knocked upon the door. There was no answer. However, there was certainly the hush of something about to happen, and the hush of a large number of people suddenly deciding en masse to keep quiet.
—What on earth? asked the guess artist.
S. closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. The interior of the house was somewhat dark. All the windows had been covered over, and lamps gave what little light there was.
—Hello! he said. Is there anyone here?
The guess artist came to his side.
—Many people are thinking, he said. But they are being very quiet, even about that.
A loud noise of bolting came behind them. S. spun around. The door had been shut. A large man stood in front of it, barring their way.
—So you thought you’d come to Fourteen Beard Street? he said in a booming voice. Many people come, but no one has ever left. It is a sort of trap. We let people in. Anyone can come in. The door is often open. But once you are in, you are in. You may live here, happily. People have lived happy lives within the confines of this house. We have a small population here. Imminently, you will be introduced around. I myself will perform this service for you.
He was wearing a scarlet dressing gown, and his fists were the sort of fists an oak tree might have if it balled up its roots and decided to hit you.
—I’m surprised, said the guess artist.
—Where is the girl? asked S.
—All your questions will be answered, or unanswered in time. For now, come and sit in the study. We shall have a cigar and talk of old times. If I am not mistaken, we know each other.
—I don’t remember that, said S., but let’s get along. The sooner we learn the facts of the matter, the better.
—Facts of the matter! snorted the man. You can’t leave; that’s the only fact. Haven’t you read Dumas? Haven’t you heard of the mousetrap ? Everyone who enters the building is held there indefinitely. This is the only real mousetrap there’s ever been.
—Clearly insane, whispered the guess artist in S.’s ear.
—What is he thinking? asked S. quietly.
—He’s thinking about flying a plane over a broad and tumultuous sea.
—Really? asked S.
—And the strangest thing is, the plane is shaped just like this house.
They came to the study. The man ushered them in. They sat in comfortable chairs. On the wall were many fine paintings, mostly impressionist.
—You like the French? asked S.
—I like vague things, said the man. The vaguer the better.
He turned to the door.
—You can come in now! he bellowed. It’s safe!
Dozens of people, it seemed then, came running into the room, and as they did, the room grew larger to fit them. Or had the room been that large from the beginning? That was the only explanation. The people were all dressed as children, in odd nineteenth-century clothing. They had shrill voices, and made braying noises with their throats as they ran.
S. and the guess artist looked at each other in horror and drew back in their chairs.
—Just my little joke, said the man.
He clapped his hands and all the children went away. The room was empty again and small.
—Caroline, he called. We have guests.
A finely dressed woman in her forties entered the room.
—Patrick, she said, you should have told me we were having guests.
She gave him a sharp look.
The guess artist leaned over and whispered in S.’s ear.
—The plane just landed.
—Hello, said Caroline. I’m the mistress of the house. Can I get you something, a cold drink, perhaps?
—Yes, said S., I would like a cup of water, if it’s not too much trouble.
—For me too, said the guess artist.
—All right, said Caroline in an angry voice. If you want some goddamned water, you had best go and get it for yourselves. What do you think I am? Your maid?
Patrick looked very angry as well.
—Who do you think you are, he asked, coming into my house and ordering my wife around? Did I even invite you here? I think not.
S.
—What on earth? asked the guess artist.
S. closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. The interior of the house was somewhat dark. All the windows had been covered over, and lamps gave what little light there was.
—Hello! he said. Is there anyone here?
The guess artist came to his side.
—Many people are thinking, he said. But they are being very quiet, even about that.
A loud noise of bolting came behind them. S. spun around. The door had been shut. A large man stood in front of it, barring their way.
—So you thought you’d come to Fourteen Beard Street? he said in a booming voice. Many people come, but no one has ever left. It is a sort of trap. We let people in. Anyone can come in. The door is often open. But once you are in, you are in. You may live here, happily. People have lived happy lives within the confines of this house. We have a small population here. Imminently, you will be introduced around. I myself will perform this service for you.
He was wearing a scarlet dressing gown, and his fists were the sort of fists an oak tree might have if it balled up its roots and decided to hit you.
—I’m surprised, said the guess artist.
—Where is the girl? asked S.
—All your questions will be answered, or unanswered in time. For now, come and sit in the study. We shall have a cigar and talk of old times. If I am not mistaken, we know each other.
—I don’t remember that, said S., but let’s get along. The sooner we learn the facts of the matter, the better.
—Facts of the matter! snorted the man. You can’t leave; that’s the only fact. Haven’t you read Dumas? Haven’t you heard of the mousetrap ? Everyone who enters the building is held there indefinitely. This is the only real mousetrap there’s ever been.
—Clearly insane, whispered the guess artist in S.’s ear.
—What is he thinking? asked S. quietly.
—He’s thinking about flying a plane over a broad and tumultuous sea.
—Really? asked S.
—And the strangest thing is, the plane is shaped just like this house.
They came to the study. The man ushered them in. They sat in comfortable chairs. On the wall were many fine paintings, mostly impressionist.
—You like the French? asked S.
—I like vague things, said the man. The vaguer the better.
He turned to the door.
—You can come in now! he bellowed. It’s safe!
Dozens of people, it seemed then, came running into the room, and as they did, the room grew larger to fit them. Or had the room been that large from the beginning? That was the only explanation. The people were all dressed as children, in odd nineteenth-century clothing. They had shrill voices, and made braying noises with their throats as they ran.
S. and the guess artist looked at each other in horror and drew back in their chairs.
—Just my little joke, said the man.
He clapped his hands and all the children went away. The room was empty again and small.
—Caroline, he called. We have guests.
A finely dressed woman in her forties entered the room.
—Patrick, she said, you should have told me we were having guests.
She gave him a sharp look.
The guess artist leaned over and whispered in S.’s ear.
—The plane just landed.
—Hello, said Caroline. I’m the mistress of the house. Can I get you something, a cold drink, perhaps?
—Yes, said S., I would like a cup of water, if it’s not too much trouble.
—For me too, said the guess artist.
—All right, said Caroline in an angry voice. If you want some goddamned water, you had best go and get it for yourselves. What do you think I am? Your maid?
Patrick looked very angry as well.
—Who do you think you are, he asked, coming into my house and ordering my wife around? Did I even invite you here? I think not.
S.
Similar Books
