Thomas sighed and raked a hand through his hair, so it stood up practically on end.
“Tomorrow we’ll try again,” he said. “Sam and Max can follow Hugo and Phoebe. And Pip and I’ll sniff around Paulie’s again. Maybe you’ll be able to get a better read this time,” he finished, and Pippa blushed.
“Fine,” she said, trying not to seem offended.
They walked back in silence to the museum, tired, despondent, and no closer to freeing Dumfrey. But Pippa comforted herself with the thought that tomorrow they would have another shot. If there was a clue to be found in Paulie’s restaurant, she would find it.
But about this, she was wrong. Because that very same night, at exactly eleven, Paulie’s restaurant burned to the ground.
The next day the Daily Screamer trumpeted: THE CURSE STRIKES AGAIN, in letters so big they practically exploded off the page. It appeared that Evans, too, had sniffed out the site of Potts’s last meal.
Underneath the headline was a grainy picture of the blackened stretch of sidewalk on which Paulie’s restaurant had stood only yesterday. All of the other front-page news—an article about Professor Rattigan’s continued evasion of the police, rumors of conflict in Europe, and a piece about the kidnapping of a prominent politician’s baby—was crammed into a space no larger than a dollar bill.
But it was no longer just the Daily Screamer that was interested in the curse of the shrunken head. Every other paper in New York and beyond had picked up the scent.
Thomas read selections aloud in a strained voice. “‘Mystery Crime Spree Sweeps Manhattan.’
“‘House of Terrors: The Dark Side of Dumfrey’s Dime Museum.’
“‘Free Bird! Dumfrey released on lack of evidence, after a blaze only a few blocks from—’”
Thomas broke off. It took him a second to register what he’d just read.
“Wait a second,” he said, pressing a finger to the paper, as though otherwise the words might leap off the page and scurry away. “It says here Mr. Dumfrey was released.”
“Let me see,” Pippa said, snatching the paper in a very un-Pippa-like way.
At that very second, the alley door banged open as though a battering ram had collided with it from the other side. Sam jumped, spilling tea all over Max. Max screeched.
And Thomas cried out, “Mr. Dumfrey!”
“The—very—same,” Mr. Dumfrey huffed, as he attempted to squeeze through the door sideways. “More or less.” His stomach was the last thing to make it through the doorway, with a pop like the sound of a tennis ball being released from a can. He patted his stomach and beamed. “My stay as a guest of New York City’s finest has done me some good. I haven’t fit through that door in years!”
Everyone crowded around him, speaking loudly, asking questions at once.
“We thought you’d been locked up,” Danny said.
“How did you escape?” Goldini asked wonderingly, with just a hint of jealousy in his voice.
“I missed you terribly, Mr. Dumfrey!” Quinn cried, clinging to his arm.
Caroline, refusing to be outdone, grabbed his other arm. “I missed you more!”
“She did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
“‘O Captain! My Captain!’” Smalls was vigorously pumping Dumfrey’s hand, his face lit up in a boyish grin. “‘Our fearful trip is done.’ Walt Whitman,” he added in a whisper, seeing Thomas’s puzzled expression.
“All in good time, my pets,” Mr. Dumfrey said, holding up a hand. “All in good time.” He sat down in the nearest chair with a little groan of satisfaction, and placed his feet up on the bench. “I don’t suppose there’s any breakfast . . . ?”
“There’s sardines,” Pippa said doubtfully. “And a little bit of toast.”
“Delightful!” Mr. Dumfrey leaned back in his chair. Pippa scurried to get him a plate. His scarlet dressing gown was ripped in one place, and he had a banana peel in his pocket. Other than that, however, he looked no worse for the wear. “It’s good to be home. Very good, indeed,” he said.
“Mr. Dumfrey?” Miss Fitch coughed delicately.
“Yes?” He turned a beaming smile on her.
She gestured primly to the banana peel sticking out of his pocket.
“Ah, yes,” he said. He plucked the peel from his pocket, sniffed it, and deposited it in the trash. “A woman tried to clobber me with a picnic basket. It’s even better than I’d hoped,” he said, his blue eyes shining. “Picnickers and busybodies, cameramen and curiosity seekers . . . it’s wonderful, truly wonderful!”
“What are you talking about?” Thomas said. “What’s wonderful?”
Mr. Dumfrey stared at him. “The crowd, my dear boy!” he said, as though it was obvious. “Haven’t you seen them? Packed in the street like, like, like—” At that point, Pippa set a plate of sardines down in front of him. Dumfrey thumped the table with his fist. “Exactly. Like sardines. Thank you, Philippa.”
“But they hate us,” Sam said. “They think we’re killers and freaks.”