Phantom Of Manhattan

by Frederick Forsyth

  Mind you, you got to show flair, energy and ingenuity amounting almost to genius and that is why I am saying this job has got it all. I mean, take yesterday. Were any of you at Pier 42 yesterday morning? You should have been. What a spectacle, what an event. You read this morning’s coverage in the American? Good for you, Harry, at least someone here reads a decent newspaper, even if you do work for the Post.

  Now, I have to say it wasn’t really my job. Our shipping man was there to give complete coverage. But I had nothing assigned for the morning so I figured I’d go anyway and, boy, did I get a break. Now, the rest of you guys would have spent the morning in bed. That’s what I mean by energy; you got to be out and about to get life’s lucky breaks. Where was I? Oh yes.

  Someone told me the French liner Lorraine was docking at Pier 42 and bringing in this French singer lady who I had never heard of but who is very big bagels in the opera world. Mme Christine de Chagny. Now I have never been to an opera in my life but I thought what the hell? She’s a big star, no-one can get near her for an interview, so I’ll go and have a look anyway. Besides, the last time I tried to help a Frenchie out of a jam I damn near got a major scoop and I would have done except that our City Editor is a four-star schlemiel. I told you about that? The weird incident at the E.M. Tower. Well, listen up, this gets weirder. Would I lie? Is the Mufti a Moslem?

  I went down to the pier just after nine. The Lorraine was coming in stern first. Plenty of time, these dockings always take for ever. So I wave my pass at the bulls and saunter over to the Press enclosure. Clearly it is as well I showed up. This is obviously going to be a major civic reception – Mayor McClellan, city fathers, Tammany Hall, the lot. I know the whole shindig will be covered by the Docks Correspondent whom I spot after a while in an upper window with a better view.

  Well, they play the anthems and this French lady comes down the pier, and she’s waving at the crowds and they are loving it all. Then the speeches, Mayor first, then the lady and finally she steps down off the podium and makes for her carriage. Problem. There happens to be a great puddle of slush between her and the brougham, and the red carpet has run out.

  You guys should have seen it. The coachman has the door open as wide as the Mayor’s mouth. McClellan and the opera man Oscar Hammerstein are each side of the French singer and they don’t know what to do.

  At this point something odd happens. I feel a nudge and a jostle from behind me and someone lays something over my arm which is resting on the barrier. Whoever he was, he was gone in a second. I never saw him. But what is hanging over my arm is an old opera cape, fusty and tattered, not the sort of thing you’d be carrying or wearing at that hour of the morning, if at all. Then I remembered that as a boy I was given a coloured book called Heroes Down The Ages – with pictures. And there was one of a fellow called Raleigh – I guess they named him after the capital of North Carolina. Anyway he once took off his cape and threw it over a puddle right in front of Queen Elizabeth of England and after that he never looked back.

  So I think, ‘If it’s good enough for Raleigh it’s OK for Mrs Bloom’s little boy,’ so I leap over the railing round the Press area and put the cape right down on the slush in front of this vicomtesse person. Well, she loved it. She walked right over it and got into the cab. I picked up the wet cape and saw her smiling at me right through the open window. So I thought ‘Nothing ventured . . .’ and walked up to the window.

  ‘My Lady,’ says I. That’s how you have to talk to these people. ‘Everyone tells me it is quite impossible to get a personal interview with you. Is that really true?’

  That’s what you need in this game, guys: flair, charm . . . oh, and looks, of course. What do you mean, I’m OK in a Jewish sort of way? I’m irresistible. Anyway, this is one very beautiful lady and she looks back at me kind of half-smiling and I know Hammerstein is growling in the background. But then she whispers, ‘Tonight at my suite, seven o’clock,’ and up goes the window. So there we are, I have New York’s first exclusive personal interview lined up.

  Did I go? Of course I went. But wait, there’s more. The Mayor tells me to put the cleaning of the cape on to his personal check at the laundry that does all the Mayoral Mansion work, and I go back to the American feeling pretty pleased. There I met Bernie Smith, our shipping man, and guess what he tells me? When the French lady was thanking McClellan for his welcome Bernie looked up at the warehouses opposite him, and what did he see? A man standing looking down, all alone, like some kind of avenging angel. Before he can go on, I say to Bernie, ‘Stop right there. He wore a dark cloak right up to the chin, a wide-brim hat and between the two a sort of mask covering most of his face.’

