“Mrs. Weathersby’s death was an accident,” Thomas said cautiously.
Rattigan waggled a finger. “I’d expect better from you, Thomas. Think! Use that remarkable brain.” He settled back in his chair and steepled his fingertips. “Evans goes to speak to an old lady about the shock she’s had at a run-down museum. It’s a decent story, perhaps, but it won’t light up the front page. And Evans, who has been canned from almost every major newspaper, is desperate for a story that will light up the front page.” Rattigan paused, as if to ensure that the children were listening. “It’s a very warm evening. They step out onto the balcony to talk. Before long, they begin to argue. Weathersby doesn’t want to discuss the museum. She won’t even admit she’s been! You know why, of course . . . ?” His eyes clicked over to Thomas.
“Hugo,” he said. “She didn’t want anyone to figure out about Hugo.”
Rattigan looked delighted. “Excellent! Precisely. Mrs. Weathersby, respectable, ancient Mrs. Weathersby, was worried Evans might nose around and discover her son was a freak. Don’t jump down my throat, Mackenzie, those are Mrs. Weathersby’s thoughts, not mine.”
Max clamped her mouth shut. She had, in fact, been about to seize on his use of the word freak.
Rattigan went on, “She gets angry, tells him to leave, and threatens to call the police. He loses his temper and comes at her. She screams and tries to back away, and goes straight over the balcony. Splat.” Rattigan paused for dramatic effect. “Evans was scared, at first. But then he saw a tremendous opportunity.”
“The curse of the shrunken head,” Thomas whispered.
“Precisely!” Rattigan thumped his fist down on the armrest. Pippa jumped. “The chance to break a story that would put Bill Evans back on top. Once he got started, he had to find ways to keep the story going. He had every detail because he, Evans, was responsible: for hiring Potts to steal the head and bump off Mr. Anderson, so no one would discover that the head was merely a cardboard fake; for poisoning Potts’s dinner, when Potts got cold feet and wanted to confess; for burning down the restaurant to eliminate every last shred of evidence. He even staged his own accident when you started sniffing a little too close to the truth. It was the scoop of a lifetime!”
“How do you know all of this?” Pippa asked.
“He confessed,” Rattigan said, flicking an invisible speck of dirt from his pants, “just before I killed him.” He said it casually, as if he were saying just before I took him out for ice cream.
“But why?” Thomas said. “Why did you kill him?”
Rattigan spread his palms. “I didn’t need him anymore. He had served his purpose. I was only using him, you see.”
“Using him for what?” Sam said.
Rattigan smiled, revealing his long, yellow teeth. “To get to you, of course.”
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?
She prayed that someone, anyone, would notice Professor Rattigan from the news and contact the police. But it was hopeless. No one paid him the slightest bit of attention. He kept his hat pulled low and he walked quickly, whistling, as if he were taking the children to an excursion at the zoo. Pippa wondered how far they would walk and felt a brief surge of hope—they must surely pass a policeman at some point. But immediately, her hopes were crushed. As though in response to a secret signal from Rattigan, a dark sedan with tinted windows turned the corner and pulled up next to a fire hydrant. She knew that once they got in the car, they were lost.
“I don’t trust him one inch,” Thomas whispered. The children were all hanging back together, moving as slowly as they could without being accused of delaying. “Who’s to say he won’t kill Dumfrey even if we do go with him?”
“You really
think he rigged an accident for Dumfrey?” Max whispered.
Thomas nodded. His face was white. “I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
Pippa swallowed. “Then we’ve got no choice,” she said. “We’ve got to make a run for it, and save Dumfrey ourselves.”
“But by the time we get back to the museum, it may be too late,” Sam said gravely.
“If we get in that car, we’re done for,” Pippa said. She felt a desperate panic clawing its way up her chest. Rattigan had reached the car and opened the back door. The interior was dark and smelled like new leather.
“Come along, come along,” Rattigan said in a singsong. But Pippa could tell he was getting impatient. His eyes darted back and forth, as if he was scanning the crowd for potential danger. “Time waits for no man, the early bird catches the worm, and so on and so on.”
