by Paul Kane
A lump came to my throat. He was goading me, but I refused to rise to the bait. I would not be his mental punch bag.
“I intend to stay.”
Poe did not reply. He remained sitting with hunched shoulders and the sound of his scribbling nib in the candlelight. I intuited, however—intuition being only a hop and a skip from guesswork, as he might say—that his change in mood was not about me, and not entirely about the nature of the mystery that was testing us so sorely, either.
He crossed the room and yanked the servant cord. When Le Bon came he asked him to deliver a message by hand the following day. “To Colonel Guy Follenvie, postmaster at the Place de Ravaillac. Tell him to meet me on the opening night of La Traviata at the Palais Garnier on Friday. The details are enclosed. And remember to tell him to bring Madame Lop-Lop.”
“Madame Lop-Lop?” I sniggered, perplexed.
He ignored me. “Are my instructions clear, or are they not?” Le Bon said they were.
“I have an appointment tomorrow with a saddle maker, name of Hermès,” Poe continued, this incongruous piece of information as mystifying to me as the first. “Do not let me sleep after nine. I shall take coffee but no toast. Holmes can do as he pleases.”
His tetchiness with the negro confirmed what I had begun to suspect: from what Poe had said in the shadowy corridors of the Opéra Garnier, I knew he had turned over old soil, and that the bones of the most painful recollections imaginable, that of his long lost love, his first and only love, Virginia, had been unearthed. To my dismay, far from being a hero of vast intelligence and indefatigable vigor, the figure in the semi-gloom—Dupin, Poe—now looked like a husk of humanity. Not a god of the dark imagination or giant of literature, but instead a brittle insect crushable under foot.
I stepped closer. “Can I get you—?”
“No.”
Reluctantly, I left the room and went to my bed, but did not sleep.
Lying awake, I pondered whether, for all his absolute faith in the appliance of “ratiocination” and his unwavering dedication to that skill in his latter years, the Socrates to my Plato had increasingly built a dam to keep the vast lake of his inner feelings at bay, at no inconsiderable cost, and—after his sudden ill temper tonight—if unchecked or unheeded, one day that dam might burst.
* * *
My private concerns over my mentor’s wellbeing only contributed to my further ill ease as opening night drew closer. I slept badly, drank excessively, and by the time we arrived at the Opéra Garnier, my nerves were so jangled that the gas-lights of the boulevards swam in my face like Montgolfier balloons. The conflux of so many carriages dispensing their chattering cargo was so overwhelming, I felt palpitations. So unsure of my grip on my senses was I that I swear I saw a man in a peaked cap taking a pig for a walk.
“Lo! ’tis gala night...”
In the cab, Poe lifted a mahogany box onto his knees, unclipped the brass catches, and opened it. Wrapped in red satin lay two flintlocks I recognized immediately as Denix French dueling pistols.
“Our difference of opinion has come to this?” I mused, not entirely seriously.
Poe, stern-faced, handed me one. “I can think of no man I would rather trust when cogent thinking runs aground and the only logical recourse is to a lead ball and gunpowder.” This was as much as I could expect as an apology for his recent behavior, and rather more than I was accustomed to. “My home country is big on these things. I hear they often use them in lieu of democratic debate.” He blew down one barrel, then squinted along the length of the other. “I’d have picked up a gun for the South in the war, had I been on the right continent.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
He pouted indignantly. “I went to West Point, I’ll have you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Kicked out for insubordination.”
“Now I’m starting to believe you.”
Dressed for the opera in top hats and capes, we joined the milling throng and were carried by the flow of the crowd up the Grand Staircase. It was mildly ironic to think all these theater-goers done up to the nines were coming to see a tale about disease, death, and prostitution, but such is the wonder of art— or of beautiful music, anyway—to make anything palatable.
We met Bermutier in Box “C,” as planned, from which we could watch the seats filling below. If the policeman had nerves half as frayed as I did, he concealed it well. He reported that, according to “Dupin’s” explicit instructions, there were thirty men in plain clothes placed in strategic positions around the building. Poe repeated his insistence that they be in sight or earshot of each other and Bermutier confirmed that they were, several with Garde du Corps du Roi firearms secreted about their persons, and all with batons and whistles. The one thing they lacked, he said, was any rough description of what this malefactor might look like.