  Now Bernie’s chin drops right down and he says, ‘How the hell did you know that?’ Then I know for sure I was not hallucinating back in the Tower. There really is a sort of Phantom in this city who lets nobody see his face. I want to know who he is, what he does and why he is so interested in a French opera-singer. One day I am going to break that story wide open. Oh, thanks, Harry, most welcome, cheers. Now, where was I? Oh yes, my interview with the diva from the Paris Opera.

  Ten before seven, there I am in my best suit walking in on the Waldorf-Astoria like I own the place. Right down Peacock Alley towards the main reception desk with the society ladies of the city drifting up and down to see and be seen. Very grand. The main man at Reception looks me up and down like I should have been round the back at the tradesmen’s entrance.

  ‘Yes?’ he says. ‘Vicomtesse de Chagny’s suite, if you please,’ says I. ‘Her Ladyship is not receiving,’ says the uniform. ‘Tell her Mr Charles Bloom in a different cape is here,’ says I. Ten seconds on the phone and he is bowing and scraping and insists on escorting me up personally. It just happens there is a bellboy in the lobby with a big parcel tied with ribbon, same destination. So we all go up to the tenth floor together.

  Ever been in the Waldorf-Astoria, guys? Well, it is something different. The door is opened by another French lady, personal maid; nice, pretty, with a gimpy leg. She lets me in, takes the parcel and leads me through to the main salon. I tell you, you could play baseball in it. Enormous. Gilt, plush, tapestries, drapes, like part of a palace. The maid says, ‘Madame is dressing for dinner. She will be with you presently. Please wait here.’ And I sit on a chair by the wall.

  There is no-one else in the room except a boy who nods and smiles and says ‘Bonsoir’ so I smile back and say ‘Hi.’ He gets on with his reading while the maid, whose name seems to be Meg, reads the card on the gift-wrapped present. Then she says, ‘Oh, it’s for you, Pierre,’ and that’s when I recognized the kid. He’s Madame’s son, I saw him earlier at the pier, coming up behind with a priest. He takes the present, starts to unwrap it and Meg goes off through the open door to the bedroom. I can hear the two of them laughing and giggling in there, and speaking French, so I look around the salon.

  Flowers everywhere; bouquets from the Mayor, from Hammerstein, the opera management board and a host of well-wishers. The boy strips off the ribbon and the paper to reveal a box. This he opens and pulls out a toy. I have nothing else to do, so I watch. It’s an odd toy for a boy of twelve going on thirteen. A baseball mitt I could understand, but a toy monkey?

  And a very strange monkey at that. It is sitting on a chair and its arms are in front, the hands holding a pair of cymbals. Then I get it: it’s mechanical with a wind-up key in the back. Also, it turns out it’s a sort of music-box, because the boy winds up the key and the monkey starts to play. The arms move back and forward as if it were beating the cymbals together, while from inside it comes a tinkly tune. No problem recognizing it: ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’.

  Now the kid starts to take an interest, holding it up and staring at it from all angles to try and see how it works. When it winds down, he cranks it up and the music starts again. After a while he begins to explore the back of the animal, lifting away a patch of fabric to reveal a sort of panel. Then he comes over to me, very polite, speaking English. ‘Do
you have a penknife, mon-sewer?’ he asks. Of course I do. Pencils have to be kept sharp in our game. So I lend him my knife. But instead of cutting the animal open he uses it like a screwdriver to remove four small screws from the back. Now he is looking straight at the mechanism inside. This seems to me a good way of breaking the toy. But this kid is very bright and just wants to find out how the thing works. Me, I have trouble understanding a can-opener.

  ‘Very interesting,’ he says, showing me what is inside, which looks like a mess of wheels, rods, bells, springs and dials. ‘You see, the turning of the key tightens a coil-spring like that of a watch but much bigger and stronger.’ ‘Really,’ I say, just wishing he would close it back up and play ‘Yankee Doodle’ until Mama is ready. But no.

