The Angel of the Opera Page 5

  “You seem to be suffering under some delusion, Monsieur le Comte. I am a consulting detective, not a pimp.” The French word he used was almost more insulting than the English.

  The Count dropped his fork. He and Holmes stared at each other for a very long time. I wanted to speak, but feared I would only make matters worse. At last the Count cut a piece of meat, chewed carefully, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “There is no question of that, Monsieur Holmes. You may say nothing to the girl if you prefer. Mainly, keep my interests in mind and let me know what you find out.”

  Not to be outdone, Sherlock cut his meat and ate a morsel. “This is excellent, really very good.”

  It was indeed, but I had a hard time swallowing.

  The Count took a sip of wine. “What fee do you charge for your services, Monsieur Holmes?”

  “Two thousand francs a day.”

  Some wine escaped down my trachea, and I began to cough.

  “Are you all right, Henry?” Sherlock asked.

  I drank more wine, then nodded. It was the best I had ever tasted.

  The Count raised his right hand, crooked his forefinger at the waiter. “Une autre bouteille ici, la même vendange.” He had regained his lassitude and ate slowly. “Monsieur Holmes, when we are finished eating, I shall write you a check for 25,000 francs. I think we understand one another.”

  Holmes raised his eyes from the plate. “Only too well. You realize, however, that I can promise nothing.”

  The Count shrugged. “Eh, bien. The veal is acceptable?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I am afraid the company we kept spoiled what should have been a memorable meal. A certain wariness, a certain tension, was in the air, although both men were good at dissembling. After coffee and dessert, the Count wrote out a check for 25,000 francs, then offered us a ride back to the hotel, but Sherlock assured him we would rather walk.

  My cousin set off briskly, his head thrust forward such that his nose resembled a ship’s prow. Clouds of vapor steamed from his lips, and his walking stick clacked on the pavement. After a block he finally slowed down, then gave me an ironic smile.

  “That insufferable swine! So the great French aristocracy has sunk to this?” He opened his coat, took out the Count’s check, and proceeded to tear it into tiny pieces. Several of our fellow pedestrians eyed him fearfully. “I am not a pimp, nor am I myself a whore.”

  “That was a great deal of money, but I think you have done the right thing.”

  “I feel much better. Even my digestion has improved.”

  “I must admit he left me with a touch of heartburn.”

  Sherlock inhaled deeply and turned his face toward the wintry sun. “This cold air and the light are cleansing. I take it you did not much care for his company either.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “The fourteenth century indeed! Five hundred years, and the culmination is a creature like him.”

  No sooner had we stepped inside the hotel lobby, than a young man rushed up to us. His face was pale and unhealthy, his watery blue eyes were bloodshot. His hair was reddish brown, and he wore a mustache so faint that one wondered whether it might not float away from his upper lip. His morning suit was of a fine cut, but both his clothes and his person had a wild dishevelment.

  “Monsieur Holmes, Monsieur Sherlock Holmes? Ah, thank God! Monsieur Holmes, I beg of you–I must speak with you!” His voice was a high, piping tenor. “You are the one man in all of Paris who can possibly help me! Without you I am lost–ruined–damned! I shall pay you well. I am...”

  “Yes, I know: you are Raoul, le Vicomtede Chagny.”

  De Chagny’s eyes (and mine) opened wider. “But we have never met, Monsieur Holmes. How could you possibly...?”

  “You resemble your brother about the eyes, and your carriage with the de Chagny coat of arms emblazoned on the side is parked across the street. Come, Monsieur, we can discuss your problem in my rooms.”

  Two

  The hotel room was enormous and luxuriously furnished with plush chairs and sofas of velvet, small and large tables of oak and cherry wood; it had a fireplace and a view of the carriage traffic on the Boulevard des Capucines three floors below. Sherlock and I sat while Raoul de Chagny paced, apparently attempting to wear a path in the thick carpet.

