The Crooked House | Page 3

ordinary
normal person could possibly live in. And I warn you that you will find
nothing ordinary or normal in it. If you are interested in some of the
unaccountable vagaries of human nature, you will enjoy yourself."
"The unaccountable vagaries of human nature," said Monsieur Dupont,
"are the foundation of my riddle."
"Then," Tranter returned, "I could give you no better chance to solve it.
In addition, you will probably make the acquaintance of a certain pretty
society widow, who wants to marry him because of his vices, and one
or two other well-known people who owe him money and can't afford
to refuse to dine with him. Also, as the invitation is an unusually
pressing one, we can rely on the introduction of some unexpected
freaks for our entertainment."
"It is arranged," Monsieur Dupont declared, "I go with you to
Richmond."
"Very well," Tranter agreed. "Call for me here at eight o'clock, and we
will go. Help yourself to another drink."
Monsieur Dupont helped himself to another drink.
CHAPTER II
THE CROOKED HOUSE
It was no unusual thing for George Copplestone to spring surprises on
his guests. He had a twisted sense of the dramatic, and twisted things
were expected from him. On some occasions he perpetrated the wildest
and most extravagant eccentricities, without the slightest regard for the
moral or artistic sensibilities of those on whom he imposed them--on
others he contented himself with less harrowing minor freaks--but the
object of thoroughly upsetting and confounding the mental balances of
his victims was invariably achieved. He delighted, and displayed
remarkable ingenuity, in providing orgies of the abnormal. He reveled

in producing an atmosphere of brain-storm, and in dealing
sledge-hammer blows at the intellects of his better balanced
acquaintances. Often he was in uncontrollable spirits--on fire with
mental and physical exuberance--sometimes he was morose and silent,
and apparently weak. Frequently he disappeared for considerable
periods, and his house appeared to be closed. But none saw his coming
or going.
Strange rumors circulated about him from time to time. Certain social
circles, to which his wealth and position entitled him to the entrée, were
closed to him. Over and above his wild extravagancies, he was credited
with vices that remained unnamed. It was said that things took place in
his house that sealed the lips of men and women. When his name was
mentioned in the clubs, some men shrugged their shoulders. When it
was spoken in the drawing-rooms, some women remained silent. There
had been an attempt to stab him, and twice he had been shot at. After
the second attempt, a woman had been heard to say bitterly that he
must bear a charmed life. He continued to pursue his strange ways with
supreme indifference to the opinions of his fellow-creatures.
The house he lived in was the only sort of house he could have lived in.
From the foundations to the topmost brick it was a mass of bewildering
crookedness. Nothing was straight. Not a single passage led where it
would have been expected to lead--not a staircase fulfilled normal
anticipations. Scarcely two windows in the whole building were the
same size--scarcely two rooms were the same shape--and not even two
contortions corresponded. There must have been a mile of unnecessary
corridors, dozens of incomprehensible corners and turnings, and at least
a score of unwanted entrances and exits. If the aim and object of the
architect, whoever he was, had been to reduce the unfortunate
occupants of his handiwork to a condition of hopeless mental
entanglement, he could not have created a more effective instrument for
the purpose. George Copplestone found it a residence after his own
heart, and delighted in the means it provided for gratifying his feverish
inspirations.
The room into which John Tranter and Monsieur Victorien Dupont

were ushered at eight-thirty on the following night presented an
extraordinary spectacle of lavish and indiscriminate decoration,
arriving at a general suggestion of something between a Royal visit and
preparations for a wildly enthusiastic Christmas. Flags and festoons,
flowers, real and imitation, fairy-candles and colored lamps, burning
with strange heavy scents, quaint fantastic shapes of paper, startlingly
illuminated--all massed into an indescribable disorder of light and color.
Five amazed people were awaiting further developments.
Mrs. Astley-Rolfe was a charming widow of twenty-seven, who had
successfully gambled on her late husband's probable lease of life, and
was now in the throes of a wild attachment to George Copplestone, to
which he had shown himself by no means averse. She was somewhat
languid from an excess of luxury, unable to brook opposition even to a
whim, and as yet undefeated in the attainment of her desires, which
were not, perhaps, always to the credit of her sex. She had an
insufficient income, and a weakness for inscribing her signature on
stamped