The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  “Bonsoir, bonsoir, mes bons Messieurs,” he said with a silly laugh. Several of his teeth were gone, the remaining few brown and twisted. “Bonsoir, ma jolie chienne,” he said to Toby, at least getting her gender right.

  She had shrunk back, and when he spoke to her, she began to bark furiously.

  “Toby!” both Holmes and I exclaimed. She stopped barking, but a low growl came from her throat. I was quite surprised. She had always seemed to like everyone she met.

  “How are you gentlemen this lovely evening?” the old man said. “We have not met before, have we? My memory is not what it used to be.”

  “No, we have not met,” Holmes said, “and we are quite well. And you?”

  “Oh, fairly well, although at my age the rheumatism or the liver is always a problem. It is tiresome to grow old, but I cannot complain. I have my work to keep bread and wine on the table and to entertain me. My old legs do get stiff.” With a sigh, he lowered his bag; its shape shifted. The canvas material was filthy. Toby growled again.

  “Your liver bothers you, does it?” I asked. Normally I found the French preoccupation with the liver comical; however, from the look of that nose, the old man was a good candidate for cirrhosis.

  “Yes. The pain is right here.” He pressed at his left side where his stomach would be.

  Holmes’s smile was rather frightful, and his fingers twitched impatiently. “What would your job be, Monsieur?”

  “You do not know me? I thought everyone in the Opera knew old Jacob the rat catcher. Would you like to see the fine big ones I have just caught? They think they are smart, the rats of the Opera; they stay awake at night trying to figure a way to escape me; but I know the bait they like best. They cannot resist me, all save that old devil, the king of rats. He is as big as a cat, I tell you. I have seen him many times. He hurls taunts at me, but before I die I shall catch him. Then I shall really be famous. However, I have one here that is a good foot and a half long if you stretch his tail out all the way. Let me show you.”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I could not tear my eyes from the bag. My hands were icy. The old man fumbled at the rope holding the bag closed. Toby rose, then barked madly, the sound echoing off the walls, filling the dark cellar.

  “Toby!” Holmes shouted. “Toby! I am sorry, Monsieur, but you had better keep your bag closed. And now, will you pardon us? We have important work to do. We are inspecting the walls to make certain they are sound. We have heard of some... cracks.”

  “There is a fine big crack by the stairs near the lake. Would you like me to show you?”

  “Another time. Bonsoir.”

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur. Do you have the hour?”

  Holmes withdrew his watch and grimaced. “Two minutes after midnight.”

  “Time to quit, I suppose. Time for a warm fire and a bit of drink. Hope to see you again. Au revoir, ma bonne chienne.” He hoisted the bag over his shoulder, and I could visualize the stiffening rat corpses shifting about inside. “Alouette, gentille alouette...” He strolled off, and soon we saw only the beam of his light bobbing upon the floor.

  I eased my breath out between my teeth. Toby was still agitated. “What a dreadful little man.”

  “He seems quite good at his work, Henry, and quite pleased with himself. But how, I wonder, shall we ever get this blasted door open? We have wasted nearly half an hour. It must be something simple, a stone you press which activates a hidden mechanism. He has designed this for himself and does not want strangers or madmen like our rat catcher wandering in unexpectedly. The key must be his height. Only someone as tall as he can reach it, and yet I have examined all the stones along the ceiling.”

  I was shivering now and glanced overhead at the dark bricks set in dirty mortar. “Have you tried the ceiling itself?”

  “I have not. Shine the light overhead. Ah, see that one brick, how the mortar about it is partially gone? You have redeemed yourself utterly, Henry. If ever I slight your abilities again, you need only remind me of this.” He stretched out his arm and stood on his toes, but still could not reach the brick. “I did not think he was so much taller than I; however, his arms and fingers were quite long as well. This can be remedied easily enough.”

  Holmes seized one of the armored dummies by the leg and pulled it free. The others rattled about, and I heard a high pitched squeal which set my teeth on edge. Toby barked once, then leapt onto the dummies.