“Monsieur Holmes will tell you,” said Poe, to my evident surprise.
“Me?”
“Yes, my friend. I guarantee that within the minute you will be telling Bermutier here exactly what our criminal looks like.” He looked down upon the audience as he spoke. “What manner of man could hide in a room unnoticed? Hide under the dressing room table, perhaps, invisible? Slip under the Stage Door shelf, unseen by an eagle-eyed doorman? And slip away again, below the eye-line of you or me?”
“Someone of exceptionally, I don’t know—small stature...” An idea went off in my mind like a struck match. “Good God! You can’t mean—a dwarf!”
“Yes. A dwarf. When you remove the impossible... What was your phrase, Holmes? I thought it was rather good...” Poe unfolded a large sheet of paper from his inside pocket and thrust it at Bermutier. “Holmes and I are going to take up position outside the dressing rooms. Your men are covering the back-stage areas and front of house. I’ve marked this architectural plan with red crosses where I’ve seen trapdoors or manholes down to the underworld. That’s where he will make his escape.”
“Underworld?” I was shocked.
“There is a subterranean lake under this building. A labyrinth of canals and vaults almost the equal of that which is above ground. His hiding place, if not his habitation.”
“The Phantom was under our feet all the time!” I said.
Bermutier folded the plans and stuffed them in his pocket, tugging the brim of his hat as he headed to the door.
“Take the utmost care, Bermutier,” said Poe. “He does not want Violetta to sing tonight. He intends his desecration of beauty to be complete.”
The dressing rooms were busy as we took up our positions near the Stage Door. Loubatierre, in his wig as Alfredo, emerged to make his way upstairs, taken aback to see C. Auguste Dupin, detective, walking toward him.
“Merde,” said Poe. The traditional “break a leg” of French actors.
“Merde,” repeated the primo tenore grudgingly, and was gone.
Dressers and wardrobe mistresses with peacock feathers and robes flitted to and fro. A man in a waistcoat continually checked his watch. Christophe was ensconced in his position. I casually asked after the small boy. “We never saw him again. His mother sent a letter saying he was too afraid to come back.” Neither of us found that wholly surprising.
“We would do best to split up,” Poe said to me. “You stay here, outside the door. I shall position myself in the dressing room with Madame Chanaud.” He checked the hammer action of his pistol, turning to go, but I caught his arm.
“You do not believe in demonic forces, and neither do I. But these acts are no less than atrocities. Mindless atrocities. Is it conceivable that pure evil can manifest in a human being?”
“Evil is a convenient label invented by the sanctimonious to describe the unfathomable.” He walked to the dressing room door and knocked. “There are only deeds, which we may define as good or bad according to our nursery training and the books we read. The deeds of human beings upon each other and the infinitely complex or infinitesimally simple reasons they commit them.�
� He knocked a second time and entered.
I felt strangely alone. As if by magic the corridor was deserted. The chaotic movement of figures all round us had abated: they had all flown to their posts. Actors waiting in the wings for the action to begin—as were we all. Nervous—as were we all. Fearful—as were we all.
Now the man checking his pocket watch was me.
Above, muffled by distance and woodwork, I heard the orchestra practicing in short, unpredictable bursts. Discordant notes seeped through the building and into my bones.
Walking to the Stage Door to test the bolt, I passed the dressing room door, but could hear no voices within. Christophe’s chalky pallor matched my own.
I heard a clatter of footsteps from the dark. I caught a rake of a man by the wrist and asked his name. He said, “Rennedon.” He stuttered that he had to give Madame her fifteen-minute call. I told him to do it quickly and go.
When he came a second time he looked frightened of me and retreated a step or two. He held up the five fingers of one hand. I jerked my head with approval. He rapped on the door and delivered his message.
“Five minutes on stage, Madame Chanaud!”
Again, I heard no voices from within.
