So it all came down to whether he was victim or murder suspect. If he had cleverly planned this whole thing, then did Bess know about it? If so, she was a brilliant actress. But then she was a stage performer—it was her job. I found myself wondering if I had been deliberately hired as the stool pigeon—someone who knew nothing of the theater, little about the Houdinis’ act, to be an alibi of sorts for them. I had found myself used by my clients before and I didn’t like to think of myself as gullible enough to have been made a fool of again. But I did see how the whole thing could have been part of a well-orchestrated plan—Bess locked in the trunk, me persuaded to take her place so that there was no suggestion that Houdini had accomplished the switch with an accomplice.

I didn’t know whether to wish that he was a murderer or that he was the victim, because I rather liked him. I was still deep in these thoughts as I disembarked from the train and made my way along 102nd Street, so I was startled when a large figure in blue uniform stepped out to intercept me as I went to mount the steps to the Houdinis’ front door. I  had forgotten that Daniel had promised Bess Houdini protection when he sent her home the night before.

“Just a moment, miss,” the constable said.

“St. Michael and all the angels spare me,” I muttered. Now I’d have to go through another round of explanations before I was admitted and frankly I could no longer remember if I was supposed to be Bess’s dear friend or the detective come to keep an eye on her. This whole thing was becoming tiring. But to my relief the constable said, “It’s Miss Murphy, isn’t it? The captain said to expect you. He’ll be by later himself.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I promised Mrs. Houdini last night that I’d stay with her today so I’ll definitely be here.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard any word about him yet, have you?” the constable asked hopefully. “Houdini, I mean. They haven’t found him yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” I said.

“Well, good luck to you then.” He resumed his position beside the front door and I gave a good rap on the knocker.

The door was opened by Houdini’s mother. “You?” she said, pointing at me accusingly. “Where is my boy?”

“I wish I knew,” I said. “Everyone is looking for him.”

“They say he kills a man. My son never kill nobody!” She spat the words at me in her strongly accented English. “Where is he? Something bad has happened. I know it.” She clutched her bosom in dramatic fashion.

“How is Bess?” I asked. “She asked me to come and be with her.”