He had this last, unsettling thought just as he reached the Hudson River. The gray surface of the water was stiff with small white peaks drawn up by the wind, like a large surface of whipped cream. Across the river, he saw the lights of New Jersey come on one by one. Thomas let the wind chase out thoughts of Hugo and Phoebe and worries about the museum, and instead watched the seagulls wheeling in the air.
In moments like this—quiet moments—Thomas sometimes let himself think about his real parents: who they must have been and whether they were still alive. Sometimes he felt only a curious detachment when he thought of them; other times, a fierce, dull anger, like a rock burning at the bottom of his stomach; and occasionally, a kind of longing he had no name for, like the tug he felt hearing the last notes of a song he loved.
The sun had finally broken loose of the buildings behind him, and orange light spread across the sky like a broken egg yolk flowing over a plate. Thomas realized he was hungry, and decided to go home to see what Mrs. Cobble was cooking, before he remembered that Mrs. Cobble had quit.
He found a dime in the pocket of his stiff canvas jacket and decided to stop to buy eggs on his way back to the museum. The sun warmed his face and the knot in his stomach began to loosen. Maybe his premonition the night before, his sense that something terrible was coming, was wrong.
Maybe everything would be okay after all.
Sol was rolling up the metal shutters, revealing display cases filled with glistening rainbow-colored jawbreakers, thick slabs of taffy in every imaginable color, coiled ropes of licorice, and fudge wrapped in waxed paper. Thomas stopped to talk to him in the hopes of scoring a few free Peanut Chews, and so didn’t notice the dusty gold Buick sedan rolling slowly down the street, and the men within it, their battered hats pulled low over their eyes, their collars turned up as though against a hard wind.
By the time Thomas reached the museum, the Buick was parked directly in front of the entrance. It was too early for visitors. The museum wouldn’t open for another few hours. Thomas took the steps two at a time and pushed open the door, which was unlocked.
Then he froze.
There was a strange and unpleasant smell in the air. It smelled like cheap aftershave and tobacco and faintly, just faintly, like sour milk.
Thomas’s heart dove into his shoes. He knew that smell.
Monsieur Cabillaud was sitting behind the ticket desk, nose to page with one of the vast, overflowing ledgers in which Mr. Dumfrey kept track of the accounts due and overdue, and surrounded on all sides by towering stacks of papers.
“Where’s Mr. Dumfrey?” Thomas asked.
Monsieur Cabillaud looked up, blinking blearily above the frame of his glasses. His eyes were red, as though he had been at it all night, and his tiny head was as shiny as polished wood. The bow tie he always wore was tilting dangerously to the left.
“Dumfrey,” Thomas prompted.
“Zat is zee very same thing ze police have wanted to know,” Monsieur Cabillaud said, frowning. “Do I look like Monsieur Dumfrey’s garde d’enfant? Go upstairs, I tell zem, and look for him yourself. Sacre bleu! It is enough work to try and keep a roof above our noses. . . .”
Thomas didn’t bother to inform Monsieur Cabillaud that the correct expression was keep a roof above our heads. His heart, already in his shoes, had flattened through the soles of his feet when Cabillaud had mentioned the word police.
He skidded through the entrance hall, under the familiar, weathered banner advertising Pinheads! Bearded Ladies! Alligator Men! Dwarves! NOVEL AND ASTOUNDING EXHIBITIONS! MORE THAN ONE THOUSAND CURIOSITIES! and sprinted down the central hallway, past the Hall of Worldwide Wonders, and to the performers’ staircase. He passed Miss Fitch on the second floor. Her face was as tight and pinched as the puckered end of a lemon.
“Have you seen Mr. Potts?” she demanded, but Thomas didn’t even bother replying.
“Thomas Able!” she cried as he shoved past her.
“Sorry,” he panted out, even though he wasn’t.
Just before he reached the third floor, he stopped and drew back. Mr. Dumfrey’s door was closed, and Thomas could just make out the murmur of voices. Pacing the small landing was Lieutenant Webb, chewing on the end of an unlit cigar and occasionally spitting bits of tobacco onto the floor. Even inside, he wore his belted trench coat and hat, but Thomas could make out his eyes, glittering and hard, and the jutting angles of his forehead, like the skull of the Cro-Magnon Dumfrey had on display in the Hall of Worldwide Wonders.
Thomas’s foot squeaked on the stair. Webb pivoted in his direction and Thomas retreated quickly, around the bend in the staircase and out of sight.
He needed to hear what Hardaway—Thomas assumed it was Hardaway in the room with Dumfrey—was saying.