Soon he reappeared with a great, slobbery beast, all brown and white, its pink, wet tongue lolling from its mouth. At the sight of Holmes, the dog gave a loud bark, then leapt from the train. The baggage man was nearly pulled out, but he managed to get the leash off his hand. The dog reared up, its paws clawing at Holmes’s fine striped trousers and black overcoat.
He knelt and ruffled the dog’s fur behind its ears. “Ah, Toby, I am glad to see you, too.” He smiled at me. “Meet Toby, Henry, a wise old girl indeed. She may seem an ordinary mongrel, but she has a nose of incredible power. If anyone can track our Phantom through the Opera, it is she.”
Eleven
There were some difficulties in persuading the hotel management to accommodate Toby, her size being the main obstacle, but Holmes, employing both stern threats and honeyed flattery, at last prevailed. Indeed, as many ladies were allowed their small, yappy dogs (as the baggage man on the train had so aptly called them), why should Toby not be granted equal status? Holmes was required to sign a waiver promising to pay for any damage or requisite cleaning of carpets or furniture.
Watson describes Toby as half spaniel, half lurcher, this latter a breed with which I am not familiar, but he never explains how he came by this precise information. Being something of a cat fancier myself, I cannot speculate. Certainly the impression Toby gave was of a large, good-natured mongrel with none of the temperamental behavior of an overbred lineage. She was remarkably affectionate in a clumsy, slobbery way; and once I grew familiar with her pungent dog breath, we became, if not the best of friends, at least sociable acquaintances. I must also credit her with being so well trained that Holmes did not have to pay an extra franc for cleaning. She always announced her urges by staring at the doorknob and whining softly; as such displays were infrequent, she must have possessed a bladder of copious capacity.
Holmes remained in fine spirits, and we spent Friday strolling about Paris with Toby on leash. April was almost upon us, and signs of spring were everywhere. The temperature climbed into the sixties, the sun shone warm and yellow upon the bronze statues and the bubbling waters of the fountains, and sometimes an entire hour would pass without my thinking of Michelle. However, Saturday was a gray and misty day, the fickle weather returning again to winter. Holmes paced about the hotel room, clearly in a nervous state. After a light meal, we walked to the Opera, Toby accompanying us.
We were nearly two hours early, but already a row of carriages stood before the Opera. The façade was even more impressive with Bossuet’s new electric lights illuminating it. Holmes raised his walking stick and pointed at a large barouche with two magnificent steeds, the coachman standing beside them smoking a cigarette.
“Do you recognize the coat of arms there on the side?”
“No,” I said. “Should I?”
“It is that of the de Chagnys.”
He stopped before a flower stand and selected a bouquet of daffodils, carnations, and tulips, the blossoms no doubt brought in from southern France by train.
“For whom are the flowers?” I asked.
“Christine Daaé. We shall visit her first.”
The guard at one of the rear entrances perused Moncharmin’s note, then let us by. He was not so sure about Toby, but Holmes said we were only delivering flowers and that the dog would not, of course, accompany us backstage to the performance. Soon we were walking along the dim corridor which led to Christine Daaé’s dressing room. I could not help reflecting upon all that had transpired since we first visited her. It seemed as if an eternity had passed, not a mere five weeks.
“Are you certain she will be in that same dressing room?” I asked. “Surely as the prima donna she deserves something more spacious.”
“Yes, but she will have refused any offers of other rooms.”
“Why?”
He paused before the door. “Because here she first heard her Angel of Music. Here he taught her to sing, and here she may yet hear his voice.” He knocked. “Mademoiselle Daaé?”
“Entrez.”
Christine Daaé sat in the chair before her dressing table. Hanging before a screen were her costumes. The blonde wig with the plaits lay on the table, one plait drooping over the edge. She wore a gray dress, much less splendid than her recent finery. Her face was pale, her green eyes weary and troubled; one tiny white hand rubbed at the other. She smiled, genuinely glad to see us, and I reflected again on how very young she was.
