“Pippa,” Thomas cried out, at the same time that Sam said, “Max, don’t.”
Max had a fistful of Pippa’s hair in her hand, and Pippa was twisting the skin on Max’s cheek. Both girls were shouting, and Sam was shouting, too, though he hardly knew what he was saying. Thomas flung his arm around Pippa. He dragged her backward even as she struggled against him, clawing at his arm and demanding to be released. Sam hooked two fingers in the back of Max’s shirt collar and rooted her in place.
“Let me go!” she shouted. “I’ll poke her eyes out with toothpicks! I’ll nail her noggin to the ground!”
“Max, please,” Sam said. People were beginning to stare at them again. Down the street, a shoeshine boy had paused in his work, brush raised, mouth open. His client had lowered his newspaper to watch. On the opposite side of the street, a beat cop had paused and was peering in their direction, hand raised to his hat to shield his eyes from the glare.
“Look, everyone calm down, okay?” Sam kept his voice as quiet and steady as possible. He prayed for the cop to move on. The last thing they needed was more trouble.
“She started it,” Pippa said. She was panting. “Let go of me,” she said, wrenching away from Thomas.
Max snorted. “I didn’t start nothing, you started it—”
“All right, all right,” Sam jumped in, before things could get any worse. The cop finally moved on, casting one last glance in their direction. Some of the tightness loosened in Sam’s chest. “Let’s just head back to the museum, okay? We can talk everything out once we’re—”
But Sam’s voice was drowned out by a sudden commotion from down the block. A freckle-faced boy wearing a newsboy cap and carrying a stack of papers was shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” he hollered as people crowded him, snatching up newspapers, dropping coins in his hand. “The shrunken head strikes again! Reporter Bill Evans falls victim to the curse!”
“Bill Evans?” Pippa exclaimed. The girls’ fight was all but forgotten, even though Pippa’s scalp still ached and there was a vivid red bruise on Max’s cheek where Pippa had pinched it. “Dead?”
Thomas, who had purchased a paper, glanced up for a moment. “No. He could have died, though.”
“I wish he had,” Max said.
“Listen to this,” Thomas said, returning to his paper. “‘Bill Evans, star reporter and the man responsible for breaking the case of the curse, was returning to his home on Ludlow Street last evening when he was nearly killed by an out-of-control driver. He was rushed to Mercy General Hospital . . .’”
“First that old woman at the museum, Mrs. Weathersby,” Pippa said, ticking them off on her fingers. “Then Anderson. Then Potts. And now Evans.” She shook her head.
“Maybe there really is a curse,” Sam ventured.
“There’s no curse,” Thomas said, folding up the newspaper. “Let’s go.”
“Where to?” Sam said.
“Back to the museum,” he said. “We need to talk to Dumfrey.”
“But first . . .” Pippa slapped the wallet into Max’s hand. Max, grumbling, disappeared into the theater and reemerged a minute later, hands shoved in her pockets.
“Happy now?” she mumbled.
“Delighted,” Pippa said.
In two hours, the museum had undergone a remarkable transformation. The steps were swept clean of cigarette stubs and debris, and Andrew was busy washing the windows, sleeves rolled up to show off his scaly forearms. A vast crowd was still assembled in the street, including Miss Groenovelt, who was carrying one of her cats in her arms and had another two perched on her shoulders. Pippa even spotted two old men she was sure were the Sadowski brothers, a pair of legendary hermits she had never seen outside their apartment.
The children circled around the block and sneaked into the museum through the alley door. As soon as they entered the kitchen, Danny gave an outraged shout and pinned them against the wall with the handle of a mop.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, waving a finger at them threateningly. “Not after I just cleaned the floors. Your shoes are black as a pirate’s teeth.”
“My shoes are not dirty,” Pippa said haughtily.
“Sorry, Danny,” Thomas said, ducking under the broom handle and starting for the stairs. “Official business.”
They left Danny spluttering and waving his mop.
The lobby floor was scrubbed clean of footprints and smudge marks. The advertising banner, which had begun to droop sadly to the floor—Pinheads! Bearded Ladies! Alligator Men! Dwarves! NOVEL AND ASTOUNDING EXHIBITIONS! MORE THAN ONE THOUSAND CURIOSITIES!—was now hoisted high and proud over the ticket desk. Miss Fitch bustled in and out of the various exhibit halls, directing the other performers.