“They did,” he said. “I was stunned when the trunk dropped from the stage, so I couldn’t move as fast as I usually do. I couldn’t get the cuffs off in time. Then when I tried to get out of the trunk I suppose someone whacked me over the head, because I don’t remember any more. I came to my senses as I hit cold water and went under. The trunk was sinking fast. I knew I had to make the fastest escape of my life—and I did it. Luckily I had trained myself to hold my breath longer than any other living person and this helped me. I must have been underwater for several minutes. Long enough for my enemies to decide that they’d finished me off, anyway. I made my escape from the side panel of the trunk and came to the surface.”

He looked at me for affirmation.

“How incredible,” I said. “That was indeed your best escape ever.”

“I may try to incorporate it into my act,” he said, with that swagger returning.

“So what did you do then?”

“I made my way to my brother’s house and have stayed hidden there until I knew it was safe to venture forth. I thought it safer all around if I was presumed to be dead. Among other things, I sure didn’t want to put Bess at risk by letting her know I was alive.”

He turned to me. “I hoped I could rely on Mr. Wilkie to realize the truth from the articles I had written. But you were the angel who appeared to work on my behalf. When you showed up at Leopold’s house this morning and then at the theater, I knew you were on the right track and in great danger. I alerted the police and tried to keep an eye on you. I hadn’t banked on Smith whisking you off in a carriage. That scared the pants off me. I just prayed we weren’t too late.”

“You saved my life,” I said.

“As you did mine,” he said. “If you hadn’t arrived at the truth, I should never have been safe again.”

The cab came to a halt outside Houdini’s house. The street appeared quiet and undisturbed. The constable outside saluted to us.

“Has Mr. Wilkie arrived here or left a message?” I asked.

“No, miss. Nobody’s been here,” he said. “It’s been quiet as the grave.”

I thought that was a poor turn of phrase, considering.

We knocked and were admitted by Houdini’s mother. “Leopold!” she exclaimed. She went to hug him, then drew back as if burned. “Du bist nicht Leopold.” She held him at arm’s length, then she let out a stream of words out of which I could only make out, “Mein Ehrich.” But the way she hugged him and cried made it clear that she’d worked out who he really was.