Everything was running along as usual at the Opera Populaire. That is, if you factor in the fact that the ballerinas were refusing to talk to the chorus girls and half the chorus girls were off sick and the lead was arguing with anyone in sight that she wasn't getting paid nearly enough to keep on doing this. M. Firmin and M. Andre were rushing around backstage, trying to soothe everyone into some semblance of readiness. Yes, everything was going just fine for an opening night.
At that moment, there was a brief, cut off scream and a thump. One of the girls rolled her eyes and muttered, "Oh, not again," to the one next to her.
M. Firmin gave up telling the supporting singer that her makeup looked absolutely fine and strode off towards the sound, closely followed by M. Andre.
"I told him not to do this," said M. Firmin angrily, "Not until we have a full audience', I said. There's not much point in offing another stage hand if the only ones around to see it are the ballerinas, is there?" M. Andre agreed with him wholeheartedly. However, not quite finished yet, M. Firmin went on, "I mean, I even sent him a silly little letter like he insists on instead of talking face to face like sensible people. 'Don't kill anyone before the opera starts' I said. Of course, he never listens..."
The body was actually sprawled face down in an aisle between the seats. It looked as if he'd been pushed from the thin walkway that ran around the rotunda's ceiling. M. Andre nudged the body with a foot, "Dead, then, is he?"
"I should think so. A living person's neck doesn't usually bend in that direction."
M. Andre turned the body over to get a look at the face.
"Well..."M. Firmin struggled to find a word suitable for the situation, "Drat."
"Bugger," supplied M. Andre.
There was no mistaking the white mask that covered half the dead man's face. It was quite definitely the famed Phantom of the Opera.
"Bugger," repeated M. Andre with emphasis.
M. Firmin drew in a deep breath. "Why? Why do these things always happen when they're most inconvenient? Why tonight? On top of everything else that could possibly go wrong on an opening night and probably will, why this? Who does he think he is, going and dying on us when we were all counting on him?"
M. Andre stared upwards and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, "The opera ghost?"
No notice was taken of him. "There were people coming from all over Europe to see what he might do next! He was our greatest show, forget the opera! People want excitement, thrills, the prospect of possible death and dismemberment! How are we going to make money if all we have to work with is this lot? Vain, screeching harpies, the lot of them!"
This last comment brought several voices of complaint over to the scene of the accident. The lead declared that she wouldn't stand for this sort of abuse and was quitting, nobody could make her stay, goodbye!
M. Andre rolled his eyes. M. Firmin didn't even take notice. He drew in another breath. "The ghost was worth the whole lot of them! Between killing folk and tutoring that Christine girl, he managed to bring in more money than this opera house has ever seen!"
M. Andre bobbed his head around, trying to look over heads in the growing crowd. "Where is Christine, anyway?" There was a loud and piercing scream. "Oh...there she is."
A corridor formed in the crowd of bystanders as people moved aside to make way for the newest arrival. Those not quick enough were clung to and wailed at until they managed to shove the girl onward.
Christine dropped to her knees and raised her arms to the heavens, crying "Why? Why has my Angel of Music been taken from me? He didn't deserve this; he was a poor, innocent soul who has never harmed anyone!"
M. Andre leaned over to M. Firmin and remarked, "I don't believe she's talking about the same person we know as the opera ghost. Maybe there're two of them?"
Not hearing, Christine continued, "Why? Why me, why him, why this?" She threw herself over the unmoving form of the Phantom and shook, sobbing.
Madame Giry, who had followed the girl, knelt and patted her on the shoulder. "There, there. You're being hysterical again, dear."
Eventually (just before the curtain was due to rise, as a matter of fact), the crowd thinned and left to go about their business of making sure that even though there would not be a spectacularly gruesome murder that night, there would at least be a good song and dance routine.
M. Firmin and M. Andre left the scene after prying the still distraught Christine off and handing her over to Madame Giry and giving instructions to the cleaning man on how to get rid of the body.
"I've heard Jack the Ripper is very popular lately," said one to the other.
"What? Jack the Ripper in an opera house? Are you out of your mind?"
"I suppose you're right. Anyway it would clash rather badly with the decor. Not to mention the expense of importing him all the way from London."
"And where would we find him enough prostitutes to disembowel, anyway?"