“Hello, Eli,” Thomas said as he slipped through the knot of people and put his hand on the gate. Thomas had a soft spot for the man, despite or maybe because of his eccentricities. It was in Mr. Sadowski’s cluttered apartment that Thomas had decoded the mystery of one of Rattigan’s many pseudonyms and realized his connection to a series of murders that had occurred earlier in the summer.
Eli touched a finger to his hat distractedly but kept his eyes glued to the museum doors. Through them, Thomas could hear the squabbling of angry voices. The crowd scattered slightly when Sam cut through it, allowing Thomas to get the gates open and slip inside.
But before he could reach the doors, they flew open, and a woman in a feathered hat scurried out, gripping the hand of her wide-eyed daughter. Simultaneously, the sound of angry voices crested.
“How dare you?” General Farnum was shouting. “How dare you come in here and—?”
The doors closed with a soft whoompf, so Thomas couldn’t hear the rest of what he said.
“Come, Delilah,” the woman said, when her daughter stopped to suck on her fingers and stare at Thomas. She gave the girl’s hand a tug. “I knew we should have gone to Coney Island instead,” she muttered, casting a disapproving look at Thomas, as if he were to blame for all her troubles. “Very unprofessional, if you ask me, even for a freak show. Such language . . .”
Now desperately curious, Thomas flew into the museum, followed closely by Sam, Pippa, and Max.
He was relieved to see that Farnum and Danny hadn’t resumed their earlier argument. Instead, a very tall man with the squashy face of a somewhat overripe sweet potato was distributing business cards to the crowd gathered around Farnum’s flea circus, even as Farnum lunged after him, trying to snatch the cards back. A card ended up in Thomas’s hand before he could refuse it.
“Ernie Erskine’s Professional Extermination,” the squashy-faced man was saying jovially. “Fumigation and cleansing. Best flea killer in the business for over forty years.”
“Flea killer?” General Farnum grabbed back the card from an alarmed-looking old woman. “You murderous monster, I’ll have you brought up on charges—I’ll have your head mounted to my door—”
“Don’t be fooled, ladies and gentleman,” Erskine continued, as if Farnum hadn’t spoken, working the crowd like a politician on a press tour. Thomas couldn’t help but think that if he didn’t look so normal, he’d make a very good performer. “Dress ’em up like ballerinas or rodeo clowns, these aren’t nothing but pests, pure and simple. Breed like bunnies and itch like poison ivy. Even now, they’re probably jumping and skipping all around us, making nests in pocketbooks and pant creases.”
“How awful,” an old woman said loudly, above the dismayed muttering of the crowd.
“It makes one feel positively filthy,” agreed the man next to her.
General Farnum’s bushy eyebrows looked as if they might spring off his forehead and launch an attack. “The only filthy thing in this room—” he began, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence.
Erskine was still talking over him, even as the crowd began backing toward the door, casting suspicious glances at the small black blurs moving within their colorfully decorated terrarium—which, only a minute ago, had been their main reason for paying the twenty-cent admission. “No doubt about it,” he said. “Only good flea is a dead one! Call Ernie Erskine’s Exterminators, before it’s too late!”
And with that, Ernie followed the last customer out the door, leaving the furious General Farnum yelling after him.
“Handpicked—best fleas from San Francisco to Syracuse—slander—”
“Let’s go.” Thomas nodded to the others. He felt sorry for General Farnum. Farnum was at least twenty years older than Mr. Dumfrey, and even though he often repeated the same stories about his time fighting for Teddy Roosevelt during the Spanish-American War, about the fleas that had infested their sleeping bags, and Farnum’s discovery of the insects’ remarkable intelligence and acrobatic ability, he reminded Thomas somewhat of the late Siegfried “Freckles” Eckleberger, the closest thing Thomas had ever known to a grandparent. Besides, General Farnum had reason to be obsessed with his fleas. His first wife was long dead, and his second had left him for a French lion tamer. He had no children. Before joining the museum, he’d had no family at all—except, of course, for his fleas.
Halfway up the stairs to the attic, they could still hear the general raging.
“World famous!”
“Poor General Farnum.” Pippa sighed. “And the flea circus was doing so well.”