  “Toby!” Holmes shouted.

  I grabbed the leash and drew her back. Holmes stepped on the dummy’s chest and pushed at the brick with his fingertips. “It gave way, Henry–it gave way!”

  After a few seconds we heard a low, grinding noise; then a doorway in the wall appeared as a slab of stone slowly receded. On the left side was a black gap of about an inch. Holmes put his hand on the door and pushed; it swung open slowly. He took the lantern and briefly shone it through the doorway.

  Curious, I took a step forward. Hard fingers sank into my arm, yanking me back even as some faintly hairy, slithery thing danced across my face, then leapt away.

  “What in God’s name...?”

  Holmes shone the light upward on the thick hemp rope; its perfect hangman’s noose still quivered faintly. “The Punjab lasso–one of them. When you stepped on that stone, the noose dropped; no doubt the heavy spring mechanism was meant to yank you up into the air and leave you dangling there.”

  I swallowed once, and a nervous cough slipped from between my lips.

  “Fear not, Henry. The collar would have protected your neck, and I would have cut you down at once. We must waste no more time admiring these ingenious devices.”

  He gave the lantern back to me, then took Toby’s leash. She lowered her head, her nose twitching eagerly, then started down the passageway. The stone walls were some three feet apart, but the outer wall against the earth was covered with a brownish moss or lichen. We had gone only a short way when we heard a grinding noise behind us, then a rumble: the door behind us seemed to have closed of its own will. My mouth still felt very dry, and I licked at my lips.

  The passageway curved downward, the beam of yellow light jouncing along the outer wall. Toby panted heavily. Briefly I recalled one of Poe’s tales where a character is bricked in alive, a recollection I could have done without.

  We had walked for a good fifteen minutes when Holmes stopped so abruptly that I nearly bumped into him. Toby howled, the sound choked off abruptly.

  “Good Lord!” I cried.

  The floor had opened up before us, and Toby would have been lost if Holmes had not had a good hold of the leash. He bent over and seized her collar, then hoisted her up. He knelt down and stroked her head. His bowler hat was gone.

  “Good dog, good Toby. Don’t worry.”

  I stepped forward to the edge where the floor had given way and shone the lantern down. The light glistened off black water, circles radiating outward, some ten feet below. How cold it must be! A lone man would have fallen, his light extinguished, and be left floating–if he could swim–in utter darkness. Perhaps there was a way out. More likely, the poor wretch would swim about until cold, darkness, and fear took their toll; then the black waters would swallow their victim.

  “What a sneaky trap! I–I almost knocked you over, Sherlock! Instead of just your hat, all three of us could be down there!” My hands shook, and the panic seized me.

  “But you did not knock me over, and we are not down there,” Holmes said quietly. “Thanks to Toby. I shall reward her for this. If we survive the night, I shall retire her to the country.” He let out a great sigh. “A clever trap. One walks along at a good pace, and the floor abruptly gives way. It relies on the simple fact that a person walks in the middle of any path. The walls are some three feet apart, the opening two feet wide and exactly centered, a passage some six inches wide remaining on either side. I wonder. Have a hold of my arm, Henry.”

  With his back to the wall, he placed his right foot upon the narrow strip of stone; that section
of the floor collapsed, swinging downward. All that remained was the narrow passage on the left side.

  “Villain,” I muttered. “Treacherous villain.”

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “Another clever touch. Most people, being right-handed, would take the passage on the right. This one seems solid.”

  He walked carefully across the narrow ledge. “Come, Toby.” She barked once, then crossed.

  I admired her equanimity, the quickness with which her good spirits had returned. My hands were still shaking, my fear gradually giving way to anger. I threw the satchel across, then followed Toby.

  Holmes opened the satchel and took out a revolver. “We must be quite near the house on the lake. The long corridor behind us was designed to lull the senses into a misplaced confidence. I doubt Erik would try the same trick twice, but it is no longer safe to assume that the ground underfoot is solid. We must tread gingerly.”

  “Who–who will go first?”

