The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Down,” Holmes said. “Down beneath where we are now.”

  Fear came out of the shadows, briefly clasping me in its icy arms. I had known what Holmes’s answer must be. “But he went up with her.”

  “Yes, he did, and that should keep Mifroid and those other buffoons occupied for a while. They do not know about the house on the lake. I doubt the Persian would have told them about that. We may have to deal with the Viscount and the Persian, but they will not be able to actually follow Erik.”

  “But how...?”

  “The shoe, Henry–the shoe. Now is when we employ our secret weapon, Toby’s miraculous nose.”

  I sighed and kept silent, even as dread settled heavily about my heart. I had no wish to visit the Phantom’s underworld again, with or without Toby. “It is his and his alone,” Christine had warned the Viscount as they stood before the trap door, and now she had been swallowed up by the darkness. I could not see how the night could end but in death, and on Erik’s home ground I knew only too well where the odds lay.

  Twelve

  Holmes had a dark lantern in his leather satchel, and he stopped to light it so we could make our way through the darkened theater. As neither of us wished to wander the filthy cellars in evening dress, we went to an abandoned dressing room and changed our clothes. Remembering our previous chilling voyage upon the lake, I put on a heavy woolen sweater, trousers, and overcoat.

  After he had finished changing, Holmes withdrew a familiar leather collar from the bag. “Put this on.”

  I sighed. “Dog collars again. Is this really necessary?”

  “No, not if you prefer strangulation.”

  “Nothing happened the last time. It is so uncomfortable.”

  “Having a rope drawn tightly about one’s throat is also uncomfortable. You forget Joseph Buquet’s fate. The stories about the Phantom employing the Punjab lasso must have some basis in fact. Put it on.”

  I sighed a second time. “Very well.”

  Holmes had fastened the leather band about his own throat. He rebuttoned his shirt collar and took his bowler hat.

  All was pandemonium on the first and second floors beneath the stage. The gas had come back on, and the stagehands were relighting the lamps. Policemen in their blue uniforms rushed about, and numerous small groups of men had gathered to hear the news from those witnesses who had seen Christine Daaé’s abduction.

  As we passed the battery room, a loud, angry voice exclaimed, “I tell you it is not possible! The current was not cut off.”

  “But the lights went out,” said another voice.

  “And I tell you everything was fine down here! It was not our fault.”

  Holmes laughed softly, then started down the stairs.

  “How ever did he manage it?” I said. “It does seem supernatural.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Then how do you explain it? There are three gas mains into the Opera House, separate piping of oxygen and hydrogen for the limes, as well as the electric wiring. If that in itself were not challenging enough, there is also the fact that we saw Erik climbing down from a rope an instant later.”

  “Do you think, then, that we have a very technical ghost with powers over gas pipes and electrical wires?”

  We had reached the third cellar down, where cavernous stone archways replaced iron girders, and I was hardly in the mood for mockery. “You need not be sarcastic.”

  “Oh, very well, Henry. Do you recall my postulating an accomplice after the incident with the chandelier? On that occasion Erik was in the prompter’s box while his accomplice overhead released the chandelier. Tonight Erik waited for this other person to extinguish the lights, then he struck.”

  “But how did this accomplice know the precise instant to act? And how could anyone shut off everything simultaneously?”

  “Your first question is the more puzzling, but the problem with the electrical lines suggests to me a means of signaling across a distance. The Phantom knows every inch of the Opera and was an engineer. No doubt he has kept abreast of various technological developments. Such a man could easily add some wiring of his own. I suspect a simple switch high above the stage. When thrown by the Phantom, it set off a light or buzzer, which alerted his accomplice that the moment had come.”

  “But the second question remains. How could that accomplice shut off everything?”

  “I think Erik constructed his own sort of organ room below ground. He has tapped into the gas line even before it splits into the mains, adding an extraneous loop which is normally kept open. From under the Opera he could easily reach any of the pipes which supply this great metropolis. He did the same thing with the main electrical line from the battery room. These hidden shunts would not be detectable until they were all closed, as they were tonight.”

