The spring shower had grown into a raging thunderstorm. Wind and rain whipped fiercely around the tall downtown buildings as Charlie ran from the shelter of the elevator toward Brack’s home. The magician’s house was perched on the rooftop of the old hotel. It was surrounded by empty flower gardens and leafless trees that stuck out of cement pots like upside-down claws scratching the air.

When Charlie reached the front door and grasped the knob, he was cold and soaked with rain.

I’m so stupid, thought Charlie. I should have asked Annie for a key to get into Brack’s place. Now what am I going to do?

Charlie shivered and tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Cautiously, he stepped inside. The hall light was on. “Brack!” he called.

As he stepped forward, rain puddled on the carpet around his shoes. Charlie dropped his backpack on the floor and yelled again. “Brack!”

There was no answer.

Charlie felt odd looking through his friend’s house while he was gone. As if he were breaking the law. But he knew he had to do it. He had to search for clues.

Like the empty cup on the table in a small sitting room. That was the only other room in Brack’s apartment where the lights were on. The room was full of magical props from hundreds of stage shows. The walls were covered with colorful, old-fashioned posters. But the empty cup seemed out of place to Charlie.

He picked it up and sniffed. Yuck! Coffee. He hated the taste and smell of coffee. Come to think of it, so did Brack. So why was it there? For a guest?

Why are the lights on? he wondered. Annie said Brack never showed up at the magic show rehearsal last night. Brack must have been here, and then disappeared before morning.

Charlie noticed a table nearby that held leather-bound books and more magic props. In the middle of the table were two items that snagged his attention.

A cardboard tube lay on a yellow notepad. The tube was empty. A name was stamped at one end: LAND REGISTRAR, BLACKSTONE COUNTY.

On the yellow pad were a few words, scrawled in pencil.

Tiger lily here? Charlie stood back up and looked quickly around the room. There were no flowers in here. What did Brack mean?

And Charlie knew that the Hocus Pocus Hotel did not have a thirteenth floor. Not officially. It had a floor above the twelfth one, of course, but it wasn’t numbered thirteen. It was called the fourteenth floor. Many hotels did the same trick. Lots of people were superstitious and refused to sleep on an unlucky thirteenth floor. So hotels just dropped the 13 and substituted 14 in its place.

Maybe Brack was writing about a magic trick for one of his shows.

Lightning flashed through the windows of the house.

I better get back downstairs, thought Charlie. He tore the paper off the pad and stuffed it into his backpack.

He made one last quick tour of the house to make sure the windows and other doors were locked. There was no way in or out except through the front door. Charlie stood, his hand on the doorknob, looking out at the fierce storm.

Brack must have been in a hurry when he left, Charlie thought. Otherwise he would have locked the door. Or maybe he realized he was hurrying to the rehearsal, and he just forgot.

Charlie frowned.

Nothing in Brack’s house seemed to be a real clue. The magician might have been visiting with an old friend who liked coffee. Maybe he’d been working on a new magic trick that involved carpets and flowers, and then headed down to the rehearsal. Nothing unusual.

Charlie picked up his backpack and froze.

On the damp carpet, lay an object he had not seen before. It had been hidden by his pack. He squatted down and picked it up. A clump of hair.

Fake red hair.