“Well,” Max said, “that’s what you get when you go around teaching bugs to do backflips.”
BANK ROBBERY—FOILED!
When Thomas went out to get the paper the next morning, he found that nearly every headline was the same. Returning to the museum just as the other residents were waking up, he found Pippa in the kitchen, blowing steam off a mug of tea.
“Hello,” she said. “Where’d you go?”
“Paper delivery,” he said, and slid the newspaper between them. He sat down, and they huddled together and began to read.
There’s no doubt about it: New York City is in the grips of a crime wave. A spate of recent bank robberies has the New York City Police Department spinning in circles, and yesterday, at 11:55 a.m., the New York Federated Savings Bank became the most recent target. As in previous instances, a single man entered, waited on line before producing a gun, and demanded the clerk hand over cash. This time, however, there was an unexpected twist to the story: when the robber attempted to take a boy hostage, he instead got a whole lot more than he bargained for.
“They looked normal-like,” said Fred Genovese, who was on security duty at the time, “just like any other kids. But one of ’em—a skinny kid, looked like someone who’d get his teeth kicked in at school—chucked a desk straight through the doors. Musta cleared forty, fifty feet. And those desks are heavy. Solid oak with brass claw feet, probably a hundred, a hundred ten pounds.”
Miss Eliza Niefenager, who had come to the bank to withdraw a sum for her monthly meeting of the Women’s Midtown Cotillion, added: “And there was a girl—at least, I’m pretty sure she was a girl. She was wild-looking, like an animal. She had on an enormous jacket. And pants! In any case, she threw something—I think it was a knife, but she moved so fast, it was hard to see—and nicked that awful man right in the hand before he could snatch up his gun.”
Mr. Gould, the bank manager, was overjoyed. “That small boy got all the money back!” he told The Daily Screamer exclusively. “Every penny!”
“Harumph,” Pippa said. “Not a word about me.”
“Cheer up,” Thomas said, giving her a thump on the knee. “At least they didn’t say you looked like a wild animal.”
“To Max, that’s a compliment,” Pippa grumbled.
They continued reading:
Not everyone, however, approved of the intervention of these four young Samaritans. Assistant Chief Inspector Hardaway of the New York City Police Department, who has been spearheading the effort to track down the perpetrators of the recent spate of robberies, emphasized that the children’s actions may well have endangered the investigation.
“This is police business,” he said. “The details are confidential, but let’s just say that the NYPD has launched a complex and delicate plan to bring the thief—or thieves—to justice. Now that they’ve had a scare, they’ll take extra care next time to cover their tracks.” He added: “Besides, those kids could have got someone killed. Like I always say, leave the job to the professionals.”
“Piddle,” Pippa said. “They’ve got a plan like I’ve got a third eye.”
“I knew a woman with a third eye once,” Smalls said with a sigh, turning away from the stove. He was holding a large wooden ladle that in his enormous hand looked more like a teaspoon. “Rebecca was her name. A most exquisite creature. I wrote a poem for her. ‘Triclops of My Dreams’ it was called. I still remember the f
irst line. O hadst thou three eyes wide to see, the love and care I have for—”
Thomas cleared his throat and read the last paragraph of the article out loud, so that Smalls couldn’t continue.
“‘This was not the first time that these four “living wonders,” Thomas Able, Philippa Devue, Sam Fort, and Mackenzie (last name unknown), all of whom reside at Mr. Dumfrey’s Dime Museum of Freaks, Oddities, and Wonders, have had run-ins with the law. In August, they were on scene when the notorious fugitive Nicholas Rattigan made a dramatic escape from a West Side factory. And earlier this year, they made headlines after a string of murders baffled police and made a former reporter at this very newspaper an overnight sensation.
“‘“Born criminals,” Hardaway said, when asked for further comment.
“The renowned educator Andrea von Stikk—’”
“Not her again,” Pippa interrupted. “I thought she’d finally gone on to making Chubby’s life miserable.”
Thomas shrugged and continued reading. “‘—von Stikk was quick to stress that it is the fault of the children’s education, and not the children themselves.”