“Oh, Monsieur Holmes, it is good to see you. Oh, how beautiful!” She took the flowers, raised them to her face and inhaled deeply. “They smell wonderful, and they remind me of spring.” Turning to Toby, she laughed. “And who is this?”
“Permit me to introduce Mademoiselle Toby. She is Henry’s faithful dog. He missed her terribly, so at last he sent to London for her.”
She was so pleased with Toby that she did not see the black look I gave my cousin. “Bonjour, Toh-bee, bonjour! Ah, que tu es belle!” She sat down and scratched Toby behind the ears; she was rewarded with that look of fawning idolatry characteristic of the canine species.
Holmes dropped his stick, then half turned as he bent to pick it up, his black overcoat sweeping about. “We came to wish you our very best, Mademoiselle, and to say farewell.”
Her smile did not entirely vanish, but quite changed character, complementing the sadness of her eyes. She nodded.
“We shall, of course, be attending the performance.”
“I am sure it will be a great triumph,” I said.
She nodded absentmindedly, then turned again to Sherlock. “I would like to thank you, Monsieur Holmes.”
“For the flowers, Mademoiselle?”
“No, for more than that. For... for being so kind to me, and for looking out for me and for him. I think you understand him better than anyone, Monsieur Holmes.” Her smile was pained, and she lowered her gaze, petting Toby again.
“I was glad to be of some service.” Holmes’s voice had a certain hesitance, none of its usual bite.
A brief silence followed, and then she said faintly, “Are you angry with me?”
Holmes frowned. “Why should I be angry?”
“For choosing... for my choice.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, I am not angry.”
“But disappointed perhaps?” Holmes did not reply, and I could see her green eyes assume a liquid quality as they filled with tears.
“I would have been most astonished if things had turned out differently. I shall not fault you for your choice. In real life, ugliness and disease are not so desirable as in romance.”
She sighed, took her lower lip between her teeth, then flicked it out. “Real life is quite wretched.” She looked up at us, a mocking quality in her eyes. “Do you think, gentlemen, that people ever truly change?”
Holmes shook his head. “No. A person’s character is fixed at quite an early age.”
“Come now,” I said, “is that not rather hard? I should hate to think I have learned nothing in the last ten years, that I am still the same foolish youth that I was at nineteen.”
“Maturation does occur,” Holmes said, “but the core, the essence, remains the same.”
I shook my head. “You are too harsh. Men are not rocks made of some stony and impervious matter.”
“True, we are not rocks; the essence of our person is not matter; however, the personality, or the spirit, or whatever you wish to call it, is equally resistant to change.”
“I do not agree,” I said warmly.
Christine was staring at Toby. “Raoul seems different. We have not quarreled so much. He swears he loves me and will treasure me, and yet he still seems... a child, somehow, a mere boy.”
Holmes and I said nothing, but the silence at last made me uneasy. “I am looking forward to the performance. I did not have the opportunity to tell you how remarkable you were in La Juive.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite remarkable.”
She smiled up at us. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are very kind
. Have you heard? Carlotta will be attending tonight.”
“Yes,” Holmes said. “I did hear something of that. You will no doubt show her what a true artist, as opposed to a mere singer, can do with the role of Marguerite.”
“Oh, Monsieur Holmes, you really are very sweet. May I ask you an impertinent question?”
“You may.” His eyes had a wariness which contradicted his reply.
“Are you married? Is there a Madame Holmes?”
“No, Mademoiselle.”
“Ah, that is a very great pity.”
I was tempted to voice my agreement, but her words had such a sorrowful earnestness that I remained silent. Holmes reddened slightly about the ears.
“Well, Mademoiselle, it is time to say adieu. When you are singing in London someday, please look me up. Here is my card.”
“Oh, I shall, Monsieur Holmes–I promise I shall.”
“I am certain you will be magnificent tonight.”
“So am I,” I agreed.
