They returned to the museum soon afterward. Sam was eager to escape the crush of people asking for his autograph. Thomas wouldn’t have minded scrawling off an autograph or two, but knew better than to suggest they stay until the newspapers showed up—not after their adventures earlier that spring with The Daily Screamer and its so-called ace reporter.

They found the front doors locked, which was unusual for midday, and had to go around Forty-Fourth Street to enter through the sunken courtyard and the kitchen door. The museum’s lower levels were empty. It was so quiet, Thomas could make out the individual squeaks of mice behind the walls. And when they entered the attic, he saw why: every single resident of the museum, including Mr. Dumfrey, was gathered there.

“Ah, children. Excellent timing, excellent. We were just having a bit of a house meeting to discuss finances.” It was rare for Mr. Dumfrey to visit the attic, where the performers slept: a vast room filled with old beds, furniture, garment racks, and even a defunct refrigerator, arranged in a mazelike formation to allow each performer a small measure of privacy.

“What finances?” Monsieur Cabillaud grumbled. Monsieur Cabillaud had a very small head, but an excellent mind for math. He was informally in charge of all of the museum’s finances.

“Well . . .” Mr. Dumfrey fiddled with his bow tie. “Perhaps if we took another advertisement out in the paper . . . ?”

Monsieur Cabillaud gripped his pin-sized head. “Non, non, and more non! We have no more money in ze cashbox!”

“There’s no need to shout, Mr. Cabillaud,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “I heard you perfectly well. We are running low on funds.”

Monsieur Cabillaud stood up, stalked over to his sleeping area, and retrieved the small metal cashbox that held the profits from the museum’s ticket sales from under his bed. It was well-known that Monsieur Cabillaud slept with one arm slung around the cashbox. Now, he opened the lock with the metal key he wore around his neck, revealing a box that was empty except for two balls of lint, an ancient stick of bubble gum, and twenty-five cents.

“We are not low on funds, Mr. Dumfrey,” he said in a trembling voice, drawing himself up to his full five foot three. “We have no more funds. Nothing. Zero!”

Mr. Dumfrey paled. “But . . . but . . . what about the secret fund?”

Thomas exchanged a look with Pippa. They’d never heard of a secret fund.

Monsieur Cabillaud hesitated. Then, with a muttered curse of “sacre bleu,” he pivoted and disappeared once again behind his bookshelf. Pippa heard the sound of rummaging and more cursing in French. When Monsieur Cabillaud reemerged, he was carrying a large, unwashed-looking striped sock, in hideous shades of chartreuse and blue.

Smalls let out an outraged cry. “My sock! It’s been missing for ages.”

“That’s your secret fund?” Howie sneered with barely concealed disdain. Thomas was beginning to understand why Sam disliked Howie so strongly.

“It’s camouflage,” Mr. Dumfrey explained. “Everyone thinks of stealing a lockbox. No one thinks of stealing a smelly sock.”

“He stole it.” Smalls pointed a large finger in Monsieur Cabillaud’s direction. “He stole it from me. And it is not smelly.”

Monsieur Cabillaud inverted the sock over the carpet and shook. A small spider dropped from within the folds of wool, and scurried quickly under the sofa. Mr. Dumfrey gasped and clutched his chest.

“I have told you once,” Monsieur Cabillaud said firmly. “And I will tell you again. We are broke.”

There was a long moment of silence. Thomas was used to the fact that the museum was often in danger of going out of business. He was used to the fact that Betty mixed water with the milk to stretch it longer, that sometimes there was porridge for dinner and canned sardines for breakfast, that he had to wear his shoes until the soles wore out completely and his toes poked through the leather. But this was worse than usual.

Andrew the Alligator Boy was the first to speak. “I’m sick of it,” he said. He thumped his cane on the floor and stood up. “We haven’t had a raise in nearly a year. I’ve got holes in my shirts and mice in my dresser.”

“Just a little more time . . .” Mr. Dumfrey wrung his hands together. “The crowds will come back. They’ll have to.”

“They better,” Andrew growled, showing his small, crooked teeth—which did, in fact, give his face the appearance of a reptile’s, as did the extreme scaly dryness of his skin. “I heard the Bolden Brothers Circus is looking for freaks. Maybe it’s time for a new gig.”

This provoked an explosion of sound. Mr. Dumfrey fell backward in his chair, as though he’d been struck by a physical blow. Pippa cried, “Shame on you,” and Caroline and Quinn squeaked with dismay. Lash poked Andrew in the backside with his broom and Smalls threatened him with a poetry reading about duty and perseverance. Only Howie looked amused.

“I’m just saying,” Andrew said, thumping his old hat farther down on his head. “Something’s gotta give.” Then he stalked out of the room, hunched over his cane.

“Don’t mind him,” Betty said. Her thick eyebrows twitched expressively. “You know what Andrew’s like. He’s always got a bee in his bonnet about something.”

