Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

I walked along the line of photographs, not knowing what I hoped to find, to see, to learn. I counted six pictures of him with lions; over twenty with him crouched next to antelopes of various kinds; another half dozen with elephants, every one an enormous beast with tusks as long as a grown man.

But it was pointless. I had one useless clue, and if the forensics team had found another, either on Dan Church’s person or in the cellar of the shed, then Jake would have said so. Yes, odd comfort that, if Jake knew anything else, he’d have told me.

The sound of the furnace, just below me, woke me up. It sounded like a large animal was down there, clearing its throat and turning its enormous body under the floorboards. Then it gurgled, sending hot steam up through the ancient heating system. I was startled, though I instantly knew where I was. The electric candles were still glowing, so it wasn’t past ten o’clock yet. But there was darkness everywhere else. Something brushed against my leg and I reached out. Sammy.

So where was Jake? And why had he let me fall asleep in the front room? Had he assumed I’d gone home long ago, or had he just forgotten me? It was still raining — certainly he didn’t expect me to walk home? For a moment I had that sensation again like I couldn’t breathe; then the cat bolted out of the room and made a dive for the kitchen.

So, with a catch in my breath, I got up and followed him.

How do cats know when there’s a mouse around? Samson was on the counter, his head pointed up, his eyes filled with avid interest, staring at one of the doorless cabinets.

“A mouse, Sammy?” I said, and the cat twitched his tail. I grabbed a chair, climbed up, not that I was set on catching a mouse in my bare hands, but because I figured I’d clear a space to put out some traps. The weather was turning cold and that’s when mice come in; I might as well stop them in their tracks.

One item at a time I began to empty out the cabinet, filled with all sorts of odd little containers: gravy boats, butter dishes, cruets, that sort of thing. But no mouse, though there was plenty of evidence where a mouse had been. Then, because I was tired, I gave up, and climbed down from the counter. Jake’s cell phone was still on the counter and I figured I’d call him, have him come and get me.

Then my eyes fell on the pad of paper where I’d written IV S H E D CELLAR. “What if Daniel Church guessed wrong?” I said to the fat cat. “What if...”

Yeah, what if it was an accidental death? What if...

“I think she was a little sweet on him, too, which was kind of weird, you know, her being so much older than him.”

“Sophie told me she’d found an old clue tucked in our father’s desk.”

“We’d play the game together. That was part of the fun.”

“So Dan Church, or Sophie Carter, or both of them together... they fill in the word and make it... Shed Cellar. They find an old clue out of sequence, clue four, and that’s all they find.” I sat down at the kitchen table, the cat in my arms. “They play the game together and something goes wrong and Dan dies. And Sophie... she goes home and...”

I shut my eyes, shook my head. This house was starting to get to me. I couldn’t let it go; Jake could walk in right then and there and I wouldn’t have been able to leave. With my eyes shut I heard myself start talking. “Stop cellar. Start cellar. Too many letters. Shed cellar. No. Slow cellar. Soft cellar. South cellar. Too many letters. Snow cellar.”

There came a loud clank from the rear of the house. Just the pipes — but as I turned I thought of the trophy room again. So many animals and for each there was a picture, and the real animal. A picture and the real animal. A record of each. Isn’t that what Frances had said?

“Snow leopard? Snow leopard cellar. That’s stupid. Stupid cellar. Sane cellar. Insane cellar. So... sun... sat... slow...” I looked across the kitchen, over the counters, the stovetop, to the dishes I’d cleaned, washed, stacked. Among them was a pair of salt and pepper shakers.

“Salt... salt cellar. Salt cellar.” I said it maybe a dozen times. Maybe I screamed it. I don’t know; I don’t remember. What comes next is a blur. I was tired, I was confused, and I was angry, too. But I found the salt cellar; it had been in the assortment of bric-a-brac I’d pulled out of the top cabinet, and in it I found the next clue to a long-forgotten and unfinished game. Then I found the clue that came after that one.

“What the hell have you been...” Jake said to me as he rushed into the house, my keys in his hand. “Are you all right? Herbie?”

Did I see fear on his face, a flicker of concern? Well, why not? I was a mess, wasn’t I? Covered with soot and dirt and God knows what else had come down that chimney in the last thirty years.