I wondered whether the two were talking in the dressing room or sitting in silence, Edgar Allan Poe and his new dark maiden, the uncanny mirror of his beloved. He could not save his sick wife, and now another young woman played a dying consumptive. Could she be saved? And if not, if he failed, if his old enemy, Death, took her, as well...
The strings, having tuned up, fell into a chasm of silence.
At that point my concern became acute. Minutes had elapsed since the rake-like man had rattled off. Why did Marie-Claire not emerge? Surely she would be late for her all-important entrance. What was delaying her? It was then that I heard, as if in answer to my unspoken query, the loud bang! of the Stage Door.
I spun round. Saw it swing back into place. The chill draft of night hit me. In the same instant, paralyzed, I saw that the bolt had been lifted.
My hand pulled out my flintlock and held it at arm’s-length. My mind was racing. Had they not been speaking because the fiendish assailant was already in the room? Had I been pacing, stupidly, and checking my watch while—God in Heaven, was I already too late?
“Holmes! Holmes!”
Poe’s cry was one of—what?
I ran to the door, pistol outstretched, and kicked it wide—
The sight that confronted me shocked me to my core. Never, in the many cases I have encountered over the years as a consulting detective in London, in Sussex, or on Dartmoor, was I more stricken by utter horror.
Marie-Claire stood facing me, immobile. I recognized the lilac “courtesan” gown worn by Violetta in Act One, the bell-like shape of the crinoline, the tight-fitting lavender bodice with pagoda sleeves buttoned to the pit of the throat in a white collar, the leghorn hat ribboned in silver-gray tilted off her braided sausage curls. Yet it was not the lack of movement that pinned me to the spot, for she stared at me from a face not merely painted with the stark white of greasepaint, but a face that bubbled and collapsed, the hissing of a deadly steam rising not only from the cheeks and withering locks, but from the breast of the bodice itself, swathing the entire head in a pall of vapor.
No sooner had I absorbed the nightmare image than her hands tore the front of the bodice asunder, popping the buttons and ripping away the collar.
Pulling my cuffs over one hand, I reached out to help—but the swing of her arm knocked mine away.
The features were falling asunder. Nose. Chin. One eye, a hollow, slid... Then to my amazement Marie-Claire’s gloved hands—no, gauntleted hands—tore off her face and flung it aside.
Fizzing, it broke apart against the wall and fell to the floor. A plaster of Paris mask made by any of a dozen workshops along the Seine. The wig of sausage curls came off next, hurled after it, sizzling on the floorboards like a cut of beef on a griddle.
The figure hastily disrobed a leather balaclava to reveal a thin mop of snowy white hair. Even the leather, extending as it did over the shoulders, was blackened and burning in patches where the acid had eaten through the clothing, and Poe wasted no time in divesting himself of it, and the thick brown gloves with it. Last to be thrown aside in a heap were the goggles as he stepped out of the hoops of the crinoline cage.
He ran to a bowl of water and up-ended it over his head, shook the water out of his hair and flattened it back with his hands.
“Did you see it? What did you see?”
“Nothing!”
We were in the corridor. I still brandished my pistol. Christophe the doorman looked like a startled sheep.
“Tell Monsieur Bermutier, the policeman, that the Phantom is in the building,” said Poe. “Tell him Monsieur Dupin says the devil has been foiled, but he has escaped underground. It is imperative he send all his men in that direction. All his men. You understand?” The man nodded. “Tell him they must descend to the lake. Immediately! Or he will get away. Go. Go!”
The man shot off. I started to follow him, but Poe caught my arm.
“No. We go this way.”
He swept out of the Stage Door entrance into the dark, not pausing to answer any of the questions rushing through my mind. Not least: if the prima donna was not in the dressing room, where was she? In the hands of a terrible abductor? And if the monster was secreted, as he had just said, in the Opéra, or under it, why on earth were we running away from the place as if our lives depended on it?
As we took to the street I kept up with the detective, an incongruous if not ludicrous sight in his flapping skirts and petticoats. Even with trousers and boots underneath, his long white hair and jagged elbows gave him the appearance of a spirited old maid.
