Memorial cards bearing an image of Potts scowling slightly less than usual were fanned across various surfaces, and Thomas noted that interspersed with them were pamphlets advertising the museum’s exhibits. Thomas couldn’t repress a smile as he heard Mr. Dumfrey ushering people into their seats.
“A sad day, a very sad day for all of us. Of course the museum must stay closed today, out of respect for poor Potts. This is no time to gape and gawk at our world-famous display of Indian arrowheads, the largest collection in the world! The Aztec mummy exhibit must stay closed; it’s an emotional time, and we can’t have the ladies fainting. And of course it would be in very poor taste to open up our brand-new Basement of Horrors, considering the terrible end Potts came to, before he has even had a good Christian burial. What a sight . . . the way he frothed at the mouth . . . the way he screamed! We’ll have a reenactment, of course. You can even lie down on the mattress where he died. But not until tomorrow. Today we grieve, and we remember. Ah, Mr. Evans, there you are!”
The museum was packed. Mr. Dumfrey’s recent arrest, combined with the ongoing mystery of Potts’s murder and the sensation of the shrunken head, made for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for publicity. Thomas was sure most of the people in the room didn’t care at all about Potts; they only wanted to stare at Dumfrey and gawk at the extraordinary children who had been so often in the papers.
Which was why he, Sam, Pippa, and Max were hiding backstage.
“Dumfrey’s talking to Evans,” reported Max, who was picking popcorn kernels out of her teeth. She was peeking out at the audience from behind the heavy purple curtains and reporting on what she saw. “Now he’s getting his picture taken. . . .”
“Oh, look. Freckles came!” Pippa was also spying on the audience as it assembled. Freckles was their nickname for the famous sculptor Siegfried Eckleberger, who had modeled most of the faces in the Hall of Wax and had, additionally, been like a grandfather to Pippa, Sam, and Thomas. “I wish he hadn’t, though. I still haven’t finished the book he lent me and I’m sure he’ll ask me about it. Wait. Is that the mayor?” She nearly spat out her soda.
“No way. The mayor’s fatter. Oh no. I don’t believe it.”
“What is it?” Thomas had been lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and thinking. He kept feeling as though he was missing something. Now he sat up.
Max turned around. Her face was pale. “It’s that bloodsucker, Andrea von Snoot.”
“Von Stikk,” Pippa corrected her.
“Whatever. The crazy lady from the Home for Extraordinary Children, or whatever it’s called. What do you want to bet she came just to give us a hard time?”
“Detective Hardaway came,” Pippa said with disgust. “What’s he doing here?”
But before Thomas could respond, the lights dimmed and Mr. Dumfrey took the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages,” his voice boomed out in the room, which had suddenly gone very quiet. “We are gathered here today to say farewell to a man who was known by all and beloved by even more . . . a man as brave as he was handsome . . . as sensitive as he was brave . . . and as generous as he was beloved.”
The children exchanged a look. Potts had never, to their knowledge, shown even the slightest evidence of being any of those things.
Mr. Dumfrey whipped a handkerchief—also black—from his suit pocket and began dabbing his eyes furiously. “And now, to say a few words, I present to you the bereaved brother of our poor, lost friend . . . Mr. Ernst Potts.”
“I didn’t know Potts had a brother,” Pippa whispered.
“Neither did I,” Thomas whispered back.
The brother who came shuffling on the stage was nearly identical to the brother who had passed away. His mouth was set in a deep scowl, and he was wearing the same outfit of heavy work boots, gray trousers, and a floppy cap pulled low over watery blue eyes. Dumfrey retreated from the podium and gestured for Ernst to take his place. For a moment there was total silence. Then Ernst coughed.
“I didn’t like my brother all that much,” he said. “To be fair and straight with you, he was a mean little turd.” The audience began to murmur, and Ernst raised his voice to be heard. “But he didn’t deserve the ending he got.” He fished a flask out from his jacket and raised it high. “To my brother, Dervish. I hope wherever you are, the floors are spotlessly clean.”