Erik took in the lavish estate of the Comte as he walked up to the front door. It was one of those places that he'd be quick to dismiss as needlessly gaudy, far too overdone - but if given the chance to own such a place, secretly he'd accept in a heartbeat. He rang the doorbell and waited. A servant opened the door and began to greet him, but the greeting died on her tongue and her face turned pale.
"The Comte is expecting me, would you please tell him that the investigator is here?" Erik asked in his most honeyed tone, hoping to set her at ease.
She gave a small nod and wordlessly closed the door a little harder than necessary.
He wondered if Antoinette had been invited in to wait while Philippe was notified, but he stifled any thought of jealousy. Even if she had been treated to a more polite greeting, that was where the politeness had ended, from what she had told him.
The door opened again to reveal the face of the Comte peeking around the corner with much suspicion.
"Philippe, I presume?"
The Comte opened the door wider.
"Ah, yes, you must be that Erik fellow. Come in, come in," he ushered him into the house, leading him to a parlor. Erik took a sweeping glance at what he could see of the house before he entered the parlor and sat on the chair Philippe gestured to. Gaudy and overdone, indeed. Erik was already mentally redecorating it all.
"I must say, I'm glad to finally have you here. I was wondering when the investigator would should up," Philippe began.
Erik tilted his head in mock confusion.
"I was under the impression that you had already spoken with an investigator. Is this not the case, Monsieur?"
"Ah, well, you see, I meant a real investigator... A woman did come by earlier, but-" he gave a little shrug.
Erik paused as though he didn't understand, letting the silence go on for just a tad too long to be comfortable.
"But that was my boss, Monsieur?"
Philippe squirmed and Erik felt a smug satisfaction at his obvious discomfort.
"Well, yes, she said she was an investigator, but... You know how women are," he chuckled a little, giving a wave of his hand as though he and Erik had some inside joke that they both shared.
Erik, however, was having none of it. He squinted his eyes and tilted his head the other direction, projecting confusion.
"I'm afraid I don't follow. Women are... How, exactly?"
Philippe's face fell and in place of answering he simply got up and poured himself a brandy.
"Say, aren't you here to discuss Raoul, anyway? Why don't we get to that?"
"Of course, Monsieur."
"Brandy?"
"No, thank you."
"What kind of a man doesn't like brandy?" Philippe glanced behind him, as though Erik were some odd insect pinned to a board.
Erik stiffened slightly.
"I prefer to not drink while I'm working."
Philippe snickered.
"You lack the constitution to be able to keep your head about you after just one drink, Monsieur? A pity, truly."
"Headaches. Alcohol triggers some terrible headaches for me," he gestured with a finger to his head.
It was only half of the reason, but it was still true. Philippe didn't need to know that he'd sworn off anything he could become addicted to ages ago after the fierce struggle of abandoning the terrible vice he'd picked up in Persia. No one need to know that.
"Strange," Philippe replied in tone that was vague about what exactly he thought was strange - the headaches or Erik himself.
Erik tried to push it from his mind, knowing that Philippe was trying to get under his skin about it because he had pressed the matter regarding Antoinette.
"Where were you on the night Raoul disappeared?"
Philippe choked on his brandy.
"Good heavens man - are you accusing me?"
"It was merely a question."
"I was here all evening, any of my servants can back me up on that," he sniffed.
"Can you think of anyone who want to harm your brother?"
A wince and an attempt to hide it behind his glass of brandy.
"I can't imagine that they would want to harm him."
"They?"
He glanced up to meet Erik's gaze.
"Anyone. Raoul is- he's a good boy. He's not the type to make enemies, you understand."
Erik wondered how many enemies Philippe had.
"Does Raoul owe any money to anyone?"
"Who wouldn't he owe money to, now that he's sunk it all into that damn Opera House?" he huffed and downed the rest of his brandy in one go.
"So he owes money, then? To whom?"
Philippe got up and made to pour himself another drink.
"No, no, Raoul doesn't owe anyone in particular, as far as I'm aware..."
He fiddled with a few papers that were in a wooden box near the bottle of brandy before continuing.
"It's just that if he did, you see, he wouldn't have very much to pay anyone, not now."
