Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“Lurch suits him better. Let’s try to wrap this up before Mr. Trane pulls into the station.”

The Potter house was a rambling wreck of a place, three floors with a dozen rooms each. Still, cataloging the furnishings wasn’t difficult. Trane and his girlfriend were only using a few rooms on the first floor. The others were either empty or trashed. Walls kicked in, ceiling fixtures ripped down. Senseless carnage.

We found a few pieces of chipped china in the kitchen, some filthy flatware. One of the dinette chairs looked like part of a Gambles set, but the seat had been recovered with terry cloth and the legs were rusty. Two bucks instead of two hundred.

All the living room furniture was third- or fourthhand, castoffs Goodwill wouldn’t bother picking up.

“Look, I’m sorry about this,” Karla said. “If the sale doesn’t earn enough to pay for your time, I’ll make up the difference.”

“Forget it, a deal’s a deal. Besides, this is kind of fun, like exploring a haunted castle.”

“Complete with an evil giant. Maybe we’ll have better luck upstairs.”

And we did, sort of. The second floor was closed off to save heat and a few rooms still had some original furnishings. Or what was left of them.

Chairs had been torn apart, linings slashed. A turn of the century sleigh bed had been kicked to pieces.

“My god,” Karla said softly, “this must have been a lovely home once. How could anybody do this to it?”

“Maybe Lurch was looking for something. Loose change, a lost doobie? Or maybe kids trashed it before he moved in. It’s slated for demolition anyway so I don’t suppose it matters.”

“But even that seems like a crime. I thought the Downtown Development Authority was supposed to preserve old houses. Look at this woodwork, the moldings, the mantels above the doors. All oak and at least a century old. Isn’t it worth quite a bit?”

“It’s certainly worth more than the furniture we’ve seen. I expect the contractor will recover it before they raze the place. C’mon, let’s finish up. This is beginning to bum me out.”

The other rooms were the same, a shambles. But at the end of one hall, a mystery.

The room was windowless, its walls lined with shelves, most torn down. Metal bins scattered around. Karla glanced the question at me.

“I think this was probably a darkroom. The previous owner was a photographer, Jerome Potter. I was told he committed suicide here.”

“In this room, you mean?”

“I don’t know. He supposedly hanged himself so I guess it could have been here. These shelves look strong enough.”

“Thanks for sharing that,” Karla shivered. “Is this stuff worth anything?”

“Not in this condition. Most of the trays are too banged up to be of any use.” I opened a storage closet... and froze. Trying to understand what I was seeing.

“What is it?” Karla asked, moving up beside my shoulder.

“I’m not sure.” The closet was deep, lined with bookcase shelving. But one of the bookcases was on hinges. It was pulled away from the wall, revealing another cubicle beyond it.

“Whoa, a secret room?” Karla asked.

“Looks like it,” I said, swinging the bookcase/door open a little wider. I thought the hidden room was just another storage closet. Until I noticed the small three-step ladder. And the sliding panel set high in the wall. Curious, I stepped up and slid open the panel.

“What is it?”

“A peephole,” I said. “I’ve only seen them in movies. You can see into the next room from here.”

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing now, it’s as trashed as the rest of the house. But there are clothes hooks and a couple of smashed mirrors. Maybe it was a dressing room.”

“So the photographer was a Peeping Tom?”

“Peeping Jerome, actually.”

“What did he keep in these cabinets?” Karla asked, tugging open an empty drawer.

“Pictures and stereopticon slides, I think. There’s some broken glass in this drawer. By the way, I found a couple of slides mixed in with the View-Master reels I bought. You’re welcome to them.” I knelt to pick up a torn black and white photograph. Someone’s arm. I passed it to Karla.

“This was taken here,” she said.

“Here?”

“In the sitting room at the end of the hall. See, the fireplace is in the background.”

She was right, not that it mattered. There was no way to tell whose arm it was or even when it was taken. The photo wasn’t dated. More scrap. Which summed up everything we’d seen.

We poked our noses into every room on the upper floors. Zip. The attic had a small trove, a few toys, some doll furniture, a rusty tricycle. Karla consulted with me on prices but it was strictly a courtesy. She knew this kind of merchandise better than I did.

“I think we’re done,” Karla said, taking a final look around the attic. “A few pieces of furniture from below might be salvageable but I think Mr. Trane has already sold off everything of value. I’m guessing he left this stuff up here because it isn’t worth toting downstairs. If the execution sale clears fifty bucks tomorrow I’ll be amazed.”

Chastity was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs.

“Satisfied? I told you there wasn’t nothin’.”