  As a physician I would have prescribed rest and a stay in a warm climate for the Viscount. He seemed a likely candidate for consumption. His pale face had a reddish flush at either cheekbone, exactly as if he had a fever, and he was overwrought, his comments rambling and barely coherent.

  “We were childhood sweethearts, Monsieur Holmes! She will not see me, and yet she must know my feelings! I have tried to write to her, to see her, and she turns me away. I worship her–she is an angel, a goddess–without her I am doomed! And yet I am prey to the most dreadful jealousies. This passion will... I told you–I heard her–I heard the voice say, ‘Christine, you must love me,’ and she replied, ‘Tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead.’ God in heaven!–the little harlot!–how shall I ever endure it?” He struck himself a blow on his forehead with the palm of his open hand. “I waited and waited, but she was the only one to leave, and the room, the room was empty, Monsieur Holmes! Who was that voice, who was that cad in there with her? I shall kill him, I swear to God!”

  Sherlock sat back in his chair and pointed at the glass decanter on a silver tray. “Monsieur le Vicomte, I can do nothing for you unless you calm yourself. Pour some cognac, drink it, and if you must pace, do so in a more controlled and deliberate manner. I wish to question you about what you have told me, but you must think carefully and answer quietly. Do you understand?”

  De Chagny gave a great sobbing sigh. “Oui.”

  “Very well. Drink your cognac, and then let us begin with you seated.”

  De Chagny sat down, swallowed the brandy in a single gulp, then began to cough. At last he was still.

  “Now, you said you knew Miss Daaé as a child.”

  “Yes, she and her father were staying at Perros Quignac on the coast of Brittany while I was with my aunt. The father was a Swedish peasant, but very good on the violin. Christine was a shy and serious child, but already she...”

  “And you did not see her again for many years, not until you noticed her at the Opera? Very good. The first time you approached her was after the recent gala in October?”

  “Yes. I hardly recognized her. That night of the gala her voice was heavenly. No one in the audience was unmoved. She sang as an angel, a true angel. It was enough to make the most unrelenting atheist believe in the Creator.”

  “Yes, I have heard that she was very good. And you went to see her after this performance?”

  “She had fainted.”

  “You spoke with her, and she behaved strangely?”

  “Exactly so! As if she were under some spell.”

  “She asked you to leave, and you did, but... then you stood listening at her door?”

  De Chagny nodded. Holmes stared at him, but he seemed to consider his behavior perfectly normal.

  “And then you heard a voice say, ‘Christine, you must love me.’”

  He leapt to his feet. “Yes, dear God–yes!”

  “Please sit down, Monsieur. Un peu plus de cognac. Good, very good. Now then, you saw her leave the room?”

  “Yes. I hid in a dark corner and watched her depart.”

  “And then?”

  “I went in determined to discover the villain who had spoken to her. The room was... dark. I struck a match and cried for him to come face me. I turned up the gas and lit it, then searched the room. I thought he might be hiding behind the dressing screen, but there was no one. The room was empty, absolutely empty.”

  “Were there any windows? Perhaps...”

  “None. The door I came through was the only way in or out.”

  Holmes took out his silver cigarette case. “Most interesting. And what do you make of all this, Monsieur le Vicomte?”


  “I am at my wit’s end.” He gave a sob and covered his face with his hands.

  “Yes, yes.” Holmes lit the cigarette. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  De Chagny let his hands fall. “Of course not. I am a practicing Catholic, Monsieur.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes gave him a rather frightful smile. “I suppose then you believe in the sanctity of women and the marriage vow?”

  The Viscount leapt to his feet, a flush turning him crimson. “How dare you, Monsieur?”

  “Oh, do sit down, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

  “I will not be insulted!”

  “I said sit down. Very well, so you do not believe in ghosts. Have you heard talk about le Fantôme de l’Opéra?”

  “Yes, Monsieur Holmes.”

  “And you do not believe in this Phantom?”

  He hesitated. “I do not believe in ghosts, but... something else may be at work here.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, I think we may be certain of that. Well, Monsieur, exactly what do you want of me?”