Erik tried to glance at the papers Philippe was lingering over. The Conte seemed about to say something, his brow furrowing and his eyes sad. Then he seemed to think the better of it, snapping the lid closed on the box and thwarting Erik's attempts to see what was written on the papers.
"Do you owe anyone, Comte?"
All traces of that soft sadness disappeared, anger taking its place.
"Do I look like a man who would skip out on his responsibilities, one who would foolishly spend a sum that I didn't have?"
Erik noticed the pointed lack of an answer.
"I believe you're taking my questions in a way that I'm not intending, Comte. I'm not here to judge your personal affairs, I merely want to help you get your brother back safely. Any answer you can give me brings us one step closer to bringing Raoul home."
Philippe nodded unhappily.
"How are you acquainted with Christine Daae?"
Philippe looked surprised.
"The little opera singer? Why, we've known her for ages. We go way back, you know," he waved his hand vaguely. "She and Raoul were childhood sweethearts, practically inseparable, those two."
Erik felt a prickle of emotion at this, though really it was nothing he hadn't already known, was it? But it was still a surprise to hear it out loud, to know that their relationship went so far back.
"Obviously Raoul knows her better than I do, but she's like one of the family... Why uh, why do you ask?"
Erik noticed the Comte's reactions were getting a little slower.
"Mademoiselle Daae has been the next target of who we believe is the same person holding Raoul."
Philippe wiped his hand over his face, despair and regret written obviously across his countenance.
"Christine too? I don't- what would they want with her? She doesn't have any money, not really..."
"They want a ransom from the Opera House."
His expression soured.
"Oh, it figures," he grumbled.
Erik felt certain that Philippe knew more than he was telling. The only trouble now was how to get him to spill his secrets.
Philippe sighed and placed his empty glass on the table, gazing longingly at it.
"Poor girl, she doesn't deserve this, what a cruel fate to draw her in to something she wasn't involved with... A mere matter of circumstance, it seems."
Erik cleared his throat.
"Perhaps, Comte, I ah- I would like that brandy after all, of you don't mind too terribly."
"Yes, yes, of course," he stood to get him a glass.
Erik paused when Philippe handed it to him.
"Oh, come now, Comte - you aren't going to let me drink alone now, are you?"
Philippe hesitated.
"No, I- I suppose not," he refilled his own glass.
Erik brought the glass to his lips, tipping it back just enough to give the appearance of drinking without any of the liquid inside touching his lips.
Philippe wasn't even paying attention to whether or not Erik was taking actual sips of the drink, however. He took a swig of his own.
"I noticed you have a very lovely garden in front, Comte. Horticulture is a noble pursuit," Erik stalled.
"Ah, yes, thank you - it's a bit of a hobby of mine," the man preened.
"Are you a man of many hobbies?" Erik drawled, taking another fake drink.
"Why yes, actually. I'm quite the equestrian, as well. I like a good swim on a sunny day - we have a pool out back. And of course I've never been one to turn down a good game of cards," he chuckled.
"Does your brother share those hobbies too?"
He shook his head, standing with only a slight sway to refill his glass.
"Raoul's only hobby is that damn Opera House," he sighed. "He always loved music ever since he was a child, but the poor fellow can't hold a tune to save his life, so he prefers to listen and watch instead."
Erik took the opportunity to discreetly dump his brandy into the small potted plant on the table when Philippe's back was turned, handing him the empty glass when he turned back to him.
"Did he fund the Opera House because of Christine?" Erik finally asked.
He told himself that his interest in the answer was strictly professional, but that wasn't the first lie Erik had ever told himself. He simply couldn't pass up the chance to learn more about those two.
"He did. He'd always talked of doing such a thing when they were younger - buying his love an Opera House so that she could sing anything she ever wanted," he snorted.
He sat heavy in his chair, the extra brandy clearly showing its effects.
"Christine... She doesn't deserve this, you know... She's- she's a good girl," Philippe looked emotional again, his words starting to slur. "I- I never intended for it to go this far..."
Erik hung on his every word, waiting for him to continue. It seemed, instead, that Philippe was on the verge of dozing off.
"What did you intend, Philippe?" he asked softly.
"I'll put a stop to it, I'll find a way," he muttered. "She has such a pure heart, you know... She always has. No, this isn't her burden to shoulder... She'll... She'll be alright. I'll fix it."
"Fix what, Philippe?"
A snore.