“He’s right,” Dumfrey moaned. He whipped out a handkerchief and buried his face in it. Thomas was terrified he would begin to cry. “I’ve done a terrible job. . . . I’ve run this place into the ground. . . . I’m a failure.”

“You’re wonderful,” Thomas spoke up loyally. Even if Mr. Dumfrey did sometimes forget to balance the accounts for months at a time, and even if he sometimes spent too much on banners and newspaper ads and new glass for the exhibit cases, and forgot to stock up on flour and sugar—and even if he occasionally took a gamble on a big exhibit that wasn’t worth as much as he had paid for it—Mr. Dumfrey was wonderful. Probably the most wonderful man in the world.

Various other performers piped up to agree.

Then Howie said casually, “Did you ever think of selling the place?”

Mr. Dumfrey looked up. His face was white. “S—selling the place?” he whispered.

“Oh, dear,” said Betty.

Sam rounded on Howie. “What’s the matter with you?” he burst out furiously. “Why would you say something like that?” His fists were clenched.

“Sell the place?” Mr. Dumfrey repeated, gripping the arms of his chair, practically vibrating with distress. He stared, unseeing, into the air.

“This is home,” Sam spat out. “Don’t you get that? You can’t just show up and start running your mouth about things you don’t understand—”

“He just asked a question, Sam, calm down.” That was Max.

“Sell the place?” Mr. Dumfrey was by now screeching. His body went totally rigid, as though he’d been electrocuted. Then he slumped backward, in a clean faint.

“See?” Sam was shouting now. His face was purple. Thomas had never seen him look so angry. Howie, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm; he was chewing gum, and didn’t even flinch when Sam leaned over him. “See what you did?”

“It’s not his fault,” Max said.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sam fired back.

“Everybody, just calm down.” Thomas stood up and tried to put a hand on Sam’s arm.

“Lay off.” Sam wrenched away from Thomas. Thomas stumbled backward, and Smalls had to steady him. “Everyone just lay off.” Sam, too, stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard the hinges popped off the walls. The door thundered to the ground, letting up a thick cloud of dust.

“Oh, dear,” Betty said again.

“What’s his problem?” Max cried, loudly enough that Sam might have heard. If he did, he didn’t answer. Thomas could hear him pounding down the stairs.

Howie laid a hand on Max’s arm, smiling his smug plastic smile. “Don’t worry about him,” he said. “He’s just got his wires a little crossed. Anyone would, in his position.”

Thomas felt a surge of anger. “In his position? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pippa groaned. “Not you, too.”

“Don’t take his side,” Thomas said.

“Everyone, stop screaming!” Caroline said, covering her ears. Two spots of pink had appeared in her cheeks. Against her snow-white skin, it looked as though two gumballs had lodged there.

“Stop being a baby,” Quinn said with a toss of her white hair.

“Stop being a nag,” Caroline said.

“Both of you, be nice,” Betty said.

“Mind your own business,” both sisters said at once.

Soon everyone was squabbling. Danny stuck up for Betty, Smalls defended the albino twins, and Goldini was accused of taking no one’s side. Caroline burst into tears and Quinn tried to sob even louder. It was so loud Thomas’s head began to ache. When Lash attempted to restore order, Smalls inverted a flowerpot onto his head.

It was then—as soil crumbled off Lash’s shoulders, and Caroline and Quinn continued wailing, and everyone else was yelling insults and trying to be heard over the din—that there was a loud cough.

Officer Gilhooley and Sergeant Schroeder were standing in the doorway. Side by side, they looked like the number ten: Officer Gilhooley was long and lean as a withered string bean, and Sergeant Schroeder looked like he might move faster if he bounced instead of walked.

Instantly, everyone went silent. Everyone, that is, except Mr. Dumfrey, on whom Betty had just emptied a glass of ice-cold water. He sat up at that exact moment with a startled cry, water dripping from his glasses and spotting the front of his shirt.

“Horatio Dumfrey?” Sergeant Schroeder said—stupidly, since he knew very well who Dumfrey was. He had come to the museum on two separate occasions: once when Dumfrey had reported the theft of the shrunken head and again at the memorial for Potts, the former janitor, who had been poisoned because of his entanglement in the theft.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Dumfrey said with surprising dignity, given the fact that his hair was plastered to his forehead, and there was water beading at the tip of his nose.

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk? Somewhere private?” Schroeder’s black eyes were gleaming. It was obvious that Sergeant Schroeder had been the kind of child who delighted in telling other children there was no Santa Claus.

“What’s this about?” Mr. Dumfrey heaved himself to his feet.

Schroeder sucked in a breath. It was Officer Gilhooley who blurted it out.

“It’s Siegfried Eckleberger, sir,” he said. “He’s been murdered.”