“‘“It’s that madman, Mr. Dumfrey,” she stated firmly. ‘How many times do those poor children need to end up in mortal danger before the state agrees to remove them from the clutches of that charlatan? The children need discipline and a proper education.”’”
“Proper education, ma foi!” As Thomas finished reading, Monsieur Cabillaud was just entering the kitchen. It was the first time he’d been on his feet in days, and though he still looked quite pale, he was dressed impeccably as always in a fine tailored suit, a silk cravat, and a thin-brimmed hat (which had been designed to unique specifications to fit his pin-sized head). “I shall write to zat terrible lady and give her some education of her own.”
“Thomas, look,” Pippa said, pointing to the bottom of the page, where a smaller headline read: Police Still on the Hunt for Fugitive Rattigan. For full story, turn to page 12.
Thomas turned the page—but before he could continue reading, his attention was attracted by an advertisement that dominated the better part of the page. Pippa saw it at the same time and inhaled sharply.
“Is that . . . ?” she said.
“Howie,” Thomas confirmed.
The advertisement showed a group of performers clustered in front of a stately old building, above which a giant neon sign indicated the Coney Island Curiosity Show. The text, which was liberally sprinkled with capitalization and exclamation points, trumpeted: New York City’s BEST and ONLY LEGITIMATE Freak Show and Dime Museum! Don’t be FOOLED by imitators! Don’t be FLEECED by impostors! All freaks are 100% AUTHENTIC and you won’t BELIEVE your eyes! Come see Howie the Human Owl and Alicia the Armless Knife-Throwing Wonder!—and much much MORE!
In the photograph, Howie was standing front and center, wearing a typical expression of self-satisfaction and looking, as always, irritatingly perfect. Thomas noted that he had one arm around a girl who could only be Alicia. Like Howie, she had the same kind of chiseled physical perfection typically found only among dolls: cloud-blond hair; big, staring eyes; lips that looked as if they had been drawn on by someone trying to imitate a rosebud. Only the empty sleeves of her blouse, tied loosely at her chest, and the knife handle clutched between the toes of her bare feet betrayed her uniqueness.
“I don’t believe it.” Pippa’s face had grown flushed. “They practically call us frauds.”
“At least they don’t mention Mr. Dumfrey by name,” Thomas said.
“They might as well,” Pippa said. “New York’s only legitimate freak show? It’s offensive. I’d like to find that little worm and twist that great big head of his right off.”
Earlier in the summer, Howie had briefly joined up with Mr. Dumfrey’s Dime Museum. His startlingly good looks and ability to swivel his head a full 180 degrees had made him a temporary sensation, but Thomas had never quite trusted him. Howie was sly and rude and arrogant, and had boasted constantly of his connections to famous performers on the circuit and even to the United States government: his uncle could supposedly rotate his entire torso without moving his feet, and had worked as a bodyguard to a US president.
Eventually, Howie had revealed his true nature: all along, he’d been looking for opportunities to sabotage the museum. Despite his superficial politeness, he hated Thomas, Max, Pippa, and Sam—despised them not for being different but for having been created. Somehow—they still could not figure out how—he knew that they’d been made, born by Rattigan and his sick experiments. Howie had even started an organization called SUPERIOR: Stop Unnatural Phony Entertainers from Ruining and/or Impairing Our Reputation.
Thomas couldn’t help but crack a smile. “You sound just like Max.”
She glared at him. “Careful,” she said. “Or it’ll be your head, too.”
“Speaking of heads, we’d better get rid of the evidence.” Thomas stood up. “I’d like to keep mine, and if Max sees this, she’ll go absolutely—”
“If I see what?”
Thomas froze. Max had just appeared in the doorway, yawning, rubbing an eye with her palm. Her hair was so wild, it looked as though she had styled it by attempting to electrocute herself.
“Nothing,” Pippa and Thomas said quickly, at the same time.
Max narrowed her eyes. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “What’s the big secret?”
Thomas moved for the trash bin. But Max was too quick. She darted across the room and snatched the paper from his hands. It didn’t take her long to find the advertisement.
