Chapter 9
"All of it? Are you absolutely sure?"
Monsieur Simon shut his eyes to focus on the faint voice, cradling the bell-like telephone receiver to his ear. The voice, he realised with a pang, was slurred. "Pardon? Oh, well – " He opened his eyes and stared at the old program for an excuse. "You know, just someone from the papers came sniffing around. You know what journalists are like. How is your arm? And your little Jean? Oh, how wonderful. Well do let me know if you ever need anything." He set the receiver down gently then struck a blue pencil line through another name. It was as he'd feared: every orchestra member had indeed burned their copy of the music. Sipping his coffee, his tongue touched a cold, soggy cigar end. He set the cup down with a rattle, half-startling himself. Silently, he swept the frances into a drawer and slipped the note into his jacket so as not to further crease it. He slipped out into the brisk morning.
The Sunday morning light blasted him; he had slept on the sofa in his usual habit. No wife or mistress waited for him at home, and he had been very stern with the few ballet girls who had angled to "fill the position". Though mustard-blond by nature, he had a few more grey hairs than other forty year-olds and had aged himself with too much coffee and not enough sleep. Having stained and yellow teeth, he smiled with his mouth closed and tried to keep his emotions at the top of his face. Though no lady's man, he was meticulous in his paperwork, timely when paying salaries and calm when wrenching drunken stagehands from each other, which he had thankfully only had to do once. He kept no memoirs but he hoarded newspaper articles with which to dazzle any silent partner. Only Christian's note would ever leave the Opera House to join the Opera Ghost's notes in the police station.
Monsieur Simon lit a cigar to wake himself and provided another to the police officer, who teased him.
"Are you still trying to grow that awful thing, Maurice?"
"I can't be going around there smooth-cheeked anymore," the manager smiled. "People might ask me to bring them entrées."
"You need to get some sideburns to hide those jowls of yours."
"You need to shut your mouth."
"I'm telling you, Maurice, you're making yourself into an old man. Didn't the new role liven you up?"
"Well, it's certainly been interesting. Here, look at this?"
The policeman threw his gaze over the note. He threw his old friend a quizzical look.
"A bribe? Isn't that just breakfast for you?"
"Look at the paper. That came with six thousand francs. I hate to say it but…" He sucked some courage from his cigar, "well, I think we have the Opera Ghost on our hands again."
"For six thousand francs, you can send him here. Come now, Maurice, I'm only joking. But it's been what… fourteen years? Someone would surely have noticed him there, no? It could very well be some patron's idea of a joke."
"It certainly could be. But last time this happened, three people died and the Opera House nearly closed forever. I'd like to avoid that."
"Well, what would you like me to do for you?"
"I need any documentation you have on the Opera Ghost and on what happened before. Debienne and Poligny kept him well enough in check before and if I can follow their direction, I might get by."
"And if you can't?"
Monsieur Simon glanced down at his hands.
"Then I'll deal with that as I must."
The papers were brought to him by a smooth-cheeked officer with very blue eyes – not quite Monsieur Simon's type, but eye-catching nonetheless. The papers were bundled neatly with string and taken back to the Opera House to be perused. The previous owner's memoirs lay open on the desk. Monsieur Maurice Simon returned to his desk, opened the drawer, and checked his pistol. It was not loaded. He hoped it would not need to be loaded. He pushed the drawer shut, poured a coffee and began to read.