  The Viscount took out a letter and handed it to Holmes. We both read it.

  Monsieur,

  I have not forgotten the little boy who rescued my scarf from the sea, but it would be best if we do not meet again. You are of noble birth, and I am the child of a peasant. This Saturday is, in fact, the anniversary of my dear father’s death. He too was fond of you. A strange power pulls at me. I do not know myself, but I shall go to Perros for this anniversary and visit the graveyard near the village church. There he was buried along with his violin. Remember how as children we played near that church? And there we said farewell many years ago. Again I say farewell, dear friend, but be assured you will remain always in my thoughts and my prayers.

  Christine

  The corners of Holmes’s mouth twitched into a smile, then he resumed a grave air. “What do you intend to do?”

  De Chagny folded his arms. “Is it not obvious? I, too, shall go to Perros.”

  “Yes, it is obvious.”

  “And I wish you to accompany me, Monsieur Holmes.”

  Holmes inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “That requires some thought.”

  “I suspect my unseen rival in this business. I shall pay you whatever you wish, Monsieur Holmes.”

  Sherlock raised one hand contemptuously. “We can worry about that later. There are some things you should know first, Monsieur le Vicomte. As a general rule, I do not engage my services in anything concerning love triangles or the like.”

  De Chagny covered his face with his hands again. They were white and soft with nary a blemish. “Then I am lost.”

  “Oh, do stop that!” Holmes snapped. The Viscount looked up at once. “Nor do I spy on young ladies.” The flush again colored the Viscount’s face. Partly because of his diminutive stature, partly because of his immaturity, he appeared younger than twenty-one, closer to seventeen or eighteen. “However, there are aspects of this case which interest me. I have no doubt that a connection exists between Christine Daaé and le Fantôme de l’Opéra. For that reason only, I may be willing to accompany you to Perros.”

  The Viscount clenched both hands into fists. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur Holmes–thank you!”

  Holmes held the cigarette between two long fingers. “Before you thank me I wish to ask you one other question. Please think this over carefully and do not, I beg of you, fly into a huff. What, Monsieur le Vicomte, are your intentions toward Mademoiselle Daaé?”

  The Viscount jumped up again. “Sit down!” Sherlock roared. De Chagny sat.

  The young man’s watery blue eyes stared out the window. “I... I am not certain. I... the de Chagny name is a very old and honored one.”

  “All the more reason not to sully it by disgracing some young woman.”

  “Surely, Monsieur...”

  “If Miss Daaé were ‘ruined,’ as it is so nicely stated, the difference between a viscount and a common rogue would hardly matter.” For once Raoul de Chagny was at a complete loss for words. Holmes kept his eyes fixed on him.

  “I... I do not know exactly. I wish... I wish to do the right thing, but my brother...”

  “Will survive, regardless of whom you marry. Please remember that.” The Viscount nodded weakly. “Very well then. I shall let you know in a day or two whether we shall accompany you to Perros. Please consider my words carefully and remember that I do not employ my services in the seduction of young ladies.”

  “Monsieur Holmes, I love Christine!”

  “Then you will, of course, wish to do what is best for her. You would not want all of Paris whispering about the mistress of the Viscount de Chagny whenever she passes by.”

  De Chagny grew so pale that I worried he might faint. He sank back into the chair.

  “You may go now, Monsieur de Chagny. Please leave me your card. I shall be in touch with you.”

  The Viscount put his card on the table, picked up his hat and gloves, and went to the door. I opened it for him. “Au revoir,” I said. He did not seem to hear me.

  Sherlock had crossed his legs, and he regarded the street below. “Were you not somewhat hard on him?” I asked.

  Sherlock stared so intensely at me that I could not meet his gaze. “I do not believe so, Henry. Another twenty years and he will be the twin of his brother.”

  I walked over to the window. The Viscount soon appeared below crossing the boulevard. I was thinking of Michelle. I was not a viscount, I had not made false promises, but how long had I dallied, refusing to commit myself one way or another?