  “Do you truly think he is so clever?”

  “Without a doubt, Henry. It is amusing to think of his confederate in some hidden room tripping the various switches and levers which plunged the entire Opera into darkness. However, my theory still has one flaw.”

  “What flaw?”

  “The Phantom’s desperate, lonely nature. He is a man who considers himself utterly alone, totally cut off from normal human society.”

  Holmes took Christine’s shoe from his pocket and knelt before the dog. “Smell this, Toby. Good! Sniff it well, remember that scent. Find her, Toby–find her. Mind you have a good hold on that leash, Henry. She...”

  The warning was too late: as Toby bounded forward she nearly tore my arm from its socket. She sniffed briefly at the stone floor, bounded, sniffed, bounded, and so on, each time starting off again when I least expected it.

  “I have found a way, Henry, to reconcile the Phantom’s solitary nature and this necessary accomplice. This person must be someone of very limited mental powers, perhaps one of the feebleminded.”

  “Come now, could a feebleminded person be so adept at throwing switches and closing valves?”

  “Yes. I recall a certain gang of thieves whose safe breaker could literally not speak a word, and yet he had a remarkable aptitude for locks, gears, and all things mechanical. The so called idiot savant is not uncommon, as a physician should know; one faculty is extraordinarily developed while others are almost totally lacking. Besides, pulling levers when a light goes on does not really require much intelligence.”

  Holmes had hold of the lantern and satchel while I attempted to rein in the eager Toby, whose nose busily examined every dusty nook. Pieces of sets were all about us. Here was a scaffold used for an execution scene, the thick rope dangling from the crossarm. Close by stood the ornate wooden head piece of a bed. “What on earth?” I whispered.

  “Lohengrin, the second act,” Holmes replied.

  Toby led us into another room which I recalled from our last visit, the resting place for a variety of gods. On one side, gigantic Egyptian deities with animal heads lay on their backs, while their shorter brethren stood upright. Holmes did not need to help me this time. Aida, I thought, and there, Samson et Delilah. A golden calf ten feet tall stood by other graven images, the brilliant paint sullied by dust.

  Holmes shone the light on the calves’ legs, revealing a pair of glowing yellow eyes. They so startled me that I let go of the leash. With a bark, Toby leapt away. The eyes vanished, and we heard the cat yowl as it scurried away.”

  “Toby!” Holmes shouted. “No! Bad dog! Toby!” He glanced angrily at me. “Can you not even keep hold of the leash?”

  “You hold the blasted leash!”

  “I have my hands full.”

  “Give me the lantern and the satchel then,” I said.

  He did so, then went after Toby. I could still feel my heart beating from the shock, but the ridiculousness of the situation soon prevailed. I went around the calf and shone the light on a deity with a ram’s horns.

  “Holmes,” I called softly. I heard a loud voice from the other room and turned, swinging
the lantern about.

  Holmes slipped beside me and said softly, “Put out the light–quickly.”

  I slid shut the cover, plunging us into the darkness, but soon another beam of light shot into the room, illuminating the silent gods.

  “Christine!” It was the Viscount de Chagny.

  “How many times must I tell you to keep silent! And keep your hand up to the level of your eyes. This is no joking matter.” I recognized the Persian’s voice.

  “Christine may be close by.”

  “But you need not alert Erik and everyone else of our presence. Damnation! Will you keep your hand up!”

  “But it grows weary,” the Viscount whined.

  “Then raise the other hand!”

  “Oh, very well.”

  We were hiding behind the golden calf, but we could see them through its legs. Holmes had knelt and managed to keep Toby silent. The two men still wore evening dress, and the astrakhan hat was all too familiar.

  “You are certain it would not be simpler to go by way of the lake?” the Viscount asked.

  “That way is death. The siren’s voice lures you close, then Erik’s hand grabs you by the throat. He uses the reed to breath under the water, a trick he learned in his travels. We will try the secret entrance near where Buquet died. Wait a moment. I could use a cigarette. There is no rush.”

