week.
Mr. Dumfrey pushed back from his desk. As though reading her mind, he said, “Let the police do their job. If the head can be found, they’ll find it.”
“But they’re not even looking,” Sam protested.
“Then I guess the case is closed,” Mr. Dumfrey said firmly, and Pippa knew that the conversation was over.
Midmorning, Thomas was sitting in the Odditorium, rereading The Probability of Everything, having already finished Statistics for Everybody, which he had found disappointing. Suddenly, he heard a loud commotion from the entrance hall.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here.” Miss Fitch’s voice was shrill as a fire bell. “After all those lies you wrote up in the paper. I don’t know how you sleep at night. I ought to snip your fingers off—”
Rounding the corner, Thomas saw that Miss Fitch had Bill Evans cornered and was waving a heavy pair of sewing scissors threateningly in his direction.
“It’s all right, Miss Fitch,” Mr. Dumfrey said. He, too, had been attracted by the noise. Miss Fitch gave a final, injured snip of her scissors, then turned and stalked off, muttering under her breath about the shame of it.
Mr. Evans eased off the wall and adjusted his tie. “Charming woman,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Is she always that friendly?”
“What do you want?” Thomas blurted out, before he could stop himself. He thought Mr. Dumfrey might scold him for being rude, but instead he saw a smile pass briefly across Dumfrey’s face.
Mr. Evans addressed his words to Dumfrey. “You’re not mad about what I wrote, are you?” He took off his hat and spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. “You know how it is, Mr. D. Gotta spice things up, give stories a bit of a twist if you want to sell papers. And, boy, are we selling them.” He grinned. “They’re going like hotcakes. People love a good horror story, and this business of the head’s got everyone riled up.”
Mr. Dumfrey stared at him with no expression. Mr. Evans’s smile faltered, and he coughed.
“Look at it this way,” he said, trying a new tack. “You need a little bit of publicity, now that the head’s up and vanished.” Thomas had to admit that Mr. Evans had a point. “Think of it: The Four Orphan Freaks of Dumfrey’s Dime Museum. It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? That’ll bring in the crowds. I thought maybe I could do a little roundup of the kids, a few interviews, maybe a photograph—”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Dumfrey said stiffly.
“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” Thomas interjected. “He’s right. We could use the publicity.”
Mr. Dumfrey shot Thomas a withering glance, and Thomas wished he hadn’t spoken. Mr. Dumfrey returned his gaze to Bill Evans, drawing himself up to his full five feet five inches. “Now listen here, Evans. You don’t have to tell me about publicity. I practically invented it. But I won’t have you implicating Thomas or Sam or any of them. I won’t have you hurling imprecations or insinuating allegations or—or—”
“Dragging us into it,” Thomas suggested.