Thomas braced himself for an explosion of curses or a violent demonstration of temper. Even Monsieur Cabillaud, huddled in the corner over a steaming cup of chamomile tea, had gone still, with one hand tremblingly clutching the spoon he had been using to stir. Only Smalls was oblivious, still lumbering around the stove, mixing and stirring, humming to himself.
After a minute, Max merely folded the paper, her lips pressed tightly together, crossed to the trash can, and stuffed the paper so deep inside of it, her arm all but disappeared.
“What’s for breakfast?” she said with a toss of her hair, and Thomas let out the breath he’d been holding.
“What’s for breakfast?” Smalls repeated, turning away from the stove with a flourish, holding a dented saucepan in one enormous hand. “Only the sweetest ambrosia! The nectar of the gods! To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads/Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes’ tails.”
Seeing the children’s blank faces, he coughed. “Oatmeal,” he said, setting down the saucepan to reveal its lumpy contents, and shrugged. “It was all we had.”
Just then, the heavy creaking of the floorboards announced Mr. Dumfrey’s approach. A moment later he stomped down the stairs into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the banister and clutching a handkerchief in one hand. “Well, come on,” he said immediately, with an impatient wave of the handkerchief, as if he’d been waiting there for hours. “I’ve got something to show you. Most extraordinary thing . . .” And he turned and began clomping up the staircase, which was so narrow it barely accommodated Mr. Dumfrey’s stomach.
“What’s the most extraordinary thing?” Thomas called after him. But when Mr. Dumfrey didn’t respond, muttering instead about the absurdity of a system that required you to climb down only to climb up again, he shrugged and stood up. Pippa and Max got to their feet and went after him.
When they entered his office, they found Mr. Dumfrey standing beside his desk, which had been cleared of its usual clutter and was now dominated by a large dome-shaped object, covered with an embroidered shawl. Sam was already waiting for them there, but he just shrugged when Thomas gave him a questioning look.
Beckoning them closer, Mr. Dumfrey grasped one corner of the shawl. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he yanked it away.
“Ta-da!” he cried.
The shawl had been concealing a birdcage. Inside was one of the most amazing creatures the kids had ever seen
—an enormous bird with dazzling red feathers and a coal-black beak shaped like a parrot’s. A golden crest topped its head and its tail blazed with every color of the rainbow.
“Behold,” said Dumfrey, his face beaming with delight. “The last living example of the magnificent species Aviraris igneous! The Exotic Black-Billed Ethiopian Firebird,” Mr. Dumfrey added, when the children only stared at him blankly. “I named it myself.”
“A Firebird,” Sam said thoughtfully, approaching the cage and stooping down for a closer look. “I’ve never heard of a Firebird before.”
The Firebird turned to face Sam, tilting its head side to side with an air of condescension. For a moment, Sam could see himself reflected in its dark, intelligent eyes.
Then, without warning, the Firebird cried out: “Step away, step away! Big lug, step away!”
Sam stumbled backward, shocked by the voice, which sounded nearly human.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Dumfrey said serenely. “It speaks as well.”
“Ugly crow!” Cornelius squawked from his cage, ruffling his feathers in annoyance.
“Now, now, Cornelius,” Mr. Dumfrey said, waggling a finger in the cockatoo’s direction. “Be nice.”
“Where’d you get it?” Thomas asked, taking Sam’s place in front of the cage, but staying a good three feet from the bird. Once again, the Firebird looked at Thomas appraisingly, like a man coolly considering his options at a buffet.
“This magnificent creature is the one I’ve been waiting for all week,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “It was hand-delivered by the fellow who captured it—a celebrated explorer, famous throughout the world, a legend in his own time.”
“What’s his name?” Thomas asked.
Dumfrey frowned. “Hmmm, seems to have slipped my mind. Wait a moment,” he said, patting his pockets. “He left his card somewhere . . .”
Pippa had approached the cage as well. “Check your vest,” she said, without turning around.
“Aha!” Mr. Dumfrey extracted a crumpled card from his vest pocket and adjusted his glasses with two fingers. “Here it is. Sir Roger Barrensworth. Funny. Sounds like an English name, doesn’t it? But his accent was more Italian. . . .”
The Fearsome Firebird Page 4