Pippa felt like her limbs were rooted to the ground. She could not—she would not—get into the car. Thomas, Max, and Sam had stopped beside her.
Rattigan lowered his voice. “Remember our agreement,” he said, showing his teeth again. “Let’s have no unpleasantness, now.”
“Sorry, Pip,” Sam said. And, sighing, he started to climb into the car.
Then—a miracle. Across the street, Pippa saw a heavyset woman wearing a large feathered hat and gloves trimmed with fur.
Andrea von Stikk.
Pippa had never, ever thought she’d be happy to see the horrible woman—but in that minute, she would have dropped to her knees and kissed the toes of von Stikk’s leather shoes.
“Miss von Stikk!” she called, frantically waving her arms. Sam straightened up instantly, and Rattigan let out a sound like a dog’s growl. “Miss von Stikk!”
“Pippa!” Miss von Stikk’s voice pierced the thin air. She instantly changed course. “How amazing. I was on my way to see you—well, to see Mr. Dumfrey.”
“That was very stupid,” Rattigan spat out, seizing Pippa roughly by the arm.
“Let her go,” Thomas said.
“Very convenient.” Andrea von Stikk barreled into the street toward them. A car had to swerve to avoid her, and the driver leaned on his horn and shouted something rude out the window. “You see, we have much to discuss. I spoke to my lawyers yesterday. . . .”
At that moment, a police car, perhaps attracted by the noise of the honking, turned from Grand onto Ludlow. Rattigan and Pippa spotted it at the same time.
“Sam!” Pippa hissed, jabbing a finger toward the fire hydrant.
Sam didn’t hesitate. He sprang forward and gripped the hydrant with both hands; then, with a grunt, he pulled. The fire hydrant snapped out of the pavement, and instantly, a huge geyser of water shot up from the ground.
It was as though a fountain had been opened in the sidewalk. Suddenly, everyone was shouting and pointing fingers. Andrea von Stikk, drenched from head to toe, stood spluttering and pushing limp feathers from her face. Children hung out the windows. And the police car skidded to a halt.
Rattigan released Pippa and straightened his tie with his long fingers. “How disappointing,” he said, and climbed into the backseat of the waiting car. “No matter. We’ll meet again. Say good-bye to Dumfrey, children.”
He slammed the door and motioned for the driver to go.
Thomas spun toward Sam, who was still holding the torn-off fire hydrant, and shouted, “Stop him!”
Clutching the hydrant in one hand, Sam cocked his arm like a quarterback and took aim at Rattigan’s car, which had pulled away from the curb and was picking up speed.
Pippa tossed the stolen silver letter opener to Max. Max didn’t even blink. Turning gracefully, she raised the letter opener, squinted, and took aim at a tire.
Just then, the doors to the squad car flew open and two policemen jumped out: Sergeant Schroeder and Officer Gilhooley.
“Drop it!” they cried at Sam and Max.
“But he’s getting away!” Pippa cried.
“I said drop it!” Gilhooley yelled. “Now!”
Sam hesitated for an instant, then let the hydrant fall with a heavy clang to the sidewalk. Max muttered a bad word and tossed the letter opener at her feet.
“Now put your hands up,” Schroeder commanded. “All four of you.”
They had no choice. Like outlaws in a cowboy movie, the four children raised their hands while the gushing water continued to rain down on them.
By then, Rattigan’s car had turned the corner and disappeared.
“You don’t understand.” Thomas was trying to be heard over the murmurs of the gathering crowd and static from the police radio and the continuous gushing of the water. Time was pouring, pooling away. “That was Rattigan. You should be going after him.”
“Slow down, slow down.” Gilhooley, now soaked, looked like a rat that had been dragged up from the sewer. Water was running down his long nose.
“Start at the beginning,” Schroeder said, pointing his club threateningly at Thomas’s chest, “and don’t even think of stopping till you get to the end.”
“There’s no time!” Thomas felt panic building up inside him, a deep well of it. With every passing second, Dumfrey was in danger.
Would Rattigan make good on his threat? Had he already? “Aren’t you listening to me? You’re letting Professor Rattigan get away!”
“Rattigan?” Gilhooley scratched his head. “The kook from the news?”
