But Thomas never heard Hardaway finish his sentence.
Because at that moment an ear-shattering scream came drilling through the walls, and Thomas, in his shock, tried to turn; and the grate gave way beneath him, and he went tumbling in a shower of dust directly onto Mr. Dumfrey’s desk.
“Hello, Thomas,” Mr. Dumfrey said, with barely a glance in his direction.
“Hello, Mr. Dumfrey,” Thomas said, sitting up with a little groan.
Hardaway had already vaulted into the hall. Dumfrey sprinted after him, his robe flapping behind him like two scarlet wings, and Thomas followed.
The screaming continued. It was like an ice pick aimed directly between the ears. As they rounded the second-floor landing, Thomas saw Sam emerge from the Hall of Wax, white-faced.
“What is that?” he said. When he reached out to grab the banister, a chunk of wood splintered off in his hand.
“Nice one,” Thomas said, as he raced down the stairs.
Doors slammed; footsteps pounded from all sides; a confusion of voices rose up together.
“What’s going on?”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Mercy! The old cow won’t stop!”
As though sucked downward by gravitational force, the residents of the museum spiraled down the performers’ staircase and made their way to the basement, where the screams continued, punctuated by brief gasping sobs and cries of “Help! Somebody! Oh, it’s awful!” By now, Thomas recognized Miss Fitch’s voice.
The hall outside Potts’s room was narrow and packed with people. Hugo was standing just outside Potts’s closed door, as though uncertain whether to go in. Inside the room, Miss Fitch continued to sob.
“Let me through.” Hardaway was elbowing his way through the crowd. “Police. Coming through.”
Everyone had gone quiet, with the exception of Miss Fitch, who was still blubbering and screeching behind the door. Thomas felt an awful sense of dread. He caught Sam’s eye and Sam shook his head. He, too, looked afraid. Thomas pressed forward, following Mr. Dumfrey, who was trying to push his way past Hardaway.
“This is my museum,” he was saying, and “You have no right.”
Hardaway reached the door first and shoved it open.
Thomas felt like the world had turned a somersault around him.
Miss Fitch was standing in the middle of the room, her cheeks coated with black tracks of mascara, her lipstick smudged nearly to her chin.
“I just came in to see why he hadn’t emptied the bins like usual,” she said, with another sob. She brought a handkerchief to her mouth. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly wipe her nose. “He didn’t knock when I answered so I . . . so I . . . and I found him just lying there. Just like that.”
And she pointed to Mr. Potts, stretched out, fully clothed, on his mattress, mouth open, eyes open.
Dead.
“Almonds,” Hardaway said, leaning down toward Potts’s ghastly white face and sniffing like a hound dog. “Smell that? Almonds. Unmistakable.”
Webb grunted. “You think he had some kinda allergy?”
Hardaway shot his partner a scathing look. “I think he had a cyanide allergy. That smell is a sign of cyanide poisoning. I’d bet my badge on it.”
Cyanide. The word was like a cold sliver of rain down Sam’s spine. It spread through the assembled crowd, hissing from lip to lip. And slowly, everyone turned to face Mr. Dumfrey.
Mr. Dumfrey, who kept an old tin of cyanide from the famous Morrison murder trial of 1843 on one of the shelves above his desk.
“Why is everyone looking at me?” Mr. Dumfrey’s frown slowly transformed to a look of horror. “Surely you don’t think . . . For God’s sake . . . I had nothing to do with this!”
There was another awkward pause. Then Hugo broke the silence.
“We know you didn’t, Mr. D.,” he said, patting Mr. Dumfrey on the shoulder. Relief and guilt commingled in Sam’s chest—he had, for just one second, been wondering . . . But of course Mr. Dumfrey could not have killed Potts. Why would he?
The other performers murmured their agreement.
A very unpleasant light was shining in Hardaway’s eyes. “But you keep cyanide, don’t you, Mr. Dumfrey? I saw it there myself.”
“It was part of an old exhibit,” he said, waving a hand. “‘Pernicious Poisoners’—a nice little tableau—very popular.”
Lieutenant Webb, who was still standing in the hallway, grunted. “Sounds like bunk to me.”
Mr. Dumfrey whirled on him. “It isn’t bunk, young man,” he said, in an exasperated voice. “I’ll have you know that the ‘Malevolent Murders’ section of the Hall of Wax attracts more visitors than—”
“Dumfrey!” Hardaway snapped, and Dumfrey quickly shut up. Hardaway took two steps toward Dumfrey, past a still-quivering Miss Fitch. His large jaw was working back and forth, and it reminded Sam of the fossilized jaw of the prehistoric ferret they kept in the Hall of Worldwide Wonders. “Get your things together You’re coming with us.”