  ‘The power of the unreleased spring is transmitted by a system of rod-gears to a turntable here at the base. On the table there is a disc with various small studs on its upper surface.’

  ‘Well, that’s great,’ says I. ‘Now why not put it back together again?’ But he goes on, forehead furrowed in thought as he works it all out. This kid probably understands motor-car engines. ‘When the studded disc turns, each stud nudges a presprung vertical rod, which is then released and springs back into place, tapping one of these bells as it does so. The bells all have a different pitch, so in the right sequence they make music. Have you ever seen musical bells, M’sieur?’

  Yes. I have seen musical bells. Two or three guys stand in a line behind a long trestle with different bells on it. They pick up a bell, ring it once and put it down. If they get the sequence right, they can play music. ‘It’s the same theory,’ says Pierre.

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ says I. ‘Now why not put it back together again?’ But, no, he wants to explore some more. In a few seconds he has extracted the playing disc and holds it up. About the size of a silver dollar, with small knobs all over the surface. He turns it over. More knobs. ‘See, it must play two tunes, one for each side of the master disc.’ By now I am convinced this monkey will never play again.

  But he puts the disc back, other way up, pokes around with the blade of the knife to make sure everything is touching that should be touching and closes it back up. Then he winds it up again, puts it on the table and stands back. The monkey starts to wave its arms and play more music. This time a tune I do not know. But someone does.

  There is a kind of scream from the bedroom and suddenly the singer lady is in the doorway, in a lace dressing-gown, hair tumbling down her back, looking a million dollars except for the expression on her face which is like someone who has just seen a very large and fearsome ghost. She stares at the still-playing monkey, rushes across the room, embraces the boy and holds him against her like he was about to be kidnapped.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks in a whisper, evidently badly frightened.

  ‘It’s a toy monkey, ma’am,’ says I, trying to be helpful.

  ‘“Masquerade”,’ she whispers. ‘Thirteen years ago. He must be here.’

  ‘There’s no-one here but me, ma’am, and I did not bring it. The toy came in a box, gift-wrapped. The bell-hop brought it up.’ Meg the maid is nodding furiously to confirm what I say.

  ‘Where does it come from?’ asks the lady. So I take the monkey, which has now gone silent again, and look all over it. Nothing. Then I try the wrapping paper. Nothing again. So I look all over the cardboard box and right on the underside there is a slip of paper pasted on. It says: S.C. Toys, C.I. Then the old memory checks in. About a year last summer I was walking out with a very pretty girl who waited table at Lombardi’s on Spring Street. One day I took her down to Coney Island for a whole day. Of the various funfairs we chose Steeplechase Park. And I recall a toyshop there, full of the strangest mechanical toys of all kinds. There were soldiers that marched, drummers that drummed, ballet dancers on round drums who high-kicked – you name it, if it could be done with clockwork and springs, they had it.

  So I explained to the lady that I thought S.C. stood for Steeplechase and C.I. almost certainly stood for Coney Island. Then I had to explain what Coney Island was all about. She became very thoughtful. ‘These . . . sideshows . . . that is what you call them? They have to do with optical illusions, tricks, trapdoors, secret passages, things mechanical that seem to work all by themselves?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s exactly what sideshows at Coney Island are all about, ma’am.’

  Then she gets very agitated. ‘M’sieur Bloom, I must go there. I must see this toyshop, this Steeplechase Park.’ I explain there is a rather large problem. Coney Island is a summer resort only and this is the start of December. It is closed, shuttered up; the only work going on is maintenance, repairs, cleaning, painting, varnishing. Not open to the public. But by now she is nearly crying and I hate to see a lady in distress.

  So I call up a pal on the Commercial Desk at the American and catch him just before he goes home. Who owns Steeplechase Park? Fellow called George Tilyou, along with a sleeping and very secret financial partner. Yes, he’s getting pretty elderly and no longer lives on the island but in a big house in the City of Brooklyn. But he still owns Steeplechase Park and has done since he opened it nine years ago. Does he have a telephone, by any chance? By any chance, he does. So I get the number and place a call. It takes a while, but it comes through and I am talking with Mr Tilyou personally. I explain everything to him, hinting of the importance to Mayor McClellan that New York should extend every hospitality to Mme de Chagny . . . well, you know, a good old-fashioned spiel. Anyway, he says he’ll call back.

