Mr. Evans smiled again, big and toothy. “By all means. By all means. Fire away.”
There was a moment’s awkward pause. Pippa realized they hadn’t exactly planned what they were going to say. Fortunately, Sam jumped in.
“Was it really cyanide that killed Potts?” Sam asked. Pippa shivered involuntarily. It was terrible to hear the question out loud. It made it seem so real. She hadn’t exactly liked Mr. Potts—nobody had, really—but still. No one deserved to die like that. Poisoned.
“That it was, my boy. The ME—that’s the medical examiner, you know, who works on the body—said it was a dose large enough to flatten an elephant.” Mr. Evans extracted a small cigarette from the box on his desk and tried several times to light it with a match. Pippa was about to suggest he use the lighter in his pocket but stopped herself. She didn’t want him to think she was showing off. “Probably killed him instantly, poor fellow.” Mr. Evans exhaled a foul-smelling cloud in their general direction. Pippa coughed. Mr. Evans barely glanced at her. “Tissue, my girl?” he said.
“But when did—” Thomas started to say. Evans held up a finger.
“Not so fast. My turn. Fair’s fair, remember.” He stretched his long fingers and bent over his typewriter. “First question,” he said, as his fingers flew over the keys. “How long has Mr. Dumfrey been having money problems?”
“I—I don’t know,” Thomas stuttered.
“He doesn’t tell us.” Pippa jumped to his aid. “He doesn’t like to worry us with that stuff.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Mr. Evans continued typing for several long moments. Pippa wondered how he could have gotten so much material from their responses.
“Our turn again,” Thomas said.
Before he could speak, Max broke in: “How come you wrote all those lies about us in the paper?”
“That’s the business, my girl.” Mr. Evans grinned. “My turn!”
“Wait,” Pippa said, glaring at Max. “That wasn’t a real question. It didn’t count.”
“Of course it did!” Mr. Evans said cheerfully, and jammed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, once more hunching over the keys. “Now, let’s see. Where were we? Oh, yes. When did you first become aware that Mr. Dumfrey hated Mr. Potts?”
“He didn’t!” Thomas cried.
“Mr. Dumfrey doesn’t hate anybody,” Pippa said.
“Don’t you see?” Sam said. “He couldn’t have killed anyone.”
“He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Max put in.
“Any time we find a spider in the museum, he makes us release it outside,” Thomas said.
“And he’s an awful crybaby,” Sam said.
“He loves Christmas,” Pippa offered.
“And children,” Thomas said.
Mr. Evans’s fingers were flying over the keys so fast they were a blur behind the haze of cigarette smoke. “Excellent, excellent,” he muttered.
“Is it our turn now?” Pippa ventured.
“It is,” Mr. Evans said.
“What time did—” she started to ask, but Evans cut her off again.
“No fair! That’s two questions in a row!” he said.
“Are you out of your mind?” Max said.
“That’s three questions!” Evans trumpeted.
Pippa stared at him. “But—but—”
“A deal’s a deal. Now I get three.” He whipped the paper, already full, from the typewriter, and fed a new one under the roller. “Tell me this: Where do you go to school?”
“We don’t,” Pippa said. She hurriedly added, “Monsieur Cabillaud teaches us.”
“The pinhead?” Mr. Evans said.
“That’s a question!” Max protested.
“He’s very smart,” Thomas said defensively. “He did great things for the French government.”
“The Belgian government,” Pippa corrected.
Thomas turned to her, confused. “Are you sure he isn’t French?”
Mr. Evans was typing and puffing so furiously, Pippa was afraid he might combust. “Answer me this,” he said. “If two trains leave from Grand Central Terminal at nine a.m., and one goes sixty miles per hour and the second one goes forty miles per hour and must stop for a new paint job in New Haven, how fast will the first train have to go to get to Boston on time?”
There was a brief pause. Thomas frowned. “That question makes no sense,” he said.
“Aha!” Mr. Evans said triumphantly, and peeled yet another sheet of paper, densely covered with words, from the typewriter.
“It’s our turn to ask a question,” Sam said firmly. Pippa could tell he was holding himself very carefully, so he didn’t accidentally break anything.
“Go ahead.” Mr. Evans sat back in his chair and finally extinguished his cigarette. Still, the air was cloudy with smoke and Pippa felt like her lungs were encased in a wet, smelly blanket. “I’m all finished.”
Pippa was desperate to ask what he had written, but she didn’t want to waste another question.