"Philippe?" Erik reached over and shook his arm.
Philippe merely leaned to the side in his chair, out cold.
Erik huffed. Perhaps he had overdone it with the brandy - but it certainly had loosened the man's tongue.
Erik was about to look in the wooden box when the door opened and a servant appeared and insistently escorted him to the front door. Erik briefly wondered if the servant had been listening to his and the Comte's conversation to know when to enter the room. Perhaps the Comte often drank just a little too much.
He returned to the office and pulled out the typewriter, wanting to get the entire conversation transcribed from his messy notes into something Antoinette could actually read.
He cursed the Comte as he typed. That utter fool. What was he playing at, holding things back from the very people who could be helping him? Why even get investigators involved if he was only going to hide things from them? Did he not want his brother back?
He finished transcribing the notes and set about typing his theories and observations, creating a list of questions he wanted to follow up with. The Comte certainly hadn't seen the last of Erik or Antoinette.
He realized he needed to question Christine next, but she had dress rehearsal the next day and a show after that... He was hesitant to press her for information when she was otherwise distracted - perhaps she wouldn't quite remember her conversation with Philippe if she was busy trying to prepare for her show, and he wanted to hear her sing the best she could - and she couldn't do that if he was pestering her with questions. Maybe it was selfish of him to feel that way, but he rationalized it to himself by saying that if the man's own brother didn't even care to help find him, then the little Vicomte could surely wait another day or so for Christine to finish her show.
Her show. He took off his mask and rubbed at his eyes. He was looking forward to hearing her sing, of course, but he only wished it were under different circumstances.
Erik woke the next day with a vague sense of dread. It would be the first of his days with Christine in his care. As much as he wanted to linger in bed, putting off the inevitable, he knew that she had to be at the opera before a certain time and he didn't wish to make her late.
He arrived promptly at Antoinette's house and the door opened immediately after he rang the doorbell. There stood Christine, her large purse over her shoulder, her face set stoically in grim determination. He thought she looked more reminiscent of a woman going to meet her executioner than of a diva readying herself for a rehearsal - but perhaps with him in tow the former was more fitting after all.
She stepped out silently and quickly locked the door before sighing as she began the trek to her workplace.
Erik was silent. He felt he should have greeted her, at least, but she had opened the door so suddenly that it surprised him and then after that it seemed too late to say a greeting - and now he didn't know what to say at all. Should he mention he went to see all of her performances? No, that felt like something a stalker would say.
Christine tied her best to glance over at him without being conspicuous. It was a difficult feat, with the height difference and how close he was. She could only manage a view of his shoulder at most - not that his face was likely to give away any clue as to his mood, anyway. The utter quiet was making her anxious. She needed to say something - anything - just something inoffensive and a good conversation starter.
"Isn't this such lovely weather we've been having? Not a cloud in sight, just beautiful sunshine," she tried.
"I hate sunshine."
"Oh," she hung her head.
Drat. Well, how was she supposed to reply to that? So much for conversation.
Erik quietly cursed himself when he saw her wilt under his response. He hated that his normal eloquence seemed to abandon him whenever she was involved.
"I prefer the clouds, as sunlight makes my eyes sting, but I am sure this is lovely weather for most other people," added after a pause.
She nodded, then tried again.
"Have you ever been to the Opera?"
He took so long to reply that she almost thought he wouldn't.
"I have."
Something about the way he said it made it seem uninviting for follow up questions. She thought perhaps he would add something else to those two words, but apparently that was all he wanted to say on the topic.
She was thankful that they were almost to their destination. They went the rest of the way without speaking.
Erik paused outside of Christine's dressing room, glancing inside to make sure there was no one there waiting to ambush her.
"There is no other way in or out, yes?" he asked.
"Well..." she wrung her hands. "I don't know for certain, but - I think there's a sort of exit behind the mirror."
She gestured to the full length mirror on the wall.
"What do you mean?"
"Come here, I'll show you."
She went up the very edge of it, Erik hesitating a moment longer before finally stepping over the threshold. It felt too close, to personal, to be there in that small room with her - a room that should have been hers alone, unsullied by his presence.
"There's a latch right here, and when you press it-"
She depressed the latch and the glass of the mirror noiselessly rolled back to reveal a hidden chamber that appeared to lead into a dark tunnel.