She stared at him, her green eyes hard and bright, still frenzied, all the artifice gone. “Do you mean that, Monsieur Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“But... but you know how it will end, how I shall choose?”
Holmes was briefly silent. “Yes, we both know how you will choose.”
Christine struck the pew before us with her two fists so hard that it must have hurt. She stood abruptly. “We shall see, we shall see.” She strode past us, hurling over her shoulder at the scowling old woman, “Go to the Devil, old cow.”
Holmes and I sat stiffly, listening to her footsteps echo through the church, dimming as she went further from us. I sighed. “Good heavens.”
Holmes gave an explosive laugh. “Exactly. I meant every word I said, Henry. I shall not blame her. She will make the Viscount sweat, I can tell you that.” He looked around, then leapt to his feet. “Come–we have some unfinished business of our own.”
“What business?” I turned to see him advance toward a man sitting a few rows behind us. His face with its dark skin and black mustache was only too familiar.
“Monsieur le Perse, let us have a chat.”
“Hsst!” the old woman whispered loudly, one finger over her lips.
The Persian fled, with Holmes in pursuit. He crossed to the far side of the church, then ran down the aisle, nearly colliding with an aged priest in a long black cassock before darting out a side door. I strode after Holmes, nodding politely at the priest. He was pale and bald, his thick gray eyebrows furrowing his brow in disapproval.
The doorway Holmes and the Persian had taken led to a narrow stone spiral staircase. I started up, round and round, and before long my legs began to ache. I heard heavy breathing and came out onto a landing which opened onto the roof. Holmes stood with one hand against the wall, panting, his face pale.
“Henry, perhaps I should give up tobacco.” The effort to speak even these few words made him breathe harder.
“Did he go out here?”
“No, blast it. I took a quick look, but I am certain he has gone higher. This must lead to the top of the tower. Let us go, but more slowly so my wretched lungs do not burst.”
After a while we came to another doorway. Still panting heavily, Holmes leaned briefly on his stick, then raised his hand. “Let me go first.” He held his stick like a club, a good foot beneath the heavy silver handle in the shape of a wolf. He stepped outside, and I followed.
The stairway had ended in a small stone enclosure only ten feet across that opened onto the roof of one of the majestic towers, those Sphinx heads of Notre Dame. A wall went all the way around the top of the tower, a wall of carved stone with a repeating pattern of ornate stone X’s or lateral crosses. However, I was not so conscious of the wall as of the space, the openings, in it. The nearest section was only five or six feet away, and we were up a frightful height, all the roofs of Paris spread out before us. I took a few hesitant steps forward, got a glimpse of the Seine below, then shuddered and stepped back, clutching at the doorway’s edge with my right hand, the vertigo overwhelming me.
“Oh, do come out, Henry. The view is marvelous.” Holmes had gone straight to the wall, leaned upon it, and stared out. He was very tall, and the wall seemed a ridiculously trivial barrier, hardly going to his waist.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock–take care!” My eyes briefly swept the tower top–no sign of the Persian–then fixed themselves on the dark stone at my feet.
“Fear not. I have a healthy respect for heights. Do you recall how Claude Frollo met his end?”
“Only too well.”
“Quasimodo pushed him over, perhaps from this very tower. Frollo caught upon one of the gargoyles and hung for a while before falling to his death. You should have a look at the gargoyles. They are quite remarkable. Do you remember, too, how Quasimodo would climb all about the facade of the cathedral, totally unafraid of the heights? His bells must be directly beneath us.”
“How interesting.” I could not keep the weakness from my voice.
Holmes turned and raised his stick, the sunlight flashing off the bright silver wolf’s head. “Please do come out from behind there, Monsieur. We mean you no harm. We only wish to discuss a mutual acquaintance.”
To my left I saw the Persian appear. So long as I stayed within the doorway, one hand touching the stone, it was not so bad, but I dared not walk out onto the roof as Holmes had. I preferred admiring the gargoyles at a distance, from the solid ground below.
