Case File 1445667: The Opera Ghost Affair
By Q42
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When a famous British playwright goes missing in Paris, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is called upon to locate him. However, all is not as it seems with this assignment. Could the mysterious Phantom really be Moriarty, back from the dead? Or is the League up against an even stranger foe?
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Prologue: Paris, 1900
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George Bernard Shaw was in a good mood. Despite being an avowed Socialist, he had to admit that it was nice to have royalties rolling in. His plays were doing surprisingly well in the United States. Say what you would about the Yanks, at least American censors weren't as bad as their overzealous counterparts in the British Empire.
It was, in part, those revenues which were currently financing this vacation in France. As usual, he and Charlotte had been treated like royalty. After a week touring the countryside in Provence, the couple was staying in one of the finer hotels in Paris, enjoying the city's metropolitan district. Some of the plays weren't even half bad, he had to admit, though it annoyed him that so few French playwrights bothered to address deeper social issues, like the plight of the city's poor folk or the hypocrisy of the rich.
Tonight, for instance, Charlotte had run into one of her numerous friends among the aristocracy, who had recommended some French opera or another. As always, George found himself unable to resist Charlotte's entreaties, and so he found himself walking along beside her, trying not to look like he was being led about – he loved Charlotte dearly, but it wouldn't do for the bold, outspoken author of The Irrational Knot to appear subservient to his wife.
"Oh, come on, George," Charlotte said. "You act as though we're headed for the guillotine, not an entertainment."
"If you ask me," George replied, "it's not so entertaining after you've seen a dozen of them in the last six days. Though, to be fair, it is a decent excuse to escape the lovely perfume of city air…."
Charlotte sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward while unable to hide a smile. "Darling, you just love complaining."
"Oh, quite the contrary, my dear! I'd much prefer to live in a world where there was nothing to complain about. Alas, we live in an imperfect universe, and it seems my unhappy fate to have to constantly remind people of the fact, lest we get too accustomed to wallowing in the mire."
Still walking down the street, he happened to catch sight of a strange structure. It reminded him of the Paris Opera House, but with its windows shattered, the wood and plaster blackened by the heat of some long-ago inferno. "Good Lord," he said, "what on Earth happened to that playhouse? It looks like someone set a torch to it, then let it sit there on the block for a decade or two."
"Oh, that's right! Patricia told me about this place. It's the old Opera Populaire. Apparently, some madman used to hide out in the cellar, until he set the whole place on fire. They built the new Paris Opera House a few years later, but nobody bothered to tear the old building down."
"Hmm, sounds like quite the sensation. Someone ought to write a book about it …."
The couple continued as the last of the twilight faded, gas lamps flickering on to light the darkening streets.
The attack came swiftly. One moment, the Shaws were strolling leisurely toward the opera house; the next, a dark figure flew out from the shadows of a nearby alleyway, sending Mrs. Shaw sprawling on the cobblestones. George's fist instinctively came up, only for him to find his wrist caught in the iron grip of a leather-gloved hand.
"Good evening, Monsieur Shaw," the apparition said, a touch of demonic humor in its deep, resonant voice. "I presume you and your lovely wife were planning to attend some diverting social occasion. An opera, perhaps?"
George glanced behind his black-cloaked assailant to see Charlotte struggling to her feet. The dark man followed his gaze. "Ah! Wealthy, beautiful, and able to withstand rough treatment. You do have good taste, sir." Keeping George held tight, the man reached into a pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. "For you, Madame. If you hope to see your dear, devoted hack of a husband alive again, read that, then follow my instructions to the letter. Otherwise, the world has seen, heard, and read the last of the illustrious George Bernard Shaw."
The kidnapper turned back to George, and he got one last, surprisingly clear look at his face – the long, greasy, unkempt-looking black hair, the wild eyes, and of course, the featureless mask that hid anything else from view.
Then George felt something hard and unyielding strike the back of his head. The last thing he heard was Charlotte's terrified scream, as the playwright's world plunged into blackness.
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