  Sherlock took out his watch. “There is yet time before supper. We shall return to the Opera.” He stood.

  “What for?”

  “Before I can begin my work on this puzzle, I must see the celebrated Christine Daaé.”

  Someone rapped on the door.

  “Entrez,” Holmes said.

  “Ah, Monsieur Holmes, encore une communication pour vous.” It was one of the hotel bellmen.

  “Merci, Monsieur.” He closed the door, then opened the envelope and took out the paper. His brow furrowed, then he smiled. “Ah, excellent.” He held the paper up to the light. “The same, of course. Have a look, Henry.”

  I felt a lurch in my bowels when I saw the red ink and the clumsy hand. The notes the managers had showed us were all written in French, but this was in English.

  Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  Your fame is nearly as great in Paris as in London. Truly it would be a tragedy if a genius such as yours were to meet its end at the Paris Opera, but such it must be if you choose to take the part of the managerial buffoons and meddle in my affairs. Do not trifle with the unknown and the unknowable. Return to your native land before it is too late.

  With the profoundest respect,

  the Phantom of the Opera

  The note certainly unsettled me, but Sherlock was positively jubilant. “We are making genuine progress today, Henri. Come, let us go see if Mademoiselle Daaé is in. I absolutely must meet her.”

  The attendant at the Opera took us down two flights of stairs and along a dim hallway. I soon lost what little sense of direction I had. We passed a party of medieval warriors in armor carrying long spears. A few of the men were smoking cigarettes, and on the whole, they were distinctly unheroic close up. Christine Daaé’s dressing room was at the end of a long dark corridor, a distant gas flame casting a feeble light.

  The attendant paused. I thought I heard voices through the door. He knocked. “Mademoiselle Daaé?”

  The voices stopped; then from behind the door a woman said, “Oui?”

  “Il ya deux gentilhommes ici qui voudraient vous parler.”

  “Une minute, s’il vous plaît.”

  The door opened, flooding the dark hallway with light. Christine Daaé was left mostly in shadow. “May we speak with you?” Holmes asked. “I am Sherlock Holmes. I believe the managers let you know I would call.”

  “Yes. Please come in.”

  She was a rather fragile-looking young w
oman, a good foot shorter than Holmes and I, but she had the most extraordinary eyes, large and of a luminescent green, their white-hot intensity somehow reminding me of the flame of a Bunsen burner. Except for her eyes, she was young and pretty in a conventional way, with very fair skin. One could see the blue veins in her eyelids when she blinked. She had high cheekbones and a small, full mouth, a mouth which somehow called attention to itself. Her throat was long, white, and slender. She wore an inexpensive-looking green dress, which showed off her fashionably tiny waist to good advantage.

  “You are alone, Mademoiselle?” Sherlock asked.

  “But of course. I was merely... memorizing a new role. I practice the words alone, and... I know it is foolish, but I sometimes modify my voice and read both parts. Would you care to sit down? The room is small, the chairs not the best, but please make yourself comfortable.”

  She was so fair that I saw a slight flush spread about her ears and along her neck as she told about learning her lines. If the Viscount had not mentioned her Swedish father, I would never have noticed that she spoke French with a slight accent.

  Sherlock took a wooden folding chair, twisted it about and sat down. He set his top hat and walking stick on the floor. I sat beside him. Before us a large mirror made up almost an entire wall of the small room. We could see Miss Daaé’s back and our own faces. Her blonde hair was bound up, the pale skin of the nape of her neck showing above her collar. Jars and tubes of makeup were scattered across a small table before the mirror. The only light in the room came from a gas lamp.

  “Mademoiselle Daaé, this is my cousin, Doctor Henri Vernier. We have been engaged by the management to investigate a ghost who has been plaguing the Opera. You have no doubt heard some talk of this Phantom.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts, spirits of the dead and the like?”

  She nodded again. “Of course. And I am surprised they have turned to you, Monsieur Holmes. I would think a priest would be the person to drive away a ghost.”