“You are most kind, Doctor Vernier, and your dog here is a great sweetheart. I wish I could steal her from you.”
“Well...” I began.
“No, no.” Holmes shook his head. “It would break his heart.”
We turned to go, and I was out the door when she said, “Monsieur Holmes, they will not–no one will hurt him, will they? Raoul hates him I know, and the managers... Oh, promise me...”
Holmes had put on his top hat, and he was very tall and imposing in black evening dress. “I can promise you that much, Mademoiselle. No one will harm him. I believe he can take care of himself, but he is also assured of my protection.”
“Oh, merci, Monsieur!” Her voice broke, and she turned away. “Merci.”
We started down the corridor. Holmes lit a cigarette, and I let out a great sigh. “What an odd girl she is,” I murmured.
“She is not so very odd. She is a representative sample of her sex. If she had chosen Erik, then she would be odd.”
I stared at him. “You told her you were not angry with her.”
“I am not.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes. It is life which frequently annoys me, but not being Jehovah, I cannot alter one wretched thing. I cannot turn the Viscount into a frog or Erik into a prince.” He inhaled deeply through his cigarette, then hurled it down and crushed out the butt with the toe of his boot. “At any rate, I have purloined what I came for.” He reached into his overcoat and withdrew a shoe.
Somehow I could not imagine it really to be what it appeared to be. “What is that?”
“What do you think, Henry?”
“A shoe.”
“Very good. Go on.”
The diminutive size and the style, laces, pointed toes, and a high square heel made the sex of its owner obvious. “A woman’s shoe.”
“Exactly.”
I gave him such a strange look that he began to laugh. “Fear not–I am not one of those men with a perverse fondness for certain articles of feminine apparel. I took this shoe for Toby’s benefit.”
“You did? Just now?”
“Yes. Remember when I bent over to fetch my stick? Mademoiselle Daaé was in her stocking feet, and I had noticed her shoes under the dressing table. I seized the shoe while she was busy with Toby and the flowers.”
Obtuse to the last, I continued to stare. “For Toby, you say? Is she one of those dogs with a taste for leather? That does seem rather cruel to Miss Daaé.”
This speech brought a great outburst of laughter. My cousin was given to frequent harsh, staccato laughs which functioned more as exclamations than as signs of amusement. Only rarely did something strike him as truly amusing, but my words had done the trick. He laughed until he began to wheeze, and I ended up grabbing his arm and clapping him on the back. “Are you well?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. If only you could have seen the expression on your face just now. The shoe is not a delectable morsel for Toby’s dinner, but is instead intended for her formidable nose. One whiff, and she will be able to track Miss Daaé wherever Erik should take her.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Perhaps if I were more familiar with dogs... Oh, it is hopeless. I shall never make a consulting detective.”
“There is much to be said for a good laugh, Henry, and as I am already the world’s foremost consulting detective, there is no need for amateur efforts on your part.”
“I like that!” I said hotly. “Who gave you the idea of employing Toby in the first place?”
“Frankly, Henry, the idea had been brewing for some time, and your comment merely brought it to the surface.”
“Now you are the one mixing metaphors most dreadfully.”
“True, and I am sorry for my callous remarks. You appeared so utterly perplexed, yet I must admit no one of my acquaintance has ever absconded with a young lady’s shoe. Perhaps the idea came to me because of a case involving a savage hound and a gentleman’s missing boot, but that is a lengthy story which I shall relate another time. We had better go backstage and reserve a place. Tonight a veritable mob will be present.”
Holmes was correct. The stairways were crowded enough, but on stage were dozens of people, many of them policemen in their blue jackets or firemen wearing their distinctive helmets. Carpenters were doing some last minute work on the sets, and overhead in the flies I could see men crowded about the lights. The gas jets in the battens suddenly went on full, illuminating the side where we were standing and also throwing out considerable heat. I was glad I had not worn my overcoat. Toby surveyed the people rushing about us with the same good-natured, if slightly imbecilic, countenance. A few of the workmen smiled; others regarded her curiously.
