“That’s different,” she said. “Illusionists are always rivals, but that doesn’t mean they go around killing each other. Besides, the dead guy wasn’t one of us.”

“But if it wasn’t Harry who did this? It had to be another illusionist,” I went on. “Someone out to pay back your husband? It’s logical that it was the same person who trapped you in the trunk.”

I saw her expression change for a second. “Not necessarily,” she said. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m crazy with worry. Find my Harry and I’ll be in your debt for the rest of my life.”

“I rather hope you’ll pay me a good fee,” I said with a smile.

She managed a watery smile back.

“Have you had some breakfast?” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “You’re looking horribly pale.”

“I’m not hungry. And besides, his mother doesn’t like walking up the stairs.”

“What about his brother?”

“Gone,” she said.

“Gone? Where?”

“Back to Atlantic City. Caught the train early this morning.”

She must have seen my expression become guarded. “He has a show to do tonight,” she said. “He has to perform when he’s booked into a good house like that. It doesn’t do to get into the bad books of the theater managers, or they won’t hire him again.”

This made sense but my mind was still jumping to other conclusions. The younger brother, banished from the act when Houdini married, now imitating his more famous brother but without his celebrity—would that make him bitter enough to take revenge and maybe take over the limelight? Who better would know how to exchange bodies in a trunk? And he was big and strong enough to make that exchange.

“What’s the name of the theater in Atlantic City?” I asked.

“It’s the Majestic on the pier,” she said. “It’s a good house. Of course I expect my husband helped to get him hired at a good house like that. That family, they’re so close, they’d do anything for each other.” I saw her staring at a photograph in a silver frame of Mrs. Weiss, surrounded by her offspring—Houdini, a sister, the taller, sturdier Dash, and a distinguished-looking man with a beard I decided must be Leopold.

I kept my suspicions to myself and glanced around the room. It wasn’t exactly tidy, with half-unpacked trunks and piles of magazines on top of dressers. “Would you mind if I took a look to see if there is anything here that might give us a clue as to what kind of trouble your husband was in?”

“Anything,” she said. “Anything that can help find him, although I don’t know what that could be.”