The Persian was sullen, his dark eyes hard. Instead of disguising him, the conventional morning suit and bowler hat only accentuated his foreign origins. Again I noticed that scar on his cheek which had been so poorly stitched. He must have been well into his forties, but his mustache was still solid black, only a light dusting of gray showing in his sideburns.
“What do you want of me?” His French had only a trace of an accent.
Holmes lowered his stick and leaned upon it. His breathing had finally slowed almost to normal. “Merely some conversation. We have, I believe, a mutual friend named Erik.”
The Persian looked about nervously. “It is best not to mention that name.”
Holmes leaned out over the edge, peering downward.
“For God’s sake!” I exclaimed.
“I see neither he nor Quasimodo crawling about, so I believe we may speak freely.”
“This is no joking matter,” the Persian said.
Holmes’s smile vanished. “No, it is not. Why did you follow us?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to discover what you were about. As you say, we have a mutual acquaintance.”
“He followed us here?” I asked.
Holmes nodded. “It was done quite skillfully, as might be expected. After all, we are not dealing with an amateur, but with the former head of the dreaded Persian secret police.”
The Persian’s mouth opened wide, then he clenched his fists. “How the devil...? Who has told you this? I shall deal with them.”
“No one told me, daroga, so you need not add further to your already impressive list of victims.”
“Then how did you discover my identity?”
“That shall remain my little secret. It detracts from my reputation when I reveal my methods. People such as you always interest me. I wonder how you can be so completely lacking in moral scruples, how you could have slaughtered your fellow-countrymen so easily. The book I have been reading numbers your victims in the thousands.”
“I was only the tool of the Sultana.”
“Ah, so that is your justification? Can you not do better than that?”
“You are rather insulting, Monsieur Holmes.”
“The Sultana was supposed to have been equal in every way to the most corrupt and violent emperors of ancient Rome. Mere slaughter and torture did not suffice. She and her court had to watch, to be amused. You helped arrange these spectacles, I believe. Did you enjoy watching women and children being torn to pieces by wild beasts and other such sights?”
“The enemies of the state...” the Persian began.
“‘The enemies of the state!’ Ah, I like that! Such elevated language.” Holmes’s face had reddened, and he had that dangerous gleam in his eyes. “How good to know that in the late nineteenth century the most vile, primitive savagery can be justified with such lofty, vapid rhetoric. I am sure your motives were of the highest order. Tell me, the book says that the Sultana was a... peculiar woman, again implying some unnatural vice resembling that of the Roman emperors. Was this true?”
The Persian stared at Holmes as if he questioned his sanity. Perhaps his command of the French language was not so good as it seemed, or more likely, he may have wondered if any man would dare to speak to him so directly. At last a strange, furtive smiled pulled at his lips, revealing his teeth; he squinted slightly, lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. “It is true. She would copulate with anyone.” The smile came and went again. “Except poor Erik.”
The French word h
e used was not the equivalent of the English “copulate,” nothing with the Gallic politeness of accoupler, but rather a very vulgar word, all the more shocking because French was usually so refined and lacked such blunt language. It was too much for Holmes. He could not maintain his sarcastic composure; genuine rage showed in his face; and the Persian took half a step back, a faint leer still twisting his lips.
I felt a disgust I did not quite understand. “Watch your tongue!” I exclaimed.
The Persian smiled again. “Come now, we are not schoolgirls. The Sultana had the soul of a whore, and everyone is glad she is dead, including me. That is all in the past. True, I followed you, but perhaps we can do business together. You want to know about Erik. Well, I can tell you all about him–for a price.”
“Ah, yes, the price. Everything comes round to the price for your kind.”
“May I smoke?” After Holmes nodded, the Persian took out a silver case, removed a cigarette, and lit it. I was not a tobacco expert like Holmes, but even I could tell these were Turkish, cheap, and very strong. “Yes, I know all about Erik, and I can tell you his secrets.”