  “No rush, you say! Christine in that monster’s hands, and you dare to tell me there is no rush!”

  “He will not hurt her.” A match flared, and I smelled the foul odor of cheap Turkish tobacco.

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he loves her, because the fool loves her.”

  “Love–what does he know of love!”

  The Persian sighed. “Calm yourself.”

  “If anything happens to Christine, you will not get a solitary franc from me! I should never have listened to you and that buffoon Mifroid. ‘She will be safe, Monsieur le Vicomte.’” It was a passable imitation of the policeman’s voice. “‘I shall throw a ring of steel about her. One move, and my men will seize him.’ And you–’Trust the police,’ you said.”

  “Mifroid took every precaution. Even I did not think Erik could pull off such an abduction.”

  “It is natural, I suppose, for a former policeman to stand by another policeman. Finish your cigarette.”

  After a brief silence, the Persian spoke. “I do not much care for your tone of voice, Monsieur. And I was not a mere policeman. I was the chief, and it was no ordinary force. My enemies could tell you–if any were still alive–that it is unwise to annoy me. If you wish to see Mademoiselle Daaé again, keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  “Oh, very well, but could you please hurry? And what if we cannot find him, or what if he finds us first and wrings our necks with this lasso you mentioned? My Christine will be his forever!”

  The end of the Persian’s cigarette glowed red. “No, Monsieur. One way or another, Erik is finished. At half past midnight, one of my servants will tell Mifroid about the house on the lake. Another will tell all the stagehands and the carpenters about the house and Christine’s peril. Alcohol and concern for their favorite should do the trick. The cellars and the lake will be swarming with men. Erik will be under siege. He will never escape.”

  “How could you do such a thing without consulting me first!”

  “I like to take precautions, Monsieur. If Erik should turn the tables on us and wring our necks, as you so nicely put it, then we will soon have the pleasure of his company in hell.”

  “Speak for yourself–I shall be in the other place!”

  The Persian laughed in earnest. “Oh, no doubt, Monsieur, no doubt.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Very well, but your hand, Monsieur–at the level of your eyes.”

  The light swung about, danced upon the jackal head of Anubis and his fellow gods, then began to recede. “Damn that coward and his treacherous lasso!” The Viscount’s voice was more distant.

  Holmes stood, and Toby began to pant loudly. “Admirable dog!” he exclaimed. “What a pair they make, Henry. If ever two scoundrels deserved one another... And to think they consider themselves capable of challenging a mind as formidable as Erik’s. The Persian is a mere thug. Yes, and Mifroid makes a worthy third. The police may find the house on the lake, but entering it is another matter.”

  “You heard what they said–we have at best an hour and a half to find Erik.”

  “Then we must get to work.” He held out the shoe to the dog. “Remember, Toby. Find her.”

  Toby bounded forward again, but now Holmes held the leash securely. I shined the lantern on the gray stone floor before us. “That cat certainly startled me. I wonder how it survives down here.”

  “Come, Henry, is that not obvious even to you? The Opera employs many cats; their function is to limit the rat population.”

  “Lord, if there is one creature I cannot abide, it is a rat. When I think of the swarms of them lurking down here in this wretched, infernal darkness...” I shuddered.

  “Although there are, as you so aptly put it, swarms of them down here, at least they have the good taste to keep themselves hidden.”

  A pained laugh escaped from my lips. “I do not find that reassuring.”

  Toby sniffed the toes of some goddess, then crossed over to a bas-relief of some Assyrian gods, the false stone slab tipped against the wall.

  “Verdi’s Nabucco.” Holmes nodded at the slab. “Or perhaps Rossini’s Semiramide. I suppose you would not relish the idea of the Phantom also lurking about somewhere in the darkness.”

  “No.”

  “I had hoped to find him before he made his way back to his house. We came down here quickly, and it must have taken him some time to descend from the heights of the stage.”

  “What if Toby does not pick up the scent?”

