The offices of the Daily Screamer were all the way downtown, near the vast, majestic pillars of city hall and the ever-frenzied financial district, where men puffing big cigars shouted trading advice to one another as they walked, and even the shoeshine boys gave stock tips. Here, Manhattan narrowed to a point, and Pippa always had the sense that it was in these few blocks that all of the excitement of the city was concentrated, as though every other street was running as rapidly as possible to this bustling, beating heart of the world, which pumped out the paper money people died and killed for and dreamed about and craved.

And even though Pippa still noticed signs of the Great Crash everywhere—businessmen wearing old shoes and patched-up suits artfully concealed with thread and shoe polish, and plenty of hobos shuffling around rattling tin cans—things had begun to move again.

The heart was beating still.

The building that housed the Daily Screamer was a disappointment. Only four stories tall, squeezed between two buildings nearly twice its size, and made of limestone stained dark, it was like a black tooth in the middle of a fine white smile. A grungy plaque above the door identified it as “Home to the Finest Newspaper in This City or Any Other.”

“Ready?” Thomas asked, pausing outside the front door. Pippa nodded. Even from the street she could hear the ringing of telephones and clanking of machinery.

“Here goes nothing,” Thomas said, and pushed open the door.

The first thing Pippa noticed was the smoke. The whole room was enveloped by it, so it looked as though a soft blue mist had descended inside, and, as a result, everything—the maze of desks jammed together in a mysterious zigzag formation; the stacks and piles and mountains of paper teetering on every available surface; the men and women hunched at their desks, clacking away on dozens of typewriters—looked a little bit blurry. The carpet was stained gray from years of footprints and cigarette ash, and even the people looked gray, as though they hadn’t seen daylight in several months.

“Can I help you?” A woman at the nearest desk swiveled around to face them. Her blond hair, like everything else in the room, was a dingy color. She blinked at them from behind thick glasses.

“We’re here to see Mr. Evans,” Thomas said. “Bill Evans.”

The woman frowned. “What business do you have with Mr. Evans?”

“What business is it to you what business we got with Mr. Evans?” Max broke in, eyes flashing.

“An interview!” Thomas said quickly, before Max could get them in trouble. “We’re here because he wanted to interview us. For an important story.”

The woman looked them up and down, as if she couldn’t believe there was anything of importance about them.

Just as she opened her mouth, however, a voice boomed out, “Did I hear someone say interview?”

Mr. Evans himself came striding down a long, dim hallway like a magician stepping out from behind a curtain. He was smiling hugely, showing off his gums.

“Thomas!” he boomed. “And the great Samson Jr.!” Sam turned red up to the tips of his ears. “And little Mackenzie.”

“Little—” Max spluttered. But Mr. Evans had already rounded on Pippa and was pumping her hand vigorously.

“And Pippa! Always a pleasure, always a pleasure. Tell me, Pip—what do I have in my pockets today?” Before she had a chance to answer (thirty-seven cents, two pieces of Wrigley’s gum, and a new Zippo lighter) he burst into loud and raucous laughter, as though he had told a joke, and clapped her so hard on the shoulder, she stumbled a little.

“This way, kids, this way. Straight down the hall and first door on your left. Let’s get comfortable. You want something to drink? Coffee? Water? Whiskey? I’m just joking. It’s too early in the day for whiskey.”

As he spoke, he herded them down the hall and into a small glass-enclosed office. The front door was stenciled with gold lettering that read BILL EVANS, HEAD REPORTER. Mr. Evans caught Pippa staring at it.

“Not bad, huh?” He rapped on the door with a knuckle. “Just got my own digs a few days ago. People can’t get enough of this shrunken head stuff. It’s bigger than the Rattigan story!”

It was the second time Pippa had heard the name Rattigan in a day. “Who’s Rattigan?” she said.

Mr. Evans gave an exaggerated shiver. “Nasty man. Smart as a snake and batty as a belfry. But you didn’t come to talk about Rattigan.” He laughed again and closed the door, gesturing for them to sit down. “Go ahead and put your feet up. I’ll crank up the recorder. Just a copy, you know, in case I miss anything while we’re gabbing. Better safe than sorry!”

“We didn’t come here to be interviewed,” Thomas interjected.

Mr. Evans paused with one hand hovering above the Dictaphone. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I don’t follow you. You said you came for an interview.”

“We did.” Thomas swallowed visibly. “We came to interview you.”

Mr. Evans leaned back in his chair, stroking his mustache. “I see,” he said, and Pippa thought she saw a smile flicker across his face. Suddenly, he leaned forward again. “All right. How about we make a deal? You ask me a question, and I ask you a question. Tit for tat. Fair’s fair, right?”

Pippa didn’t really think it was fair—but what choice did they have? She met Thomas’s gaze, and Thomas shrugged.

“All right,” Thomas said cautiously. “But we go first.”

Mr. Evans smiled again, big and toothy. “By all means. By all means. Fire away.”

There was a moment’s awkward pause. Pippa realized they hadn’t exactly planned what they were going to say. Fortunately, Sam jumped in.

“Was it really cyanide that killed Potts?” Sam asked. Pippa shivered involuntarily. It was terrible to hear the question out loud. It made it seem so real. She hadn’t exactly liked Mr. Potts—nobody had, really—but still. No one deserved to die like that. Poisoned.

