Max swallowed. She felt like there was a whole cat stuck in her throat. “Why?” she said, hoping she sounded angry and not afraid. “What do you want with us?”
Rattigan chuckled. “I don’t want anything with you,” he said. “You belong to me. I’ve been watching you for a week now, and you are every bit as extraordinary as I’d hoped.”
Suddenly, Max knew where she had seen him before: outside Anderson’s Delights, rooting through the trash, and wearing a pair of aviator’s goggles. And then again, on the subway ride back from Bellevue after Thomas had stolen the report on Potts’s death. He’d been following them, spying on them, all along.
Rattigan went on, “I’ve even given you some little . . . tests. Just to make sure that my experiments had turned out well.”
“It was you,” Thomas said hoarsely. “You pushed me under the train.”
Sam balled up his fists. “And you tried to clobber me with concrete,” he said.
“Water under the bridge, I hope,” Rattigan said cheerfully. “You performed admirably well. Oh, yes. You far exceeded my expectations.” He beamed at them, and for just a second, he reminded Max of Mr. Dumfrey congratulating them on a show well performed. But the impression quickly passed.
Outside, distantly, Max heard the wail of a police siren and felt a surge of hope. Maybe if they kept Rattigan talking, someone would miss Evans and call the police.
As if reading her mind, Rattigan withdrew a pocket watch from his vest pocket and frowned. “My, my. How time flies, especially when you’re catching up with old friends. This has been fun, hasn’t it?” He stood up, suddenly businesslike. “But we can talk far more comfortably elsewhere. If you’ll just follow me . . .” He gestured to the door.
Nobody moved.
Thomas said, “We’re not following you anywhere.”
“You can’t make us,” Max said.
“It’s four to one,” Sam said.
“Quite, quite.” Rattigan smiled again. “I certainly would never think of going up against you, Samson. Nevertheless, I’m sure you’ll all come along quietly. Unless, of course, you’d like something very bad to happen to your friend Dumfrey.”
“What’s Dumfrey got to do with this?” Thomas said in a growl.
Rattigan blinked. “He’s got everything to do with it! Surely you wouldn’t want to be responsible for his death?”
“His death?” Pippa squeaked, and leaned heavily against Bill Evans’s desk, as if she might faint. But then Max saw Pippa slip the silver letter opener into her pocket. Max swallowed a cry of disbelief—perfect Pippa, grammar-loving, rule-following Pippa, was actually stealing. Pippa met her gaze and, for just a second, the ghost of a smile passed across her face.
Rattigan, fortunately, noticed nothing. He was busy polishing his glasses. “Terrible. Most unfortunate. An accident of the cruelest kind”—he returned his glasses to his nose—“unless you come along with me. If you do, I’ll make sure that Dumfrey stays safe as a kitten.”
“How do we know we can trust you?” Max said.
“Ah.” Rattigan turned to her. “I’m afraid you don’t. But you have no choice, do you? It’s an awful thing, to gamble with someone’s life.”
“He’s right,” Thomas said quietly, in a strangled voice. “We have to go with him.”
“I knew I could count on you to be logical.” Rattigan smiled again. “Especially you, Thomas. Of course, you were designed to be the brainy one. Shall we?”
And with another flourish, Rattigan ushered them out the door.
In the time they had been inside Mr. Evans’s apartment, the sun had broken free of the buildings and the streets had woken up. A woman in a housecoat was sweeping a stoop across the street; a baker smelling distinctly of fresh bread and butter hurried past them, cradling a large bag of flour in his arms; and all down the street front doors opened and closed, and men in suits consulted wristwatches and hurried off toward the subway.
To Pippa, it all felt as distant as a dream. She could think of nothing but escape. She had the letter opener in her pocket, but she had no idea what to do with it. Could she bring herself to stab Rattigan? Could Max? What would happen if she shouted and waved her arms to any one of the strangers passing by? Would they help her? Would they think she’d gone nuts?
Would Mr. Dumfrey die?