  Holmes did not reply for a moment. “Then I shall have truly failed. Mifroid, the police and the mob may fill the cellars and surround the house on the lake, but they will never capture Erik. You saw the door to his house. Before they can break through, he will have fled to some other hiding place. He has had more than fifteen years to explore and to build secure nests. The fools might as well attempt to eliminate all the rats down here. Erik will laugh at them from the shadows.”

  We came upon long tubes of heavy canvas piled upon each other, rolled up scenery; between these canvas walls were narrow corridors. As Toby traversed them, I felt as if I were a pencil wielded by some giant hand trying to trace a way out of the maze.

  Toby turned at the end of a row, halted, then thrust her nose even lower. She gave a loud bark which shattered the unnatural stillness, then she followed the trail between the gray stone wall on one side and the canvas on the other.

  “Good dog, Toby!” Holmes exclaimed. “Remarkable creature! I’d gladly trade any number of Lestrades or Mifroids for an honest beast with a nose such as yours.”

  Toby led us to the stairway at the end of the room, then down the stone steps. The fourth level was much less cluttered. We were in a vast, empty cavern of brick and stone, and our footsteps gave a faint echo. We came to what appeared to be a great heap of corpses in armor, but I remembered that they were only dummies used to represent the fallen in battle. My light caught a vacant, cracked wooden face under a metal visor, the end of the nose broken off. Toby went round the pile, then stopped before the wall, sat back on her haunches, and barked loudly.

  Holmes frowned. “As I thought. Somewhere in this wall is the entrance to a secret passageway.”

  “Then we are stymied,” I said.

  Holmes’s black eyebrows dipped toward his formidable nose. “Not at all. I know a thing or two about secret passages. Once I have opened the door, Toby will follow the scent. Hold the light on the wall before me.”

  “We have less than an hour now before the Persian’s servants act.”

  “It should suffice.”

  The wall was constructed of stone blocks
some twelve inches square, and Holmes began to trace the outline of one with his fingertips. Fifteen minutes later he was down on his knees still examining the wall. Keeping up with Toby had kept me warm, but now, in spite of my wool sweater, pants, and overcoat, I felt cold. Toby whimpered softly.

  “Perhaps we should try the place where Buquet was found,” I said. “That was where the Persian and the Viscount were headed.”

  “We shall use the same route as the Phantom himself. The fact that Buquet was found hanging at that very spot does not auger well. If the Viscount does not heed the Persian’s advice about keeping his hand raised, a similar fate may await him.” Toby whimpered again. “Quiet,” Holmes said sternly.

  The cavernous cellar was so still that every sound seemed amplified: the scrape of Holmes’s boots on stone as he stood up, his sharp quick intake of breath, Toby’s rhythmic breathing. Behind us, from that heap of false dead, came a quiet scratching sound which made the hair at the back of my neck rise. A large rat, I thought. Toby heard, for she rose at once.

  “Sit, Toby–sit,” Holmes said.

  She gave him a mournful glance, then obeyed. I was beginning to shiver; the silence weighed heavily upon my heart; and I had to struggle against a sudden urge to run away. “Any luck?” I said, although I knew the answer.

  “No.”

  The silence settled again about us, but soon I thought I heard music, someone humming. At first I suspected I was delirious, but then Toby rose and turned her head. “Holmes...”

  “I hear it.”

  Across the vast chamber we saw a yellow-white light bobbing along. The humming changed to a whistling, and I recognized the tune. Sure enough, our visitor soon began to sing:

  Alouette, gentille alouette. Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tête, je te plumerai la tête. Et le bec, et le bec. Alouette, gentille alouette...

  “Who the devil can it be?” I asked.

  “Someone of a strangely jolly disposition.”

  I swung the light about, and soon we saw an old man approaching us, lantern in one hand, the other hand holding a bag thrown over his shoulder. He wore a black beret and black woolen jacket. His face was lined and very pale except for a drunkard’s bulbous red nose, similar to the one Holmes had sported as part of his workman’s disguise. His gait was wobbly, probably from drink and age. For an instant I thought of Father Christmas with his bag of goodies, but this was clearly a darker, more sinister variant.