“Ah, Monsieur Holmes.”
I turned and saw the man I had noticed in the auditorium, Mifroid of the Sûreté. At his side were two burly policemen of similar short stature, no doubt chosen because they did not make him appear small. Unlike his men, he wore no blue uniform but a dark suit of expensive cut. His mustache was trimmed very close to his straight, thin upper lip. All in all, he recalled a head waiter, one with a very inflated sense of his own importance.
“We have not met before, but I have heard of your exploits.” Although he was speaking to us, his eyes were fixed on Toby.
“And I, too, have heard of you, Monsieur Mifroid. I am sure the Opera management need have no fears tonight. The formidable presence of you and your men guarantees that we will be spared any further incidents.”
Mifroid’s eyes narrowed, and I could almost see the small wheels turning as he attempted to decide whether to take this compliment at face value. “When this Erik appears, my men and I shall take him at once.”
“But have you considered where he might strike? If not a specter, he has shown a diabolical cleverness.”
“You think I am not aware of that? I have my men everywhere. I suspect that he may try to interfere with the lighting again. I have several men in the battery room and others at each of the gas mains. There are others atop the dome itself, watching the chains which support the new chandelier, and two men are at each level of the flies. I have also employed twice the usual number of firemen. There will be no ‘accidents’ tonight.”
“Indeed, you have thought of everything,” Holmes said.
Mifroid smiled, then his eyes were drawn again to Toby. “Tell me, Monsieur Holmes, that dog there...?”
“Ah, yes, he is the faithful companion of my cousin, Henry Vernier.” Mifroid and I nodded at one another. “Henry’s eyesight is... diminished, and especially in the dark the dog helps him get about.”
Mifroid bent over and scratched Toby between the ears. “He seems an amicable beast.”
I gave a weary sigh, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Cataracts, you know. Once the lights go dim I can see hardly anything.”
“A pity. I never heard of cataracts in one so young.”
Neither had I, but I said, “Oh, it is a rare affliction, but I seem to have been
frightfully unlucky. There are some promising surgical techniques, but in my case things have not progressed so far that...”
Holmes’s smile bared his teeth. “Now, now, Henry, I am sure the inspector has more important business to attend to.”
Mifroid nodded. “Regretfully, that is true, Monsieur Holmes.” He clicked his heels together in a manner more befitting a Prussian than a Gaul. “The Phantom would think twice about striking again tonight if he knew Sherlock Holmes were present. I must see to my men.”
After he was gone, I said, “He seems a harmless enough sort.”
“You forget your Hamlet, Henry. One may smile and smile and be a villain. Mifroid has risen by trampling others underfoot, including my friend le Villard. Somehow whenever Mifroid is involved, the credit always goes exclusively to him.”
“He has been methodical. Perhaps the Phantom will not appear.”
Holmes gave that peculiar laugh which resembled a snort. “As if sheer numbers could ever intimidate our Erik! He is desperate, Henry–absolutely desperate. Nothing could persuade him to stay away tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because he is in love.” His shook his head, then raised his walking stick. “One simply cannot protect every gas line, every turncock, in this vast complex. Do you see those rubber hoses fueling the battens with gas? He could cut any of the dozens of similar hoses about the house, then light a match.”
“But surely he would not harm Christine?”
Holmes sighed, weariness showing in his eyes. “I think not, but who can tell? Clearly his mind is unbalanced, and yet...”
“Yet what?”
“His music was so utterly beautiful. Ah, if only he were the Angel of Music! Unfortunately, the Deity rarely seems to send his intermediaries to assist in the affairs of men.”
“What do you think Erik has planned?”
“Something truly spectacular.” The battens overhead went out, plunging us into shadow. Carlos Fontana walked by clad in the brown robes of the medieval scholar Faust. As he had not yet sold his soul to the devil, he wore a white beard and wig. With him were his attendant and the stage director, Monsieur Gérard.
The Angel of the Opera Page 22