  He smiled. “Toby. And then I. Come.”

  Toby would gladly have resumed her earlier pace, but Holmes hesitated briefly with each step, testing the ground with his foot. The downward pitch of the passageway gradually leveled, and soon the light showed before us what seemed an ordinary oaken door with a brass knob. Holmes moved slower and slower, gradually wrapping the leather leash about his right hand and drawing Toby closer. He stopped some ten feet from the door, the dog at his side.

  “Hush, Toby, hush.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I am not quite so willing to thrust my head into the noose a third time. This must be the very entrance to Erik’s dwelling, and doubtlessly another booby trap remains.”

  “The floor again? Or the noose?”

  “No, as I said, he would not use the same trick twice. Let me ponder this for a moment.” He ran his long fingers through his black oily hair, his brow furrowing. His breath formed misty white vapor.

  I could not understand his calmness. I was far too frightened to think clearly. Toby whimpered softly. “I wish I had a stick,” he murmured, “a long one.” I tried to slow my breathing down, but my nervous system would not be placated. I had to struggle with the urge to turn and run the other way.

  “Hold the leash,” he said. I did so, and he raised the lantern, shining the light slowly about us and peering sharply. “Do not move, Henry.” Cautiously, he proceeded forward until he was only five feet from the door.

  My lips formed a curse, but no sound came out. I thought of Michelle, and the thought completely unmanned me, bringing tears to my eyes.

  “How does one usually open a door?” Holmes asked.

  “By... by turning the doorknob.”

  “Exactly. So we shall at all cost avoid touching it.” He took a step forward, raised his revolver, then gave the door a good solid kick. It swung open; he stepped back; a woman screamed. The room before us was dark.

  “Monsieur Holmes–do not touch the doorknob!”

  “Stay here,” Holmes said, then rushed forward.

  “Certainly not!” I cried. Toby bounded after him, and I followed, satchel in one hand, leash in the other.

  The beam of Holmes’s lantern darted about, revealing violins and organ pipes, then came an absolutely blinding light–as if the sun itself had suddenly appeared in that very room! I jerked shut my eyes, dropped the satchel, and tried to shield them with my hands. Toby howled, and Christine screamed again. I blinked, but all I could see was a kind of red fog, the afterimage of that terrible brightness. I lowered my hand. The light had dimmed, but I could not see right. I rubbed at my eyes, and finally they began to function normally.

  We were in an oddly furnished room, one as baroque and outlandish as the Opera itself. Christine Daaé stood with her hand clutching at her head. She wore the white shift from the prison scene, her arms and feet still bare. A small man held her arm. He had a full black beard, brown skin, and black eyes, but something was peculiar about his expression.

  “Bonsoir, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Vernier. How kind of you to come calling. Please make no sudden movements.”

  The voice came from behind us. I turned. The Phantom had had time to change out of his devil costume. He wore evening dress, the black cloak an archaic touch, and a black mask which hid his face but not his two blazing eyes. He held two revolvers. Holmes was half blinded like myself, his eyes blinking spasmodically, but he managed a smile. Both his hands were empty, and one of the Phantom’s revolvers looked familiar.

  Along the wall was a row of electric light bulbs, only about a third of them now illuminated, the filaments under the clear glass white hot. Just glancing at them made my eyes hurt.

  “You have done very well, gentlemen. You made it past the noose, the trap door, and you did not touch the doorknob. If you had, the ceiling overhead and a ton or two of rock would have fallen upon you. Your eyes will recover soon. Electric light can be dazzling, and I like to show off the unusual features of my home.”

  Christine let her hand drop. “Oh, Monsieur Holmes, you should not have come. I am doomed, but I did not want you to be harmed.”

  We heard a muffled banging noise, then a faint voice. “Christine-Christine! What are you saying! For God’s sake–get us out of here! We are burning up!” It was the Viscount de Chagny.

