A drabble ficlet and a quick stab at drama. It's about Winston, a private eye, who happens to be in the Opera Popular during the discovery of Buquet (I apologize profusely if I misspelled. I can't remember exactly how to spell it and my friend still has my book). Based on the Leroux version.
"There's a body, there's a body!" screamed a flustered stage-hand, sending the ballet rats into a tizzy.
"The Phantom! The Phantom!"
Winston hurried down to where the screaming originated from. It was a grizzly sight. A man swung from a bar connected to a bar on the ceiling.
Winston surveyed the man with the perceptiveness that made him a private-eye of great caliber. The man had the face of a drinker, a few of the blood vessels in his cheek were ruptured. He looked down and spied a knife wound in the unfortunate man's side.
"No blood, so the wound was after death," Winston mused to himself. "Almost as if someone was checking to see if he was dead."
Winston, his eyes again sweeping the scene, found no signs of a struggle.
"This man died of heart failure," he announced to the startled managers and patron who had, by now, joined him. "It seems it is a bluff, but it may be a good idea to heed the advice anyway," he wanted gravely, gesturing to the hastily scrawled message behind the body. "This Phantom of yours means to accomplish whatever he has set out to do. If you plan to look for him, and I strongly suggest you do, do it carefully."
"We will. Thank you, Monsieur, I shall be sure to remember," stated the patron simply.
"For your sake, I certainly hope you do."
Just a little theory of mine. Read and review please.