—What does it say about our search? asked the guess artist.
—We’re coming up to a tricky part. I think we may end up in a bit of trouble for a little while.
—All right, said the guess artist. I don’t mind that. I don’t have anything else to do. And I can always go back to my booth.
—Yes, said S. You can always go back to your booth.
Just then the train pulled into a station. The municipal inspector and the guess artist got off. They went down to the street level and walked for a while in the direction of Beard Street. The night had been passed in great industry and first false, then true exaggeration of circumstance. Both men felt this, and it was a pleasing feeling. The sun was coming up behind them to the left as they walked, and they could feel it warming their backs. The guess artist thought of his booth, and how the light would be warming the curtain that hung over it, how an old man might be walking along the boardwalk just at this moment, and how he might look at the guess artist’s sign and think, I wonder if he can guess my thought. The guess artist tried, just to try.
—He is thinking of his late wife, who used to love to drink tea when the sun was rising. All the rest of the day for her was naught. Just drinking tea at dawn and having a bit of a walk to look for signs that the seasons were changing. And also there was the picture of her when she was a young woman and all the young men were after her for a date. And how she had asked him,
she
had asked
him,
if he wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and how fine it had been that night, with all the lights of Manhattan far away on the horizon, and the feel of his own body, young in his young man’s clothes.
—What are you talking about? asked S.
—Nothing, said the guess artist. Here we are.
Up ahead there was a sign.
BEARD STREET
it said.
—It’s that way, said S., pointing to the left.
They walked along for a little ways. It was a Victorian house, quite a large one, standing all by itself on an overgrown block. There was a high stone wall around the premises. Farther down the street, S. could see the warehouses where ships would leave their goods, and the wharves. He could see in the distance Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty. Lower Manhattan sat quietly too, behind a veil of Brooklyn buildings. He thought then of the Seventh Ministry, of Rita sitting behind her desk, delicately writing out messages to bring up to him upon his return. He thought too of Mars Levkin, who might be wondering at that very moment just what the young inspector was up to.
Well, Levkin, thought S., I think you would approve.
—In we go, said S.
Up to the gate he proceeded. A metal plate was stamped and set upon the gate: 14
BEARD STREET
, it said. He unbolted the gate, and passed through. The guess artist followed after. Up the stone stair they went to the door. S. 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. held up the letter from the dead-letter office. Immediately, Patrick and Caroline grew quiet.
—Where did you get that? they asked.
—It doesn’t matter, said the guess artist. We have it, and we’re here. Where is the girl?
Caroline and Patrick left the room.
—I’m afraid we may be stuck here a very long time, said S. My map indicated something unfortunate was going to happen.
—You may be right, said the guess artist.
Patrick and Caroline came back in. Both of them had changed their clothing. To what purpose, S. could not say.
—I suppose we got off on the wrong foot, said Caroline. Now, do either of you want anything to drink? Something cold, perhaps?
—Nothing for me, said S.
—Nothing for me either, said the guess artist.
—Good, good, she said. Well, let’s get down to business. I want you to have a nice stay here.
She smiled and crossed her legs. It occurred to S. that her legs were on backwards. Or for a moment they had been, but now they were on right again. He looked up at the man, who was carving something out of a piece of wood. He was completely intent on this, and did not seem to notice that S. was looking at him. What was he carving? thought S. It looked like a wolf, but it had a fish body.
The man looked up.
—It’s a seawolf, he said. They are very hungry all the time.
—I would expect that, said S.
—Well, we’ll leave you for a while, said Caroline. The other guests come and go—well, not from the house, I mean, but from the various rooms, so you should be meeting them shortly, or eventually, if you get my meaning. Anyway, good-bye. Ring that bell if you want one of the servants to bring anything.
On the wall beside a bust of Verlaine, there was a bell cord.
—I shall, said S.
Caroline and Patrick left the room. As they left, Patrick asked Caroline what color the seawolf should be, and Caroline told Patrick that seawolves are black with yellow blood, and that they are cowards at heart. At this Patrick became very quiet, even while he was walking. Now, it is not an easy task to become
that
quiet while walking, but he managed it.
Almost as soon as the couple had left, the guess artist and the municipal inspector became conscious of someone else in the room. A man was sitting in the corner by a lamp, reading a book. He wore a long beard in white, and was dressed as one imagined an old gentleman might have dressed in the year 1927 in the city of Warsaw. The old man noticed their attention, and looked up.
—Good afternoon, he said.
—Is it afternoon? asked the guess artist.
—Only just, he said. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Piers Golp.
—I’m Selah Morse, said S. And this fellow here is a guess artist.
—A real guess artist? asked Piers Golp. I didn’t know there were any left.
—I’m not like the others, said the guess artist.
—I didn’t mean to intimate that you were, said Piers Golp. I only wanted to get across to you my pleasure at your choice of profession, and at the means we now have at our disposal for a fine and elegant conversation.
—You speak well, said S. I like a man who knows how to converse.
—Thank you, said Piers Golp. I once had the pleasure of speaking to the great Oscar Wilde. You know, he was the greatest conversationalist we have yet had among us. We as human beings, I mean.
—I have heard that said, said S. It seemed true then, and it seems true now.
The guess artist stood up and went to the window. He tried to pull up the shutter, but it was stuck fast and wouldn’t move.
—Don’t even bother, said Piers Golp.
—I think I will have that drink of water, said S.
He went over to the bust of Verlaine and pulled on the bell cord.
—Don’t do that! exclaimed Piers Golp. He hopped out of the chair he was sitting in and went behind the table, ducking down behind it so that he could not be seen.
Far away across the house, a bell could be heard ringing. A great sound of shouting could be heard coming closer. S. looked at the guess artist with a question in his eyes. The guess artist returned the question to him unopened. At that moment, the door was thrown wide, and Caroline stood there, in a fury.
—Did someone call for the servant? she asked.
—Not me, said the guess artist. I was just standing here by the window.
Without making any examination of the room, Caroline called out,
—Was it you, Piers Golp? Did you ring the bell?
—Not me, Mrs. O’Shea. It wasn’t me.
He came out from hiding and stood there fragilely holding his hands.
—I can smell him, you know, even when he hides, she said.
At this the old Mr. Golp shrank even more, and seemed on the verge of breaking.
—Leave him alone, said S. I’m the one who rang the bell.
—YOU RANG THE BELL? she shouted.
—That’s right, he said. I rang the bell because I want some water. Now go and fetch it, on the double.
—Very good, sir, said Caroline, curtsying.
She left the room.
The guess artist and Piers Golp looked at each other in shock.
—Not bad, said the guess artist. But how are we to get out of here?
—I have an idea, said S.
He drew his map out of his sleeve again and looked at it a moment.
—The next bit is a little odd, he said.
—Anything has to be better than this, said the guess artist. No offense intended to you, Mr. Golp.
Piers Golp sank into a chair and nodded to indicate that he had taken no offense and also to indicate that he knew very well the undesirable nature of life at 14 Beard Street.
S. came over and knelt down by Piers Golp’s chair.