“How—how do you know my name?” Thomas’s face was very white.
“Half of New York knows your name.” Professor Rattigan chuckled. “You’re a celebrity! Thanks to our friend Bill Evans over here.” He gestured unconcernedly at Mr. Evans, still staring, unseeing, into the air. Max wished that Sam would turn his armchair around again. She felt at any second like Bill Evans might blink and stand up.
“I’ve enjoyed reading about you very much.” Professor Rattigan moved over to a second armchair, drawn up close to the fireplace, and sat. He peeled off his black gloves, pinching the fingers, removing them one by one. Max was disgusted to see that his fingers were long and very white, like something dead in the water. “Of course, I’ve been waiting to meet you—all of you—for a very long time. Or shall I say—I’ve been waiting to meet you again. You’ve turned out even better than I’d hoped.”
The children exchanged a look. No matter what he said, he was obviously bonkers. Max reached quickly for the knives in her coat pocket, but Professor Rattigan clucked his tongue.
“It’s no use, Mackenzie.” He reached into his overcoat and withdrew all three of her knives. “I took the liberty of removing them from you when you entered the room.”
“But . . .” Max’s mouth fell open. She remembered how she’d felt Sam bump against her. But it must have been Professor Rattigan, fumbling in her coat pockets. She couldn’t believe it. She—Max!—had been pickpocketed. She felt a flare-up of rage. “Those are mine.”
“You’ll get them back.” Rattigan popped open her switchblade and began picking his nails. “If you do as I say. Now, now—” He held up a hand as Max started to protest. “Enough about me. I want to hear about you! How did you figure out that Evans was responsible for stealing the head? That’s why you’re here, right? About the head and all the murders? Poor Potts. Poor Mr. Anderson. And poor Mrs. Weathersby.”
“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.”