  We wait. An hour. He calls. Different mood entirely, like he had consulted with someone. Yes, he will organize that the gates be opened for one private party. The toyshop will be staffed and the Funmaster personally will be in attendance at all times. Not possible for the next morning, but the one after.

  Well, that means tomorrow, right? So yours truly is going to escort Mme de Chagny personally down to Coney Island. In fact I would say I am now her private guide to New York itself. And no, guys, there’s no point in you all turning up because no-one gets to go in but her, me and her personal party. So for one dirty cape I get scoop after scoop. Didn’t I tell you this was the best job in the world?

  There was only one problem – my exclusive interview, for which I had gone to the hotel in the first place. Did I get it? I did not. The singer lady was so distressed that she rushed back to her bedroom and declined to come out again. Meg the maid offered me her thanks for arranging the trip to Coney Island but said the prima donna was now too tired to continue. So I had to leave. Disappointing, but no matter. I’ll get my exclusive tomorrow. And yes, you can get me another pint of the golden brew.

  10

  THE EXULTATION OF ERIK MUHLHEIM

  ROOFTOP TERRACE, E.M. TOWER, MANHATTAN, 29 NOVEMBER 1906

  I SAW HER. AFTER ALL THESE YEARS I SAW HER AGAIN and my heart made as if to burst inside me. I stood atop the warehouse near the dock and looked down and there she was, on the quay. Until I caught the glitter of light on the lens of a telescope and had to slip away.

  So I went down to the crowd below and fortunately there was such a chill in the air that no-one thought anything of a man with his head swathed in a woolly muffler. Thus I was able to approach the brougham, to see her lovely face just a few yards away and to slip my old cloak into the hands of a fool reporter lusting only for his interview.

  She was as beautiful as ever: the tiny waist, the tumbling hair tucked up beneath her Cossack hat, the face and smile to break a block of granite clean in two.

  Was I right? Was I right to open all the old wounds again, to force myself to bleed again as in that cellar twelve long years ago? Have I been a fool to bring her here when eight score of months had almost cured the pain?

  I loved her then, in those fearful hunted years in Paris, more than life itself. The first, and the last, and the only love I shall ever have or know. When she rejected me in that cellar for her young vicomte I almost killed them both. The great rage came over
me again, that anger that has always been my only companion, my true friend who has never let me down, that rage against God and all His angels that He could not even give me a human face like others, like Raoul de Chagny. A face to smile and please. Instead He gave me this molten mask of horror, a life sentence of isolation and rejection.

  And yet I thought, foolish stupid wretch, that she could even love me just a little, after what had happened between us in that hour of madness while the avenging mob came down to lynch me.

  When I knew my fate, I let them live, and glad that I did. But why have I done this now? Surely it can only bring me more pain and rejection, disgust, contempt and repugnance yet again. It is the letter, of course.

  Oh, Mme Giry, what am I to think of you now? You were the only person who ever showed me kindness, the only one who did not spit upon me or run screaming from my face. Why did you wait so long? Am I to thank you that in the final hours you sent me the news to change my life again, or to blame you for keeping it from me these past twelve years? I could be dead and gone, and would never have known. But I am not, and now I know. So I take this crazy risk.

  To bring her here, to see her again, to suffer again, to ask again, to plead yet again . . . and be rejected yet again? Most probably, most likely. And yet, and yet . . .

  I have it here, memorized already word for word; read and reread in dizzy disbelief until the pages are spoiled with finger sweat and crumpled by trembling hands. Dated in Paris, late in September, just before you died . . .

  My dear Erik,

  By the time you receive this letter, if you ever do, I shall be gone from the earth and to another place. I wrestled long and hard before deciding to write these lines and only did so because I felt that you, who have known so much misery, should learn the truth at last; and that I could not easily meet my Maker knowing that to the end I had deceived you.