“How do you think she should be?” she demanded. “Her husband is gone, maybe dead. She won’t leave her bed. She won’t eat. She won’t sleep. She will make herself sick. She will die of grief.”

“I’ll go straight up to her then,” I said, trying to give her a friendly smile. It was like smiling at a gargoyle. “I expect she’ll be glad to see me,” I added.

She gave the sort of shrug that indicated that might or might not be the case. Houdini’s brother Dash did not put in an appearance as I went up the stairs to Bess’s bedroom. I tapped on the door and went in. She was awake, lying in bed, and staring at the ceiling. When she saw me she sat up, her face alight with hope. “They’ve found him?”

“I’ve heard nothing,” I said. “I came straight from my house.”

She sighed and lay down again. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said. “He has to be dead or he’d have contacted me by now. He’d know how much I would worry and he’d have found a way to let me know he was all right.”

I didn’t like to suggest that he may have been kidnapped if he was still alive, and if he was guilty of the murder, then he couldn’t risk contacting his wife.

“Is there anywhere else he might have gone if he was in trouble?” I asked. “Any friends with whom he might be hiding out?”

“His brother Leopold lives in the city,” she said. “You know, the doctor. But Dash went round there last night and Leopold hadn’t seen him. He has friends in New York, I’m sure. Other performers he’s worked with over the years. But I couldn’t tell you who they are or where they live. And why would he go to one of them, knowing that his poor wife was sick with worry?”

One only had to look at her to see that she was not a player in this charade—if charade it was. She looked terrible with dark circles around her eyes and hollow cheeks, as if she hadn’t slept a wink.

“Bess,” I said, carefully measuring my words, “I have to ask you this—but did you have any suspicion at all that your husband might have planned this?”

“Planned it? What do you mean—planned to get kidnapped?” Her voice rose dangerously.

“I meant that this was an illusion planned to get rid of someone who was bothering him. You said that the victim was the young man who came to the door and made what sounded like threats.”

“That is crazy,” she said. “My husband wouldn’t do that. Never.” “You said he’d taught fellow illusionists a lesson by having them roughed up.”