Chapter Fourteen: L'Inspector de l'Opera
Vertier yawned as he studied the yellowing blueprints of
the Opera House; it was almost three in the morning and still he couldn't find
any indications of additional ways down to Erik's lair. In fact he couldn't even find the one he'd
been in a little more than twelve hours ago.
This "ghost" was a clever one, that was for certain. He'd covered up his tracks exceedingly
well.
Too
well. And Vertier needed more than
one route down in order to learn more about Erik. He'd already learned quite a lot, thanks to some of the people of
the Opera, and suprisingly enough, his own memory was serving him well on this
case additionally.
He
remembered that summer day as though it was yesterday, although he'd never had
call to remember it before. He'd been a
lad, just turned eight, and delighted at the prospect of visiting a traveling
Gypsy fair with his two older brothers.
"Come
on now, Georges! If you don't stop
dawdling, the fair will be gone by the time we get there!" Marc, the
oldest at eighteen, yelled in mild frustration at Georges' slower progress.
"I'm
hurrying as much as I can!" Georges called, his little legs pumping
furiously in an attempt to catch up.
"Let's
go, slowpoke! Can't you run any
faster?" thirteen-year-old Sebastien called back.
"It's
not fair… your legs are longer!" Georges panted.
"Up
you go." Marc finally relented, hoisting the little boy up onto his
shoulders. "Better, pal?"
"Thank
you, Marc." Georges nodded gratefully while Sebastien looked up at him
jealously.
"How
come I don't get a ride?" he whined sullenly.
"Because,
silly… I can't carry both of you.
Besides, Georges is too little to keep up, you can. Now let's quit gabbing and get going."
They had
all but run to the fairgrounds, the breeze rustling through young Georges'
hair, a sign of new spring. This was
the first year that his mother had deemed him old enough to accompany his
brothers to the Gypsy carnival that stopped through every spring, right after
the snow had melted.
From his
vantage point on Marc's shoulders, Georges could see the brightly-colored tents
and hear the sounds of people cheering and animals performing. Voices rang from all over the large camp,
each ringmaster trying to draw attention to his act or exhibition.
"The
bearded lady! Come see the bearded
lady!"
"The
world's fattest man! He weighs over a
ton!"
"The
Living Corpse! He looks dead, but you
can see he's alive!"
Marc
turned towards the loudest voice, sliding Georges off of his shoulders and
taking a hold of his hand. "Let's
go over there, Sebastien! That's a new
act!"
Sebastien
left off drooling over a cart selling candies and sprinted over to his
brothers. "Hey, that is a new
one. The Living Corpse, eh? Sounds spooky! Let's go!"
Georges
pulled slightly against Marc's tug, indeed it did sound spooky… too spooky in
fact. Marc turned to look down on his
youngest brother with an air of mild annoyance.
"Come
on, Georges… you pestered us all week to bring you along and now you're going
to be a chicken? Trust me, it's just an
act… it's not real." Marc pulled him along.
"Promise?"
"Have
I ever lied before?"
Georges
smiled brightly, hugging Marc's hand as was his habit since he was too short to
hug him completely. His big brothers
were the sun and stars to little Georges and he loved them dearly.
Sebastien
had already paid and had garnered them all a spot right in front of what
appeared to be an empty bear cage with a curtain thrown over it. Marc clapped the middle brother on the back
in rough congratulations on the seats and sat lazily on the grass inside the
tent.
They had
to have arrived just in time for the show, for no sooner had Georges found a
comfortable spot to sit, then everyone stood up, blocking his view. He jumped up struggling to see from behind
Marc's leg and not succeeding to much of an extent.
A voice
called from the front of the cage… the barker from the front of the tent,
Georges figured. "Ladies and
gentlemen, boys and girls… I give you the mystery of the Living Corpse… still
in his decrepit coffin, still holding the lilies… yet, also still alive!"
The sound
of the curtain being flung off and the ensuing gasp from the crowd were all
that Georges could hear, even his brother seemed shocked.
"Marc…
Marc! I can't see! Lift me up!" Georges finally voiced his
displeasure, only to be drowned out by screams from the women in the tent and
almost trampled by others leaving the cage in a hurry.
Marc's
nerveless grip clung to Georges' only barely and the boy slipped out and
crawled between Sebastien's widespread legs.
Once on the other side, he jumped up to look at whatever was in the
cage.
A boy was
there, probably a few years older than himself, though not as old as
Sebastien. But that was where any
comparison ended, for the boy's face was so distorted and disfigured that he indeed
looked like something that had been dug up from several hundred-years'
rest. He was tied to the bars of the
cage in something like a cross, his arms outstretched and his head pulled back
another rope. His eyes were closed with
what even Georges' could see as pain… the rope had to be burning his neck.
Georges
was barely aware of the yells and screams of the older people in the tent and
his brother were both frozen, staring slack-jawed at the boy in the cage. The barker grinned at him with grim satisfaction,
apparently pleased with the crowd's reaction.
"All
right… now really impress them… sing!" the barker hissed at the boy
through the bars of the cage.
"I
can't… the rope…" the boy whispered harshly, his voice strained.
"If
you don't sing… you'll stay tied like that all night!" the barker growled
with very serious threat in his voice.
"Sir?"
Georges suddenly found himself at the barker's side, tugging at the sleeve of
his shirt.
"What
do you want?" the barker asked rudely.
"I
want to hear the song… but that rope looks to tight for him… please, could you
loosen it?" Georges asked innocently, putting on the face he had used to
get his mother to agree to this excursion.
"Georges!"
Sebastien was suddenly behind him, as shocked as Georges himself that he dared
interfere.
"You
brats keep away from me, got it?" the barker turned on Sebastien,
succeeding in getting Marc's attention.
"Hey,
my brother's right, Gypsy… that rope's way too tight. Loosen it or we'll all demand our money back!" Marc threatened,
defending his brothers heatedly.
"That's
my monster up there and I decide how he will perform." The barker sneered.
"That's
no monster… he's a boy like me." Georges offered up.
"Georges
is right, Gypsy. And if you know what's
good for you, you'll not only loosen that rope, you'll remove it
completely." Marc added for good measure, standing his full height which
was a good half a foot over the squashed Gypsy barker.
He backed
down when the remains of the crowd murmured their agreement with the three
brothers, fearful of losing money.
"All right, all right… don't get your shirts in a knot. I'll untie the demon."
Within
moments, the boy was kneeling on the floor of the cage, rubbing his wrists and
neck to ease the pain.
"Erik!" the barker, well… barked
at him.
At his master's command, the boy jumped up
and took a deep breath to sing his song at last.
Georges
remembered that seemingly insignificant event as clear as though it had been
yesterday. It was amusing really… how
helpful memories could surface at just the correct time for him to use them.
He knew the so-called Phantom of the Opera had to be the same Erik he'd seen as a boy. And if anyone were to ask Georges, he'd probably had to go through far worse in his life than being tied to a cage with a rope choking him. That would explain quite a lot.
The more
he listened to his detective's senses, the more he believed there was to this
so-called cold-blooded murder of a famous dancer. Perhaps he should do some follow-up work on the victim as well…
perhaps that little dancer Meg Giry as well.
He was
beginning to think that the villain of this story was not Erik at all, but
perhaps an egomaniacal dancer or an incompetent nobleman…
Or an
entirely too clever detective of the Paris Surtete…
On to Chapter Fifteen (coming soon)