“And what is the price you had fixed upon?”
“For one hundred thousand francs I can lead you right to him.”
Holmes laughed. “What a precise, round sum. How convenient.”
The Persian frowned. “You need not mock me. I know how well paid you are. I know all his secrets, and you know nothing, great Monsieur Sherlock Holmes.”
“Indeed? Very well, Monsieur. You tell me when I am mistaken. Erik lives deep under the Palais Garnier at the bottom of its cellars. He has dwelt there for some fifteen years, ever since the Opera was completed in ‘75. Before that he was one of the engineers, the contractors, who worked on the building, and before that he must have spent time in Persia, no doubt constructing fiendish and ingenious devices for the Sultana. He was also in India where he discovered the secrets of the Punjab lasso. Earlier still he was in the circus where he excelled as freak, ventriloquist, singer, and fiddler. He has always been deformed, his face a type of living skull. This explains why he usually wears a mask. Perhaps while in the Orient he developed a disease which further ravaged his poor face. No doubt he has always cultivated his voice and its powers because his face is so ugly. He has lurked under the Opera these many years, appearing above ground to view the performances from his box, Box Five. There he first noticed Christine Daaé. Who can explain how love happens, how it takes root in a man’s soul? Suffice to say that he loves Christine Daaé. At least he thinks he does. That is why he is determined she shall succeed. She is also his pupil, the one to whom he has decided to pass on the secrets of his incredible vocal talents.”
The Persian stared, his mouth open. “Mon Dieu—you know everything!”
I was equally impressed. “Why did you not tell me all this, Sherlock?”
“I just have.”
“I mean...”
“I rarely guess, but a few of my suppositions were on shaky ground. Our friend here has just confirmed them. Now perhaps you would care to explain your past relations to Erik. I have no way of knowing much about his adventures in the Orient.”
The Persian hesitated. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Do you like music, daroga?”
“What?” The question obviously surprised him.
“You heard me. Do you like music? Violin playing, singing, the symphony, the opera?”
The Persian shrugged. “Not particularly.”
“Thank God for that. I think perhaps you dislike Erik, yet you fear him even more. Some strange bond has kept you in Paris all these years. Tell me what you know.”
“It will cost you. Perhaps not a 100,000, but 25,000.”
Holmes laughed. “I shall not give you a sou. I should have realized I was mistaken. You can tell me nothing about such a man; you understand nothing; you know nothing—only facts, mere facts, and I have plenty of those. I am not certain I could believe much of what you say. Go to the Viscount de Chagny or his brother if all you want is money. The elder brother is rich and should enjoy the details of your exploits with the Sultana. Perhaps you can teach him a trick or two.”
The Persian’s eyes narrowed. “Beware, Monsieur. I am not a man to be trifled with. Few of my enemies remain alive.”
“Really? And have your friends fared any better? You strike me as one who would sell his wife or mother for the right price.”
“How dare you!” He slipped his hand into his coat, but Holmes stepped forward, his stick arcing through the air. The Persian cried out and grasped his hand. A small, double-barreled derringer clattered upon the stone. Without thinking, I stepped forward and seized it. “Damn you, damn you,” the Persian muttered.
I looked about, saw the blue-green Seine and the rooftops, the tiles blue or red under the sunlight, then I retreated back to the doorway.
The Persian’s face was red with hate, his eyes furious. “You and he are exactly the same with your damned arrogance, your damned smugness! You think you are better than everyone else, so refined, so intelligent, so sensitive. You are not–you are damned ugly freaks, dirty dogs. I shall make you pay for this, Sherlock Holmes–I swear to God I will!”
The corners of Holmes’s mouth curved contemptuously. “Certainly. Good day to you, sir.”
With further oaths and insults, the Persian swept past him and headed for the stairs. I gave him a wide berth, but he began cursing me as well. The sound of his voice gradually faded.