“That it was, my boy. The ME—that’s the medical examiner, you know, who works on the body—said it was a dose large enough to flatten an elephant.” Mr. Evans extracted a small cigarette from the box on his desk and tried several times to light it with a match. Pippa was about to suggest he use the lighter in his pocket but stopped herself. She didn’t want him to think she was showing off. “Probably killed him instantly, poor fellow.” Mr. Evans exhaled a foul-smelling cloud in their general direction. Pippa coughed. Mr. Evans barely glanced at her. “Tissue, my girl?” he said.

“But when did—” Thomas started to say. Evans held up a finger.

“Not so fast. My turn. Fair’s fair, remember.” He stretched his long fingers and bent over his typewriter. “First question,” he said, as his fingers flew over the keys. “How long has Mr. Dumfrey been having money problems?”

“I—I don’t know,” Thomas stuttered.

“He doesn’t tell us.” Pippa jumped to his aid. “He doesn’t like to worry us with that stuff.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Mr. Evans continued typing for several long moments. Pippa wondered how he could have gotten so much material from their responses.

“Our turn again,” Thomas said.

Before he could speak, Max broke in: “How come you wrote all those lies about us in the paper?”

“That’s the business, my girl.” Mr. Evans grinned. “My turn!”

“Wait,” Pippa said, glaring at Max. “That wasn’t a real question. It didn’t count.”

“Of course it did!” Mr. Evans said cheerfully, and jammed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, once more hunching over the keys. “Now, let’s see. Where were we? Oh, yes. When did you first become aware that Mr. Dumfrey hated Mr. Potts?”

“He didn’t!” Thomas cried.

“Mr. Dumfrey doesn’t hate anybody,” Pippa said.

“Don’t you see?” Sam said. “He couldn’t have killed anyone.”

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Max put in.

“Any time we find a spider in the museum, he makes us release it outside,” Thomas said.

“And he’s an awful crybaby,” Sam said.

“He loves Christmas,” Pippa offered.

“And children,” Thomas said.

Mr. Evans’s fingers were flying over the keys so fast they were a blur behind the haze of cigarette smoke. “Excellent, excellent,” he muttered.

“Is it our turn now?” Pippa ventured.

“It is,” Mr. Evans said.

“What time did—” she started to ask, but Evans cut her off again.

“No fair! That’s two questions in a row!” he said.

“Are you out of your mind?” Max said.

“That’s three questions!” Evans trumpeted.

Pippa stared at him. “But—but—”

“A deal’s a deal. Now I get three.” He whipped the paper, already full, from the typewriter, and fed a new one under the roller. “Tell me this: Where do you go to school?”

“We don’t,” Pippa said. She hurriedly added, “Monsieur Cabillaud teaches us.”

“The pinhead?” Mr. Evans said.

“That’s a question!” Max protested.

“He’s very smart,” Thomas said defensively. “He did great things for the French government.”

“The Belgian government,” Pippa corrected.

Thomas turned to her, confused. “Are you sure he isn’t French?”

Mr. Evans was typing and puffing so furiously, Pippa was afraid he might combust. “Answer me this,” he said. “If two trains leave from Grand Central Terminal at nine a.m., and one goes sixty miles per hour and the second one goes forty miles per hour and must stop for a new paint job in New Haven, how fast will the first train have to go to get to Boston on time?”

There was a brief pause. Thomas frowned. “That question makes no sense,” he said.

“Aha!” Mr. Evans said triumphantly, and peeled yet another sheet of paper, densely covered with words, from the typewriter.

“It’s our turn to ask a question,” Sam said firmly. Pippa could tell he was holding himself very carefully, so he didn’t accidentally break anything.

“Go ahead.” Mr. Evans sat back in his chair and finally extinguished his cigarette. Still, the air was cloudy with smoke and Pippa felt like her lungs were encased in a wet, smelly blanket. “I’m all finished.”

Pippa was desperate to ask what he had written, but she didn’t want to waste another question.

“What time did Mr. Potts die?” Thomas asked.

“Wish I could tell you,” Evans said. Now that he wasn’t typing anymore, he seemed once again at ease. He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers. “Doc Rosenkrantz—that’s the ME at Bellevue—is a hard nut to crack. He keeps his lid screwed on tight, if you catch my drift. Funny. Most people like to see their names in print.”

“Not us,” Pippa said pointedly.

“You might change your minds,” Evans said with a wink.

She scowled.

“Now listen, kiddos.” Mr. Evans put both hands on his desk and began to stand. “I don’t want to take up too much more of your time—”

“That’s all right,” Thomas said. “We have just a few more—”

“So I’ll just see you out. Thanks for dropping by. Always a pleasure.”

Before they could protest, Mr. Evans herded the children out into the hall and ushered them back toward the front door. Even as he was pressing them out the door, he was beaming and shaking their hands.

“Incredible, all of you. Don’t mind what the papers say, it’s all the biz, ha. I’m your biggest fan, really I am, don’t forget, Bill Evans has your back. . . .”

The door slammed shut behind them. And suddenly they were standing in the blazing sunshine with the blue sky high above them, stretched like a wire between the buildings. Pippa took a deep breath of clean air.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Max said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Thomas said quietly.

Max rounded on him. “Are you crazy? He didn’t tell us nothing.”

“Anything,” Pippa couldn’t help but saying. Max glared at her.

“He did, too,” Thomas said. “He told us the name of the doctor—the medical examiner—who looked at Potts. Dr. Rosenkrantz. He’ll have the answers we need.”

Pippa hated to say she agreed with Max. “But you heard what Mr. Evans said. He said Dr. Rosenkrantz—or whatever his name is—would never talk.”

“So we’ll have to make him talk,” Thomas said, and he turned to Sam, and grinned.