  The Phantom’s eyes smoldered behind the vapid mask. “My Christine is right–you should not have come. However, you are here; we are all here; and we must make the best of it. Please be seated, and then the final act will begin. I fear that the ending will not please you, not if you are enamored of happy endings.”

  Thirteen

  Holmes and I sat on a purple velvet sofa with curved legs of elaborately carved wood. The parlor of the Phantom’s house resembled something from the Arabian Nights, perhaps Ali Baba’s cave, but he had the most modern conveniences, such as the electric light. The bluish orange flame within the stone fireplace was not from coal or wood, but from gas jets.

  A spectacular Persian carpet covered the stone floor, the design minute and intricate, beautiful reds, golds, and blues on a beige background. Paintings in gilded frames hung from the walls: strange, haunted landscapes, and Botticelli’s slender nymphs in gossamer veils. There was also a variety of musical instruments: violins, flutes, horns, and recorders. The organ pipes formed one entire wall, and on either side of its keyboards were a harpsichord and an ebony grand piano. Statues, busts, and vases were also abundant. Rising over the piano was Apollo holding forth his lyre, a miniature of the statue on the Opera roof; in a corner was a goddess, her smooth marble limbs nearly as enticing as those of a real woman.

  Christine had collapsed into a purple chair which matched the sofa, and the Phantom handed the small bearded man one of the two revolvers. “If either of those two men tries anything, you will shoot him. Comprenez-vous?”

  The man hesitated so long I thought he did not understand. His stare was vacant, his eyes curiously focused, but at last he nodded.

  Two gas lamps hung upon brackets over the organ manuals. Eric turned up the flames, then threw a switch which extinguished the brilliant electric bulbs. The gas lamps were of colored glass and cast a warm yellow light, the effect much less stark. The room would have seemed cozy and relaxing if not for the two pistols leveled at us.

  “You may remove your coats, gentlemen. I think you will find it rather warm otherwise.”

  After the damp chill of the cellars, the warmth was welcome, but we took off our overcoats slowly, not wishing to alarm the Phantom’s armed companion. Toby sat at our feet, panting, her tongue lolling from her mouth, her tail brushing back and forth along the carpet, the very picture of contentment.

  “Stupid dog,” I muttered.

  Erik sat on the bench before the organ and crossed his legs. His black mask was made of porcelain, its surface smooth and glossy. The long fingers of his left hand drummed out some pattern upon his knee, while the other hand held the revolver. Even the smallest of his movements showed a fluid gracefulness, and we knew he was
physically strong. Weak men do not rapidly clamber up ropes with ninety-pound women tossed over their shoulders. All in all, he had the bearing of a natural aristocrat. The Viscount might have the title and the fortune, but not this man’s genius or his sheer physical presence. With the mask hiding his face, it was easy to understand why Christine had imagined him beautiful; his horrible face seemed an impossible blemish.

  “It is a great pleasure to have visitors in my modest dwelling, especially ones so distinguished as the diva Christine Daaé and the detective Sherlock Holmes. I know of Toby from The Sign of the Four, and you are also welcome, Doctor Vernier.”

  Again we heard the muffled voice of the Viscount. “For God’s sake, Christine! Help us!”

  She covered her eyes with the palms of her small white hands. “Please, Erik–please.”

  The Phantom laughed, the sound as melodic as his voice. “Can I be blamed, gentlemen, if the Viscount and his friend the Persian are so stupid as to drop into my torture chamber? Did I invite them here? My chamber, unlike the one built for the Sultana, was not constructed to roast people alive. The temperature is no worse than that of a warm summer afternoon in Africa. He has been in there hardly an hour; yet the Viscount behaves as if he had been lost in the desert for days. The chamber is rather amusing, an arrangement of mirrors constructed to give the impression of a vast wasteland. We shall have a look later. It should interest you, Monsieur Holmes.”

  “No doubt. Mazes and puzzles have always interested me.”

  “I have not introduced my servant, Victor. He has been with me some twenty years, ever since Persia. The daroga’s men murdered his parents and cut out his tongue. He was only a boy then, and his mind has never recovered from the shock.