Poe dropped to one knee, and I almost fell over him.
He picked up an object from the ground. A theatrical mask with green feather-like marks, eye holes and a large hooked beak.
“Papa guinea! Onward!” Poe cried, inexplicably. “Keep up with the pig!”
At first I thought that this was some strange colloquial expression in the French vernacular to which I had not previously been exposed, but no. What we had to keep up with was indeed just that—a pig. A very fat, very pink pig, whose curl of a tail and rear end I now could make out wobbling in and out of the shadows cast by the street lamps ahead.
I was convinced I was going mad. No, that I had gone mad. The process was complete and unequivocal. But it was there, in front of me. A pig on a leash, no less, with a man in a peaked cap in tow, keeping up a brisk walking pace with the animal, its ears flapping and its snout rubbing along the pavement like a bloodhound. Poe following—in the billowing dress of a courtesan. And I following him.
On the boulevards people were laughing and drinking in the harsh, false glare of the cafés as if the garish reds and golds of the theater were bleeding out after us. The signs were phosphorescent—names like La Barbarie, Sans Soleil, or La Bataille—the eerie glow of absinthe and folly, of love affairs not yet begun and long ended. And not a single soul batted an eyelid at three men hastening past, one at least half dressed in ladies garments, with a pig at the end of a rope.
Then I glimpsed him.
The dwarf!
Far ahead, almost out of sight. Scurrying along low to the ground, head down, swathed in a scarlet hood and cape. And soon just that, a swirl of red, lost into the crepuscular haze as the Boulevard des Italiens became the Rue St. Marc.
Soon we had left the bright lights of the cafés behind, and lost sight of the hooded bloodstain to whom we were giving chase. Solitary women now lingered in the shadows, hands extending for money, but we hurried past them, interested only in where this path, and this misshapen gnome, clothed in his Red Death cowl, was taking us, and if, in some nether-region of Poe’s “ratiocination,” this insanity—this unparalleled absurdity— made sense.
Whatever trail the beast was following, and clearly the scent was still in its nostr
ils, took us to the grim environs of the Rue St. Denis of notorious repute, den of vice since medieval times, and the expectation of such did not fall short. Almost every doorway was adorned with a streetwalker showing a leg or sometimes a bare, grubby breast to advertise her wares, with the shamelessness of the desperate and misbegotten. I shuddered at the rough brush-strokes of rouge that were intended to rouse passion, but instead only invoked, to this young observer at least, an overwhelming disgust, tinged with pity. But these specimens—variously termed comediennes, lorettes, grisettes, les codettes, or (most dismissively of all) les horizontals—did not crave my pity and likely would have bitten my fingers off if I had offered a helping hand.
Our four-legged companion, moving at great speed, spurred only by the occasional “Allez!” or “Vite!” from its master, led us via a murky alleyway to the Rue Blondel.
Its snout dragged us to a doorway with red faience tiles on its façade. Snorting, it tugged the man in the peaked cap through into an ill-lit stairwell, where he was unceremoniously grabbed by a bald, nattering Chinaman with rolled up sleeves and the girth of a pannier horse. Poe thrust his arm against the ogre’s chest, but one might as well have tried to keep a mastiff at bay with a pipe cleaner. The thug pawed it away effortlessly, and was about to punch him in the nose and quite possibly take the head from his shoulders in the process when, registering that his assailant wore a flouncy pastel-colored dress, he simply burst into laughter. The hearty guffaw was cut short when the barrel of my pistol made a cold circle against his temple.
A wrought-iron staircase led upward.
The pig was first up it. The man second. Poe third. “Don’t touch it!” And I came close after, backward, making sure I did not step on the empty bottle of sulfuric acid lying there, still hissing. I kept the oriental giant in my sights the whole way. Even with his animal intellect he knew better than to follow, and I fear I would have put a bullet in him with not a vast amount of provocation.
I pulled aside a red curtain sticky with grime and heard screams ahead. Shrill, girlish screams, and those of men—and of a dwarf, for all I knew.