“He was trying to kidnap us,” Pippa broke in. “He killed Bill Evans.”
Schroeder’s lips thinned to a skeptical frown. “That’s quite a story.”
“I’m not making it up,” Pippa cried. “It’s the truth.”
“You see, officers?” Andrea von Stikk was shaking. Thomas didn’t know whether it was because she was wet or outraged or both. She flicked the feathers out of her eyes. “You see how these children have been hopelessly warped? It’s all because of that monstrous caretaker of theirs—Dumfrey. If you release them to my care—”
“Hold up, lady. Who are you, anyway?”
“Who am I? Who are you, sir?”
As Andrea von Stikk and Schroeder began to argue, the crowd around them grew even denser, until they were hemmed in on all sides. Some were carrying umbrellas. Others were craning their necks to see what the excitement was about. One woman had even brought out a box of Raisinets, as if she were at the movies.
Thomas was getting desperate. They would never get out of here at this rate. He had to do something. They had to get back to the museum before Rattigan could get to Dumfrey.
“Now you listen here, lady—”
“That’s Miss von Stikk to you!”
Thomas moved. Sensing a slight shift in the pattern of the crowd, a momentary break, he slipped into the narrow space between two bodies while the cops’ attention was distracted. He sucked in a breath, making himself as thin as possible, pretending to be invisible—a speck of dirt, a floating dust mote. He spun and ducked and slid and broke through the crowd at last. In the street, the cop car was still sitting with its doors open, radio crackling, as water rained down on the windshield.
The car.
Thomas slipped into the passenger seat and released the safety brake. He sprang back as the car began rolling—slowly, at first, then with increasing speed.
“Look!” someone cried out.
“The car! It’s getting away!”
“It’s going to crash!”
Then the crowd was turning, and surging around him, and everyone was pointing and laughing as the cop car, unmanned, barreled down the street. Sergeant Gilhooley hurtled past Thomas, one hand gripping his hat, long legs pumping. Sergeant Schroeder huffed after him, shouting instructions, wet shoes slapping on the pavement. Like magic, the crowd followed them, flowing like a stream down Ludlow Street. Even Andrea von Stikk hurried to keep up, holding her skirt up to her knees as she sloshed through the gutter.
Thomas, Pippa, Sam, and Max were forgotten.
“Let’s go!” Thomas said. But the others were already moving, t
urning instinctively in the direction of the subway station that would carry them uptown and to the museum. They had no time to lose.
If they weren’t already too late.
The ride back to Forty-Second Street had never felt so long. The subway seemed to be inching, crawling, oozing through the darkened tunnels, as if its wheels were coated with molasses. Thomas knew that on average, subway trains took three minutes to move from one station to the next, but it felt to him like three hours. Anxiety was crawling through his whole body, as if a thousand ants were marching under his skin. Every time the train stopped at a station and the doors slid open to admit a shuffling mass of passengers, Thomas had the urge to scream. Max bit her nails to shreds and Sam gripped one of the handrails so hard, he left an enormous dent in the metal.
Had they done the right thing by running away from Rattigan? He didn’t know. He couldn’t think clearly. For once in his life, his brain could produce not a single useful calculation or statistic. He couldn’t imagine what Rattigan wanted with them in the first place.
All he knew was that he would never forgive himself if anything happened to Mr. Dumfrey.
Finally, they were only one stop away. But halfway to Forty-Second Street, the train gave a jerk and a groan and shuddered to a stop. The lights flickered and then went off; the car was plunged into darkness. The passengers in the car began to mutter.
“Last week I got stuck right here for forty-five minutes,” someone said with a sigh. “Engine problems.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Max said, but her voice was high-pitched, nearly hysterical.
“We’re running out of time,” Pippa whispered. “If Rattigan got to Dumfrey . . .” She didn’t finish her thought. She didn’t have to.
“Follow me,” Sam said. He pushed his way over to the side of the car, wedged his fingers into the little crack between the doors, and, with a grunt, pried them apart, grateful for the darkness, which meant that nobody could gape. “Come on!” He held the doors open as Thomas, Pippa, and Max slipped past him and jumped down onto the tracks.
The Shrunken Head Page 20