Holmes took the derringer from me. “American made. Not particularly accurate, but effective, if messy, at close range.” He slipped it into the pocket of his frock coat. “Arrogant, greedy fool. A hundred thousand francs! What nerve. Did you see his face when I told him about Erik?”
“Yes. He was dismayed, but hardly more surprised than I.”
Holmes removed his top hat, then wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. “This is certainly a splendid view, and it is a fine day. Do you see where they are building a basilica at the summit of Montmartre? We should also be able to see Eiffel’s tower from up here.”
“Please, Sherlock, can we go down now?”
“Yes, I suppose so, although after such a climb I would like to spend more time up here. I particularly like that contemplative gargoyle down a level, his chin in his hand, and the view of the spire is also excellent. Ah, but you have had trials enough for the day, and I saw how you seized the derringer, despite your phobia.” He gave his stick a tap on the stone at his feet, then we started down the stairs.
Although going down was easier than coming up, we were both fatigued by the time we reached the bottom. The church seemed dark and cold after the warm sunlight above. We headed for the vestibule, the stone walls, arches and columns about us all part of some great gray presence. The sunlight had lit up the rose window, giving the colored glass a subdued glow, a kind of life; the window seemed the heart of the edifice or, perhaps its eye, a monstrous, intricate eye that saw all of Paris.
The elderly priest gave us a withering glance. Holmes smiled at him, then deposited a coin in the poor box. It made a loud, shimmery clang. This act improved the priest’s disposition, but his smile was more frightful than his frown. He had pale, watery blue eyes which did not focus correctly. Although Claude Frollo died without issue and although he was a fictional character, this priest appeared to be a relative in spirit, if not in blood. What strange thoughts passed through his mind when he saw a pretty young girl?
It was a relief to step out of the church and return to the street and the sunshine of the late nineteenth century. “Hugo was wrong,” I said.
“How so?”
“He wrote of the strange living bond between Notre Dame and Quasimodo and claimed that after the hunchback was gone, something was gone, too, from the edifice. However, the cathedral has a disquieting aura, something very old, ancient, something... half alive.”
Holmes stroked his chin, then stared off into the distance. After a long while he
said, “Yes, I remember that particular characterization. I shall need to think about it. He said Quasimodo was its... Come, Henry, we have earned a good lunch today and perhaps a fine burgundy. The morning has been strenuous, eventful, and as I am weary of this case, we shall take the afternoon off and stroll through the Louvre.”
“Yes, but tomorrow you will finally tell me everything you know about Erik.”
“So I shall. We shall be taking a brief boat ride, and we can discuss it then.”
“This afternoon?”
“No, no–it is the Louvre today, the Opera tomorrow.”
“But the boat ride?”
He gave that barking laugh of his, then started across the street. “No more questions. I am ravenous. Perhaps we should again try the restaurant where we dined with the Count de Chagny; however, this time we shall be able to give the food the attention which it deserves. Today it will be le lapin, not le veau.”
Eight
Our afternoon at the Louvre and an evening concert of French music by Saint-Saëns and Gounod provided a pleasant interlude, but the next morning we were back at the Opera. We were soon treated to the spectacle of the Viscount de Chagny and Christine Daaé billing and cooing at one another like two love doves. The Viscount wore a blue velvet frock coat and gray trousers, his usually pale face flushed a healthy pink, the ends of his airy red-brown mustache neatly waxed, and his fine white teeth showing more often than usual. Without his customary petulant scowl or the love-sick droop of his mouth, he was not unattractive. Christine Daaé wore a beautiful green dress and hung about his arm as if she drew sustenance from it. Between the two were all manner of smiles, laughs, and secret glances.
Sherlock gave me a look heavy with ironic disgust. “It has, I fear, begun.”
“Whatever could have happened?” I asked.
Later that morning we had our answer directly from the Viscount. Christine was to be fitted for a costume. After giving her tiny white hand a final squeeze and flashing his teeth in a fierce smile, the Viscount parted from her. Even his voice had altered, the whiny tone gone.
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